That's Why

"Ronan, why did you do it?" Adam asks, approaching Ronan, who is laid back on the hood of his BMW. His lanky form is too long, and he is spilling off of the car to dangle helplessly over the cracked asphalt of the Monmouth lot.

"What do you mean, Parrish? Why did I do what?" He replies, not looking at Adam, who stands at his feet which dangle off the edge of the car.

"Why did you pay part of my mortgage? The same amount of money that I was going to have to pay for Aglionby." He watches Ronan. The other boy raises his head from the hood, his sunglasses falling down his nose. His sharp snake eyes look over Adam. Assessing how much meat clings to those bones, like a python would.

"How do you know that was me?"

"Because when I accused Gansey of it, he said he didn't do it. And he knows that I hate charity. So I narrowed it down. Gansey said he didn't do it, Blue doesn't care about our school, my parents would never help me now, after what I've done, and Noah's dead. So it leaves only one person. You. So why did you do it?" Adam's accent is coming through with his irritation. He always tries to mask it, but his annoyance has made him forget about his attempt at conformity. But Ronan likes the light lull it takes when Adam lets it seep through.

"Who says I did it? Maybe it was our deal old friend fate," he says, smirking menacingly.

"You know, I'm really tired of hearing that word lately."

"Yeah? So am I." He leans back on the hood, singing under his breath. "Squash one, squash two—"

"Please not that. I'm sick of that as well."

"Doesn't anybody enjoy the Murder Squash Song anymore?"

"Nobody did in the first place." Adam watches Ronan, reclined back on the car, humming something under his breath. Probably something he listened to when Niall was still alive. The Celtic music. The music he sometimes heard booming from behind Ronan's closed door. The music that Ronan hardly listens to any more, despite its calming effects on him. The sun blazes down on them, scorching Adam's pale skin. Heat waves are visible radiating from the far corners of Monmouth's parking lot. It's a wonder how Ronan is not frying alive on the car's hood, his arms pressing into the scorching metal.

Gansey's raucous Camaro is nowhere in sight.

Adam's bike lies hopelessly in a pile of weeds along the lot, not far from Ronan's car.

"Go to the passenger's seat," Ronan says, not lifting his head, but turning it to look at Adam.

"Why?" Adam asks, already making his way over to the door.

"There should be a shoebox on the floor. Grab it and bring it out here." Adam obeys, pulling open the heavy door and reaching into the car's depths. He finds the designated box easily, half tucked under the seat. He lifts the half broken black shoebox out, finding it a little hefty.

"You know you shouldn't leave your money in a shoebox in your car," Adam, banging the door shut with his hip.

"It's not money. And like your cereal box is any better," Ronan replies, sitting up. He hooks the heels of his boots on the top of the front tire. He takes the box from Adam, brushing his fingers, before setting it down next to him on the hood. He looks up to the blue sky and barks, "Chainsaw!"

Adam hadn't noticed the dream bird when he first arrived, but now he does. It swoops down from the sky, at dive-bombing speed, landing swiftly on Ronan's shoulder. Its talons dig into the fabric of his shirt and pecks at his ear, screeching, "Kerrah!"

"What's in the box?" Adam asks, stepping close to Ronan and Chainsaw.

"Her lunch," he says, flicking the top off the box. Inside resides no more than a dozen dead mice.

"Why? Couldn't she have caught her some on her own?"

"Yeah, but when I was cleaning out some mouse traps from Monmouth, I found these guys and thought I'd treat her." He smiles viciously as Chainsaw hops off of his shoulder to perch on the feeble wall of the box. She ravenously attacks the food, oblivious to her limited audience.

"Why did you do it? I don't want anybody's help. I could've of paid it myself," Adam says, looking to Ronan once more.

"No, you couldn't have," Ronan says, watching his raven maul her food.

"So you did do it," Adam says plainly.

"Yeah? So what?"

"Why?"

"I was just trying to help," Ronan answers quietly, finally looking at Adam.

"Why would you want to do that?" Adam asks silently, almost unheard. "You care more about Chainsaw and drag racing then you do most other things." Ronan flinches at the accusation, but he does not deny it.

"Because."

"Because?"

"I wanted to show you I'm not completely bad." Ronan's sunglasses obscure whatever expression he has while delivering this. His voice sounds sincere, so Adam assumes Ronan's usual snark is absent from his piercing gaze.

"You're not bad at all. Never have, never will be."

"Parrish."

"Ronan?" Adam watches timidly as his friend hops down from the car, landing in front of him. A small dust clod poofs up when he lands, covering the two boys' feet with brown dust. He walks the few steps separating the two, pausing right in front of Adam. Adam can smell the faint tones of sweat and oil stuck to Ronan's skin, and he's sure that he smells like the cheap generic soap for his shower hours before under the layer of sweat dotting his brow. Softly, at odds with his demeanor, Ronan cups Adam's cheeks, his calloused fingers rough against his friend's smooth, unmarked skin. He bows his head, placing his forehead against Adam's. Adam watches with eyes wide, his chest still as Ronan's leans closer the slightest bit, melting into his hard work boots. Chainsaw slurps in the background, but for the two boys, their attention is devoted to one another. Adam reaches up tentatively, slipping Ronan's sunglasses from his eyes. He drops them to the ground, staring into the snake's dark eyes.

Ronan leans forward, gently pressing his lips to Adam's. The kiss is nothing more than a kiss. Something soft, endearing, a preface for more. 

 Something one does not expect from a boy like Ronan Lynch.

"Adam? That's why."