“For fucks sake, Parrish,” Ronan says, quieter than he usually might. Even more so than usual, his room looks like ground zero, with barely an inch of floor to be seen. Ronan is used to a scattering of papers and his collection of weird things from Cabeswater, but it seems to have started breeding while he slept.
An argument against sleeping, in his opinion. Mostly inanimate objects breeding sounds like something that would happen to Ronan Lynch.
His bed is an island amongst it, still ruffled from where he dragged himself out of it. The covers aren’t shifting enough to show anything more than breathing as he keeps overturning things, layered against the winter chill that pervades Monmouth.
“Fuck,” Ronan curses again. He tips over a dry vase with an inexplicably unwithered rose in an unearthly shade of blue to get a look at the papers underneath, which turn out to be a long list of nearly indecipherable coordinates. He doesn’t remember dreaming the rose – it had probably popped up as an unconscious gift for the bed-dweller, which makes him a lot less inclined to throw it at the bed still in the vase. Sort of, anyway.
He doesn’t remember there being this many pieces of paper on his bedroom floor. He throws a pair of jeans across the room, startling Chainsaw into yelling, “Kerah!” She sounds human in that she sounds utterly pissed with him, a tone that Ronan is used to hearing from every human he knows. She sounds like Adam saying, “Don’t be a shitbag, ” and Gansey’s Ganseyish way of saying his name.
A hand appears from under the edge of the quilt, grasping absently for a moment before appearing to give up and flop limply. A sigh gusts out, muffled by the weight of blankets, before it all goes still and silent again. That’s apparently the maximum response Ronan is getting this morning, which is just – fucking - great.
“Adam,” he says, almost patiently, or at least a decent seeming of it, “do you know where my Latin work is?”
For a long second there is no response. Then the hand twitches and breaks into movement, folding back the blankets to reveal a clump of wild fair hair and one blinking eye. Adam’s I’m-less-awake-than-I-sound-which-isn’t-very voice says, “Whuh?”
“Homework,” Ronan replies, “My Latin homework, loser, have you seen it? Honestly, how I’m the first one up I don’t fucking know.”
That isn’t strictly true. He had effectively slept through the night, as much as he ever did, except for a vague and indeterminable period of time where he’d been woken up by Adam’s arrival to Monmouth from work. All he remembers is cold fingers scratching across the bristle of his hair and the careful press of a mouth against his hairline before he’d sunk back into Cabeswater lit up in the way that evergreen forests are on warm autumn days.
“Fuck sake, Ronan,” Adam groans, because Ronan is a terrible influence. The one visible eye scrunches shut, eyebrow drawn down into a sleepy approximation of annoyance. “Time’s’it?”
“Time to get up if you were hoping to make it to class,” Ronan replies, mock-cheerful as he overturns yet another a stack of papers that looks like a half-finished essay for English Lit that was due a fortnight ago. Adam makes a long, indecipherable noise somewhere between a groan and a chain of expletives, his movements under the blankets taking on a slightly more urgent look. Slightly being the operative words – at this rate he isn’t going to be upright any time soon.
“So,” Ronan says, oh so very patiently, because he loves to repeat himself, “Latin?”
They’d devoted a few hours to finishing their work together before Adam had gone to work last night, and Latin had been the last – there was presumably a World History assignment half-done from then lurking somewhere around here too – so it is pretty far from unreasonable to assume that Adam would know where it is. Not that you could tell that from the glare Adam is currently shooting him, both his eyes now open most of the way.
“Look in my bag,” he says, his protruding hand pointing helpfully in the direction of where it’s slumped forlornly by the door. “I think I put it with mine, you know, to save this from happening to me.”
“Your self-interest has been noticed,” Ronan says, rifling through said bag to discover both the Latin and World History assignments in with Adam’s, his own scratchy writing a contrast to Adam’s faultless draftsman’s hand. For some reason, seeing the two sets of them tucked in together is nearly as warming as seeing Adam in his bed.
“Well, I certainly didn’t do it for you,” Adam replies firmly, with a hint of a laugh in his voice.
“That doesn’t sound completely honest to me,” Ronan says, making his way back to the sprawl of his bed to stand beside it.
The edge of the quilt doesn’t quite conceal the razor line of Adam’s smirk, which is definitely something that he learned from Ronan. “Do I look like a liar to you?”
“You look pretty comfortable for someone who’s going to be late,” Ronan observes. Adam’s hair is a mess and he looks unbothered by pretty much anything, including the first bell of the day.
“You forget I know how you drive. We’ve got enough time.” Adam quirked an eyebrow, stretching luxuriantly with his arms above his head so he’s flashing the skin over his collarbone and the narrow, elegant lines of his palms against the pillow.
“Enough time for what, exactly?” Ronan has to ask.
Adam’s rogue hand creeps out, tracing the line between Ronan’s belt and where his vest is rucked up, exposing an inch of his belly. Ronan isn’t ticklish but the touch makes every cell in his body align itself like magnetic North has just swung around. There’s probably a joke about a magnetic south in there, but he’s just lost any interest he might have had in joking.
“Oh,” Ronan says, because he's always honest, not always smooth. His voice has dropped to a rumble without his permission. “You think that’s enough time?”
“We could be late,” Adam suggests, his eyes heavy-lidded and his accent a little more pronounced.
“Why, Parrish. I never thought I’d see the day where you were the one trying to get me to skip,” Ronan says, raising an eyebrow of his own. “Or how about you get up and go to the classes you spend all your time studying for, in time to hand in the homework you spend hours on, where you can enjoy spending time with me fully clothed and without stressing about missing hearing the teachers recite information that you already know.”
“My, how the tables turn,” Adam purrs, but his smile is a more honest thing. Adam, who thinks himself unknowable and undefinable, likes being known by Ronan Lynch. That’s just as much as a thrill to Ronan, too. Adam’s stroking fingers move from Ronan’s waistband to trace the soft inside of his arm, up and down, a subtle thanks that he’d never in his life voice.
Adam Parrish wouldn’t be Adam Parrish without his pride or his desire. Ronan, who has an impossible ego and a taste for the dirt that Adam wants to get away from, can deal with that, not least because he has no particular inclination to say the phrase thank you either.
“Maybe doing it with someone who’d rather be learning a dead language just doesn’t do it for me,” Ronan says just to hear him laugh into the duvet, eyes full open and alight in the tender morning sun.
Adam lifts his head enough from the pillow to look at the time and suggests, “If you drive like you usually do, we can get in ten minutes of making out before I have to put pants on.”
“Done and done,” Ronan accepts, falling eagerly into the bed and Adam’s body.