Chapter Text
On paper, Gansey is the perfect roommate.
He buys his own groceries and does his fair share of the household chores. He’s warm and friendly and respectful of Adam’s boundaries. He’s nice to Adam’s friends. He gives Adam advance warning before inviting over his own friends. He doesn’t blast his music late at night, or hold chaotic parties every weekend, or act out with violence or passive-aggression.
Hell, Adam even likes the guy, which is more than can be said for any of the previous jerks he’s had to put up with.
The only problem is Ronan Lynch.
“It’s not a shrine,” Gansey told Adam that fateful day two months ago, when Adam knocked on his door and found him trying to hang a framed Lynch t-shirt to the wall. “It’s memorabilia.”
Adam shot a pointed look at the desk beside them, where a signed deluxe edition of Lynch’s one and only album Bright Dead Kings sat artfully arranged beside copies of all of Lynch’s EPs and a record player with Lynch’s music playing inside. There was also a photo of Gansey and Lynch arm-in-arm at a waterfront DC bar, and a collage of article clippings decorating the wall — Lynch’s Pitchfork and the Fader exclusives, various reviews from around the web proclaiming him ‘the freshest new talent of his generation,’ a black and white image of his face blown up to epic proportions. Gansey had the original in a drawer somewhere.
“It’s a collection of memorabilia,” Gansey amended when he caught Adam staring.
“So a shrine, then.”
“I’m not obsessed with him.”
“No, where did I get that idea? You only run a fan forum.”
“I mod a fan forum.” The frame tilted dangerously sideways; Adam stepped in to right it. “There are dozens of us.”
“Like the dozens of you who made that podcast?”
“I was a one-time guest contributor, that was nothing.”
“What about all those weekly video calls your group does? Are they nothing?”
“Monthly. Monthly video calls.”
Adam stared Gansey down until Gansey relented and said, “He’s mythic, Adam. We’ve been over this. The man’s in a league of his own.”
Mythic, like the rebellious kings and queens and knights of old that Gansey studied at college and loves to info-dump about to anyone who’ll listen. Difference is, Ronan Lynch hasn’t done anything as exciting as stage a revolt against the English. He’s barely famous enough for Wikipedia. He’s just some moody indie-rock star that disappeared from the limelight seven years ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Hence the fan forum, and the video calls, and the fanatic fervour with which Gansey and his fellow fanboys dissect Lynch’s lyrics. Lynch is a true crime story waiting to be solved, except the only mystery here is whether he ditched stardom to run a sheep farm in Sweden.
Gansey’s theory is that he’s ‘taking a mental health break.’ The craziest of the forum dwellers have voted for fratricide, citing aggressive lyrics that point towards bad blood between Lynch and a resentful brother. Adam doesn’t care either way, but he is grudgingly impressed by Lynch’s ability to go completely off-grid. There are no social media accounts to speak of, no stories of awkward fan run-ins, not a peep from family or any proof that he even has one. The man’s a ghost.
Years ago, before college, Adam used to dream of that, too. To disappear. To escape. To reject the poor hand he’d been dealt and wander off the edges of people’s minds, recreating himself somewhere new. And he’d achieved it mostly, when he left for the west coast and never looked back, but Adam knows it’s an easily shattered illusion. His old classmates can look him up any time they want and see what’s become of him. His parents can do that, too. Taking a ‘mental health break’ isn’t an option with that kind of audience.
So Adam’s impressed by Ronan Lynch. He’s envious of Ronan Lynch. More than anything though, he’s sick to death of hearing about Ronan Lynch.
Even Adam’s never been this in love with another man before, and unlike Gansey, he actually sleeps with them.
-
Change arrives on a Thursday night at the tail-end of January.
Adam’s tired, and hungry, and stressed out his mind. He’s been at work for twelve hours, with only an hour long break in between. Technically he didn’t need to stay that long, technically he could’ve left at five like he’s supposed to, but technicalities aren’t going to get him promoted. So Adam stuck around even when half his team left the building, and he gritted his teeth when Tim, the company COO, showed up to prove his incompetence and badger the remaining engineers on site, and he told himself, This is worth it. All good things require sacrifice. You know you’re getting somewhere when the climb starts to hurt.
Except now he’s home and Ronan Lynch is blasting from Gansey’s room, and that’s one sacrifice too many tonight.
