Work Text:
When Adam comes back from work, Ronan is sitting on the couch, messing with some dream thing he pulled out last night, but can’t figure out what it does. It’s a slick round ball made of smooth, cold metal that fits comfortably in the palm of his hand. He had been dreaming of Adam when he pulled it out, but he doesn’t know what about this thing could potentially be useful for Adam right now. Adam needs a lot of things—sleep, an appetite, a brain with more memory capacity—but not a shiny metal ball that serves zero purpose.
Adam’s footsteps are heavy and his head hangs limply on his neck. Ronan knows better than to say anything as Adam sits on the cushion beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. His work coveralls are filthy, half undone and rolled down to his hips. His white shirt clings to his chest—he once complained that this particular shirt was getting too small, but because Adam is not wasteful, he kept it to wear beneath his coveralls. Ronan is not complaining. Adam smells like gasoline and sweat and sun, and Ronan has to stop himself from reaching over to touch any part of him.
Adam looses a heavy sigh before turning his body and lying down on the couch, resting his head on Ronan’s thigh. His arm loosely drapes over his eyes, his mouth turned into a frown.
Ronan’s holding his breath, which is ridiculous because he should be used to Adam’s casual touches by now. When they first started 'dating'—Jesus, Ronan hates that word—that was one thing he hadn’t been expecting of Adam. His casual touches. How Adam would lightly brush his hand against Ronan’s as they walked, how he would squeeze Ronan’s knee when they sat next to each other at Nino’s, how he made sure their sides were pressed together, skin-on-skin, whenever they were hanging out at home. Ronan didn’t think Adam would be so physical, not after what his bastard of a father did to him, but now that he’s free to touch Ronan however he wants to, it’s all soft hands and light kisses and arms brushing up against arms, knees knocking into knees. Ronan thinks he should have expected it though, no matter what Robert Parrish did to him, because he remembers having to watch all that casual touching shit when Adam dated Blue for those frustratingly confusing weeks, weeks that he would rather just forget.
What Ronan was also not expecting is how breathless he feels for a moment after one of Adam’s casual touches, and how much he never wants it to stop.
Ronan exhales softly, trying not to disturb Adam resting on his leg. He gently places the dream object beside him on the couch and stares at the parts of Adam’s face that are not covered by his arm. Adam’s hand dangles precariously close to Ronan’s stomach, and he stares at that, too. He can feel his face getting red, but he reminds himself that no one’s going to call him out for staring at his...boyfriend. He's allowed to admire his...boyfriend without feeling embarrassed. He's allowed to reach out and touch his eyebrow if he wants to because they're...dating. He doesn't do it now because he's a coward, but he could if he wanted to.
Jesus Christ. Casual touches and the word ‘boyfriend’ send Ronan into that intangible place between sleeping and waking, heaven and hell, real life and fantasy, where breathing is difficult and his heart races too fucking fast.
“I’m not a fucking pillow, Parrish,” Ronan says, but he wishes with all his soul that Adam doesn't move.
“Get off the fucking couch, then,” Adam mutters back, the cords of his neck tense with stress and fatigue.
Ronan doesn’t get off the couch. Adam doesn’t stop using him as a pillow.
They stay like that for a long time: Ronan idling with his dream object and stealing glances at Adam to see if he’s fallen asleep on his lap; Adam with his eyes covered, steadily breathing out his stress and letting his body relax for the first time in days. Ronan has given up trying to figure out what the dream object does, but he keeps fiddling with it just to keep his hands busy. Adam is obviously exhausted, and Ronan doesn’t want to bother him with casual touches of his own if Adam just wants to lie there and sleep.
“Hungry?” Ronan asks, his voice a bit hoarse from non-use.
“No,” Adam says sharply. Then he sighs, like an apology for snapping, and softens his voice. “No. Thanks for asking, though.”
"There's no food anyway."
Adam snorts and they fall silent.
Ronan doesn’t push it, but he knows Adam probably skipped dinner because Boyd is a fucking asshole. But Ronan is not Adam’s mother—he can go make himself a sandwich if he wants one.
Ronan ignores the fact that he would probably go make him one anyway if Adam asked.
“What’s Opal doing?” Adam mutters.
