#even though i might rarely rb/reference them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ohheyitsokay · 3 years

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Omg I'm SO sorry!!! I'm the soulmates pain AU anon, I was completely aware you were the one with the milestone!! I saw the post through Molly's rb and I was almost completely sure I had opened your blog to send you the ask but alas, the Tumblr app can never give you any certainties. That long-ass message was completely dedicated to you, I still can't quite grasp how I managed to send it to scribbledghost 🙄🙄🙄 Sorry!!! Congrats again, I love you!!!!

for reference a Din Djarin x reader soulmate request where your soulmate feels your injuries and pain

hello, dear heart!

I wanted to say, before anything else, thank you. I've reread your words multiple times since you sent this, confirming they were to me, and they really mean the world to me. thank you so, so much! anyway, your idea is fantastic, I had a lot of fun with this one! I hope you like seeing what I did with your already wonderful thoughts 💕

ps it's well documented that I'm a big fan of sprawling thoughts, so please never apologize for sharing them!

warnings: mentions canon-typical injuries, a bunch of fluff. at least enough for a couple of throw pillows

soulmate requests / follower celebration

There's a short burn on his forearm when he wakes.

Din stares at it, wondering at the dull ache, trying to place the injury from yesterday's adventure when it hits him. Hot and golden warmth, flooding through his chest, thawing his flesh against the cold filtered air.

It's one of yours.

A burn, on his forearm.

And selfishly, indulgently, he pauses for a moment, mind slipping away from duty and expectations to dwell in the daydream of his soulmate.

First, his mind creates an image of a blurry mandalorian caretaker, gently moving around a kitchen in the covert. You stir a pot, tapping the spoon on the side before setting it down. Hearing distant calls, you turn too quickly and oh - a sliver of burn along your arm.

Din wants to help, wants to pull you away from the domestic .... danger, and he rushes forward. Your helmet turns to him and he almost sees it - before his mind can no longer produce the answers he aches for late at night.

The second image is of you, in armor as gleaming as his own, in a thick, unrecognizable forest. The hairs on his neck are at full attention, already subconsciously wanting to shout - but you don't need his help. You're breathtaking in all versions of his daydream - but watching you fight with practiced ease punches the air from his lungs. For a moment he feels self-conscious of his awkward maneuvers and slapdash fighting but then his mind pulls him back. You're protecting someone, or else you wouldn't have messed up - you never do, injuries from you are too rare - but you shove them behind you, shooting an enemy over your shoulder before your helmet snaps back. There are so many - you're surrounded - and a hot, sharp blaster bolt grazes your forearm before your fury is truly unleashed.

He runs his fingers over the burn, almost giddy at the possibilities.

Mandalorians are few and far between, but he's grateful he has a soulmate, and even more thankful you've kept yourself out of harm's way almost entirely, since you'd been connected.

As he dons his layers, the shine of his armor reflects bruises and scrapes littered across the expanse of his skin. His own, from his journey, and one beautiful little burn from his soulmate.

And then they're covered, and the armor is tied securely in place, and he leaves his daydreams in the room as the ship door slides unceremoniously shut.

You hiss at the burn, clutching your arm.

Great. Just what you needed - another injury to add to your impressive collection.

At least my soulmate gets a gift from me this time. You roll your eyes.

The vendor next to your stall is a sweet lady, already apologizing for her steaming pots and pans and offering you compensation.

The credits would be nice, but you could hardly justify taking anything, especially since it was your soulmate's fault your body was riddled with aches and pains in the first place.

Waving your hand, you accept her counter offer - a bowl of her perfect broth and noodles - before retreating. You sell cloth, from beautiful dyed lengths tucked away to sturdy, unstainable blacks, and it was days like today that you thanked your stars for that choice.

There's a thick pile in the middle that you perch on, sinking into the folds as your body cries at you, and you sigh over your soup in relief. The burden of waking to webbing bruises and sprawling scrapes and the more-than-occasional broken bone is eased by your stall - sitting and haggling until the sun goes down. That is, unless there's drama in the market, as it seems there is today.

In the distance you hear shouts, more than those of vendors selling meat on sticks to passing warriors and merchants - the taunts of drunkards.

Someone is coming, and you almost laugh when you see his form in the distance, because he's trying and failing to be inconspicuous. It's impossible, with his gleaming armor, but still he ducks into shadowy spots, forgetting - or maybe ignoring - their inhabitants.

"A Mandalorian has graced our market," your neighbor remarks dryly. They were respected, but it was well known that chaos followed them. You share a look, both wishing you were wealthy enough to conpletely pack up shop. If anything, a logical person would put away most of the stock and hunker down for a few hours. Weighing the odds was difficult: if you were lucky, the chaos wouldn't bother your business, and shoppers might be drawn out, hoping for entertainment and spending as they waited. If you weren't, a wayward burst of plasma or blaster fire would destroy your whole month's stock.

