The sheet of paper Vito unfurled was long and covered in erratic graphite sketches of a house. Vito had to hold onto it at opposite corners to counter the telltale curl of its edges inward, the mark of a long period of disuse.

"Tell me, do any of you recognize this?"

To an extent, Ronan did. It wasn't uncommon for Vito to procure a sketch like this one before a heist. He almost always arrived at scouting locations with pencil and paper to jot down different angles of the target and mark areas of interest Ronan pointed out. The two of them worked well together – Ronan analyzed a building from the outside to determine possible points of entry, Vito took visual notes down to the shadow. More often than not, they scouted as a pair without the others.

That said, if Vito expected Ronan to recognize some house they'd looked at years before by a rough sketch – and he did, if the way his eyes kept darting back to Ronan was any indicator – he was bound to be disappointed.

He seemed to realize this himself as he was met with ever-stretching silence. Perched on the arm of Mitch's seat, he deflated against the backrest, the paper drooping in his grip. "Really? None of you?"

"Cry," said Ronan, just to see Vito sulk. Fucking– cute.

"Get on with it," Tony heckled. Her standard was to lay on the couch with her legs across Ronan's lap, but today, she stretched over Amir, too, because he'd taken the middle seat next to Ronan before she could. He seemed to do that a lot lately – occupy the space next to Ronan – though Ronan couldn't decide whether this was a new development or something he'd failed to notice until recently.

Vito answered his sister's dry stare with heightened sulking. "Eighteen years," he said. "For eighteen years, you've ruined my fun."

Tony moved to stand.

"Alright!" Vito yielded, loath to lose a player. Despite the size of their home, it had taken him nearly ten minutes to herd them all into the living room for this meeting. "This," he raised the sheet again, glaring pointedly at Tony, "Is the home of the esteemed Browning family."

That, at least, sparked some recognition. The Brownings had been a missed opportunity; a home they had planned for weeks to invade some two years back after catching wind of a family trip that was ultimately canceled.

"They actually leaving this time?" Mitch asked at Vito's side. He was still breathing heavily from the beating he'd surely given his punching bag before the meeting – Ronan had heard him from here. His chest, broad and brown and characteristically bare, gleamed with sweat, and Ronan made a note to avoid the armchair for a while.

"Not quite," said Vito, looking a lot like he'd been hoping someone would ask that. "But we don't need them to."

"Hold on," Ronan interrupted, much to Vito's chagrin. This wasn't how they operated. They won big and then slipped away from the public eye, living comfortably on their earnings for as long as they'd last. And their last win might've been their biggest yet. "Why are we interested in the Brownings right now? We haven't made a dent in the Van Doren loot."

A chill took root at the base of his spine when he realized – Vito had said he wanted more, and he was starting now.

"Haven't you heard?" Vito handed the sketch off to Mitch. Leaning onto his knees, he fixed Ronan with a dipped head and a crooked grin. "A rolling stone gathers no moss."

Fondness budded in Ronan despite the cold, against the cold. It was so like him, so wholly Vito, to throw a random cultured maxim into regular conversation, ever the self-proclaimed wise old sage. The rest of them had always teased and booed him for it, but all Ronan could muster right then was a short, winded laugh and a roll of his eyes.

"I haven't, actually, but I'll trust your word," he said, easing back into the couch. "What's this idea of yours, then?"

Vito's smile turned a little more even – grateful, maybe, to see the tension leave Ronan's shoulders. He hopped to his feet and swept all eyes back to his sketch with an embellished gesture of his hand, emboldened and uninterrupted, and Ronan decided he could handle more frequent missions and the sour taste they'd leave behind if that was all Vito wanted. Ronan might tire of the jobs, but he didn't think he'd ever tire of watching Vito light up the way he did now as he pointed at his drawings and mapped out their next victory.