Adam knocks on Gansey’s door. He’s not going to be rude about it; he’s just going to calmly ask Gansey to turn the music down. Hardly grounds for a roommate break-up, although he’s been given the silent treatment before for far less. Something about his tone and the way he looks at people and ‘Jesus, dude, stop talking about the dishes. You’re not my fucking mom.’
Gansey opens the door. He’s dressed in PJs, his hair is a dishevelled mess, and there’s an all-round frenzied air to his appearance. Before Adam can get any words out, he says, “You won’t believe what’s happened.”
“Did Ronan Lynch break his seven-year silence to give you a live show?”
“He sent me a letter.”
Adam stares at Gansey flatly. He’d been joking, but he gets the feeling Gansey’s not.
“Come in,” Gansey ushers him into the room, “Come see this, you need to see this. I’ve been in a state of prolonged shock all afternoon. It’s so — Christ, it’s unreal.”
“Have you been locked in here all day?” Adam asks, but Gansey doesn’t hear him. He drags Adam towards his desk-slash-shrine, where his computer’s loaded to the Ronan Lynch fan forum and an album that’s not the one Gansey owns a dozen copies of is playing from the speakers.
Gansey rummages around on his desk, muttering to himself, “It’s around here somewhere — I could’ve sworn I put it down over—”
“Here?” Adam holds up a folded piece of paper, already wrinkled from use.
“That’s it! Read it, will you? I need outside confirmation that this is happening.”
Adam’s on the verge of saying later, but Gansey’s watching him with manic intensity. He looks like he’s on the verge of swinging from the rooftop, or maybe having a panic attack. So Adam does the only reasonable thing he can do; he unfolds the letter and starts reading.
Gansey,
Thanks for keeping the forum alive. Been working on something a little different and thought it might be of interest to you. Would love to hear your thoughts.
All good things,
Ronan Lynch
Adam’s first thought is, Lynch didn’t write this. Not Ronan Lynch, notoriously foul-mouthed, penning a note this blandly polite. He gets the feeling that won’t go down well with Gansey, though, so he says, “He sent you an album? Of new music?”
“Well, there are some covers and a couple new versions of old songs — but essentially, yes.” Gansey walks over to the speaker. “I’ll play it from the start, just wait.”
Adam listens closely as one track segues into another. He keeps listening as Gansey fills him in on exactly what time he discovered the letter, and what he’s been doing ever since he found the letter, and how he’s in two minds about sharing the news with the forum because what are the protocols for a situation like this? Is he allowed to talk about it? Does Ronan want him to talk about it? He didn’t include a return address so surely — how else is Gansey supposed to make his thoughts about the album known to him? And come to think of it, why did he choose Gansey? Has he sent copies out to reputable music critics too? Or did he pick Gansey because of their personal connection? Do you think he remembers that, Adam? It all happened so fast — and it was eight years ago, you know, you can’t blame anyone for forgetting you after eight years, least of all someone on Ronan’s level. But the colossal impact it left —
“It’s obvious, right? You’re his loudest fan. When you talk, people listen.”
Gansey stops talking. His brows furrow. “I’m not following.”
“He wants you to drum him up some free publicity,” Adam explains. “You know, to guarantee sales once the album’s released.”
“I doubt it. Ronan’s not the calculated type.”
“He’s selling a product. Calculation’s required.”
“That’s not — It’s never been about the money for him.”
It’s always about the money, Adam thinks, but of course Gansey won’t get that; he’s always had far more money than he knows what to do with. He can afford to care about integrity.
“Look, it’s shitty of him to think he can bribe you to do his dirty work,” Adam says, “real shitty, but you don’t owe him anything. Just be honest with everyone. Tell them the album sucks.”
Gansey’s eyes widen, and that’s when Adam realizes his mistake.
“Wait. You don’t think it sucks?”
“You do?”
Goddamn it.
The thing is, Adam doesn’t hate Lynch. Far from it. He knows Lynch is talented. There’s an intimacy to his music, all lo-fi indie delivered in whispery vocals meant for late night bedroom listening, and it hits deep. His lyrics are wry and frank and bittersweet, whether he’s singing of nostalgia-laden southern summers or wandering through a wake in a drunken haze. He’s clever. He’s funny. He’s got a unique voice. Adam gets the appeal.
But this…well, it’s a far cry from the work that earned him a cult following and the respect of critics everywhere. It’s a knock-off edition of Bright Dead Kings, stripped of emotional complexity and interesting arrangements. It’s lacking everything that made his debut so compelling. It’s like he doesn’t care at all.
