The Merry Men Masquerade

14. To Those Who Wait

Sure enough, Amir was back the following evening with the very mattress Ronan had procured for him on his first night with the Merry Men, carrying it like it was easy. When asked how he'd traversed the city streets with a mattress without garnering drunken attention, Amir grinned coy. "It should come as no surprise that I've learned my way around the backroads."

It didn't, but the image of him hauling a narrow mattress down dark alleyways brought a small, twinkling laugh to Ronan's lips that surprised them both. He covered it with his hand, but the damage was done; Amir's eyes went round, and though he hid his smile in the downturn of his face, Ronan caught it all the same.

When Ronan climbed onto the bed that night, the lamplight illuminated his face in the mirror, and he saw his reflection for the first time in weeks. His hair was shaggier than he normally allowed, his skin warmer and tanner than it had been in years. When he scooted closer, he could just make out a scattering of freckles across his nose. He hadn't seen those since he was a kid playing along shadeless streets every day.

He brushed a hand through the front of his hair, sweeping it onto his forehead. In truth, he had never been as fond of the white patch as everyone else. It had always seemed too random, and the more he'd grown, the more it had reminded him of his father. Now, it fell to his eyebrow, and he found he didn't quite mind it like this. Untamed as it was, it bore little resemblance to Vernon. And it looked less out of place . . . elegant, maybe. Pretty, like Wendy had always said.

Ronan extinguished the lamp and tucked himself in, and he finally slept with his legs stretched out. Hanging off the edge, but stretched out nonetheless.

𓃦𓃦𓃦

Though he was waiting downstairs for the next visit nearly a week later, he was not at all ready for what Amir had in store.

Outwardly, he was mostly the same. Perhaps dressed a bit oddly, what with the all-black garb and the poncho over his torso, but he carried his usual food sack and nothing else. There was novelty in his eyes tonight, and when he pulled down the bandana to speak, the curve of his mouth promised something troublesome and his words were entirely strange.

"Change into something dark, will you?"

In the silence that followed, Amir procured a folded black garment seemingly from nowhere. Ronan blinked down at it, then back up at Amir. He took it and let it unfold until he was staring at an identical piece to the one Amir wore.

"What is this?"

"It's a hood."

Amir's mouth twitched some more when Ronan narrowed his eyes. "What do you suggest I do with this hood?"

"Most people wear them, I think."

"Amir."

"Ronan."

"What do you have planned?"

"Something fun, if you trust me," he said, then visibly regretted it. "I mean- if you can trust me, just for the night, or at least-" His lips drew into a line, gaze sliding to the wall. "Look," he amended. "You've been in low spirits-understandably so-but the other night I saw you smile, and I want . . ." He turned back to Ronan. "I have someplace I would very much like to show you. Can I, please?"

Ronan watched him a moment longer. Amir waited with bated breath and wanting eyes, and Ronan was helpless against him. He turned wordlessly for the second floor, where he changed into the sort of ensemble he would have used for a heist: black shirt and trousers, worn boots, leather gloves, and, because he didn't know what to expect, his toolbelt. The poncho was in fact hooded, so only a sliver of skin would be visible once he put on Amir's scarf.