Ronan shifted to get more comfortable, turning onto his side and tucking his face into Tony's shirt.

"Don't fall asleep," she said. "I've got places to be."

"Won't," he muttered. He couldn't if he tried. Even with Tony's lap as his pillow and her fingers carding rhythmically through his hair, he was too distracted to sleep. He'd hardly gotten a wink the night before.

By places to be, Tony had meant the Browning mansion.

"You're all wound up," she said rather than asked, drawing her hand along the tense line of his shoulders. She sounded uninterested as ever, but her touch was soothing.

The others were out running pre-mission errands, so Ronan and Tony had taken advantage of the fading spring cool and the rare quiet and settled outside in the early afternoon. It was nearly evening now, and this was the most they'd spoken at once. That was the thing about Tony - she was the perfect person to spend time with in silence, and Ronan hadn't felt much like talking lately.

And she was more caring than she liked to let on. She didn't ask out loud why Ronan was stressed, but the question was there to anyone who knew her well enough.

"Worried about tonight, is all," said Ronan.

He was understating his feelings, but Tony probably knew that. Ronan had kept himself up all night with worst-case-scenarios, tossing and turning to thoughts of innocent strangers getting caught up in the flame, or worse - so much worse - Tony or Vito or Mitch choking on smoke or trapped in a burning building, coming back with destroyed skin or not coming back at all.

"We'll be fine," Tony said simply. She was right, Ronan knew, but he couldn't help where his mind went.

And then there was Vito. He and Ronan had fought before - they butted heads often, always found something to bicker about - but never like this. Two weeks had passed since it had come to a head, but the unsavory looks and rolled eyes and short replies had continued for days, and now they were at a standoff - who could give the other the cold shoulder the longest?

Ronan wanted to stand his ground, but he was destined to lose, wasn't he? Just that morning, his mouth had gone dry at the sight of Vito wandering around the kitchen in the dewy dawn light, shirtless and so lean as he reached lanky limbs up to the top shelves.

It was fucking- confusing, being angry at Vito.

So yeah, Ronan was wound up.

"Basement tonight?" he said, rolling onto his back so he could look up at her.

The basement was where they kept their spoils, but it was also where they'd stored whatever they could fit of Mr. Robinson's furniture. Reluctant to throw it away, they had crammed it all downstairs. There was one clear path in the whole room, and it led to the wardrobe where they stashed their hauls and the earnings they weren't using (secured with locks hand-chosen by Ronan, locks even he would struggle to pick. He could still do it, though).

The couch, however, was completely clear. It took some picking to reach it, but it was long and soft and secluded from the rest of the house.

Tony looked down at him, unimpressed. "You really think sleeping with me'll fix this?" At 'this,' she pressed her fingers into a particularly tight knot in Ronan's back. He hissed and curled away from the touch.

By proximity, Tony had been all of his firsts, though it had been a long time since she'd been his only. Their lifestyle didn't lend well to outside relationships - Vito stressed the importance of keeping their friends close and everybody else far, far away to protect their secrets. One-night trysts with strangers at pubs were the most they could afford, and Ronan wasn't often in the mood for all of the searching and the meeting and the small talk that evolved into sweet talk. Tony was close at hand and required none of the flirting. She was quick, and she was simple, and she was there.

It helped that the sex was great.

"What can I say," Ronan grinned up at her. "I find my head is at its clearest when it's between your legs."

Tony shoved his face so he was looking away from her, but she was snickering. "It's a good thing your mouth is so pretty," she said. "What comes out of it is vile."

It was as good as a yes. Ronan hummed, satisfied. It had been so long since he'd been with anybody, it was no wonder he was so tightly-strung. This had to be what he needed.

The sound of voices started up inside - the others were home. The arson troupe would be departing soon. "Want me to braid your hair?" Ronan offered.