The Brownings were a family whose wealth stretched back for generations, as did their home. Its cobblestone walls stood apart from the gothic-style architecture that was all the rage nowadays, but it meant the house was simple and straightforward in structure. Ronan had noted years before that it would be exceptionally easy to break into and navigate, and the evening garden party set to take place there in two weeks' time would ensure that.

It should have ended there.

When Vito forged on, that uneasy chill began to crawl its way up Ronan's spine. Vito turned his focus to the outbuilding, a space adjacent to and much smaller than the main house but bigger than the home Ronan had grown up in. It was probably built as a servants' quarter some lifetimes ago, but it served as extra storage now.

Vito's plan for it made Ronan's blood run cold.

"You've lost your mind."

Vito's tirade screeched to a halt, like the loss of momentum physically shook him. He frowned Ronan's way, vexed to be stopped short and somehow, unbelievably, confused to see disapproval on Ronan's face.

"It's an outdoor party," Ronan said when all Vito did was stare at him expectantly. "Why the hell would we– we can just sneak in, can't we?"

Inexplicably, Vito looked amused. "We can't be certain the house will be empty during an event like this."

"And your way around that is arson?"

"People run when they see fire, yeah? We clear the house – clear the whole property, really–"

"And what if somebody's inside?" Ronan rebutted. Vito didn't drop his smile, but irritation mounted behind his eyes at being interrupted yet again. "What if somebody's nearby? What about smoke– What if the fire spreads to the house and there are people inside like you said? The entire estate is grass, Vito, and there are shrubs and trees and– don't tell me you've grown so arrogant to think you can control flame?"

"And what if somebody's nearby?" Vito laughed derisively. "It isn't as if these people have ever concerned themselves with our wellbeing, so why should we?"

Ronan remembered the man from the masquerade – Carbuncle, or something – and the way he'd watched his grandchildren dance. "Are you hearing yourself? There could be kids at this party!"

"What do I care!" Vito finally snapped. He stepped closer, using his height to tower over Ronan's sitting form. "If somebody gets hurt, they probably deserved it!"

At this, Ronan jumped to his feet. It was a mistake. Vito loomed over him like this, too; his growth spurt had come later than most, but when it had, he had surpassed even Mitch.

"Since when are we the authority on who lives or dies?" Ronan demanded.

"The 'holier than thou' attitude doesn't suit you, Ronnie," Vito sneered, stepping closer still so that Ronan had to tilt his head to meet his eye. "Look around you – must you always be the one to cause a scene?"

Against his better judgment, Ronan did look. He skipped over Mitch, who had never disagreed with Vito a day in his life. Tony stared at the wall, bored of the argument. Felix sat curled into himself, never one to handle conflict well; he shrugged when Ronan looked his way, apologetic and telling. Amir avoided his eye entirely.

When he found his way back, Vito was leering down at him. "Do you see? It's only you." It cut like a knife, the feeling that Ronan was alone in this, the creeping doubt over who was really in the wrong. And Vito, true to the darker parts of his nature, took that knife and twisted it deeper. "Well?" he added, addressing the team. "Does anybody else have an issue with the plan? I'd hate to leave the masses unheard."

Not a word in opposition. Vito's smile returned, satisfied, when Ronan sank back into his seat.

"Why?" was all he could gather after the arguments had died in his throat. "What's the point?"

Instead of answering, Vito strode over to the fireplace and raised his hand to the picture frame that hovered above it. "Do you remember what this is?"

Of course Ronan remembered. The day they'd first made the front page of The Daily Divine was the day Ronan had first tasted liquor, and he wasn't sure they had ever celebrated quite as hard since. Vito knew this, so he didn't wait for a response.

"This is why," he said, ripping the frame from the wall and pointing to the headline: MASKED ASSAILANTS STRIKE AGAIN. Beneath it: Serial Thieves Blaze a Trail Across the Diverran Upper Class. "This feeling – I want it back. We've been cautious long enough, we've lived on the front page for long enough – I want to start living in their heads. I want to be a hero to people like us and an enemy to everyone else, I want to leave a mark, I want–"

I want to be everything.

