[ adam always knew gansey was going to die. somehow, at some point, adam thought gansey knew it, too. maybe he always did. maybe he knew before adam did. or, maybe he never knew at all. maybe it was a surprise, in the end, even if it wasn't really a surprise at all. no one and everyone saw it coming; all at once, not at all. and yet the pain of it, the feeling -- like something was being ripped out of him, something vital, something adam needed more than his own two lungs and his tiny muscle of a heart -- the feeling he never could have anticipated. the shock of persephone's death had been just that: a shock. and, despite the relative closeness they shared, the strange and mystical relationship they'd developed, adam felt like he hardly knew her. at least, he didn't know her like he knew gansey, the real gansey, the one who filled adam's most private moments with the soothing scent of mint leaves pressed gently against his lips and the warmth of a safety he'd never known until he met richard campbell gansey iii all those years ago. ]
Gansey -- [ whatever he'd been about to say evaporates into the cold air of cabeswater, nothing more than a breath drifting from his lungs. cabeswater is timeless, seasonless, everything and nothing at once; adam knows it knows, he can feel the ley line hum beneath his, almost as if it's in mourning. but gansey is already dead and not even born, even as they sit here, in the wintry clutches of cabeswater, watching their breath take form in front of them. the strange part is, he isn't cold, exactly, despite the light chill of the air against his cheeks, or the way his nose reddens; maybe it's cabeswater keeping him warm, or maybe the winter is just an illusion, cabeswater's way of telling him -- them -- all things die, in time, and now it is time, for one of them, the only one of them who doesn't deserve it. ]
[ it makes him angry, almost -- no, not almost, he can feels thrums of it just under his skin, prickling at his fingertips, bubbling up inside him like a volcano about to erupt -- to think of a world without gansey in it. what is adam parrish without dick gansey? what are any of them without gansey? they would all blame themselves, in their own different ways, if they let gansey die. let, he thinks, like they even have a choice in the matter, like it's something for a jury to decide, like it isn't supposed to be adam's fault. the vision sometimes still keeps him up at night, when gansey isn't there to fill the dark emptiness, the space that only cabeswater ever resides otherwise. it won't let him forget; adam doesn't want to forget, either, as much as he tries to convince himself he does. the blood is on his hands, and if he can't change it, he'd rather keep it that way then let it be blue -- even ronan, for as sharp as his edges are, wouldn't be able to live with himself if he cut gansey that deep, too deep. ]
[ could adam live with himself? he's lived with so much else, lived with knowing just how broken and unwanted and dangerous he can be. he isn't dangerous like ronan is; ronan is the tornado you see miles away, never knowing if it will hit you or not, if you'll get caught in the whirlwind of debris hurtling at a hundred miles an hour; or if it will pass you right by, in some kind of miracle, while the rest of the world gets run down, destroyed by a thoughtless storm. but adam -- adam isn't something you see coming, adam isn't a natural disaster. adam's brand of danger was manmade, born from nothing more than a life he would never know, from the normalcy of fists and shouting and degradation in place of hugs and laughter and praise. he knows it's a fantasy, to think family could be anything but family without fighting -- he's seen gansey's and blue's and ronan's, and how they all fight, but it isn't the same. there's love, somewhere in between the shouting and indignation; declan, for all his ire, still loves ronan, wants to protect him from the evils of the world. adam never could say his father loves him, not when their only conversations begin with alcohol and end in adam's face beaten and bruised. but it's his pride that makes him truly dangerous -- the pride he had to dig out of the ground instead of being handed it to on a silver platter. what wouldn't he do to prove that he isn't just the dirt beneath people's shoes? that he can save gansey instead of living with the knowledge that maybe he isn't any better than his father after all? ]