Tony ran her fingers through Ronan's bangs one last time, toying with the white tuft, before dropping her hands - another yes. So Ronan crawled behind her to comb through her curtain of black, distracting himself with the familiarity of it.

The back door pushed open, and two heads poked out.

"You guys hungry?" said Felix. "We've got meat!"

"Mitch and I have been ironing out the details," said Vito. He didn't so much as look at Ronan, which was pretty impressive, considering how close behind Tony he was. "We need to catch you up."

"I'm busy," said Tony, very seriously.

"Can't that wait a minute?"

"No, but you sure can."

Vito heaved a long-suffering sigh but ducked back inside. Felix watched him leave, then turned back to Ronan and Tony. "Can I do one?"

Ronan looked mournfully at his progress. "I've already started-"

"Come on, then," Tony said, shaking Ronan's hands off. "You'd better make them even."

Felix scurried over and plopped down, leaning cross-legged into Ronan's side, and Ronan couldn't even be bothered as he undid his work and started parting Tony's hair down the middle.

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If Ronan had spent the better part of the last hour pacing, that was his own business.

Bandit had stuck around for a while, lingering in the yard after her companions had lifted off with Vito, Tony, and Mitch on their backs. Once Ronan had banned Felix from giving her more snacks and nobody had made any move to get on her back, she'd quickly grown bored and taken off, and Felix had sulked inside to nap soon after.

For the entire time the horses had been there, Amir hadn't moved more than four short steps from the front door. He seemed to find them amusing from a distance ("You seriously named your pegasi Bandit, Devil, and Rogue?" "Shut up, we were young"), but he grayed whenever they were within earshot, like they might somehow hear his unfavorable thoughts and whisk him into the sky for the fun of dropping him a hundred meters.

With Bandit and Felix gone and Amir doing little more now than sit on the grass and watch him pace, Ronan had inevitably filled the quiet with a mental list of tonight's worst possible outcomes. He occiped himself now with ranking them; Vito and Tony's deaths were naturally the top item, but there was a toss-up for second place between Mitch's death and Vito singeing off his hair.

"Can I ask you something?" Amir spoke up after an hour had passed. Ronan didn't stop his pacing, but looked over to let Amir know he was listening. "When we were at the blacksmith's today, we heard talk of a festival, but when I asked about it, everyone got, er . . ."

"Weird?" Ronan supplied.

"Very weird. They all looked at Vito, and he just told me not to bother, but it seemed- loaded, somehow?"

Ronan linked his hands above his head and huffed a dry laugh. "That's one way to put it. You haven't heard of the Royal Orchid Festival?"

Amir made a noise of recognition at the back of his throat. "That's all it was?"

The Royal Orchid Festival was a yearly event held at the heart of the island, named after the native Diverran flower that only bloomed during the transition from spring to summer. It had to be due in the coming weeks, though Ronan had long since stopped keeping track.

"Vito thinks the whole thing is just a strategy by the upper class to keep the masses happy so they don't revolt." The festival was an elaborate event, full of foods and games and spectacles most of the island would never lay eyes on otherwise. All of it was paid for by Diverra's wealthiest. "He's right, of course, but he acts as if going to one party is a betrayal to our cause, like- like it might set us all on the straight 'n narrow. I've always wanted to go - there are fireworks, y'know, I've never seen those - but it's been taboo as long as we've been a group."

Ronan didn't speak his thoughts on this rule - that it was just a way for Vito to exercise control and check their obedience - but it must've shown in his voice. Or maybe his wistfulness was more obvious than he'd intended; and wasn't that embarrassing, if he couldn't hide a desire so childlike as to watch explosions light the night sky.

"The two of you seem to, ah- disagree, a lot," said Amir. Ronan scoffed; that was one way to put it. "And yet you're pacing the front lawn, waiting to make sure he gets back safely. Why?"

Ronan forced his steps to halt and squinted at Amir, confused. Because what sort of question was that? "I don't know where I'd be without him," he said honestly. "I don't want to know where I'd be without him."