Ronan knew the smile Vito wore now, loved it even. It was full of pride and mischief and conviction, equal parts wicked and rousing. Ronan had kissed it a hundred times over in his dreams, knew it by heart, so he could recognize the manic edge to it as something brand new.

It suited him.

Vito's words drifted out of Ronan's focus as the thought struck him that this was his fault – all of their faults. They had met Vito as a sixteen-year-old boy with a spark in his brimstone eyes and had fallen at his feet, giving themselves willingly to admiration and gratitude for the boy who'd rescued them. They had put him on a pedestal and yielded to his every word; he'd made it so easy, shining bright as he did, and they'd followed him the same way birds followed the stars.

They had fanned that spark time and time again and followed the light of its fire. For years, it had festered. They'd walked into it readly – yearned for it even – in the moments before every mission, and had basked in its warmth in the time in between. It was only natural that a stoked flame would grow bigger and brighter and hotter, until it became something as destructive as it was beautiful. Ronan was the one who was arrogant for trying to quell it now.

Maybe he was the weakest of them, if he was the only one blistering under the heat. But—

He didn't want to hurt anybody.

It wasn't until a foreign warmth spread against his side that Ronan realized he was shaking. Amir's shoulder barely grazed his, but the reasonable space that had separated them before had unmistakably shrunken, too sudden to be accidental.

Amir was the last person Ronan would have sought out for comfort, but he was the only person offering any, too. He seemed to radiate heat, always. Ronan tended to run cold.

Ronan was starting to find that, for somebody so withholding with his words, Amir gave out touch readily and wantingly.

He allowed it for a few seconds before edging away.

"Fine," he said. It wasn't fine – this plan would put them in as much danger as the partygoers, and a stunt like this might be enough to land a bounty on their heads. But Vito knew that. He was counting on it. "Do what you want, but I'm not going."

It spoke volumes about their system that this was what elicited surprise in the group. An intake of breath from Felix, a sideways glance from Tony, an audible "huh?" from Mitch, but nothing as potent as Vito's round-eyed disbelief.

"Come again?"

They had carried out missions with partial teams before; depending on the scope and skill sets they needed, they had on occasion worked in groups of three or four. But that had always been a matter of strategy, not refusal.

"I don't think I need to."

Vito had always seemed the paragon of beauty, but right then, his face twisted into something ugly. "You can't seriously think I'll allow that."

Ronan leaned forward, challenging. He wasn't quite brash enough to conjure up a fake smile. "Are you going to drag me there, Robin Hood?"

"You would so easily abandon your friends? We need your–"

"I've done my part." Ronan nodded to the diagram going slack in Mitch's grip. "You can manage your pyromania without me."

He stood again, this time to leave. Vito watched him cross the room, and Ronan paused to face him with his hand on the doorknob, waiting for more pushback.

"Suit yourself," Vito conceded.

"Felix, too." Ronan was testing his luck, but Felix wasn't as quick as the Romanos, and he didn't have Mitch or Amir's strength to make up for it. This braindead mission wasn't worth risking his safety. "You don't need him for this."

In Ronan's peripheral, Felix's face flashed with hurt that quickly gave way to rare anger. "Don't speak for me–"

"Fine," Vito dismissed, and Felix's anger slipped back into hurt. "Three'll be the best number for this, anyway. Tony and Mitch?"

"'Course!" The sketch furled up like a scroll as Mitch released one side to pound over the fist tattooed above his heart, drowning out Tony's muttered "whatever."

There was nothing left for Ronan to say. He let the door slam behind him as he left, but the sound never came. Partway down the hallway, a hand closed over his wrist and words met his ear, dark and hushed and close enough to feel.

"You need to remind yourself what it means to be part of a team."

The door fell closed behind them, quietly.

"I don't recall reading about blind obedience in the teamwork handbook," Ronan retorted. "Did I miss a chapter?"

