The spring breeze was stronger than Ronan expected when he stepped out into the backyard. Brisk air cutting through the thin cotton of his shirt made him mourn the quilt he'd left in a useless heap on his bed, but he couldn't bother turning back for it now.

Over the years, this had become something of a routine on nights when rest was extra hard to hold onto. Should he be doomed to lie awake, he may as well do it in fresh air; if he was lucky, the sounds of night would lull him back to sleep.

Amir had never been part of that routine, but he was there now, sitting against the wall in his nightclothes with his legs stretched out, staring out into the woods.

The living room door clicked shut behind Ronan, and with it closed any chance of quiet retreat. "Sorry," he said when Amir turned over his shoulder at the sound. "I can . . ."

Amir patted the space beside him for Ronan to take. "Is this your usual spot?" he asked.

"I don't mind sharing."

Amir's hair was in disarray, tossed over his forehead by the wind and flattened from sleep on one side. Seated so close, Ronan could see the lines from his pillow etching that same cheek. With circles under his drooping eyes and his face lax with drowsiness, he was as unguarded as Ronan had ever seen him. If there was ever a time to get answers from him, it was probably now.

But he smiled at Ronan with his eyes closed, soft and languid and open, and it was a disarming thing. What Ronan ended up asking was, "How are you healing?"

In lieu of a response, Amir turned his back and reached behind himself to drag his shirt over his head until it bunched around his shoulders. "See for yourself."

Nestled between his shoulder blades was the black ink impression of dual broadswords, crossed one over the other to make an X.

It was the final, most permanent step of his initiation. The tattoos had been a mark of Merry Men kinship ever since they chose the cunning fox as their symbol and, not twenty minutes later, Vito had asked his sister to ink one over his ribs. That same day, he'd returned the favor by etching a whip up the base of Tony's spine.

On the inside of Ronan's left arm was a skeleton key. He was biased, but he thought it was Vito's best work.

Amir had managed to put off the inking for two weeks after receiving his alias despite being pestered about it almost daily. When the five of them finally got him on his stomach in the living room, he had damn near bolted again at the sight of Vito hovering over him holding a match to a bundle of needles. It wasn't nearly as bad as when Felix got the lamp on his thigh (Ronan had never known true guilt until he'd watched a thirteen-year-old Felix insist he was sure as tears streamed from his eyes), but Ronan still ended up losing circulation in his hand thanks to Amir's vice grip. Both hands, actually, because the mere sight of a needle piercing skin was enough to make Felix nauseous, but he refused to miss the occasion.

In the week since, the tattoo had started to scab over. Ronan traced the shape with his eyes, but his mind was too sluggish to resist the desire to wander. Somewhere along the lines, he got lost in the curve of Amir's shoulder blades, tracing instead the smooth brown planes of a strong back.

"How does it look?"

Ronan startled. "It's, uh," good, great, tragically attractive, "Pretty gross."

Amir tugged his shirt back on and faced forward. "Yeah, it itches like crazy."

Ronan followed his stare out to the treeline. There wasn't much to look at, nothing he hadn't already seen, but the view was perfect for a night like this. It was grounding to stare out at something so plain yet so deep, something that held so much more than you could see. It made Ronan sleepy. Amir, too, if his yawn was anything to go by.

This, Ronan realized, was something new - sharing a sleepless night with someone else. He shivered against the cold, but warmth spilled from Amir; if Ronan were a touch more out of it, he might've leaned closer to that heat. The quiet between them stretched long. It was different from Amir's usual calculated discretion; it was peaceful, and Ronan was reluctant to disrupt it, but he did anyway.

"Tell me a story," he said. "From your childhood."

Amir turned puzzled eyes to him. "Hm?"

"You told me I could ask you anything else, didn't you?"

Another lazy smile. "Is that what I said?"

Ronan had played through their conversation in Delancey's basement more than once in the weeks since. He was never sure what to ask, or when to ask, or whether he even really wanted to ask, even as Amir became something like a friend.

Right then, asking felt easy.

"There was one," Amir said, drawing his knees to fold his arms over them. "An old Shaelan legend my mother used to tell me."

Ronan had meant a story from Amir's own childhood, but he didn't comment - in the calm between them, he found Amir's literalism endearing.

"Many generations ago, Shaela was dominated by tribes. One chieftain resided over all fourteen of them, but he had fallen ill in his old age. Knowing his time was limited and war with the north drew closer every day, each tribe rushed to select and prepare their most eligible tribesmen for the election that would soon come.