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve heard,” Adam says. “It’s just…dull.”
“It’s masterful,” Gansey argues, and Adam resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I mean, the simplicity of the arrangements. The utter restraint in his voice. This is a man at the top of his game.”
“Or it’s a man who went bankrupt and then remembered there’s a cash cow he can milk.”
“Christ, you’re so cynical,” Gansey says. “Not everyone has an ulterior motive, Parrish. Sometimes people make art just because.”
“Oh, this is art, huh?”
“It is!”
“All right. Let’s agree to disagree,” Adam says, only half meaning it. Gansey doesn’t nod along. He looks downright downtrodden, like Adam killed his puppy right in front of him. Which is absurd. Adam’s said nothing mean to Gansey. He’s barely been mean at all. All he did was criticize Lynch’s poor attempt at milking the cash cow, and frankly, he could’ve said a lot worse. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Of course not,” Gansey says, but the look on his face says otherwise. “Diversity of opinion is always a good thing.”
Adam decides not to push it. He’s still tired and hungry and stressed, and now mildly annoyed to top it all off. There’s no use adding roommate-less to the list. God knows who he’ll find on Craigslist at this time of night.
“I’m gonna order pizza,” he says. “You want anything?”
“That’s all right.”
Adam’s half out the door when Gansey shouts, “Wait!”
He turns around. “Sausage and avocado?”
“I’m not hungry,” Gansey says. “I just…I handled that badly, sorry. I don’t want you thinking I respect you any less because of a dumb disagreement.”
“It’s fine, Gansey.”
“I mean, the album’s seminal, of course, but it’s fine if you don’t get it. Truly fine. Not everyone has to get it.”
Adam grits his teeth. He can’t fight with Gansey because he’s lacking the energy. He can’t fight with Gansey because Gansey pays half his rent. He can’t fight with Gansey because he is twenty-seven years old, god damn it, and he has more maturity than that.
“Right, I don’t get it,” Adam says, voice dripping with scorn. “Maybe your internet friends will get it.”
Gansey perks up. “So you think I should post my review?”
Don’t fight with Gansey because it’s not his fault he was born with more money than he has sense. Don’t fight with Gansey because you like him, mostly, even if it’s currently hard to remember why—
“Do what you want, man.”
Adam doesn’t bother ordering pizza after that. He makes something quick to eat and then heads to bed in an even worse mood than before.
Gansey didn’t mean it. He wasn’t trying to cause offense, but the implications nag at Adam until his head starts to hurt. You wouldn’t get it, said with a disparaging sneer, one look at his second-hand sweaters and unevenly cropped hair. You’ll never get it.
Gansey isn’t like the barbaric Aglionby boys Adam went to school with, rich and cruel and eager to make Adam the butt of their jokes. He’s not like the pompous Stanford kids either, the ones who didn’t need to single Adam out in any obvious way, who recognized that Adam’s Adamness was statement enough. Gansey’s different, kinder, a trust fund kid who devotes his energy to studying history despite his parents’ wishes because he’s passionate and enthusiastic and he cares more about the pursuit of knowledge than he does amassing more excess wealth. Gansey’s never commented on their class disparity or so much as hinted at seeing it. He’s always treated Adam like an equal. He’ll say offensive things by accident and then apologize in the same breath.
But he’s hit a sore spot tonight. Adam hears those words — you don’t get it — and all his old insecurities come hurtling back. He remembers hundreds of hours spent in his freshman dorm doing deep dives on Wikipedia and Reddit, catching himself up on everything his shitty childhood had excluded him from. Decades of pop culture knowledge memorized with a click. He wouldn’t be caught off guard at parties anymore when someone made a movie reference or tried to talk to him about Game of Thrones. He wouldn’t be made to feel stupid.
You don’t get it. But Adam’s worked hard to get it. He gets it just fine. He gets that Gansey is condescending and has bad taste.
You’re more mature than this, he thinks to himself as a crazy, stupid, no-good, terrible idea pops into his mind. Be the bigger man.
But Adam is nothing if not petty; when an hour passes with sleep still not on the horizon, he grabs his phone and types the name of Gansey’s forum into the search bar.
-
“…And it’s got fourteen likes, see? That’s fourteen people who agree with me.”
“How many likes does Gansey’s review have?”
“That’s not the point. The point is, I’m not the only one who doesn’t get it. Gansey can’t say I’m not as smart as him when the fans on his own website — Oh, fifteen! Did you see that?”