"Why can't you see–" Vito huffed, frustrated. He tugged at Ronan's wrist, suddenly pleading, but Ronan didn't turn. "I'm doing this for us. You're the one always going on about becoming something more."

"This isn't what I meant," Ronan snapped. "You know that. You know–"

"I'm familiar with your deluded fantasy," Vito switched up on a dime. "Spare me the spiel."

Ronan yanked his arm free with little resistance and continued like he'd never been stopped.

When he was five, maybe six, he'd knelt next to his mother on the street behind their house with a washcloth to clean her face and asked why she kept drinking the bad-smelling juice when it made her so sick the next morning. Her face had crumpled, tears welling in already-red eyes, and she'd explained that before it made her sick, it made her feel really, really good.

With all the innocence in the world, Ronan had asked if it was worth it. She'd told him to go pay Mr. Hughes a visit. Hours later, he'd returned to find her cross-legged on the living room floor with their tattered broom across her lap, swaying back and forth with her eyes closed and reeking of booze.

Once he was old enough to understand, he'd resolved to never take up a vice, and yet he'd taken to Vito like a fish to water.

Ronan was halfway to the treeline when he heard the front door open and close again. Rushed footsteps crunched the ground behind him. "Ronan!"

"Someone send you after me or something?" he called back.

"Well, no, but–"

Ronan cut Amir off with a raised hand; he knew how it had played out. Vito had stormed off with Mitch following close behind like his henchman, and Tony hadn't cared enough to move. Felix had been too torn to take any action, because Ronan may have been his closest friend, but Vito was his hero.

"You shouldn't wander into the woods at night," Amir said when he finally caught up to Ronan at the edge of the treeline.

"It isn't night," Ronan said, a bit immaturely given the setting sun. "And I don't need surveillance."

"How about company, then?"

"That's a load of shit." Regardless, Ronan wanted to be alone. He whirled on Amir, intent on fending him off. "You agree with him, don't you? With Vito."

Amir had to stumble to avoid crashing into him. His mouth wobbled, uncertain, before he settled on, "I don't know if any of us have the right to draw moral lines in the sand, considering what we do for a living."

He must have seen the storm brewing behind Ronan's next words, because he was quick to add on, "I only mean that the others abandoned those principles long ago, so I understand why they don't have any qualms with taking it a step further."

The others.

Do you see? It's only you.

"And you?" Ronan pressed. "What do you think?"

"I think you're better than the rest of us. But that doesn't mean we're wrong."

Before Ronan could retaliate, a sound from the clearing stopped him in his tracks. Amir didn't notice right away, but Ronan would recognize that noise anywhere. The flapping of enormous wings was a pretty distinct sound, after all – Ronan was already grinning when the source appeared, descending past the treetops. Amir whipped around just in time to watch dark hooves touch down right on the other side of the treeline.

"Bandit!" Ronan cried, rushing forward before the mare's wings had fully settled. He scratched down her neck, laughing at her gleeful nicker. "Where have you been, buddy?"

It had been nearly half a year since he'd seen her last. Her longest disappearance yet, but he'd known better than to worry. Her dark, dapple gray coat was as soft and shiny as ever, and her back rippled with new muscle. "Goodness, girl, who's been feeding you?"

Ronan counted her indignant snort as a win in his long-standing debate with Felix over whether the horses could understand them. He pressed his forehead to hers, patting her side in apology.

"This is what you mean when you talk about your horses? That's– that's a pegasus!"

Ronan glanced over his shoulder in time with the curious tilt of Bandit's head. He had almost forgotten about Amir, who hadn't budged since she arrived.

"They aren't ours – they aren't anybody's. They like us fine enough, though. Isn't that right?" As if in response, Bandit rested her big head on Ronan's shoulder and sighed. The urge to coo at her like a baby came at him in full force, but he was painfully aware of Amir's watching eyes. He settled for scratching behind her ear.