You looked at him again, the Mandalorian kneeling down the street. His form was... almost handsome, formidable but careful. He was light on his feet, seemingly with gentleness on his mind, and it drew you in like a moth to flame. You decided to stay, and hope for the best, your curiosity pulsing like your bruises.

And you were lucky, that day, because he ducked away not a moment later, taking the exciment with him.

Until, he came back the next day, this time on the prowl, stalking up and down the edge of Dicer's Row, one hand on his blaster and the other atop a bulky, wriggling bag. This time, you ventured to stand, folding and refolding your displays as you watched him through your lashes.

And then he made his move, and you sighed, feigning a yawn to cover your disappointment from your neighbor's knowing smile. She shouldn't be wiggling her eyebrows over the box wall between you - honestly his type were more annoying than anything. A crash from the alley confirmed it: there was no way a guy like that cared about his soulmate. The gentleness from before was surely a trick of the light.

Your whole side lit up with pain, the impact of something hard against your whole side and you groaned, settling into your mound again. Any curiosity or attraction was snuffed under your annoyance and pain, and your mood soured like fruit left unpicked on the tree.

Selfish, you thought, glaring as a chicken ran squawking from the commotion. What a jerk.

The next day, you tried to maintain the sentiment, huffing as he wandered the stalls.

Why does he keep coming back?

You'd have thought his time here was over when he'd dragged that lowlife out of town yesterday. But here he was, buying a crock of soup at the stall next to you, and ignoring her comments about how he couldn't eat it with his helmet on.

She had warmed to him, since he'd put money in her pocket, chattering in a way that kept him stuck for long moments.

It struck you as strange - he almost seemed too awkward to leave, like her returned generosity actually meant something to him. A man like him... surely could've just walked away.

But he stayed for awhile, nodding and looking at the spoons she carved in her free time, and you almost thought he was looking at you, too. Then he ducked his head and planted himself in front of you, and certainly he was.

For all the years you'd spent weaving words to sell your fabrics and goods, you'd never been so speechless. The Mandalorian was large, sharp, shining edges and bulky canvas packs tied to his shoulders - he seemed out of place, filling your whole stall, shuffling as he loomed over you.

He asked for soft brown things - children's clothes.

"Of course, I - I mean, yes, just over here -" you tripped over your words, caught completely off guard by the shape of him, the feel of him just an arms width away, and his request. You stumbled from your seat, nearly toppling in your hurry and his gloved hand wrapped around your arm, catching you.

"You're injured," he stated not really asking. It was... overwhelmingly intimate, him knowing, and acknowledging it, like he cared.

"Yeah, my..." you swallowed, trying not to get lost in the dark glass inches from your face. "My self-centered soulmate keeps getting himself nearly killed."

Even with your heart thumping in your chest, you couldn't keep the bite from your words, bitterness having collected over years of nursing injuries that were consequences of someone else's actions. He didn't let go of you for a moment, his helmet pulling back and tilting, like he was startled.

Then he was cautious, unbearably so, releasing his grip like a child freeing a captured creature when it was time. The topic was dropped, and he made his purchase quickly, but before he left, he paused. The Mandalorian's gloved hand ghosted over your cheek, slowly moving a hair back into it's place, and if you hadn't known better, it was almost an apology.

And then, thick cape swirling in the dust, tiny clothes in tow, he swept away, leaving you along with your whole body alight with a foreign longing.

Din felt as though he'd been stabbed.

Hot, hot feelings poured through his chest, spreading fast as fire as he desperately tried to sort through them.

You - you were incredible, fragile and bruised, with the most stunning, determined eyes he had ever seen. Not a Mandalorian, and you had a ... a soulmate, a fucker who left your skin littered with marks, burdening you with ...

He felt panicked, shocked, and guilty, just as he had when you'd told him. It had never occred to him that his soulmate might be there... out there, constantly burdened by his recklessness. His body screamed for attention, something he so often ignored, but this time, he was almost deafened by it.

His feet, legs, arms, chest, heart - all of them wanted him to return to you, in your little fabric stall. To... what? Truly, he hadn't the slightest idea, so his mind won out, shaking a little to try to reign in the muscles that he'd taught to obey him.

He couldn't go to you.

But, he couldn't stay away.

He was back in the market, and this time, he wasn't being subtle about staring at you.

Tall and ... slow, he waded through the crowds, making his was towards you like he was following a careful path.

"Can I help you?" You stood, moving almost involuntarily towards him. "Was there something wrong with my -" he was already shaking his head, hands reaching to make you shush.