“Question,” Henry says. “Are you willing to reconsider the merits of Instagram? I think it could provide you with the exact short-lived power rush you’re after.”
“I’m not after a power rush,” Adam says. “I just want Gansey to admit he’s wrong.”
Henry leans over the table to gently pat Adam’s hand. “It’s cute that you believe that.”
“Believe what?” Blue asks, suddenly appearing at the head of their table with a coffee in one hand and a vegan scone in the other.
Veganism is Blue’s latest cause, or so she said on the phone the other night. Adam hasn’t seen her in person since the New Year, when Henry threw a party at his and Blue’s apartment and Blue coaxed Gansey into doing shots. Gansey spent the next two days ill on the bathroom floor, lamenting his existence. Adam spent the next two days cleaning sick out of the cracks in the tiles and unclogging the toilet.
In any case, Adam spotted the vegan cafe on his way to work this morning and messaged Blue to let her know. Blue, whose new job comes with the perks of working at home on Fridays, suggested they meet up for lunch today. Henry, whose new job comes with the perks of working in the same building as Adam, insisted on inviting himself along.
Frankly, if Adam had known that ‘vegan cafe’ was a buzzword for every bearded flannel-wearing hipster in the Bay Area, he never would’ve sent that text.
Henry scoots to the inside of the booth to make room for Blue. She sits down beside him and raises her brow at Adam’s phone, which is lying flat on the table between them. Having the two of them perched across from him takes this meeting from casual to court-like real fast, but Adam’s got nothing to feel ashamed of here. He’s not the one who implied Gansey was stupid for having a different opinion on an album.
“Gansey’s a condescending moron,” Adam says, and pushes down the guilt he feels at having said that out loud.
“I could’ve told you that the second I met him,” Blue says. “What else is new?”
“Adam’s been pursuing a career change in music journalism,” Henry supplies.
“It’s one review. I’m not gonna make a habit of it.”
“Why ever not? Expanding one’s horizons is never a bad thing. You could be doing with a new hobby — although, I must admit, I would’ve picked something that involved going outside.”
“Does this have something to do with that Ronan Lynch guy again?” Blue asks. Henry makes a cut the take gesture with his hands, never mind that Adam is sitting right in front of them.
Blue meets Henry’s gaze. They share one of their freaky psychic looks, all raised brows and meaningful eye contact that alerts everyone within seeing distance that they’re operating on a frequency no one else can dare to connect with.
It used to make Adam jealous. Not that he wanted that with them — he’s better off not knowing what goes on in his friends’ heads, thanks very much — but sometimes, on his worst nights, he craved it with someone. Belonging. Understanding. To be known so intimately, to be heard without having to speak. To be more than Adam Parrish, army of one.
But that’s a stupid basis on which to measure a relationship’s merit. He’s not alone anymore. He’s not lonely. Having two good friends is enough, even if he sometimes feels like a spare part.
So he launches into the Ronan Lynch saga for the second time this afternoon. He shows Blue the forum with his and Gansey’s reviews side by side, and he waits for her to agree with him, because why wouldn’t she agree with him?
“I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve here,” Blue says bluntly. “Do you really think Gansey will see this and change his mind?”
“I don’t want to change his mind. I want him to accept he can’t change mine.”
She turns to Henry. “Back me up here.”
“No can do. I take my role as impartial observer very seriously, in these factions.”
“Adam,” Blue sighs, “do you want me to tell you what your problem is?”
“I’d say no if I thought that was an option.”
“You don’t have a life.”
The hurt is sharp and unexpected, like a papercut sting between the fingers.
“Thanks,” he says dryly. “Really needed to hear that.”
“Social life!” Blue says. “I meant social life. You don’t do anything interesting or worthwhile—”
“Were you a motivational speaker in a past life?”
“Pshaw, you know I don’t mean it how it sounds.”
“I think I see where you’re going with this, Bluebird,” Henry cuts in, always to the rescue. He steals Blue’s coffee and takes a sip before she can protest, then adds, “You’re saying that our boy Parrish is like a meerkat trapped in his little zoo enclosure—”
“Why a meerkat?”
“—and, deprived of enriching new stimulus, he has resorted to the age old habit of picking fights within his cage.”
“Exactly,” Blue says, before Adam can ask if Henry’s ever been to the zoo. She deftly moves her coffee to the other side of the table as she adds, “You’re tired and overworked and it’s driving you to start internet drama for a fleeting sense of joy in your otherwise miserable existence. It’s a blatant cry for help.”
