The Greywaren and the Magician [Pynch One-Shots]

Honeyed

Adam Parrish is a boy who sits best in the summertime.

There's the lake, blue enough to be a dream, rippling with the soft wind. There's the trees surrounding it, climbing up the steep lines of the mountains on the other side and casting pretty reflections onto the water. There's the shoreline, brown and soft, dirt rich and pock-marked with the scuffling footprints of boys who don't know how to play soft. And then there's Adam, stretched out in the grass farther up, all sun-dark skin and hair just a few shades away from matching the shore.

His limbs are long and slender, they splay outward and his fingers curl around the grass, tough and worn. His chest is strong and set in planes, it drifts into the softness of his stomach, the faint lines of his ribs, the ridges of his hips, and it all ends in blue denim. His neck is drawn out and smooth, his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, and the line of his jaw is sharp, contrasted by the softness of his mouth. It's all full lips, chapped and warm, settled into a relaxed shape. He has high cheekbones crowded with sun kisses that dip away to deep-set eyes framed by lashes the color of sunlight. When they open, Ronan is sure that they're reflecting the sky the same way that the water is, all that they're missing is the clouds, lazy and slow, made of froth.

Adam doesn't even glance over, but his toes flex and his mouth tilts upward before his lips form the word, "Ronan."

The air leaks slowly from his lungs as he inches closer and Adam latches his fingers around his wrist softly, just to have them there.

"Yeah?" Ronan's voice is soft and low even though he knows that Adam doesn't scare easily.

The fingers around his wrist brush upward, over his forearm, and Adam's eyes stay pinned to his, lids cast low and playful. Ronan can't think.

He remembers a hundred different things at once: the BMW is parked on the cliffs above them, tires splayed, mud spattered over the paint, Chainsaw is turning circles above them, cutting rifts in the field of blue, Gansey is leading an expedition in a dreamt-up Mustang miles away and for once it isn't about Glendower, and Adam is no longer tied to Cabeswater, but still he radiates a kind of otherworldly power. Each one of these fills his lungs with wildness, he tastes recklessness, harsh and metallic on his tongue, and his breathing shallows, his heart rate picks up.

Below him, Adam stretches, grin wide and lazy like Ronan didn't believe it could be before. "Let's get in."

Neither of them has a bathing suit, Adam knows this.

Ronan reaches up and tugs his shirt off, Adam watches.

He's thrown back into a time when watching was a thing they felt that they had to hide. Now, Adam looks, Ronan looks back, and there isn't any doubt in their minds.

They pull their remaining clothing off without rush. The wind is slow and soft, it wraps around their skin and stirs Adam's hair.

Their grins are wide and their laughter is loud. Ronan charges into the water and dives in without a thought. Behind him, Adam grabs at his ankles, tries to drag him back, but Ronan slips from his grasp and kicks away, as quick as the finned creatures darting below them.

When he breaches the surface, he's greeted with the sight of Adam throwing his head back like a wild stallion, hair flying and sending water back behind him in torrents. His skin glistens and his eyes flicker and they dive at one another, their shouts can be heard ricocheting off the cliffs. Their skin slips and slides as they tussle

Adam's head is pressed against his collarbone, wet hair tickling his throat, and arms wrapped around his middle, trying to drag him down. Their feet drive into the mud, it pushes between their toes and rises in clouds around their ankles, dancing with the Cabomba.

"You're going down, you fucker," he growls, and Adam wraps his arms tighter, thrusts forward with enough force to make Ronan stumble, but he shoves at Adam's shoulders, pushes until his head is under and feels a brief moment of glowing triumph that splits his face into a sharp grin until Adam tips backward and drags them both beneath the surface.

They fight to be the first to gulp oxygen, shove at faces, bubbles rise in spurts from their mouths as they let out muffled shouts and laughs, but Adam kicks upward and makes it a second before Ronan does. Their laughter is loud and abrupt, breaking free from the muting effect of the lake.

Ronan lunges and grasps at Adam's hands and they clasp together without a thought, callouses against scars. Their forearms clench, tendons in their wrists appearing and disappearing, the distance between them gradually closes and Ronan is throwing taunts, Adam's smile is as charged as a thunderstorm.

After several long minutes, their foreheads press together, faces crinkled with the after-effects of a challenge, and their grips soften, their legs brush under the water, toes barely dusting the bottom.

"I won," Ronan mutters.

"Sure you did," Adam's accent is thick and smooth and turns Ronan's thoughts to honey.

He leans forward and presses their lips together. This isn't like the first time, it's not about adrenaline and motor oil, but more breezes and gentle teasing.

Somewhere along the way, Adam's arms find their way around Ronan's shoulders, Ronan's hands are pressed against his chest, and they're still kicking, ankles bumping as they try and stay afloat.

Adam breaks away for a breath and Ronan is already chasing after him and his honeyed lips. He's not expecting to be shoved underneath the water, but when he comes up again, Adam knows better than to stay put.

It's a race to the shore and Ronan catches him right when his feet are breaking out of the water for good. They tumble to the earth in a mess of limbs and sand and laughter.