iwasmore | for Ronan

for Ronan

Thanksgiving had been kind of painful. It wasn't fun when nearly half the people gathered weren't speaking to each other. He and Blue had tried to keep spirits up, but Ronan was brooding and Adam was quiet, and even Gansey seemed pensive, casting worried glances at Ronan and Adam all night. The food he'd brought that Krem had made was amazing, and Noah thoroughly enjoyed eating as much as he could fit in his stomach. The heaviness of the meal, the worrying and the awkwardness, left him tired. When Ronan got up from the couch to go to his room, Noah padded after him.

"Can I come in?" he asked, even though he'd already followed Ronan inside.

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"No," Ronan says, though he makes no effort to close the door and doesn't argue when Noah follows him

The window's still open for Chainsaw though the perch Ronan had dreamed up for her stands empty. Ronan grabs a sweatshirt off the pile of clothes lying on the floor and sniffs it once before pulling it on and dropping down onto his bed, back against the wall.

"Don't you want to go hang out with Krem?" he asks, grabbing a book off the floor as he pulls his knees up. His room's far enough away from the common area that he can only hear snatches of voices, Adam's quiet enough to be all but completely lost. Ronan considers putting on headphones to drown out the rest.

Noah closes the door for him, shutting out the sounds from the other room.

"You sure bring Cremisius up a lot," he points out, and climbs up onto Ronan's bed to sit down next to him. "Have you noticed that?" He peeks at the book, but doesn't take much notice. Ronan's probably just using it to try and ignore him.

Ronan looks over at Noah with a scowl.

"Just trying to be fucking civil, Jesus," he says, opening the book and glaring down at it. Noah's quiet beside him, but unlike usual, he's not flickering out of existence at all. He's solid and even warm and Ronan doesn't want him to go even if he doesn't know how to fucking have a conversation right now. "I won't mention him again. How's that?"

"You could say nice things about him," Noah pointed out. His shoes were already off, because now that he could take his shoes off he preferred to be barefoot or in socks as much as possible. He scooted up the bed and laid on his stomach next to Ronan, watching him like a cat.

"He did make most of our meal."

Ronan doesn't say a word for a long moment, his eyes instead running along the words of the book he's opened, processing none of them. He's aware of Noah moving on the bed, stretching out on his stomach, head turned to watch him.

"Fine," he says after a moment, his lips drawn in a thin line. "The food was nice."

"That's sweet of you." Noah grins, almost laughs, and burrows up between Ronan's arm and his side. He rests his head on Ronan's shoulder, turning so he's laying on his back and can read whatever Ronan's reading.

"What's this book about?" he asks.

Noah burrows in close, nestling himself in between Ronan's arm and side. It's comforting as it is annoying and Ronan grumbles low under his breath before turning his book enough for Noah to glimpse the cover -- The History of Irish Music -- before tuning it back so he can pretend to be reading it.

"It's good," he says because it's not a lie and because he knows Noah won't tolerate Ronan just ignoring him.

Noah takes the book right from Ronan's hands, holding it above his own face to scan the page. It's not his thing, but maybe it's soothing to read non-fiction.

"Want me to read it to you?" he asks.

Ronan arches an eyebrow at that and fights a smirk before giving a loose shrug.

He shifts abruptly, sliding down to stretch out on his bed alongside Noah, head turned to look over at him, the book still held up in the air. "Go for it, man," he says, resting his hands over his chest, his tone half-challenge. "Read me a bedtime story."

"Okay, prepare yourself for a badass history lesson," Noah teases, smiling over at Ronan a moment before he begins to read. The chapter Ronan's on is all about how traditional music played by the Irish came to the country with the Celts 2,000 years ago. How they were influenced by music of the East, and how some traditional Irish harp may have originated in Egypt.

It's...super boring. But Noah keeps reading, anyway.

In truth, Ronan sort of tunes out about three paragraphs in, listening more to the steady cadence of Noah's voice. His eyes drift shut and his breathing slowly evens out.

He isn't sleeping yet. He isn't dreaming.

But he's calm. Calmer than he's been in what feels like weeks.

And he has no idea how many minutes have passed before he reaches out to lightly cup his hand over Noah's mouth to quiet him. "Didn't think you'd actually do it," he says, his eyes still closed, and he pulls his hand back. "You don't have to stay."

Ronan looks peaceful, and Noah smiles softly, setting the book aside. "But I'm fascinated by harps."

Noah takes Ronan's hand and scoots until he's on his side, with his back to Ronan's chest. He wraps Ronan's arm around him so they're snuggling, letting Ronan's warmth seep into his own. Everything is warm and soft and perfect. "I don't come here because I have to," he says in his own sleepy voice.

Ronan doesn't fight the smirk that tugs at his lips and he doesn't argue when Noah curls in close and pulls at Ronan's arm so they're aligned shoulder to hip, Noah's head resting on Ronan's bicep.

"Mm," Ronan says, comfortable.

Noah smells like shampoo and sweat and Ronan huffs out a laugh before burying his face in the strands for a second, his palm pressed to Noah's stomach over his shirt. "You smell."

Noah shivers a little at the way Ronan's laugh tickles the back of his neck, but he smiles at the sound of it.

"Rude," he says, palm still covering Ronan's hand. He moves it, though, to touch his fingers to Ronan's other hand, the one curled across from his face.

"The turkey's going to put us to sleep," he murmurs, eyes already half-closed.

"Just seems like a weird thing to notice," Ronan explains before letting out another breath as he relaxes further. Noah's never felt warm like this and he's never smelled like anything at all. Funny how everything that should be normal just feels strange anymore.

Strange, but good.

Noah's touching his hand now, fingers curled over Ronan's and he gives a quiet hum, rubbing Noah's stomach idly with his other hand. He can feel Noah's every inhale and he has to fight another smirk and strange concept that is Noah breathing. He settles his hand for a second and then slides it slowly upward, palm pressed flat to Noah's chest. Holds it there, steady against the gentle thump-thump-thump of Noah's heartbeat.

"I'll try to remember to wear deodorant," Noah jokes in a quiet voice, like anything louder will ruin the moment.

He and Ronan have snuggled before. He's kept Ronan company during his insomnia, or around his nightmares; but this feels entirely different. Maybe it's because he's never been able to really get warm before, or that he never felt entirely safe or present before the spell. Maybe it's the way Ronan is exploring him for signs of life.

Or maybe it's just because there isn't a reason at all.

It's just them, finding a moment of peace after what's been a devastatingly awful month.

"Sleep," he whispers, giving Ronan's hand a gentle squeeze and closing his own eyes.

Somehow the idea of Noah actually giving a shit about personal hygiene is hilarious and Ronan hides a wider smirk against Noah's curls and rubs his thumb idly back and forth across Noah's sternum.

He doesn't speak though, content to keep his eyes closed, Noah nestled in close.

He can't even hear Adam's voice anymore. Mostly.

Calm for the first time in weeks, Ronan drifts into sleep.

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for Ronan

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