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This time was different, Ronan could tell from Gansey’s spiteful eyes. How many times had he walked through the door, beaten down, bleeding, drunk, and how many times had Gansey put all his pieces back into impeccable order, as well as they could ever fit with Ronan’s jagged edges.
It was gone in a flash, that indignation, that spark, buried below the unaffected mask of what Gansey passed for adulthood and maturation.
”Liar.”
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken at first, the raise of Gansey’s brows enough to signal his confusion at the orphaned word.
”What do you mean?” Gansey was standing from his desk, covered in papers, though he made no step forward. Ronan noticed, even staggeringly drunk— he read all of Gansey’s cool edges, his casual stance broken by the hidden way his hands were tucked in his pockets. Ronan imagined them curled into fists, eyes flicking there only momentarily before he was staggering nearer.
”I said, you’re a liar.” Ronan repeated himself with a laugh on his lips, an even slice down the very center of his bottom lip that felt warm in the hazy detachment of his drunkenness. Gansey swallowed, eyes flitting away for only a moment before he was smiling, fake and appeasing, as though it were a game they’d played many times before.
Ronan supposed it was.
”I haven’t even said anything.”
Ronan was to the desk then, without any help from Gansey, un-hesitating to reach up a hand and knot it into the collar of Gansey’s sweater. Ronan could see it, those fine cracks around Gansey’s smooth mask— the way he frowned but refrained from reacting.
”I’m not in the mood to deal with this.”
”And now you’re telling the truth.”
”I don’t-”
”You do,” Ronan’s other hand came up, rough to the other side of his sweater, shoving him back against the desk so that Gansey had no choice but to slide his arms out behind to catch himself, palms pushing across paperwork and books, spilling them roughly onto the floor.
And then there was that fire he’d seen when he’d first walked through the door, the furrow between his brows and gritted teeth that Gansey was digging momentarily into his lower lip as he gathered himself.
Ronan frowned at that, right hand releasing it’s hold only to slide upwards and knot into Gansey’s hair, tugging it back in a way that gave Gansey no choice but to bare his throat. He wanted to break something beautiful, and Gansey was close enough. With his immaculate hair and clothes and tightly organized personality— he wanted him visceral, or as visceral as Gansey got. He wanted whatever was below that eager persona. He wanted the person, the boy, not the mask.
”Ronan!” Gansey’s voice was a hiss, ”Knock it o—!”
Ronan’s teeth were against Gansey’s throat, light and scraping before he was biting harder and Gansey was making a startled noise in the back of his throat, his hands finally coming up to defend himself, one to ball into the shirt over his shoulder roughly and one to push at the base of his throat where collarbone and neck met.
”Knock it off—!” This time Gansey was angry, fingers digging pale crescents into the line of Ronan’s throat, an attempt to shove him away violently that wouldn’t have succeeded had Ronan not let go just then.
He took a step back, watched it knock Gansey unsteady on his feet as he regathered his breath and leaned back against the desk, couldn’t help the way his eyes found the teeth marks he’d left on Gansey’s throat and made him swallow, but still he didn’t speak.
”…why?” Gansey’s voice was reproachful, hand slipping to the mark on his throat as he looked at Ronan with eyes of patience and confusion—
And Ronan hated it. How Gansey, as far down as he could dig, was still good and trusting.
”Because I hate you.” His voice was stark and cold then, there was no explanation, only the drunken way that the truth always came out in the end— stark and honest.
Gansey flinched, hands curling against the edge of the desk harshly, the sound of his nails against the wood the only noise aside from his breathing. Ronan hated the way it made him take a breath, as though to steady himself, as though Gansey had been the one leveling firstarters and not the other way around. There was a burning in Gansey's eyes like a match being lit before he was suddenly pushing away from the desk, fingers catching in Ronan’s collar just as his lips were crushing into his.
Ronan’s arms opened to wrap around him easily, like he’d been expecting him, or like he’d been there all along. For Ronan’s part, he tried to be the lesser of those unsteady on his feet, but it was difficult when he was as wasted as he was. He met Gansey, push for push, though impatience and headiness got the best of him and he was shoving his tongue to push at Gansey's lips, his hips to jut forward and rock him back into the desk roughly.
Gansey’s lips were warm and moist against Ronan’s who's were chapped and bloody and Ronan hated that about Gansey too, teeth digging into his bottom lip until he felt him tensing in his arms and tasted the iron tang of blood, though Gansey made no noise of notice besides, one hand slipping down to Ronan's waist. Then he was pulling back and Ronan found himself staring at him blearily, a frown on his lips with only just a breadth of space between them. He was leaning in to catch his lips again when Gansey cut him off.
”You’re a fucking wreck.” There was only the moderate tone of fact in his voice, which had Ronan prickling lightly.
”I know.”
”I meant always.”
”I know.”
”I’m not a liar.” That indignation that had Ronan raising his brows again.
”You are.”
”…I know.”
"Shut the fuck up." He met their lips again none-too-gently, but Gansey gave as good as he got, right hand finally releasing Ronan's collar to drag firm fingers down the front of Ronan's shirt before he was pushing up under the hem to press harsh fingertip-shaped bruises into his flesh.
It eased something in Ronan's chest, that familiar feeling of violence.