Adam's lips are almost touching his ear.
They are squeezed into a booth at Nino's, and it is a messy blur of jukebox music and pizza crusts and the ridiculous pile of stuff on the table that Ronan has been passing to Adam,
and the one clear point in all of it is Adam, murmuring,
"Would you please pass the ice tea?"
It's not a seductive phrase. Not the type of phrase to make Ronan's ears grow hot. Certainly not a phrase to send a thrill shooting down Ronan's spine.
But it does, because Adam - damn him - is speaking in his Henrietta accent.
He's really letting him hear it, not just an accidental slip. The vowels are deliciously long, decadent as a straight tablespoon of honey, and each one thrums through Ronan's body until every inch of his skin is prickling, awake, craving.
He stares straight ahead, focusing on the tea. (Never at Adam, at the playful tilt of that elegant chin.) He works very hard to keep his hands steady as he passes Adam the sweating pitcher of ice tea.
Adam murmurs "thank you" into Ronan's ear. He does not pour himself any tea.
Ronan digs his nails into his palms. Adam cannot keep this game up forever.
(Really, he's going to run out of stuff for Ronan to pass him. All the condiments are crammed together on Adam's side of the table. Gansey looks politely confused. Noah is giggling.)
Ronan tries to turn his attention to Gansey and Noah's conversation, something about maps and mountains. He can feel that his ears are still red. And two minutes later, there are those lips, just barely brushing the shell of his ear.
"Could you please pass the sugar?" he asks, and the way he says sugar, stretching the word endlessly like warm caramel, makes Ronan dizzy.
Also, Adam doesn't even like sugar in his ice tea.
"Seriously?" Ronan mutters.
Adam is all innocence. Close enough for only Ronan to hear, he says, "What? I just wanted some sugar......packets."
Ronan turns to face Adam, locking onto his eyes. They are sparkling with mischief.
"I think we should leave." Ronan's voice is nearing a growl. Under the table, he lays a hand on Adam's knee. "Now."
Adam shrugs. He toys with the straw in his tea. In his normal voice, he says,
"Maybe in a little while."
Ronan is going to kill him.
"Parrish." He slides his hand up Adam's leg. Adam doesn't even blink. "Enough games."
"I was just making conversation....right?" But Adam raises his eyebrow in a way that suggests a challenge. And that's when it clicks.
"Oh, fuck you," Ronan says.
(He swears Adam gives him a smile, for just a millisecond, that says, if you insist.)
Adam waits. Ronan only glares. And after a minute, Adam slides out of the booth and walks away.
He walks swiftly towards the back exit. Ronan counts to five in his head, heart pounding, and then tears out of the booth.
He catches up just as Adam steps out into the hot, sticky August air. Adam doesn't turn, though he must hear him. There's no one around. Ronan grabs Adam's shoulders, pins him against the brick wall, and kisses him roughly. He tastes like ice tea, and smells faintly of gasoline. Ronan steps forward, and presses his whole body against him.
Adam chuckles, soft and low in his throat. Ronan pulls away, questioning.
"You seem pretty worked up," Adam notes without a hint of accent. He leans his head back casually against the wall, as if he meant to be there all along, as if Ronan is not pinning him there.
Ronan glares. He scowls. He shuffles his feet. Adam watches and waits, pretending he hasn't a clue what's going on.
"Maybe I'll go, then?"
Ronan presses his palms into the gritty brick wall, on either side of Adam, and begins to swear. He swears and swears, filthy and creative and furious to release some of the tension boiling under his skin. And he ends it all by leaning in, and quietly as he can manage, saying into Adam's ear,
"I like your accent." Then he jerks back and says, "There. Happy?"
Adam leans forward. Ronan can feel that smug little smile, hot against his lips. With the accent fully back, each syllable sinfully long and sweet, Adam says,
"Well, why didn't you just say so?"