Amir pursed his lips. "That doesn't really answer the question."

Ronan definitely didn't know what to do with that, and he thought he might snap if he tried to answer, so he shrugged and started across the lawn again.

After ten minutes of it, Amir hopped to his feet and physically got in Ronan's way.

"You're driving me crazy," he said.

Ronan fixed him with a blank look. "You could go inside."

He very pointedly moved to step past, but Amir took hold of the back of his shirt and reeled him back in. Ronan went embarrassingly easily. "There's got to be another way for you to work off all of this energy."

Ronan's eyes went a bit wide at the wording.

"Name something you want to do," Amir continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "And we'll do it."

Despite the brisk way he said it, Amir's eyebrows were close-knit with concern. Ronan could admit that he could use a distraction, and he had been thinking lately . . .

"Will you teach me how to fight?"

Amir's face went slack like this was the last thing he'd expected. "Teach you . . . is that something you want?"

Ronan nodded, shuffling his feet. "With the way things are going, I feel like I should learn to defend myself."

Amir huffed a disbelieving laugh and dragged a hand through his hair. "Yeah, okay. We can spar."

Which was how Ronan ended up across from Amir in the lawn, testing the weight of a dagger in his hand. Unlike Amir's own, the curve of which Ronan recognized from the Van Doren heist, Ronan's had a long, straight blade. Both had near-identical hilts, though, and the same scratched metal where an engraving had been scraped from the blade.

On a handful of early mornings, Ronan had peered through the kitchen curtains to find Amir already up (or perhaps still awake), practicing with the very dual broadswords inked onto his back. Ronan was usually too sleepy to focus on much other than the graceful way Amir wielded the swords and the ever-deepening neckline of his shirt as he undid button after button in the rising heat. But a couple of times, during a lull, he'd thought he could glimpse similar markings on each sword if he squinted.

"You've scratched something out of all of your blades," Ronan said, running a finger along the marred stretch of metal. "What is it?"

If Ronan hadn't been watching for it, the tense set to Amir's shoulders would have been imperceptible. Amir looked down at his own dagger, as if reminding himself. He didn't respond for long enough that Ronan thought he might reject the question altogether, but eventually,

"'Sow pride, reap prosperity.'" he recited, frowning. "I carry stolen weapons, Ronan. If the engraving was recognized . . ."

He seemed troubled, talking about it. So instead of asking - stolen from who? From the family you worked for? Is that the whole reason you're on the run? Surely there's more, what else are you hiding, who have you hurt - Ronan said, "We gonna stand around all day, or can we get started?"

Amir deflated, smiling gratefully for the out, and sheathed his dagger. Ronan did the same, albeit reluctantly - it felt far less dramatic like this, safety be damned - and raised his weapon.

Instead of following suit, Amir took the time to bow. Ronan rolled his eyes but humored him all the same, bending at the waist. Seconds stretched on as they both took their stance, then stretched on even more; Ronan was starting to feel silly as he stared across the space between them, waiting. Was he supposed to strike first?

Amir came at him so fast, it was all Ronan could do to lift his forearm to Amir's wrist to block the overhead slash. One instant, Amir's dagger was coming down on him. The next, Ronan was flat on his back with his arms splayed out uselessly and his chest rising and falling heavily beneath the point of Amir's knife.

Amir crouched over him, not one hair out of place. "Stabbed," he said.

Ronan went cross-eyed trying to look at the blade at his sternum. He attempted to close his hand around the hilt of his dagger, only to find that it had tumbled out of reach. "Wha . . ."

"You left yourself wide open when you blocked." Amir kneeled onto Ronan's abdominals. Not to hold him down, just to be an ass. "I kicked you down."

So that was why Roman was so winded.

"You should avoid deflecting a knife with your own arm if you can." Amir stood and offered his hand. "And if you must, definitely don't use the inside of your arm. You're just asking to bleed out."