[ he turns his head, brows pensive, and looks out at the snow-covered treetops, their boughs heavy with a downfall unseen, unheard, unknown. adam feels it, too, laden with things unsaid, things he might never get to say, things he's already said, things he regrets. he doesn't regret this, cabeswater, or gansey, or the thing they've become, the two of them (the three of them, because cabeswater is part of adam, just as he is part of cabeswater). adam can practically feel the pulse of gansey's heart through the ley line, pounding hard against his ears, and even in his bad ear he can hear it, the deafening roar of gansey's life. it's gone before he looks back, eyes downcast for a moment, staring at the perfection of gansey's hands, like someone took great care and caution to make them. it used to make him mad, gansey's lack of visible flaws, in contrast to every one of adam's glaring imperfections. but now, he looks upon gansey in wonder, in awe, of everything he is and everything he could be, if given the chance. ]
[ his eyes wander up the length of gansey's arm, over the curve of his shoulder, the line of his jaw. god, that perfect jaw. he would kiss it, if he didn't have something to say. or, he could kiss him anyway, he thinks, because their chances to do this are becoming fewer and more far between. for all adam knows, this could be the last time. so he leans over, one hand settled against gansey's neck, drawing him closer; their lips touch and adam feels like it's the first time all over again (and maybe it is the first, or the last, or somewhere in between, depending on when you happen to look at it from), little butterflies turning his insides to a warm, gooey mush, and it occurs to him then just how much he loves richard gansey iii and how much he wants him to be his, for as long as they're allowed. it isn't fair that their allowance is almost up, that gansey could very well be taken from him. he hasn't had enough of him yet. ]
[ he presses his forehead against gansey's, fingers gripping tighter at the base of his neck. adam doesn't open his eyes, too afraid of seeing gansey and knowing that he knows. his voice is very nearly shaking, but he manages to keep it even, low, almost a whisper. ] I don't know what I'll do if you die.
[ ah, there it is, out in the open: the quiet, undeniable truth known between them, the inevitability of a fate nothing, no one, can escape. he knows it's not an if, really, it's just a matter of when. he's thought endlessly about asking glendower for gansey's life, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes: hasn't glendower already granted gansey his life? noah died; gansey lived. would it be asking for the same favor twice to save gansey again? who would have to die in his place? he doesn't want to think about it, or the possibility of gansey ending up like noah; he wouldn't be able to bear having him at his fingertips and not really being able to have him, not with all the warmth and life and energy he was once afforded. it wouldn't really be gansey, just like noah isn't really noah, not like he used to be (and, really, they'll never know what the used to be was like). adam would hate knowing how gansey was and have to live with knowing how he isn't. he just wants gansey, but he knows good things never last. he can't keep this one forever. ]
HAHAAAHH NO REGRETS
Gansey -- [ whatever he'd been about to say evaporates into the cold air of cabeswater, nothing more than a breath drifting from his lungs. cabeswater is timeless, seasonless, everything and nothing at once; adam knows it knows, he can feel the ley line hum beneath his, almost as if it's in mourning. but gansey is already dead and not even born, even as they sit here, in the wintry clutches of cabeswater, watching their breath take form in front of them. the strange part is, he isn't cold, exactly, despite the light chill of the air against his cheeks, or the way his nose reddens; maybe it's cabeswater keeping him warm, or maybe the winter is just an illusion, cabeswater's way of telling him -- them -- all things die, in time, and now it is time, for one of them, the only one of them who doesn't deserve it. ]
[ it makes him angry, almost -- no, not almost, he can feels thrums of it just under his skin, prickling at his fingertips, bubbling up inside him like a volcano about to erupt -- to think of a world without gansey in it. what is adam parrish without dick gansey? what are any of them without gansey? they would all blame themselves, in their own different ways, if they let gansey die. let, he thinks, like they even have a choice in the matter, like it's something for a jury to decide, like it isn't supposed to be adam's fault. the vision sometimes still keeps him up at night, when gansey isn't there to fill the dark emptiness, the space that only cabeswater ever resides otherwise. it won't let him forget; adam doesn't want to forget, either, as much as he tries to convince himself he does. the blood is on his hands, and if he can't change it, he'd rather keep it that way then let it be blue -- even ronan, for as sharp as his edges are, wouldn't be able to live with himself if he cut gansey that deep, too deep. ]