There’s a bang and a crash from upstairs and Adam lifts his arm and opens one eye to look at the stairs.
“Dunno. Sleeping, probably.”
Adam cracks a smile, but it disappears quickly beneath his heavy frown. He lets out another sigh and turns onto his side so that the back of his head is facing Ronan’s stomach. He curls his hands in front of his chest and Ronan imagines that he’s still frowning as he closes his eyes.
Ronan cannot control his hands any longer. Abandoning the mysterious dream object, he reaches out and runs his fingers through Adam’s light hair. Adam doesn’t react like Ronan does—breathless and twitchy whenever Adam touches him—but Adam is the master of casual touches. Light hair touching doesn't faze him. Ronan isn’t even the one being touched, but his heart pounds irritatingly loud as he does it again. Adam’s hair is a bit grimy from working all day, but it still feels like feathers brushing against his hands. He weaves his fingers through his hair, pushing up against the grain towards the crown of his head, then back down again. His nails scratch at the scalp.
If it bothers Adam, he doesn’t say anything, so Ronan ventures further. He runs his index finger along the back of Adam’s neck, stopping just above the collar of his shirt. Adam tenses minutely at the shock of skin-against-skin. Ronan waits. Adam exhales and he uncurls one of his hands from his chest, wrapping his fingers around Ronan’s leg, just below his knee. Telling him it’s okay.
Barely breathing, Ronan adds the rest of his fingers and traces the line against Adam’s neck again, feather-light. He can feel the goose bumps raise beneath his fingertips and he swallows thickly when Adam’s fingers tighten briefly against his leg. He does it again, adding a skim of nails this time, and Adam’s next inhale is sharp. There’s a large freckle just hidden under Adam’s hair and Ronan rubs his thumb into it.
Ronan notices the tense muscles in Adam’s shoulder and back. He abandons the goosebumps and freckles in favor of using a casual touch to benefit Adam instead of just rendering Adam breathless—even though that in itself is immensely satisfying. Ronan works his fingers into the crook of Adam’s neck and shoulder, pressing down gently and kneading the tense muscles. Adam lets out a soft groan, pressing his cheek harder into Ronan’s thigh, but Ronan doesn’t stop.
“Jesus Christ,” Ronan says, trying to hide the delight in his voice as he continues to knead his fingers into Adam’s neck. “You’re nothing but piano strings, Parrish.”
Adam grunts in reply.
Adam has horrible posture, leaning against things all the time—walls, cars, doors, furniture, Ronan, if he's available. He's always hunching over cars, neck bending over books at his shitty, too-small desk. How many times had Ronan sat in Adam's St. Agnes apartment, watching Adam do his homework after returning from a grueling work shift, and wanting to do exactly as he's doing now? How many times had he forced himself to swallow down the request to work out Adam's kinks with his hands? Too many times to count. Ronan had allowed himself to give Adam the cream for his dry hands, but he had also wanted to give Adam some sort of massager for his tense muscles. He had drawn the line at hand cream. But now that they're...'dating,' Ronan can finally use his hands for good.
As Ronan presses his thumb into Adam’s shoulder blade, working it in small circles against the bundle of muscles tightly wound together, Adam hisses, his fingers squeezing Ronan’s leg just as tightly.
“Ah, fuck, Ronan.”
Ronan laughs, but it’s only to cover up the groan of pleasure he would have released at hearing Adam say his name like that. Husky and deep and blissful.
Adam’s hand slides up Ronan’s leg to rest on his knee. Ronan’s fingers still for a moment, and he knows Adam takes notice because his hand starts moving along Ronan's leg, soft, full of promise, and not-at-all-casual.
“Adam,” Ronan says, aiming for stern but sounding strangled instead. “This will be easier if you sit up.”
“No.” His hand stops torturing Ronan’s knee, but he shifts again. He turns onto his stomach, his head moves up to rest in the space between Ronan’s legs, his nose lined up perfectly with Ronan’s crotch. Ronan breathes a silent thank-you that Adam’s eyes are still closed because there’s a slight, but obvious tent in his pants.