“Well, damn,” Adam says in as bored a tone as he can manage. “If I knew you both had psych degrees, I could’ve stopped paying my therapist a while ago.”
“If you had a therapist, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”
“People, people,” Henry proclaims. “There’s no need for cattiness. We are all on the same team.”
Adam tears a chunk off his baguette and aggressively chews on it. His life is fine. He’s not miserable. He does plenty of things that are worthwhile. Working hard is worthwhile. Saving up is worthwhile. Planning ahead is worthwhile. Might not be interesting, but that’s okay; interesting is a thing for later.
And what would Blue know, anyway? She’s always been whimsical, seizing opportunities as they pass her by, the future a distant glimmering possibility. Just because Adam’s choices don’t make sense to her doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with how he’s living his life.
“I can’t believe you’re on Gansey’s side,” he says, because that feels like the simplest part of this to tackle.
“I’m on your side,” Blue says, “and that’s why I think you should quit antagonizing your roommate while you’re ahead. You go through them faster than Orla goes through boyfriends. You have a problem, Adam!”
His mind supplies a hazy recollection of the New Year’s party: bashful smiles, hands lingering on the elbow, Blue and Gansey floating in each other’s orbit all night.
Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t. But Adam decides not to pull on that thread, going instead for the easier option: “I thought you said Orla was settled down?”
“That is so far from the point I was making and you know it.”
“Also no longer true. Orla arrived on our doorstep last night,” Henry says, then lowers his voice to stage-whisper, “There was an incident. A January break-up.”
“And she came to you for moral support?”
“As if she needs it.” Blue snorts. “Her boyfriend tried to propose, and you know how Orla feels about eternal love and the institution of marriage.”
The same way Blue does, but Adam’s not willing to deal with the fallout from saying that; Blue always did count herself the black sheep of the Sargent clan.
“Who can blame her, really.” Henry reaches around the table whip-fast and snatches Blue’s coffee again. “A January proposal might be the one thing worse than a January break-up.”
Blue glares daggers at Henry; he smiles meekly and hands the cup back.
“Anyway,” she pointedly looks at Adam, “that’s another reason you can’t be picking fights with Gansey. I told Orla we’d grab dinner at yours tonight.”
“Without asking me?”
“I’m asking now.”
“Well, I can’t. I’ve got so much shit to finish—”
“God forbid you leave work at a reasonable time like a reasonable human being.”
“Tim’s been on our case all week about the new prototype. If we don’t have something to show for ourselves by Monday, he’ll flip.”
“Tim is a snivelling little worm of a man,” Henry declares. “Why do you care what he thinks?”
“He’s our boss,” Adam points out.
“All the more reason to rebel! We have nothing to lose but our chains.”
Blue glares at them both.
“You’re a trust fund baby,” she says to Henry. “You don’t get to quote Marx. And you,” she adds, turning on Adam, “You need to look into developing a healthy work-life balance before you have a stress-induced heart attack at the age of thirty-three.”
“I—”
“It’s one night. You can afford to act normal for one night, please. Henry’s got a date, and if I’m left alone with Orla I really might end up killing her. Do you want that on your conscience?”
Adam carefully considers the alternative — staying late while the rest of his team leaves on account of it being a Friday; grabbing a shitty microwave meal while the kitchen’s free; scurrying back to his room to avoid an awkward run-in with Gansey, all the while knowing that the tension in the apartment’s only going to get worse the longer they go without seeing each other.
None of it is appealing, but then again, right now never is. That’s what later is for.
“Okay, fine,” he says, and Blue smiles. “I’ll make nice with Gansey. But only if you do this one thing for me first.”
“Name it.”
Adam passes his phone over. “Make an account on here and like my review.”
“Goddamn you,” Blue groans. “You are everything that’s wrong with men.”
-
“So, Orla, how long are you in town for?”
“Why, are you looking to take me out?”
Orla says this with a teasing smile that has Blue, on the other side of the table, reaching for the wine. Gansey keeps his self-assured front in place, although there’s a definite nervous edge to the way he smiles back in return.
Adam’s beginning to wish he’d stayed at work.