[ could adam live with himself? he's lived with so much else, lived with knowing just how broken and unwanted and dangerous he can be. he isn't dangerous like ronan is; ronan is the tornado you see miles away, never knowing if it will hit you or not, if you'll get caught in the whirlwind of debris hurtling at a hundred miles an hour; or if it will pass you right by, in some kind of miracle, while the rest of the world gets run down, destroyed by a thoughtless storm. but adam -- adam isn't something you see coming, adam isn't a natural disaster. adam's brand of danger was manmade, born from nothing more than a life he would never know, from the normalcy of fists and shouting and degradation in place of hugs and laughter and praise. he knows it's a fantasy, to think family could be anything but family without fighting -- he's seen gansey's and blue's and ronan's, and how they all fight, but it isn't the same. there's love, somewhere in between the shouting and indignation; declan, for all his ire, still loves ronan, wants to protect him from the evils of the world. adam never could say his father loves him, not when their only conversations begin with alcohol and end in adam's face beaten and bruised. but it's his pride that makes him truly dangerous -- the pride he had to dig out of the ground instead of being handed it to on a silver platter. what wouldn't he do to prove that he isn't just the dirt beneath people's shoes? that he can save gansey instead of living with the knowledge that maybe he isn't any better than his father after all? ]
[ he turns his head, brows pensive, and looks out at the snow-covered treetops, their boughs heavy with a downfall unseen, unheard, unknown. adam feels it, too, laden with things unsaid, things he might never get to say, things he's already said, things he regrets. he doesn't regret this, cabeswater, or gansey, or the thing they've become, the two of them (the three of them, because cabeswater is part of adam, just as he is part of cabeswater). adam can practically feel the pulse of gansey's heart through the ley line, pounding hard against his ears, and even in his bad ear he can hear it, the deafening roar of gansey's life. it's gone before he looks back, eyes downcast for a moment, staring at the perfection of gansey's hands, like someone took great care and caution to make them. it used to make him mad, gansey's lack of visible flaws, in contrast to every one of adam's glaring imperfections. but now, he looks upon gansey in wonder, in awe, of everything he is and everything he could be, if given the chance. ]
[ his eyes wander up the length of gansey's arm, over the curve of his shoulder, the line of his jaw. god, that perfect jaw. he would kiss it, if he didn't have something to say. or, he could kiss him anyway, he thinks, because their chances to do this are becoming fewer and more far between. for all adam knows, this could be the last time. so he leans over, one hand settled against gansey's neck, drawing him closer; their lips touch and adam feels like it's the first time all over again (and maybe it is the first, or the last, or somewhere in between, depending on when you happen to look at it from), little butterflies turning his insides to a warm, gooey mush, and it occurs to him then just how much he loves richard gansey iii and how much he wants him to be his, for as long as they're allowed. it isn't fair that their allowance is almost up, that gansey could very well be taken from him. he hasn't had enough of him yet. ]
[ he presses his forehead against gansey's, fingers gripping tighter at the base of his neck. adam doesn't open his eyes, too afraid of seeing gansey and knowing that he knows. his voice is very nearly shaking, but he manages to keep it even, low, almost a whisper. ] I don't know what I'll do if you die.
[ ah, there it is, out in the open: the quiet, undeniable truth known between them, the inevitability of a fate nothing, no one, can escape. he knows it's not an if, really, it's just a matter of when. he's thought endlessly about asking glendower for gansey's life, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes: hasn't glendower already granted gansey his life? noah died; gansey lived. would it be asking for the same favor twice to save gansey again? who would have to die in his place? he doesn't want to think about it, or the possibility of gansey ending up like noah; he wouldn't be able to bear having him at his fingertips and not really being able to have him, not with all the warmth and life and energy he was once afforded. it wouldn't really be gansey, just like noah isn't really noah, not like he used to be (and, really, they'll never know what the used to be was like). adam would hate knowing how gansey was and have to live with knowing how he isn't. he just wants gansey, but he knows good things never last. he can't keep this one forever. ]