"And as you can see," he drawled, "I'm no longer alone, so you can–"

He cut himself off, for the first time processing Amir's stiff-shouldered stance under the cover of the trees. Ronan chanced another look and found that, sure enough, he was still hiding in the woods with his shoulders hiked up to his ears, watching Bandit with obvious alarm. And, well, Ronan was feeling bitter and a bit mean, so he changed tacts.

"If you truly wish to keep me company, you'll have to do it on horseback. This is my preferred method of travel."

Amir looked like he'd rather get another tattoo. "Well, ah, I'm sure you'll be safe with her around–"

"So you were just trying to play my keeper."

"No! I only mean . . ." He trailed off hopelessly when he realized he'd been cornered. His eyes were pleading, but Ronan only stared back, pitiless. "We can't even . . . there's no saddle to ride that thing."

Bandit let out another snort, and Amir flinched. "Don't be rude," Ronan tutted. "We don't need a saddle. I'll hold onto her, you hold onto me."

Amir pursed his lips. Blinked several times. Fought a fucking war in his head, Ronan was sure. In the end, his pride, or whatever the hell it was that made him so stubborn, won out. He stepped out into the evening light and said, "If you let me die, I'll kill you."

"Very scary." Ronan raised a distinctly stable hand. "Look, I'm trembling."

Then he moved to Bandit's side, crouched down, and interlaced his hands in front of himself. "Up you go."

Amir blanched. "Me first?"

Ronan filed away the squeak in his voice for a rainy day. "It's easier that way."

Amir didn't move. He was staring into one of Bandit's dark eyes like it might glow red with bloodlust at any second. Bandit blinked boredly.

"Don't tell me you have dragon-rider blood and you're scared of a little horse," Ronan goaded.

"You're not very nice," Amir whined.

"This is true," Ronan agreed. "Bandit doesn't like to be kept waiting, you know."

That got him to scramble into action. It wasn't true, but like Amir had said – not very nice.

Amir took the leg up with minimal grace. He had hardly settled when Ronan started walking; Bandit followed, and Amir alternated between holding onto her for balance and yanking his hands away like he might anger her. Ronan stayed close at his side in case he really did fall off, but they made it to the nearest tree stump without incident, and Ronan mounted with ease.

He had hardly swung his leg over when Amir's arms came around his middle. They locked together tight, dragging Ronan back against his chest, and the second Bandit shifted to take another step, Amir's face was in his shoulder.

And Ronan was trying to be spiteful, here, but he was helpless against the laugh that filled his chest. It wasn't even a mean laugh; it was airy and bright and Ronan could feel Amir smiling against his shoulder, like he was somehow the winner in all of this even though he was the one shaking.

"You're not even going to look?"

Amir shook his head, tickling Ronan with his hair, then went stock still when Bandit stirred into motion. At Ronan's commanding pat against the base of her neck, she unfurled great dark wings. Amir let out a tortured noise and tugged himself closer, scooting away from their beating at his back.

"Ready?" Ronan called. Amir groaned exceptionally loud.

Bandit took to the air.

If Ronan could have any power in the world, it wouldn't be to fly. There were so many more practical abilities to choose from. He would see the future, so nobody could ever disappoint him. He would read minds, so nobody could ever lie to him. He would go back in time and talk Vito out of this life, or weave thread into gold and talk him into a new one.

There was no feeling in the world Ronan liked better than flying, but he wasn't so foolish as to lead with his heart.

But Ronan didn't have foresight or mind-reading or time travel or Midas' touch. Flying wasn't his first pick, but it was his happiest, and Bandit didn't give him the chance to choose. All he had to do was keep his balance and trust her with the rest; he could close his eyes and fear nothing, but he wouldn't dare miss this view. He watched, captivated, as trees too tall to climb fell beneath him, slowly at first and then with hurtling speed as Bandit's wings beat harder and faster.

Over the wind roaring against his ears, Ronan yelled, "Open your eyes!"

"I'm good!" Amir yelled back.