On the plus side, at least he doesn’t have to spend the whole weekend avoiding his roommate. Gansey’s talking to him again, hasn’t mentioned last night’s fiasco at all. He must know about Adam’s review by now — there’s no one else who could’ve written it — but if Gansey’s choosing to ignore it then Adam’s not about to disrupt the fragile peace by bringing it up. It might be better this way, water swept under the bridge. If he’s lucky, they’ll never speak of Ronan Lynch again.
Not that that’s kept Adam from refreshing the forum every second minute. Twenty seven likes and two comments so far, but he’s sure he deserves more. He brought his A-grade to that review. You’d think he was an English major.
Maybe Henry had a point, about the whole power rush thing.
“I’d never assume myself worthy of the privilege,” Gansey says, charming and unflappable. He’s in the Mask mode tonight, as Blue likes to call it, the perfect talk and the perfect smile and the perfect dinner host manners that betray his years of old-money breeding. This Gansey makes Adam wary for the same reasons he smooths out the nerves in everybody else: he’s far too flawless.
Adam knows it’s not the whole truth, but when Gansey gets like this, it’s hard to recall that another more human version of him exists. Adam can’t help the bitter tinge of envy he feels in this Gansey’s presence, that feeling that he’ll never measure up. This Gansey can get away with being a perpetual student and a fervid obsessive. His weirdness doesn’t prevent him from keeping scores of friends. He’s a king among men, beyond reproach.
Orla flirts some more, and Adam watches as Gansey laughs in all the right places and steers the conversation back onto neutral ground in a way that feels natural rather than like an obvious rebuke. It is, admittedly, impressive.
“I haven’t decided yet, to be honest,” Orla says, finally answering the original question. “I did a reading for myself this morning and I pulled Knight of Wands, and it got me thinking. You know, I’m young. I’m at my peak. I should embrace this ride I’m on.”
“Right, I’m with you, some new experiences!” Gansey says. “I’ve always felt life’s too short to stay in one place too long.”
“Exactly. Who knows, I might even move here permanently.”
“Move here?” Blue says. “And do what?”
“I could get my business off the ground.”
“Since when do you have a business?”
“My oils business? I told you all about it?”
“Oh my god.”
Orla turns back to Gansey and says, “I’ve always been told I’ve got an entrepreneurial spirit, and what better way to maximize my potential—”
“It’s a pyramid scheme, Orla!”
“Ah,” Gansey says. He shoots Adam a look of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it panic, which Adam firmly ignores. “Well, we’ve all been there, haven’t we? Those goddamn MLMs. Say, Orla, what do you know about Ronan Lynch?”
And off comes the mask.
“This isn’t funny,” Blue says sometime later, as she and Adam lounge on the couch while Gansey gives Orla the full tour of the apartment, Lynch shrine and all.
Adam flops his head against Blue’s shoulder and lets out a laugh. He’s not drunk — he hates getting drunk — but he’s buzzed enough for this whole situation to feel hilarious.
“It is a little bit,” he says. “It’s…what do you call it…poetic justice?”
“You didn’t have to live with Orla when she went through her One Direction phase. What if Gansey brings the fangirl out of her again?”
“Like I said, poetic justice. Don’t expect me to sympathize.”
“You’re a terrible friend,” Blue says, and nudges his shoulder.
“I’m an honest friend and you love me for it.”
Blue falls silent. Adam gives her a second before sitting up to study her. She’s got this thoughtful look on her face that Adam can’t read, one that makes him wary.
“What?” he asks.
“You know what I said before, at lunch,” Blue starts, “that wasn’t me trying to be an asshole.”
Adam’s not sure where this is going, so he raises a disdainful brow.
“When I say stuff like that, it’s coming from a friend place, okay? A concerned friend place.”
“What are you so concerned about?”
“Those bags under your eyes, for starters.”
Adam shrugs. It’s not that he hasn’t noticed them before, but he’s never given them much thought. He’s always looked like this, after all. He’s always been tired.
Sometimes on his worst nights, when the weight of responsibility threatens to knock him flat, Adam sits on his little bedroom balcony and looks out at the vast San Francisco skyline and he wonders, does everybody feel this way? Like they’re drifting through the motions, half-asleep? Is that what real life is?
Not for Blue or Henry. Probably not for Gansey. Definitely not for Orla.
It’s only Adam who’s never content unless he’s striving for more.
He doesn’t say any of this to Blue, and thankfully he doesn’t have to. Gansey and Orla reappear, drawing both his and Blue’s attention away from each other. Gansey’s talking and gesturing with animated glee while Orla watches attentively and snaps at a piece of gum. Is she bored? Impressed? Waiting for the opportunity to launch her essential oils selling pitch? Adam genuinely can’t tell. He thinks Blue’s about to burst a vein in her forehead.