But Adam isn’t done moving. His left arm sneaks into the space between Ronan’s back and the couch, and his hand ‘casually’ skims Ronan’s ass. His other hand—the one that had been rubbing hot friction through Ronan’s jeans—slides down Ronan’s leg. The asshole makes an extra effort to touch every part of his calf on the way down before resting ‘casually’ against Ronan’s bare ankle. Knuckles skim the top of his foot.
“There,” Parrish says, and Ronan swears there’s a smirk on his face, but that could just be the way his cheek is pressed into his leg. “Please continue.”
"Asshole," Ronan says, but he does what he's told. He doesn’t trust himself with Adam’s skin right now, so he runs a few fingers through his hair again, and Adam lets out a soft sigh. Proximity-to-dick aside, there are perks to this new position, namely that Ronan can now see Adam’s face change when he touches him. When Ronan skims his fingers through Adam’s hair, the lines in his forehead smooth out. When he trails down Adam’s neck, the frown lines around his mouth fade away. When he starts massaging Adam’s other shoulder, Adam turns his face into Ronan’s leg and groans, his breaths hot and warm through the jeans. Ronan closes his eyes as the sound travels up his leg, but not much further.
Adam’s hand, the one that is skimming Ronan’s ass, moves, and Ronan nearly jumps out of his seat in surprise. Adam notes Ronan’s flinch, and his fingers slow, but they don’t stop. They climb up Ronan’s shirt and his hand spreads out along Ronan’s back. That feels so nice that Ronan decides to return the favor, something he has wanted to do since Adam traced the lines of his tattoo the night they first kissed. Ronan makes sure that his fingers trace down every single one of Adam’s vertebrae on the way down, so it’s not only Ronan who’s squirming.
Adam’s stomach lifts off the couch momentarily so that Ronan can pull the shirt up, bunching the fabric at his armpits. Adam’s glorious back, brown from the sun and freckled like sand, is bare before his hand, and Ronan doesn’t even bother with the pretense of a massage as he traces the lines and muscles that tense beneath his light touch. Adam’s short breaths send a giddy shock through him as his fingers continue to trace every part of Adam’s back. The sharp cliffs of Adam’s shoulder blades, the tense muscles around the middle, the cluster of freckles along his spine, the slight narrowing of his back as torso meets hips. Ronan entertains the idea of using his tongue instead of his fingers, holding Adam’s hips to keep him from squirming beneath Ronan’s mouth, but Ronan’s pants are painfully tight already, so he shoves that image aside for later.
When Ronan’s fingers skim over the dimples at the base of Adam’s spine, Adam’s fingers grab Ronan’s ankle sharply and his breath comes out hot against Ronan’s thigh. His face is half turned towards him, but his eyes are still closed, squeezed shut.
“Fuck, Ronan.”
Ronan does it again and grins when Adam shivers. His nails dig into Ronan’s back.
“Lynch, cut it out.”
“Why?” Ronan drags his fingers up Adam’s spine, delighting at Adam’s curses.
“Because it fucking tickles,” Adam growls against his leg, and Ronan laughs, barely-contained glee and horribly-masked pleasure. High on Adam’s labored breathing, Ronan dips his head to Adam’s ear and drops a swift kiss there before continuing with his actual massage. He feels Adam smile against his leg, but he’s too embarrassed to confirm it with his eyes.
"So fucking delicate," he says. He doesn't even care that it doesn't sound like an insult.
He works his thumb and fingers into the tense muscles, urged on by Adam’s groans and the hand squeezing his ankle every time he finds a particularly tough knot. After a while, Ronan’s hand starts to cramp, but Adam’s back is still a mess of muscles and he’s making such sexy noises that Ronan doesn’t want to stop. If only he had a—
Magically cold metal ball that could potentially work out all the kinks in Adam’s back? Yes, actually, he does have one of those.
“Ronan,” Adam sighs when Ronan’s hand pulls away. “Thanks—”
“Don’t move.”
“Seriously, I think I’m okay now, that was really nice—”
“Just wait, Parrish. I’m not finished yet.”
Ronan presses the ball into Adam’s back, not quite sure what it will do, but knowing deep down that it’ll work. Ronan may not have been dreaming about giving Adam a massage last night, but he's dreamt of it enough times before that his subconscious probably noticed how tense Adam's neck and back had been in the last week.