Waiting, an irrational part of your mind wished he would touch you again, would place his big hands on your skin and sooth the aches that haunted your life. It was unfair, but you didn't stop it, couldn't if you tried.

Carefully, he slid a single finger to your arm, pushing up your sleeve to reveal the little burn you'd gotten.

He was being gentle. It made you want to stomp your feet, jealously welling up in your heart like bile, bitter and hot. How could it be, that someone so powerful had learned so quickly, wanted to, and he wasn't - he wasn't even your -

Then he moved again, pushing up his own sleeve and your thoughts tumbled over each other. It was intimate, even more than before, desperately trusting, as his skin near glowed in the morning light. And there was a burn on his skin, hairs singled like they'd met the edge of a pot of boiling broth.

You wanted to punch him. This man has spent years tossing his body around like he had one one spare, making your own as brittle as bread crust and - you wanted to kiss him. This man had learned after a single day, the impact of his actions, and had been nothing but kind.

The forehead of his helmet pressed into yours, and the two sides of your mind compromised.

Later, words would come - they had to.

But now, your eyes closed, and you sighed. He had the rest of your life to make it up to you - and he would, you were sure.

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179 @mrsbentallmadge @horton-hears-a-honk @saradika @zinzinina

#din djarin x reader #soulmate requests #anonymous and elle #elle only posts soulmate rqs at weird hours thats the rule

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eury--dice · 4 years

Text

history, huh?

chapter 2: prope

(check the rb for chapter 1 on tumblr + ao3 links!)

Blue’s gum popped loudly on the other line. Adam couldn’t remember the last time he saw her chew gum, but somehow it seemed fitting that she picked up the habit then, with him overseas. “Any weird paintings?”

“I’m legally obligated not to tell you,” Adam replied, flicking his eyes over a textbook. He scanned his eyes over a page, but the fonts and colors all blurred together, creating a grey and red mass of string in front of him instead of a helpful breakdown of France’s pre-revolution economy. His phone, propped up on a tiny potted fern, revealed Blue Sargent in all of her early-evening glory. He wondered what the tabloids might think of her like this: her thick and short black hair held back by clashing vibrant hair clips, dressed in one of Gansey’s old Aglionby sweaters she converted into a halter top, felt-tip pen ink somehow smudged on her cheek. There was something wonderfully grounding about her familiar chaos.

“Contracts are a suggestion and nothing more.”

“Don’t let your mother hear that. She’ll have us both thrown in jail.” Ronan’s words from earlier popped into his head, but he had the luxury of ignoring them with the prince out of sight, and so he did.

“C’mon, Adam, you know she’s a softie. You’re in Kensington Palace. You have to tell me something exciting.”

Adam scrounged for something to tell her. He glanced around his room again, still caught off-guard by how much it felt like a castle. Admittedly, he didn’t have a great reference for what castles were supposed to feel like; the only other castle he had been in was the Bishop Palace on a tour with his mother at age eight. His hair raised on end at random moments here the same way it did then, the draftiness leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He couldn't quite shake the idea that someone was watching him, caught between air molecules and screaming for someone to hear them. The White House sometimes gave him the same feeling. Realistically, he knew people passed over every spot on the earth and nothing made the walls of the White House or Kensington Palace any different in that regard. But the history in them intimidated him. The presence of greats, from founding fathers to celebrity politicians to monarchs, was a guarantee rather than a possibility. He couldn’t help but feel watched by them, feel their expectations and disappointment thick in the air.

Living there all the time as Ronan did must be lonely, surrounded only by ghosts.

He pushed his feet against the floor, leaning back in his chair so that it balanced on two legs. His leg swung back and forth to dully hit the wooden underside of the seat while the other braced him. Adam didn’t quite want to tell Blue any of that. He knew she would understand, both because she was Blue and because her family was a big believer in the supernatural and psychic. But he didn’t know how to say it without a long-winded rant. “There’s a coat of armor outside my room,” he admitted in a low tone. “I’ve been waiting for it to twitch its finger and beckon me closer.”

“I’m sure if you ask nicely it will let you pursue your weird metal fantasies.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Adam said without heat, finally flipping the textbook shut. “No kink-shaming over the phone.”

“I watched the Wizard of Oz with you at age eight, Adam. You can’t hide your reaction to the Tin Man from me.”

Adam rubbed his eyes. “I need ice cream to deal with this bullying,” he announced, standing from the borrowed desk and snatching his phone up.

“Aw, at least I know that the English haven’t been able to suck all the life out of you if you’re complaining and want ice cream.”

“They haven’t managed it yet, but we’re only one photo op in.”

“Well, if the excess of British does manage to sideline you, let me know. I know Gansey will want the heads-up for the tabloids.”