"Again," said Ronan. When Amir stepped back and bent at the waist, he complained, "We really gotta do that every time?"

Amir looked up from his bow with a dubious frown. Ronan stubbornly stood straight.

The next time Amir came at him with an identical downward swing, Ronan protected himself with distance instead, hopping deftly out of range. How he ended up on the floor just as quickly was beyond him.

"Right idea, but your stance was unbalanced when you landed-"

"You didn't kill me this time," said Ronan. His ankle throbbed dully where Amir had kicked it in. "What, gone soft after just one round?"

Amir was on him in an instant. He straddled Ronan's chest, fisting the front of Ronan's hair with one hand to tug his head back, holding the dagger sideways at his neck with the other. "Decapitated."

That seemed highly unlikely, but Ronan was too dizzy - from the fall and from Amir's cocksure smirk as he bore down on him - to argue logistics.

The next time around, Amir came at him with his fist first. Ronan managed to block the punch, but he was so distracted by the force of it that he forgot about his knife hand entirely. It wound up buckled behind his back not a moment later, and when Amir twisted the hilt of the dagger toward his thumb, Ronan felt it pop free of his grip despite his best efforts to hold on and struggle against Amir's hold.

While Ronan's knife thudded usefully to the grass, Amir's pressed beneath his Adam's apple, so Ronan felt it when he swallowed. "Slit throat." It came right against Ronan's ear, deeper than it had any right to be.

"Do you enjoy finding different ways to kill me?"

"The dead cannot speak, Ronan."

Ronan went slack against Amir the way he thought a dead man might, with unfocused eyes and a ragdoll head and a lolling tongue. Amir nearly toppled under the sudden weight, but he was laughing as he forced Ronan upright, then laughing even harder when he tried to step back and Ronan flopped against him once again. "Alright, alright!"

By the time Amir had tired of his quick kills ("Impaled." "Gutted!" "Uh, throttled?"), Ronan's clothes were ruddy with dirt and grass, and he could feel himself bruising in at least ten places. Other than his rolled-up sleeves, Amir looked exactly as he had to begin with.

He let the next match drag on longer, shouting out tips as they went instead of rendering Ronan entirely useless, though he did make a point to announce every one of Ronan's would-be deaths (almost always "stabbed").

They circled each other with shuffling steps and darted forward with blades or fists extended. Ronan didn't know how he was meant to keep up with the flurry of Amir's movements and take his advice at the same time. Amir's footwork was precise and clean while Ronan was hardly staying on his feet at all, and every time their daggers swiped against each other, the force of it nearly sent Ronan's arm flying. 

But the longer they fought, the more hypothetical deaths Ronan suffered, the more he started to notice patterns in Amir's movement. A jab with the knife to get Ronan to jump to one side, followed almost immediately by a kick from Amir's other leg to knock him off balance - Ronan managed to block it for the first time, and the trob in his forearm from the impact was worth Amir's breathy "nice."

So Ronan kept studying, kept adjusting. Analyzing a target for weak points was his strong suit, after all - and sure, he'd never had a moving, incredibly skilled target before, but Ronan was nothing if not adaptable.

He couldn't help his pride as he became less of a punching bag and the chants of "stabbed" came slower. He was so focused on his movements, on reading and learning and growing, that he failed at first to notice Amir grinning like he'd come alive, and when he did, Amir's next punch sent him tumbling.

Amir stood over him with his hand extended, panting through a fierce smile and dripping sweat. His eyes were dark and bright with the challenge. "You're a fast learner."

Ronan wasn't sure about fast; every inch of him ached, and he was pretty sure he looked like an overripe apple beneath his clothes. He couldn't have been the greatest sparring partner, but Amir was beaming like he was having the time of his life. It occurred to Ronan that it must've been some time since he'd had any sparring partner at all.

If that was the case, Ronan had better shape up.