Bandit burst through the lowest clouds, bathing them in mist. The sky wrapped around them, cool as a stream on his skin but warm to his eyes. Ronan's favorite sunsets were the ones that glowed pink; he watched his arms turn rosy, watched orange clouds break around them, and felt that warmth inside him. It swelled in his chest, fought for space against the ugly knot Vito had left there.

"C'mon, look!" Ronan tried again, hearing pink in his own voice.

Bandit chose that moment to take a short, sweeping dive, and Amir didn't even bother to respond, just hid his face further. Ronan got the feeling she was fucking with him as she shot back up, then slowed down only to swoop into an angle that had Ronan locking his grip and Amir digging his fingers in tight. She was such an asshole. Ronan loved her.

The warmth won out in his chest, and suddenly, Ronan was laughing. He threw his head back and let out a triumphant shout, only to clamp his mouth shut against the wind when Bandit put on a burst of speed in response. The moment she slowed again, he was hunching forward into a fit of giggles that left him watery-eyed (well, more watery-eyed) and gasping.

It wasn't until his breathing evened out and Bandit slowed to a languid glide (she'd always seemed to ebb and flow with his emotions; he loved her for that, too) that he took notice of the missing weight on his shoulder. He looked back to see that Amir had finally raised his head and was watching Ronan's profile with wide eyes. Watching Ronan's face, now.

"Don't look at me," Ronan said. "Didn't you see? The sky's pink tonight."

Amir turned his head just enough to look past him. "Is that how you like it best?"

"I like it best when I'm in it."

Amir pondered this with a hum, staring out at the horizon. From this high up, they had a dreamlike view of the sun hanging low and red over a carpet of clouds, but Amir only watched it for a second before meeting Ronan's eyes again. "Me too, I think."

"Warming up to this whole flying thing, are you?" Ronan prodded.

Amir let his gaze drift again, toying with a barely-there smile. "Is that what I said?"

"Are you always so cryptic?"

Amir's laugh was swept away by the beat of Bandit's wings, but Ronan felt it all the way down his back. "I suppose I deserved that," he admitted. Ronan gave up craning his neck to look at him, but he felt Amir's relish in the gradual loosening of his chest. "I'll admit, it's nice. Terrifying, but . . ."

Ronan would sooner swan-dive off Bandit's back than share this, but he'd always found the view from here terribly romantic.

He never did get to hear Amir's thoughts on it. Before he'd found the right words, Bandit abandoned their idyllic float for a (very slow, measured) descent, and Amir forwent the train of thought for a strangled yelp.

They touched down on a quiet city street as the sky deepened to purple. Amir practically threw himself from Bandit's back, wobbling like a sailor who hadn't touched land in months.

"I don't know how to tell you this," Ronan whispered as he joined him, "But it's lookin' like you might've pissed your pants."

Amir whipped his eyes downward, then back up just as fast to glare once he saw his pants were completely dry. Ronan hopped deftly out of the path of Amir's jabbing elbow to land facing Bandit.

"Any reason you brought us here, girl?"

Bandit snuffled unhelpfully.

Ronan looked over his surroundings. Paved gravel and brick buildings, indistinguishable from any other street, ever. "Ah." He noticed the empty wooden stalls, likely remnants of a daytime market. "You smell apples or something?"

Bandit stared at him. Ronan patted her shoulder consolingly. "Stalls 're closed, love. We'll say I owe you one–"

"Hooly shit." Bandit's ears immediately pointed to the two young men who stumbled onto the street a few shops down, the stench of liquor bursting through the door in their wake. "Massive fuckin bird– 's that a horse?"

The second man had his back to them. "No shit? Where?"

"Turn 'round, brains for shit."

"Brains for – huh?"

By the time the second man managed to navigate his way one-hundred-eighty degrees around, Bandit was long gone. Ronan had seen too many pegasus-feather garments at the black market to blame her.

"Man, 's just a regular-sized regular bird." The second man squinted up at Bandit's faraway form, extremely disappointed.