“As long as you don’t feed them headlines again, I’d be happy to.” Adam rounded the corner into the spacious kitchen reserved for guests of the Crown. He’d roll his eyes at the needless expense if the White House didn’t provide the exact same accommodations.

“I’m telling you again, I know nothing of the allegation.”

Adam gave her a flat look. “Who else would pen ‘First Son Denies Fur Son Residence in the Residence?’ Besides the obvious reason for it being bad, it was clearly you.”

Blue blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Sometimes I hate your intimate knowledge of my love of wordplay.”

“And I yours of the diplomatic taxidermy gifts I receive.”

“I’m sure the Minister of Foreign Affairs’ son meant well, he was just...creepy.”

Adam sighed, opening the freezer with one hand to reveal a box of pre-packaged ice cream cones. “They always mean well.”

He pulled the box from the freezer and shut the door, turning on his heel to face the counter. But he stopped short when he noticed it was no longer just him and Blue alone in the kitchen.

Prince Ronan stood in the entryway to the kitchen, disarmed in the half-light with his flannel pajama pants and black t-shirt combination. Over-the-ear headphones sat on his head, but he pushed them down to loop around his neck. The music was so loud it bled into the air, carrying the harsh sound of drums until they reached Ronan across the kitchen. On his screen, Blue studied Adam and his sudden pause, and the voice of Gansey carried over from somewhere far away - “I’ve got a new article,” it sounded like, though Adam could barely hear anything.

“Call you back,” he said quietly, disconnecting from the call. Ronan looked almost apologetic when Adam looked back up towards him.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he confessed. “Goody-two-shoes like you.”

Adam wanted to take offense to it, but something stopped him. “I could say the same for you.”

“Yes, well, insomnia calls.”

“Doesn’t it always?” The two shared a tight smile.

“I was out,” Ronan explained, gesturing to the box in Adam’s hand. “Knew there’d be a stock here. I’m...sorry.” The word sounded bitter and foreign on his tongue.

“It’s fine,” Adam said. “Midnight snacks are to be taken seriously or not at all.” He slid the box across the counter, suddenly very aware of his threadbare, faded crimson coca-cola tee shirt and GU sweatpants. He couldn’t stop feeling the slide of them against his skin.

Ronan clutched the box once it reached him, looking to Adam with something close to surprise. Still, he opened the box and selected an ice cream.

While he was distracted, Adam snapped a picture, the flash bright in the dim kitchen.

The stare leveled at him by Ronan should’ve been enough to pin any self-preserving person in place, but Adam rarely did what was best for him personally. “What the fuck is that for?”

“Two social media posts a day,” Adam replied, speeding through the filtering process and tapping to the captioning. “It’s part of the contract.”

“Of course it would be,” Ronan mutters with great disdain. “Fucking social media addicted hounds.”

“Not a fan of technology?”

“Oh, sure, other than the fact that it’s a blight consuming the world by slaughtering brain cells and slowly giving us radiation poisoning.”

“You could’ve just said ‘yes.’”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Adam smiled brightly. “Not giving me a headache from all of the pomposity?”

“Exactly. No fun.” When Adam continued to stare blankly at his screen, Ronan rolled his eyes. “Does it take you this long to caption everything you do? If so, I understand why so little governing takes place.”

“Because the monarchy is oh-so-powerful,” Adam replied, but then decided to cut them off before it could turn into a full-blown fight. “It always takes me a minute to think of something good.”

Ronan grabbed the phone from his hands. “You’re overthinking it,” he dismissed, making a few decisive taps before handing the phone back to Adam, photo captioned but not yet posted. insomnia ice cream ft. @PrinceRonan.

“Thought you hated technology?”

“Hate and lack of proficiency are two different things.” “...Of course,” Adam said, clicking post on the photo. Ronan turned and walked toward the door, the song on his headphones audibly changing. Not one for goodbyes, then. The feeling he had in his room was back then, the idea that ghosts clung to the air around him and stole oxygen with their demands. Although Ronan had not yet left, Adam already felt as though he were lonely. Lonely, but not alone, still technically with Ronan and all of the ghosts thickening the air.

Adam, in a fluid movement he didn’t really plan, dumped half of the ice creams on the counter and held out the box across the marble countertop as though bridging some wide ocean. The coolness of the marble inched closer to the skin of his forearm where it hovered a few inches in the air.

“You can take these if you’d like.”

Ronan froze, his back straightened and still before he turned ninety degrees back to look at Adam. “Pardon?”

“The ice cream cones. It’s probably better you do, honestly. I just eat them when I’m bored. Calories I don’t really need.”