He took Amir's hand in a tight grip, swiped at the back of his knee with one foot, and pulled. He rolled out of the way as Amir collapsed forward and was on him before he could do more than flip onto his back.

"Should've killed me."

Blinking hazily into focus, Amir looked down at where their bodies met, Ronan's legs on either side of his chest, then up at Ronan's triumphant grin. His own grin came back, slow and pleased. "I should've known," he huffed. "You fight like a pirate. No honor."

Ronan figured he'd been right, the night after the masquerade, to say that he didn't need to trust Amir to like him. Much of that night was fuzzy, and he'd probably spewed a lot of bull, but that, at least, must've been true, because he was finding that he liked Amir more and more every day.

Then he considered the position he was in, willingly subjecting himself to Amir's (albeit sheathed) blade, and realized he might be starting to trust him, too.

He should probably reign that in. Amir seemed to have taken a special liking to him, but Ronan couldn't carelessly assume that made him Amir's friend, not his target.

He copied Amir's straddle from earlier, down to the hair-tug, except he dug his knife against Amir's hairline instead."Scalped."

He would reign it in a little later. This- this was fun.

One raised eyebrow. "Not very efficient."

"A slow, excruciating death by blood loss and-or infection to make up for all the times you killed me."

Amir resigned to his fate, eased into it, even. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back into Ronan's grip.

Ronan wished, suddenly and blindingly, for the moment to stretch on, so he could admire Amir like this a little while longer.

That exact thought had him ending it prematurely. He clambered up with little grace, breathing probably heavier than he should have been. Amir opened his eyes with disoriented surprise, like he'd been woken from a dream, and stumbled when Ronan helped him up.

Ronan was about to make some excuse - he wasn't sure what, or what exactly he was running from - when Amir sank into a tight stance and said, "Another go?"

This might be a problem, Ronan thought as he raised his dagger once more.

The moon was at its highest when Ronan made out the Romanos' pale skin through the treeline. He fought the urge to jump to his feet - Amir had fallen asleep against his shoulder on the front steps, and though Ronan was confident he could sleep through the fall if Ronan stood, he didn't much like the idea of Amir cracking his head open on the edge of a stair.

And he liked how Amir felt against him, heavy and warm and there, shameless in the way he gave out trust even though Ronan couldn't return it yet.

He seemed to shake himself awake as the trio neared. Ronan wondered at the chance that his heartbeat was the culprit, if it had pounded hard enough to rouse a hibernating bear at the sight of them. Mitch's mop of coily hair was dusted with patches of gray, and Tony had a few ashy lines across her cheeks, but Vito was easily the worst off - his face was smeared with so much soot that Ronan couldn't tell from afar where his collar ended. 

"Oh," Amir murmured as he blinked his eyes open.

Ronan gave a strained hum. Amir jolted up and scooted bashfully away, and Ronan stepped onto the lawn, face drawn tight with worry.

As it happened, more worrisome than the soot staining their skin was the look in their eyes - bright and thrilled and flaming hot - and the devilish smiles that came with it.

They were burning.

"How was it?" Ronan asked, even though he feared the answer.

Vito's grin stretched into something as frightening as it was handsome. "Best night of our lives," he said, and Ronan wilted.

He didn't show it, though. He smiled tightly and said, "I'm glad you're okay."

"Turns out the house had a wooden frame," said Tony. She didn't sound upset about it, didn't sound alarmed or shaky the way someone who'd come out of a burning building should. "Had to work around it."

Ronan blanched at the knowledge that they had stayed in the house even after it caught fire, like whatever they'd stolen was worth risking their lives. Tony said it with pride and a competitive spark in her eye, like she'd just won a game of chess rather than a gamble with death. Ronan could picture it, the three of them stalking out of a burning mansion with crazed grins and sure steps, bruised and covered in ash but more inspired than they'd ever been.