As soon as the ball touches Adam’s skin, it separates out into smaller balls like drops of liquid before settling all over Adam’s back in different sizes. They begin to vibrate furiously.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Adam gasps against Ronan’s leg. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Ronan panics and tries to pry off one of the balls, but it doesn’t budge and it’s warm—even after Ronan had been handling it for an hour, the metal had remained cold, but as soon as it touches Adam it gets hot? What the fuck, dream object?
“Shit, sorry! Fuck, does it hurt?”
“No, fucking Jesus Christ, Ronan, leave it—”
Adam’s short nails dig into Ronan's ankle and back, and he feels the muted bite of teeth through his jeans. Ronan nearly comes in his pants.
“Fuck,” Adam pants. “It feels so fucking good.”
“Okay,” Ronan says, releasing a shaky breath.
While Adam is thoroughly enjoying, and/or severely suffering from, Ronan’s dream object, Ronan is trying to keep himself together. He’s pretty sure his back is bleeding and he definitely can’t feel his foot anymore because Adam’s hand is cutting off all circulation, but the pain makes him focus. Adam isn’t even touching him—a smushed face against his jeans, a clawed hand at his back, and a handcuff around his ankle do not count—but he’s already so hard and he just prays Adam doesn't open his eyes. It’s such a goddamn fucking mission to keep from touching himself to relieve some of the tension. He keeps his hands balled up under his armpits and tries to hum under his breath as a distraction.
God, the noises Adam makes are driving him insane.
The metal balls on Adam’s back stop vibrating after a few minutes and he lets out a satisfying hiss as they roll back together into the middle of his back. When Ronan reaches for it, it’s fucking cold again, which is impossible, but he did dream it into existence. So. Not impossible.
“Ronan,” Adam says, but it sounds like he’s saying Jesus Christ, or holy fucking hell, or Jesus fucking Christ in holy fucking hell. And Ronan just sits there, not breathing. "What the fuck was that?"
"I don't know, I dreamt it," Ronan exhales. "I knew it was for you, but I didn't know it would do that."
"Fuck," Adam swears again. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ronan."
Adam’s back is red from all the kneading into his skin and Ronan skims a few fingers over his shoulder blade tentatively. He hopes his dream object doesn't leave bruises. As Ronan makes a second pass, Adam moves, using the hand on Ronan’s back to pull himself upright. Before Ronan can ask if he’s okay, Adam’s mouth finds his. He climbs into Ronan’s lap, one knee spreading Ronan’s legs apart and pressing into his erection, and Ronan can’t fucking breathe. Not when Adam’s tongue is moving with his, when his hands grip Ronan's neck like he is the only goddamn thing tethered to the ground in a fucking hurricane. Ronan grips Adam’s hips just as desperately, knowing he’s probably leaving bruises even if his dream object didn't, but Adam grinds against him and he doesn’t fucking care.
“Adam,” Ronan gasps when Adam abandons his mouth and trails wet kisses down his neck. “The fuck—” his words are strangled as Adam’s hands race up under his shirt, “—the fuck are you doing?”
“Do you want me to stop?” Adam asks. Ronan’s shirt falls to the floor. It must have been some sort of sorcery because Ronan doesn't remember lifting his arms, but then Adam’s tongue is on his chest and Ronan subsequently gives up any effort to hold himself together.
“No, Jesus—fuck, no. Please continue.”
Adam lets out a single breathless laugh as he slides down Ronan's body, removing his knee from Ronan’s groin and settling on the floor between Ronan’s feet. He yanks Ronan’s hips forward and Ronan can’t stop the noise that comes out of his throat. Hands press into the tent in his pants. Ronan bites a pillow.
“Can I?”
Ronan nods furiously. There’s the sound of his zipper, a breath of cool air, Adam’s hand—fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—and Adam’s mouth—Jesus, fucking, Christ, Adam—and then Adam's tongue—holy, fucking, hell, Parrish—and now it’s Ronan’s turn to make all sorts of muffled noises into the fabric of a pillow. Adam’s hands dig into Ronan’s hips. Ronan’s fingers find Adam’s hair.
Adam may be a master at casual touches, but he’s even fucking better at the non-casual ones.