Ronan’s startlingly blue eyes studied him for a moment, roaming every line of Adam’s face as though searching for some trickery and then jumping to the box in Adam’s outstretched hand. “Thank you,” he said at last in an undertone, accepting the offered box. And, leaving Adam with some hint of a smile, Prince Ronan was gone, Adam all by himself and the faint memory of intense guitar music leaking from expensive headphones still lingering in the air.

Once they landed firmly in PR territory, Adam felt a bit steadier on his feet.

PR he knew like the back of his hand, armed with years of experience from campaigns and political terms. It was not innate for him like for Gansey, but like everything else in his life, Adam was a star pupil and quick to pick it up thoroughly. He studied diligently, examining the facial expressions of everyone around him, examining each furrow of brow and twitch of lips and bellow of a laugh, practicing and perfecting on his own to ensure that he blended in seamlessly and, when necessary, stood out brilliantly. America’s First Son, valedictorian-intelligent and attractive enough to stop hearts for a moment upon seeing him. By the time he sat on ITV This Morning next to his enemy, he certainly knew all the tips and tricks and expertise ensuring a successful interview, and luckily Ronan seemed to know his way around a talk show as well. His thoroughly British host seemed appropriately charmed by their dynamic, a golden-child American and England’s simultaneously proper and wild Royal.

Adam excelled at PR not because he was natural but because he was over-prepared, and so he was comfortable with the rhythm he and Ronan fell into - referencing each other’s favorites, cracking dry, sarcastic jokes about ice cream, fist-bumping and throwing arms around each other’s shoulders for effect when needed.

He counted it as a win that his resentment never made it into his words or his actions. Instead, he distracted himself with what they were doing, savoring the news alerts of their “clearly natural” friendship and the thumbs-up and “!!!” texts from Gansey and Blue whenever something exciting reached the press. He ignored Ronan for the most part, and Ronan mostly ignored him. He clenched his teeth and smiled at how rough-and-tumble Ronan looked under stage lighting, as wickedly handsome as a poisoned and sharpened dagger, unfairly attractive even with his head closely shaved.

Then the time for their second photo op rolled around, sometime after Adam posted an empty-feeling snapshot of Ronan on a deserted London sidewalk with the caption love a nice mid-afternoon walk, and his mood plummeted sharply.

As well as people and hospitals generally went together, Adam did not have a particularly terrible relationship with any hospitals, especially the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust. He did not enjoy them, sure, but who did? And his discomfort may have gone below the surface-level “death and sickness occur here” jitteriness most people felt, but the majority of the unease coiling in his stomach came from the utterly staged feeling to everything. The First Son and Prince came bearing gifts of books, but they probably did more harm than good for all of the children by displacing all the medical professionals and disrupting their steady routines with full camera crews.

It felt hypocritical, and Adam definitely didn’t want to be shoving cameras in the faces of cancer patient children, but the decisions weren’t up to him, and so he slipped back into PR mode. He shook the hands of nurses and posed faux-candidly for cameras. The only real things he did were with the kids - once they knew who he was, they asked for stories of celebrities and monuments, and although Adam was no fantastic storyteller, he did his best to answer every question and then some. He read to them, too, from the new and donated books, even when the cameras left in search of Ronan. Anger was hard to hold onto when he looked into their faces and resolved to cheer them up.

He read until his voice began to grind at itself, tucked next to kids on narrow hospital cots. They were all ages, and all perfectly suited to throw Adam back into memories he didn’t want to relive. Looking at the books, with the gaudily-colored pictures and ridiculous rhymes, was easier than looking at the children. They all looked to him with similar looks painted across their faces and twinkling in their eyes, one that made Adam’s heart twist, because he knew that he’d worn that expression so often as a child when he thought someone could help him or save him. They looked at him like he was hope itself, some savior come to grant them a wish and a recovery. He didn’t want to disappoint them.

The visit of the First Son and Prince of England must have cut into naptime because at some point Adam looked up from the book to realize that the camera crews had retreated and all the patients in his ward had dozed off. He slowly unfurled himself, gangly limbs and all, to stand without disturbing the child who rested so fitfully on the hospital cot. His steps were soft and random against the tile, mostly just a blind search to try and find Ronan. It wasn’t long before he heard Ronan’s voice stretching over space from the next room over. Adam slowed, hoping to stay just out of sight while still observing Ronan.

The Prince perched on the edge of a narrow hospital bed, reminding Adam ridiculously of a bird poised to take flight. Since there were no cameras near him, his posture was slightly relaxed like it had been in the kitchen the night previously. A little girl clung tightly to his hand while he gestured wildly with his other, her eyes wide and hanging onto his every word. Ronan’s voice was somehow hushed and grand at the same time, his posh accent dulled to something a little more rural.