"Get a grip," Mitch said, snatching Ronan out of his imagination. He pushed past, slapping at Ronan's cheek as he went with the hand not carrying their loot. "No one was hurt, your grace. So now we can all go to fuckin' bed, can't we?"

Tony slipped through the door right as it shut behind him, but not before throwing a significant look at Ronan over her shoulder. Vito was the last to move; he hesitated with his eyes on Ronan like there was something he wanted to say, but he ultimately averted his stare and started after the others.

"You should bathe before bed," said Ronan. "You're filthy."

Vito's clothes were covered in ash, too, far more than the others' had been. It wasn't funny, but Vito chuckled anyway. "I might've gotten carried away. 'S sorta pot and kettle, though, isn't it?"

"I mean it."

Vito waved a dismissive hand. "Tomorrow. I'm exhausted."

"I'll take care of it," Ronan said. "You won't have to do anything, just- you're covered in soot, Vito."

Vito appraised him for a long time, a bit warily, like the olive branch Ronan had extended may have been riddled with poisonous thorns. Ronan wondered when they had become so twisted.

"Alright," Vito said eventually. "Thanks."

He bent down to clap Amir's shoulder on his way inside. Amir looked like he was fighting to stay awake. "'Preciate you waiting up for us, but I think it's time for bed, my friend," said Vito. "Next time, you'll join in on the fun, eh?"

Then he was gone, and Amir was pushing blearily to his feet. Instead of going inside like he clearly wanted to, he faced Ronan. "You okay?"

Ronan hummed instead of committing to any one answer. Amir didn't probe, just reached out for Ronan's elbow to pull him toward the door and said, "I'll probably- I'll definitely pass out, but wake me if you, um. If you need anything."

"You and I both know I can't wake you." Ronan followed, somehow the less steady of the pair. "And what would I need from you, anyway?"

He regretted it as soon as he said it, even more when he saw Amir wince and felt his arm fall back to his side.

"Goodnight," said Amir, and Ronan wanted to thank him - for the distraction, for the company, for listening, for asking, for remaining soothingly warm while everyone else around him burned hot.

"'Night." Ronan turned down the hall toward the dim light coming from the washroom.

Vito was just replacing the oil lamp on the wall when Ronan got to him. Not a word passed between them; Ronan busied himself extracting the tub from the shallow closet beside the washstand, and Vito busied himself undressing. It was too late to even think about filling the bath, but there was enough water in the basin for a quick wash. Vito started to tug at his pants, and Ronan set about finding washcloths to hide his reddening face; it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, but he didn't look up again until Vito was seated inside the tub, leaning back against the metal edge.

The washroom was too small to accommodate the tub comfortably, but there was enough room for Ronan to kneel behind it and raise the basin to Vito's body, trickling water over his torso, his legs, his closed eyes. He dipped the washcloth and lathered it in the nice-smelling soap Tony insisted they spend so much on - Ronan couldn't name the scent if he tried, but it was soothing and fresh.

He started on Vito's arms, on the sweat clinging to his skin. Vito sat back as Ronan drew the washcloth over his chest and down his legs. Ronan took care to clean the bottoms of his feet and the soot clinging to his fingernails, gratified by Vito's pleased hum as Ronan massaged his palms.

"No gloves?" Ronan asked.

"Singed one."

How close did you get? Ronan thought helplessly. How well did you get to know this fire - or was it like reuniting with an old friend?

He switched to a second, clean washcloth and gently wiped away the muck on Vito's face until the port-wine stain over his left eye was visible again.

"What did you do while we were gone?" Vito asked.

Ronan swept down his neck, along his shoulder. "Sparred with Amir for a while."

"Oh?" Vito still had his head tilted back like Ronan was washing his face. "That's impressive."

"Hardly. We were just using knives, and I ate dirt most of the time."

"I noticed," Vito mused. "I can return the favor after this, if you'd like?"

"Thought you were exhausted?"

"Not so much, anymore."