"The poorest of the tribes, the Shonee, had ten candidates. Nine were the strongest of their young men, but the tenth, the son of their war chief, was scorned as the weakest of them. He was intelligent, but he was frail and clumsy, and eight of the other nine resented their comparison to him. On the last day of the month, when offerings were to be accepted, they sought after him in the middle of the night, beat him, and tied him up alongside the sacrificial lambs."

"Offerings?" asked Ronan. "Accepted by who?"

Amir grinned. "Why, the dragons, of course."

Ronan finally placed the familiarity of that name, Shaela. The Isle of Dragons was an infamous land, so far from their own that it seemed more myth than truth.

"They're real, then? Dragons as large as bears?" Ronan had never seen one bigger than the palm of his hand; the dragons in Diverra were cute little spark-spitters, nuisances at worst.

"I've never been to see for myself," Amir admitted. "But they're real, and they're far larger than bears."

Ronan's wonder must have shown on his face, because Amir's eyes were sharp with pride as he continued. "The Shaelans had a fearful relationship with the dragons. They offered sacrifices to keep them sated and protect the tribes. The men thought they had done away with the chief's son when he was gone the next morning.

"Carried off in the dragons' claws, the chief's son was the first to ever enter their home. Though certain of his own death, he treated the dragons with reverence. In turn, he was met with curious creatures who had no interest in devouring him. They returned the respect they were given, even helped him free and allowed him to heal and share in their meals. In time, wary coexistence became friendship, and he learned to not only live with them but to live as one of them. He learned to ride them, then to train them, and in a year's time, he had a fiercely protective army of friends with which to return to Shaela and claim leadership.

"However, he returned to find that the chieftain was dead and the northerners had invaded before an election could proceed. Leaderless and vastly outmatched, the Shaelans were fighting a losing war - more than half of the candidates had been killed in the conflict, including the eight Shonee that had left him for dead.

"His reappearance with a flock of dragons was cause for much panic, but with no time to waste, he gathered a small group of warriors willing to overcome their fear and ride into battle on dragonback. The northerners had greater weapons and more men, but they were no match against a fleet of dragon riders; the war was quickly over."

Ronan could feel his own heavy-eyed smile, small and honest. He would never admit it out loud, but he loved a happy ending. "Did he become the chieftain?"

"He dropped out of the election, actually."

"What? Why!"

"He had other plans for himself and for Shaela. After watching man and dragon fight together, he made it his life's mission to integrate the two into one. He wished to bring the dragons to Shaela permanently.

"As for the chieftain: do you remember that there had been nine other Shonee candidates, but only eight attacked him, and only eight were killed in battle? The ninth was the only ally the chief's son had ever had, and the first to ride into battle with him. Regaled as a war hero and endorsed by the chief's son, he was easily elected."

Ronan frowned drowsily; some friend that was. "Where was he when the chief's son was attacked by the others?"

Amir turned onto his cheek to look at him. His story had lulled Ronan closer to the sleep he craved, but Amir himself looked wide awake. Ronan hadn't realized he'd been leaning closer, enraptured, until Amir was facing him.

"Knocked out with an herbal brew," Amir said finally, deliberately. He paused with his mouth open, waged some debate behind his eyes that Ronan was far too lazy to track. "After all, such a devoted lover would surely swoop in and ruin their plans."

It took the span of an impressively sluggish blink for the significance of those words to carry. Ronan was on the verge of sleep, even slipping into it, but when it clicked, he reeled.

Not outwardly, not quite. His body lagged behind his mind. The greatest reaction he could manage was the subtle rounding of his eyes. Still, Amir noticed, nodding against his arms to an unspoken question. "Things are . . . different, in Shaela."

Ronan nodded too, a bit dumbly. Amir was still watching him, gauging his reaction. He floundered to his feet to hide the red spreading over his face - it was dark, but Amir was so close.

"I should- I think I'll be able to sleep now," he stammered.

Amir was frowning when Ronan chanced a look his way. He wasn't sure when he'd started caring about that sort of thing, but he hesitated now, halfway to the door. "Goodnight, or morning, or-" he squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath. Faced Amir fully. "Thank you for the story. I enjoyed it."

And Amir - the nerve of him - laughed. "Goodness, Ronan. You really don't know, do you?"

Ronan's face drew up in confusion. "I- huh?"

"Sweet dreams," cooed Amir. Accompanied with a smug little wave, like the asshole he was. Ronan hated him.

𓃢𓃢𓃢

song for this chapter: Ivory by Omar Apollo

super short part :) this actually used to be the first scene of the next chapter, but i was hitting like 7.4k words and this scene can stand alone, so i figured i'd give you guys a little sleepy interlude. next part coming super soon!

can you tell httyd is one of my favorite movies