“When three hundred years had come and gone, the four swans traveled South to the sea of Moyle, braving the turbulent tides that wanted to draw them under.” He leaned closer to her and tugged lightly on her free hand with his free hand, perhaps to echo the water he mentioned in the story, and she gripped it tightly, nearing laughter with every second. “They swam past the cold and stormy seas, their feathers ruffled but unharmed when they reached Inis Glora. The swans had grown tired over their long journey, the years of their lives catching up to slow them down.”

Adam, without thinking, felt a bit of a smile take over his face. He was taken aback by the change in Ronan. The boy sitting on the bed seemed lightyears away from any other version - he’d gone a little hazy at the edges, as though he were made of smoke, as though Adam was dreaming and viewing some kind of apparition. His tailored lines still stuck out jaggedly, cutting a harsh figure, but he seemed at ease and gentle for the first time Adam had ever seen. One hell of a storyteller, too. Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to know why, as the Prince of England, Ronan could let all of those Irish words roll off of his tongue as though they came naturally.

An Irish children’s tale. An Irish children’s tale. Why would he know any of those? The answer nagged at Adam’s brain, but he couldn’t find it in himself to dig.

The girl was quiet as Ronan’s voice trailed off until it became nothing. The swans had returned to elderly humans and lived with a priest who blessed them for the rest of their days, and Adam assumed that she was processing the anticlimactic ending. Finally, she said, “I like those endings best.”

“You do?” Ronan asked, patience yielding in his tone. “Why do you like them?”

“Sad endings are too sad, but happy endings aren’t real.”

Adam could only see the back of Ronan’s head, but he could hear him clear his throat and see him squeeze the girl’s hand in his much larger one. “Me, too.” He leaned away from her a little, letting go of one of her hands. When he spoke again, a smile was in his voice. “You’re much wiser than the adults I know. I might have to offer you a position advising me.”

The girl laughed again, a giddy and wild and hopeful thing. “You’re very silly,” she informed Ronan, likely too young to realize any breaches in etiquette. Luckily for her, Ronan didn’t care, either.

“I am very serious,” he said, his face no doubt translating that sentiment very well. He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be back with an offer in fifteen or so years, don’t you worry.”

“Is that a promise?”

Ronan stilled at once, the muscles in his back set just as they had been in the kitchen. Adam didn’t envy the situation she’d inadvertently put Ronan into. As childish and silly as her question was, there was a little too much weight to the response for him to casually offer a yes or a no.

“Do your best to get better,” he said at length, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

And, oh, that expression of hope was back shining on her face, and Adam had to shuffle to his other foot, looking away. The people were the reason he liked politics, liked the idea of trying to help build a world even a fraction better than the one he was raised in, and yet he couldn’t look. Couldn’t bear the thought of letting anyone down.

Ronan glanced behind him, clearly catching sight of Adam, just as a nurse bustled into the room and cheerfully announced that it was time for medicine.

“Thank you,” the little girl said before releasing his hand.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ella,” Ronan said with a stiff formality that made her giggle again. “And of course,” he added, a little more softly.

It was perhaps not a polite enough exit for a prince, but after Ronan clumsily thanked the nurse and stepped back into the ward to meet Adam, he knew it was the best they would get. Ronan continued moving past him in the direction Adam assumed the cameras must have gone.

“Ah, so you do have feelings other than anger,” Adam said, trailing Ronan into the hall.

“Don’t act so fu... completely surprised,” Ronan replied, turning his head towards Adam. At first, he thought Ronan might have been uncomfortable with the idea of Adam seeing the interaction, but instead, his face started to squeeze into something close to a smile, his eyes crinkling and the corners of his mouth lifting. A pop from down the hallway shuttered the expression before it could become fully formed. A shout cut through the air just as Persephone appeared between Ronan and Adam as though materializing from thin air. Her impossibly long, white hair clung to the sleeves of their sweaters with static friction as she shoved them with surprising strength into a closet.

Her voice was still serene and airy despite the sudden tension settling on everyone’s chests. “Wait for the all-clear.” And the door shut with a thunk behind her.

Adam leaned his head against it with a sigh, before very rapidly remembering that they were two high-profile targets in a possible active shooter scenario and doors weren’t exactly safe. He scrambled backward, accidentally knocking into Ronan and sending them tumbling into the wall. Of all the closets to be unceremoniously shoved into, they had to be stuck in one barely large enough for the brooms stacked to his right.

“Can you stop falling into me, please?” came Ronan’s voice, taut with something close to fury but probably closer to anxiety.

“But you love it so much,” Adam bit out, trying to backtrack. Ronan’s face had somehow ended up in Adam’s hair, and he could feel Ronan’s long lashes close, paired with a troubled exhale. Adam managed to extract himself from Ronan and slide against one of the walls, crouching beside something he suspected was a bucket. Ronan followed his example, leaning against the opposite wall until he slid to the ground. Adam couldn’t see Ronan very well, but judging from the faint rustling sounds of buzzed hair against cotton and quick, deep breaths, he wasn’t handling the situation very well.

