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adam parrish and ronan lynch are not made for each other

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they aren’t perfect halves of a whole
they aren’t interlocking puzzle pieces
they aren’t a perfect chord reverberating through a dumbstruck room
they aren’t twin stars caught in each other’s gravity
they aren’t a universal inevitability
they aren’t immutable laws of physics
they aren’t soul mates

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adam parrish and ronan lynch are a choice, a commitment, a protest
a middle finger raised against an unloving universe
a contemptuous laugh, a baring of teeth
fuck you. if love isn’t real, we make our own.

-

in the venn diagram of their magician-dreamer hearts
the overlapping pieces bleed onto each other, strike flint
spark, threaten injury, threaten dissolution
here, between them:
rage, trauma, grief, pain
injustice
hate of others, hate of self
emptiness, fullness
too much, too little
no words, no breath
a venn diagram’s overlap is not a timeline’s inevitability
it’s just meta analysis, subtext, context, dissection, interpretation
the messy parts of them reflect back mirrored
and the black damnation of their black emotions and their black hearts
could strangle the other whole

-

“are you happy now, adam? is this what you wanted?”

-

here is the truth:
an overlapping diagram means nothing
if nothing shared builds a foundation
strike a match, burn the page
start the story over.

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adam parrish.
a magician, a miracle
an identity built from choice and sacrifice and suffering
a steel-sharpened inside
a refusal to feel
lest he recognize the clawing in his gut.
a hungry boy ignorant of what he’s starving for
a scientist picking apart the pieces of the broken world
a feral animal driven by instinct to adapt, overcome, survive
to thrive
at any fucking cost.

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ronan lynch.
a dreamer, the damned
an abyss of isolation
a yearning and absence
a bone deep rainy day melancholy gray ache for home
for a family crumbled to ash
a sharpening, a rage, a manic itch below skin
a scream locked behind grimaces of too many teeth
bloody knuckles and broken bottles and slurred words
and praying, god, please,
let me die. let me die.

-

ronan kept his secret from himself
when he looked at adam
and his lovely, work-roughened hands
and his knuckles and his veins and his freckles
the please was not begging for blessing
it was a cry for mercy.

-

let’s scoop each boy from the narrative
and plop them down untethered in an empty room
contextless, friendless, nothing between them
but their ugly, broken hearts
ronan, understanding love and burying it like a body under every harm he could self-inflict
adam, understanding nothing but the anger and the tiredness and the step-by-step endless isolated trudge toward escape
sit them in a room, make them speak, make them see the other laid open
you think they save each other?
you think this is love?

-

no.
sometimes we have to become the person we’ll be
or stop being the person we are
before our edges won’t scrape others raw
sometimes you become a better version of yourself
(and wreck your loved ones on the way)
and it’s you who did the healing
you were not saved.

-

adam and ronan are not soul mates
and they aren’t a happy accident, a coincidence skipping to happily ever after
they’re a too-human mess of blunders and lessons and growth and change
and yearning and hurting and hoping and praying
they are a tentative question, stolen smiles
a loosening in the chest, an overdue exhale, surprised laughter on the air
elbows in ribs, arms over shoulders, thrill of teenage stupidity
traded insults, sharpened barbs, snapping irritation
an overturned shopping cart with spinning wheels and two dazed, laughing, bruised, idiot kids tangled on the asphalt
scraped and bloody and alive and electric
and the overlap of their venn diagram has something in it now
that isn’t quite words.

-

it’s called a foundation.

-

that’s how you build your heart, when you’re human
you don’t buy up a shiny empty skeletal new house on a shiny plot of land in a shiny neighborhood
with no chips or flaws or cracks
you glean in the woods until you find a clearing with soil soft enough to put down roots
dig a burrow
lay to rest
you tell the ones you love,
“here. put yours here too. tangle them with mine.
we’ll share the soil and the sun and the rain
and whatever grows here
we’ll have built together.”
and the loved ones say, okay, and that’s how your heart is shaped
a tangle of intertwined care
support, trust
a strange constellation.

-

adam parrish and ronan lynch are not made for each other
they’re differently-shaped blades, imperfectly matched parts
and if the walls of what they’re building start to crumble from the friction, the anger, the fear
the parts of them that will never naturally sing in harmony, a discordant screech of piano keys
if, then, they patch the cracks with mud and stone and mortar
embraces and confessions and conversations and building, always building, always sealing the fragile breaks in their foundation to keep it strong and whole
that’s not fate
that’s choice.
love is what you build. love is how you build it. love is facing the broken pieces together and creating something new, dynamic, better than the original
love is a choice.

-

adam parrish and ronan lynch might not choose to love each other
in a different timeline, different circumstances, different sharpness of selves
but that’s the beauty
that’s why it matters
nothing holds them here except the knowledge that here is where they want to be
with what they’ve built, the home they’ve made
because their broken imperfect shitty incomprehensible hearts don’t create a whole human when put together
but what they’ve built creates a home.

-

adam and ronan are not soul mates, other halves, missing pieces
they’re not a universal constant, an inevitable collision
they’re a quiet care, a mutual understanding, a fulfilled quest for uncomplicated happiness
they’re just love. that’s all. their love is a choice, and it’s one they keep making, day by day, because they always want to rest entwined in the shelter they’ve created
adam and ronan are not soul mates.
they’re better.