If he didn’t know beforehand, he does now: Blue has a thing for Gansey.
When Gansey’s eyes briefly drift in their direction, Adam realizes it might be a mutual thing.
And isn’t that nice? Adam’s happy for them, definitely. Good people deserve good things.
“I mean, I get it,” he hears Orla saying. “He’s hot. Who wouldn’t go groupie for that?”
Gansey chokes on his wine. Blue goes from pissed to amused in the blink of an eye.
“That’s — No, I — My interest in Ronan is purely from an intellectual—”
“Yeah, yeah, keep talking, pretty boy.”
“He saved my life,” Gansey blurts out suddenly.
All eyes in the room train on Gansey’s face. Orla’s brows are raised halfway up her forehead. Blue’s leaning forward, interest unmistakable.
“Metaphorically?” she asks.
“No, literally,” Gansey says. “It was at this music festival he played in Virginia. We were out in the fields in the heat of summer, and I should’ve thought to be more careful but I wasn’t. I got stung by a bee, and I’m allergic, see, and Ronan noticed me going into anaphylactic shock and jumped straight into action. He used to carry Epipens around everywhere he went, for his brother. He helped me before anyone else could figure out something was wrong. He’s a good person, you know, so much more than his public image. If it weren’t for him, god knows if I’d be here today.” Gansey sucks in a breath. “I owe him a life debt.”
His eyes are far away, caught up in eight-year-old haunting memories. Adam knew Gansey had briefly known Ronan, that they’d sneaked into a DC bar with fake IDs after one of his concerts and got a few rounds together, but he didn’t realize this was the basis of the connection. It stuns him, Gansey’s unshakable loyalty to this man he barely knows, this man who’s more mythic than human, this man who’s the reason Gansey lived to meet Adam at all.
Adam’s never believed in anything the way Gansey believes in Ronan Lynch. Maybe that’s his problem.
Or maybe worshiping celebrities to this degree is unhealthy. That’s much more likely.
Adam pulls his phone out to refresh the forum. Something’s different this time, though. There’s a red alert button beside his account picture.
He clicks on it and finds, to his surprise, a chat box with a new message inside. He didn’t think Gansey’s forum was advanced enough for chat boxes.
have we met before?
What is that supposed to mean? Is it a veiled threat? A bad pick-up line? If the love of his life is lurking behind a screen, attempting their grand seduction through Gansey’s fan forum, then frankly Adam’s fine with a lifetime of singlehood.
There’s no point replying. He’s got nothing to say, either way. He rarely does in-person socializing, never mind the online equivalent.
But Adam’s never been one to leave a question unanswered. He types back a single question mark and clicks send.
The reply is instantaneous:
you either got a grudge you been towing around seven years or you’re a sadsack buzzkill for the hell of it
Then, seconds later:
assuming it’s a grudge. i’m an optimist
you were right btw. album’s trash. but fuck man what’s your damage?
did i refuse to take a selfie with you?
Adam stares at the screen in complete shock. Wonder. Amazement.
Did some random internet stranger just send him hate mail?
Thanks for the input, he types back, but no grudges here. Just an appreciation for innovative music.
And I’m all for freedom of expression, but if you’re gonna roleplay as Ronan Lynch then at least put some effort in.
who says it’s roleplay?
Funny.
not joking. ask me anything
Adam looks up from the phone. He’s not naive. He knows he’s being messed with. Still…
“Hey, Gansey?”
Gansey glances up from across the room. “Yeah?”
“What’s the name of that bar you and Lynch got drinks at?”
He’s not expecting a reply from this online troll, not really. Hell, the real Ronan Lynch probably won’t know the answer to that question either. He probably won’t remember Gansey. He probably doesn’t know Gansey’s forum exists, even if his letter claimed otherwise. Gansey can’t be the only fan he’s gone out drinking with after a gig.
He might be the only fan Ronan’s saved from imminent death, though.
The chat button lights up. Adam clicks on it despite common sense urging him to give up on this pointless conversation.
you’re friends with gansey?
does he know you’re a fucking square?
Way to dodge the question.
im not
it was that place down by union stage. charlie something
long time ago, cut me some slack
Adam’s jaw drops.
Did Ronan Lynch break his seven-year silence just to send Adam hate mail?