“This is a new one,” Adam said. “Assassination attempts, I mean. Is this common for the royalty?”

“Shut up,” Ronan said, his voice faint from his position closer to the ground.

“I’m blaming you if we die, you know.” When he received no response, Adam continued. “I probably could have made it at least a couple more years. No one’s ever tried to shoot me before. Guess I’m not important enough on my own. Who knew our fake friendship could be so deadly?”

“Fuck off,” Ronan replied, his breaths still deep.

“I’d love to, mate,” Adam said, forcing faux-jolly British inflection into the last word, “But we’re stuck in this closet for the foreseeable future, or until we get shot.”

“I meant shut up before that happens.”

“What, you’re not keen on life-threatening scenarios?” Ronan didn’t respond, and Adam felt a bit of genuine concern leak into his other thoughts. “Are you doing alright? I thought you of all people would be used to this.”

“Not keen on tight spaces,” he grit out, his teeth likely bared in that dangerous way that made Adam’s hands curl into fists. “Now fucking stop for a minute.”

They sat in silence, nothing but their breaths filling the space between them. The silence must have started to grate on Ronan because he broke it first.

“It doesn’t happen all the time, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m telling you.” Ronan breathed something that sounded like dumbass. “Once, when I was small and out in public with my father. Declan was there, too. I can’t remember much of it. That’s the only other time.”

“Suppose it’s as good a story as any,” Adam said, his voice just a hint louder than Ronan’s whisper had been. “Glad I can hear it trapped in this minuscule closet with you.”

“You’re the one with the foot digging into my hip, not the other way around.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to put it, Your Highness?” He nudged his foot and Ronan surged forward, clamping a hand around Adam’s mouth and the other clenching in Adam’s collar, practically hovering above where Adam stretched out uncomfortably. Adam much preferred this almost-fighting to their pretending to be friends.

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to die today.” Adam tried shifting to free himself, but Ronan had a firm grip and he couldn’t gain any ground. Instead, he licked Ronan’s palm, and Ronan was quick to drop his hand in disgust with a quiet noise of discontent. He found himself pinned with one of Ronan’s glares, the intensity tangible even in the dark.

“I don’t want you to die either, you sodding idiot. I’m not the only one in here. You talking is ruining both of us.” “Clearly you’re not, this might actually be comfortable without you and your ridiculous, showy muscles. But I didn’t realize you cared, sugar,” he said, thinking fleetingly of his mother, “if I was breathing or not.”

“Right now, your life is tied very closely to mine, and so I do.”

“Sweet as honey,” Adam taunted, thickening his drawl. Most of the time he tried to school his words into something a little more Northern, but he enjoyed the way the southern accent bothered Ronan.

“No peace, none at all,” Ronan muttered. “Not even in the looming face of death.”

Adam could have said the same, really. The last thing he expected to see from Ronan while shoved into a dark closet with him was any genuine emotion. But the stories, the fear in the enclosed space, the story of his father-

His father. Of course.

“Was that story from your father?” He asked, although he already was sure of the answer.

Ronan’s response clipped. “Yes.”

His conscience was still mostly intact, and so Adam began to feel a little bad for picking a fight while in a stressful situation and then bringing up Ronan’s grief. “You’re a good storyteller.” Ronan’s silence was judgemental and disbelieving, so he persisted. “What, I can’t give a compliment? You are.”

“My siblings and I had stories read to us like everyone else, Parrish. We’re not programmed, bland colonialism robots.” A pause. “Well, Mathew and I aren’t.”

“Of course not, imperialism comes first.”

“You’re welcome for the country, then.”

A brief silence followed. It felt, inexplicably, like the two of them had been toeing a line ever since Adam stood outside of Ella’s door and heard Ronan speak to her. They were inching closer with every word spoken.

“My father was the real storyteller,” he admitted, and Adam internally marked another inch traveled. “Since he was an actor and all. He always told us those stories even though he wasn’t technically supposed to. I just...imitate.”

“Imitate?”

“Yes,” Ronan said, providing no other explanation. “Why do you give a damn, anyway? You don’t want childhood tales and neither do I. You hate me.”

“We’re stuck like this forever,” Adam admitted. He’d known it before, but speaking the words made them feel more real. “Neither of us likes it, but here we are, shoved in a closet together. We have to pull off this act for the rest of our lives, Ronan, and I need something more than a cheat sheet your PR team slapped together.”

Ronan was eerily still for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Then why do you hate me?”

The question caught Adam off guard. “What?”

“Why do you hate me?” Off of Adam’s wary look, he threw the words back in his face. “We’re stuck together just like you said. I need some kind of answer.”