"It's fine."

"You sure?"

Ronan dragged the soapy, dirty cloth over his mouth to shut him up. Vito sputtered and glared, but it morphed soon enough into a laugh.

"Bet you caught on quickly though," he said while Ronan untied his hair. "You've always been a fast learner.

It made Ronan oddly flustered that Amir had said nearly the same thing earlier. "I'm not, not really," he said, grateful that Vito had shut his eyes again against the suds at his hairline.

"Is that a joke?" Vito scoffed. "Took you all of thirty minutes to learn sewing from Tony; she tried to teach me for years and I couldn't even get a straight line."

Ronan faltered. That had been years ago, not long after they'd met; the headmistress had neglected to replace or repair Tony's dresses even though they were falling apart in places, so she'd enlisted Ronan's nimble fingers. Vito hadn't even been around for most of it - he'd gotten bored after Ronan got the hang of it and ran off to play with Mitch.

"You remember that?"

Vito sighed at the scrub of Ronan's fingers against his scalp. "'Course I do. Just like I remember the time you cried after locking yourself in a closet- ow!" Vito's shoulders shook with snickers. "'I was p-p-p-practicing,'" he mocked, then yelped when Ronan pinched at his roots again.

Vito laid off the teasing after that, but he was apparently on a roll with the memories. The time Felix gave himself a bloody nose reading upside down, the time Mitch was booted from Rogue's back, the time Tony fumed for hours and ignored Mitch for days after he cut a thick lock of her hair.

They were embarrassing stories, silly tales from their youth, but tucked into them were side stories Ronan hadn't even remembered. The look on Felix's face when they finally earned (stole) enough money to buy him all of the books he wanted. Mitch's awed gasp the first time Rogue let her pet him. Tony's refusal to cut Mitch's hair in return when he offered because, "What if it doesn't curl the same when it grows back? It's too pretty."

Ronan spent longer than he needed to wash out Vito's hair, afraid the storytelling would end as soon as the bath did. He waited for Vito to taper off on his own, then poured a final rinse over his body. "Someone's feeling nostalgic."

"I'm feeling good," Vito said. "Tonight's job made me feel really, really good. And you're what I think about when I feel good."

Ronan knew that you meant us, meant you all, but that didn't stop him from clambering to his feet, overwhelmed, and playing it off as searching for a towel.

Vito dragged thin cotton through his hair, then wrapped it around himself. He looked bothered, suddenly; his lips slipped from their sentimental smile. "This family is important to me, Ronan."

He sounded soft, tired. It reminded Ronan of the days before they had anything at all, when Vito first took on the responsibility of four fucked up kids and never complained even though they could hear in his voice that he was exhausted. "Of course," said Ronan. "I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like . . . like I forgot that."

"Don't apologize." Vito brought a hand down on Ronan's shoulder and squeezed. Ronan met his gaze and was jarred to find that it didn't at all match his memory - Vito's stare was intense, like he hadn't been dozing minutes before, and there was nothing soft about the look he leveled Ronan with as he said, "Just don't let it happen again."

He waited a moment longer, like Ronan might recover from the whiplash soon enough to have anything to say to that. When all he managed was some dumbfounded staring, Vito added a brief "thanks" and was gone before Ronan's heart had settled.

Ronan should have cleaned up, really. But what he wanted right then was for his head to go quiet before it could get loud, and the time it would take to empty the bath felt like something he couldn't afford.

The basement door was already unlocked when he reached it. He pressed his lips to soft, pliant skin and let himself be swept away until he was but a vessel for sensation. It was breathy sighs and kiss-red lips and bruising bites and the smell of smoke and salty-sweet distraction, and nothing more.

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Song for this chapter - Glory and Gore by Lorde

honorable mention: She Doesn't Sleep by Anthony Amorim

more lorde :p both of these songs are dedicated to the tony-mitch-vito trio, i think they're rlly cool