"Damn."

"Damn."

They staggered off, thankfully in the other direction. "Wow," said Amir.

Sufficiently spooked, Bandit would only show again someplace more secluded. Amir scrambled after Ronan as he started off down the street, eyes peeled for a backroad.

They'd only been walking a minute when Ronan started to slow his pace. He came to a near-stop, nonplussed. Amir doubled back but didn't ask the obvious question, patient as Ronan looked around himself with narrowed eyes for confirmation to the nagging feeling in his chest. When he found it, his lips parted with a quiet, "Oh."

He started again, faster this time, until he reached a shop with a thick plank door. There was a vase in the small, glassless window that definitely hadn't been there before, but he was certain.

He had recognized the entire street in the way you recognized something you'd seen thousands of times but never really looked at, but this place was familiar in the way that meant something.

"When I was younger," Ronan said once he remembered Amir still stood behind him, surely confused but generously unspeaking. "This shop was owned by a locksmith. Pretty sure I spent more time around him than other kids my age."

Amir crept closer and peered through the window. Light was waning, but what Ronan could make out of the interior was nothing like his memory. "This is where you learned."

The tips of Ronan's fingers trailed the splintering wood until they got to the hole at his navel where he used to peek out at passersby. This was where he had learned to pick a lock, yes. But it was also where he'd had a hand in making a few. He'd earned his first calluses and burns at the forge in the backroom and shadowed Mr. Hughes to strangers' homes to fix broken and jammed locks. When time was in surplus or misguided orders came in, this was where he'd learned the basics of blacksmithing. When Mr. Hughes was busy and Ronan was bored, it was where he'd slaved for weeks over a tiny and ultimately very wonky tin rabbit. And when his mom lost track of the days, it was where he'd sipped lukewarm soup for lunch while Mr. Hughes taught him to read and write.

"This was my favorite place," he corrected. "Old bastard used to say I could take it over when he died. Guess I missed my chance."

Ronan hadn't been here in six years.

"What happened?"

He shrugged. "Vito got to me first." He left out what came before that, the part where his life went to shit; this seemed like the happier story.

"Does that mean you lived nearby?"

There was no reason those words should have jarred him the way they did. It should have crossed his mind the second he found the locksmith's– no, before that, the second he'd started to recognize his surroundings.

"Just three streets over." Ronan stared, dazed, at the wilting petals in the vase. "The house on the corner. It's mine now, technically."

"Seriously?" Amir's hand came down on his shoulder, leaning him away from the shop. Then Ronan was being pulled along, steered down the street in the direction of his house. "You have to show me!"

Ronan imagined walking in after all these years to the smell that had lingered in his final weeks there, of sweat and sick and years of liquor soaked into the floorboards.

He stumbled over his own feet as Amir made an unexpected turn onto the wrong street. Ronan gazed up, disoriented, to find concerned eyes and a reassuring smile. "Maybe another time," decided Amir. "This looks like a good place to summon your monster, however it is you plan to do that."

This time, when he pressed close at Ronan's side, Ronan didn't move away. Pushing two fingers past his lips, he whistled short and sharp and ignored Amir's dubious look in favor of watching the sky.

"I'll be damned," Amir said when Bandit appeared, a fast-growing dot in the sky. "How is that even possible?"

Ronan shrugged against him. "How do dragons breathe fire?"

Bandit brought a gust of wind when she landed. She appraised Amir with what might have been disappointment, like she'd hoped he'd be gone when she returned. Amir appraised her the way a convict appraised a guillotine.

"My mother always says animals were the only ones given magic because humans would have destroyed the world by now if we had any of our own."

Says. So Amir had a living mother.

Ronan leaned into him a moment longer before dropping onto one knee. "She sounds very wise."

𓃢𓃢𓃢

song for this chapter - Little Big Boy by Madds Buckley

yes i'm aware this is literally a bakugou fansong but it just fits vito so well

amir is so gay i can't w him