Adam sighed, acquiescing. “Do you remember what you said in Rio?”

“The fuck are you talking about, Parrish?”

“The Olympics?”

“When you threatened to push me into the River Thames?”

“No. You being a condescending dick at diving finals.”

Ronan was still for a long moment before bringing a hand to his shoulder and easing himself back away and off of Adam. “Oh. Shit.”

“So. You remember?”

“Vaguely.” A pause, elongated in the dark. “You heard?”

“Yes.”

“So that did it, then?”

“Yes.”

But Ronan must have known he had more to say because he stayed silent.

“I probably would have hated you no matter what,” Adam finally admitted, some low part of his gut feeling heavier with the admission. “It’s just - I wasn’t even the First Son then, and everyone was already comparing us. And it didn’t matter if they thought I was better or you were better or whatever, it was just - the idea of you bothered me, a white boy born with the power to make such change and unquestioning support from millions who was throwing it all away instead. And I’ve been compared to a shit ton of people in my life, from my mother to Blue and Gansey to just - everyone, but somehow with you, it was always the worst. So yes, it was the diving finals.”

“But it was also you being self-conscious?”

“But it was also you being an asshole.”

“Yeah, it was,” Ronan admitted lowly, and Adam blinked at the admission. “I was - I definitely was one. I think I was one all the fucking time back then. It doesn’t excuse anything, but my father passed on...not long before, if you can understand.”

Adam didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, but he nodded all the same. He felt something in his throat tighten. “Of course. I don’t think I’d realized.”

“It doesn’t excuse it,” Ronan repeated. “I’m sorry.”

This was something heavier, truer than his other apologies - something beyond deeply-ingrained politeness that allowed him to apologize for petty things. It was as though he genuinely asked for forgiveness, like Adam had any real choice in the matter, like Adam’s forgiveness was something Ronan actually wanted. Adam never expected to receive a genuine apology from the Prince of England.

“I appreciate it. And I’m sorry as well. For...not realizing.” Ronan’s figure visibly relaxed even though it was barely visible.

“So, depressing Irish stories. Is that your default?”

“I’m afraid the Irish don’t have a lot of serotonin-filled stories.”

“There’s the English in you,” Adam said to a breathy laugh from Ronan. “Do you remember any more?”

“Probably couldn’t forget them, if we’re being honest. And not speaking to the press.”

“They hate me at the moment, so you have nothing to worry about.” He paused before he continued. “Would you tell one?”

“...why?”

“I don’t know. We’re stuck in here, aren’t we?”

“Be careful what you wish for. I’ll write you in as a Celtic witch.”

“I always thought I’d make a very dashing villainous magician. If that’s the price to pay, I can live with it.”

Ronan was silent, and Adam thought that he had given up on any conversation. However, he spoke again, his voice oddly light. “Once, the fierce Fianna believed in many things, none as much as the beautiful Eden laying in the Western Sea. Tir na nÒg, it was called, and the name passed between them like a secret.” Suddenly breaking character, Ronan said in his normal whisper, “That means “land of the living” for any uneducated parties.”

“Dick. Go on.��

There was something captivating in this new way Ronan spoke paired with the near-darkness and tight space of their closet. “Fionn, the leader of the Fianna-”

“Great naming process, by the way.”

“Shut the hell up or no story.”

Adam shut up.

“The leader of the Fianna led them to hunt the deer along the shores in County Kerry, including his son, Oisín. But Oisín soon caught sight of a single, bright light in the distance, all the way through the thick green of tree foliage. As it drew closer, he saw that the light was, instead, a beautiful girl with hair of spun gold astride a snow-colored mare. When Fionn inquired as to who she was, she informed them that she was Niamh of the Golden Hair, daughter of the King of Tir na nÒg, and she had come to take Oisín as her husband-”

Ronan cut off abruptly, and Adam almost asked why, but a moment later he heard the source of the silence - heavy footsteps outside the door. Suddenly, neither of them breathed, instead choosing to sit in total petrified silence.

And slowly, mercifully, the door crept open, spilling cold white light along the floor of the cupboard and across their splayed legs. Persephone stood in the doorway, her expression relaxed once again.

“False alarm,” she said breezily, reaching out her hands to haul them back to their feet. Adam shifted uncomfortably on pins and needles as his legs shot back to life. “Fireworks, not guns.”

“Fireworks in a hospital?”

Persephone shrugged. “It was some teenager.”

“Always is,” Ronan said, dangerously close to a joke. He blinked rapidly, setting his shoulders back to stand at his full height. He slanted a look towards Adam, his mouth curving into something wicked but not intimidating, all bark and no bite. “Bonding is over, then.”

“Thank God.”

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