When Ronan finishes with a ragged groan and a string of curses into the pillow, Adam wipes his mouth on Ronan’s abandoned shirt and tucks Ronan back into his pants. He stands, stretches his arms over his head, joints cracking as he lets out a sated sigh. Ronan, gripping the pillow like a goddamn lifeline, watches Adam like he’s an oasis in the middle of a desert. Like he's a magical health-restoring waterfall and Ronan is a dying man.
When he’s done stretching, Adam disappears to the bathroom, leaving Ronan on the couch. When he returns, he's wearing a pair of Ronan's pyjama pants instead of the coveralls and Ronan is still sitting in the exact same position, pillow crushed against his chest, legs parted, eyes wide. Adam climbs back onto the couch and rests his head on Ronan’s leg like nothing even happened. He rests his arm over his eyes, just like before, only now he’s wearing a smug smile and the lines in his forehead are all gone.
Ronan, feeling fragile as a flower, jerks his leg to jostle Adam’s head. “I’m not a fucking pillow, Parrish,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else he should be saying right now. Thanks for the blow job? I fucking love you and your magical mouth? Please Adam, why are you so goddamn sexy and attractive all the time? Why is life so unfair?
Adam just laughs. “Fuck off, Lynch. I just blew you, cut me some slack.”
Ronan snorts, but his neck is all hot because of Adam’s casual words, because of his casual touch. Ronan’s heart is still racing. He's not sure what's real anymore, so he reaches out to make sure Adam will not disappear like an oasis in the middle of a desert. His left hand combs the hair off Adam’s forehead and brushes through the fair locks. Adam hums softly. Ronan’s right hand settles on Adam’s breast bone, holding him steady, rising and falling with each breath, heartbeat pounding underneath his palm. Very, very real. Adam’s shirt, too small, rides up his stomach, exposing tanned skin, fair hair, and the hem of his boxers. When Ronan looks lower, he notices a subtle tent in Adam’s pants.
His hand slides down Adam’s chest, down his abs that tense under Ronan’s touch, and slips a finger into the waistband of his boxers. “Do you want me to...”
“No,” Adam says gently, pulling Ronan’s hand away. He links their fingers and brings them to his mouth, kissing Ronan’s knuckles before resting their joined hands back on Adam’s chest. Casual touches sending Ronan's heart into arrhythmia. “Maybe later.”
Adam’s breathing gets deeper, the last of his stress falling away as he falls asleep, fingers twitching in Ronan’s hand. Ronan leans down and kisses the corner of Adam’s mouth, not meaning to wake him, but doing so anyway. Adam sighs against his face, and his free hand reaches for Ronan’s head to keep him there. Adam, tasting of toothpaste, kisses him lazily, half-asleep, before releasing Ronan’s head and smiling against his lips.
“If you hate being a pillow so much,” Adam says, his voice heavy, caught in a dream. “You could be a blanket instead.”
"Fucking asshole," Ronan says, but he's already moving.
Adam lifts his head and shifts over on the couch to make room. It takes some maneuvering, but Adam manages to get into a position to rest his head on Ronan’s bicep. He pulls Ronan’s other arm around his chest and holds Ronan’s hand against his beating heart. Ronan is still being used as a pillow, but he never had a problem with it in the first place, so he wraps his leg around Adam’s, and presents himself as a blanket, too. Adam sighs softly and settles more tightly against Ronan’s chest. This would all probably be more comfortable on a bed, but Adam is already asleep and Ronan is too dizzy with blissful happiness to suggest moving even an inch. He buries his nose into Adam’s hair, plants a kiss against the hidden freckle on his neck, and squeezes Adam’s hand with his own.
To an outsider, their casual touches might seem like just that: casual, done without meaning. But Ronan's light touches hold the heavy weight of his feelings within them. Every finger skimming across skin says: I can't stop thinking about you, even when you're right beside me. Every kiss against Adam's lips says: I want to be with you all the time. Every time he burrows his face into Adam's neck, it says: I love you, you fucking asshole. To an outsider, they're just casual touches, but to Ronan, they are heavy with meaning.
And with his body lined up with Adam's, hand-in hand, leg over legs, Ronan falls asleep knowing that all of Adam's casual touches weigh just as much.