Chapter Text
Things never stay where I put them. At this particular point in time, Gansey felt this statement covered several things: his pen; a book of maps he had in any case meant to take back to the library (so perhaps in fact he had done that and then forgotten doing so -it wouldn't be the first time); something he'd been going to say; Adam; Blue; Ronan. Only one of these things, though, was in the room with him - the thing he'd been going to say was long gone - and was mocking him with its refusal to stay where he put it. Long-suffering, he thought, turning to look at Ronan. Langmód-ness. "What?"
"It's in your other jacket."
"It's not. I looked there first."
"Here." Ronan drew a pen out of his own pocket and threw it at Gansey like a knife, end over end. Gansey tried to catch it and it hit him across the knuckles. "Sometimes," he said in resignation, "I think they sent you out of Greek myth purely to punish me for something."
Ronan grinned, sharp. "Well, yeah. I'm Corvus." He looked up, through the ceiling, into the stars; it wasn't so hard to imagine. "Apollo shot the messenger."
"Who on earth does that make me?"
"Ischys, I guess. Harsh."
But not entirely unfair, if Adam was Apollo - and wouldn't he be, with the timeless lines of his face, the earth waking to and following his touch, the glorious sun in his hair (too much, Gansey thought at himself in alarm; Adam and glorious in the same sentence was definite further evidence of things not staying where he put them) - and Blue, then, was Coronis. He shook his head. "Wrong. I mean, I might be, but she's not - come on, Ronan. You can't see her putting up with that."
Ronan made a noise which could be taken for agreement - it was agreement, just, they weren't talking about this. Because Ronan had figured it out, in the twenty-four hours of total insanity that marked the end of The Kavinsky Chronicles and the beginning of whatever the hell they were doing now. Mission Magical Rescue Squad. Sometimes he felt like a 90s cartoon. He'd maybe figured it out before then, somewhere in the catalogue his brain made of all of Gansey's expressions, but there hadn't really been time to think about it. But afterwards, when he'd seen the look on Gansey's face as he watched Blue set her jaw, her shoulders, her whole self against what was happening, he'd had no choice. He'd wanted to be nasty about it, but really, he'd been just too fucking tired. So, Blue, then. It's all he'd said, when they got back to Monmouth, and Gansey's eyes had gone so wide it would have been hilarious. No. It's not like that. And when Ronan grimaced, because it was like that, Gansey had done a straight up double take, which would also have been hilarious. Oh. Sorry. I don't - it's like that, but I'm not going to do anything about it.
And they'd left it at that, because there were more important things. Touching on it now was broaching something; poisonous liquid spilling on dangerous ground. His own fault, Ronan knew. He could have chosen a different constellation to be. "No Noah in that one anyway," he said by way of concession.
"No. He'd always get left out. To hell with Greek mythology." Everything Gansey said had the potential to sound like a toast, so Ronan lifted an invisible glass. It could be visible, whispered a voice he was choosing to believe was just his own brain trying to make him hate himself, because the alternative was impossible and also exhausting, because Kavinsky was dead, you'd only have to reach out. "Yamas," he said to Gansey, and fuck off to the voices in his head.
"What? Oh. Yes. Cheers." Something about Ronan had gone darker, just then, a third eyelid sort of thing that briefly made Gansey's blood rush unpleasantly in his ears. He touched the toe of his shoe to the pen on the floor and it rolled away from him. "You're all right," he added quietly, which was meant to be are you all right, but apparently his words were just another thing that wouldn't stay put.
"Going to be." Ronan didn't question it, and his answer was a promise. They'd all been saying weird shit lately, or just too much, emotions like the ley line, awake and bright and running close to the surface. And Gansey would stop sometimes and stare at him like he could see right through his skin; he was getting used to that, too, in the way you get used to having a bullet lodged in your shoulder. Something that couldn't be removed without damaging you more. And he'd - done things. The other day when Gansey had been looking at and through him the same way he approached modern art (the intention is clear, and very beautiful, he remembered Gansey saying about Franz Kline - god, it felt like five years ago, twenty years - but I can't understand what I'm actually seeing. it looks like music.) Ronan had walked over to him, slowly, like he did in dreams, and Gansey had said nothing, just gone on looking, and Ronan had kissed him - dry, quick, curious. Formal, really, like you'd kiss someone's cheek. Gansey still hadn't said anything - hadn't done anything, pushed him away, hadn't even blinked in surprise. Dear Abby, he'd thought hysterically as he backed away and left the room, I think my dad might be on drugs.
So this by comparison was veering towards normal, and Gansey nodded and said, "Good," like a teacher marking his work (someone's work, anyway) and that was all; the moment dropped, a trough in their current peculiar waveform. Ronan let it go. "Chainsaw probably stole your pen." It was an excuse, a reason to go into his ruined room and close the door, but Gansey didn't stop him.