Chapter Text
Ronan's footsteps echoed in the eerie silence of the studio.
He was pacing. It was strange to have so much space and light for himself. The students were coming in tomorrow, the school had agreed to give him the Monday to set up his supplies and finish working on the painting he'd started at home. Unfortunately, he had already lost an hour staring at Adam Parrish's business card.
Clean serif, eggshell white, even his handwriting was elegant. Ronan smiled to himself. What an asshole move to force him to reach out first. Adam was exactly his type.
He fished for his phone inside the pocket of his coveralls and opened the search engine. adam parrish lawyer dc.
Ronan opened the website first: Adam Parrish, law practice. He stopped pacing.
Forest green theme, professionally made. A picture of him in his office, anthracite suit, crisp and fitted. Clean-shaven, a slender smile, but his eyes were not gentle. Ronan loved a man in a suit. He also loved a man with freckles. He zoomed in on his hands and exhaled hard through his nose. Long bony fingers, draped across one thigh — he was perched on the edge of his desk like a whore — tanned skin and, yes, fine dusty hair curling from the sleeve. Thank God for high definition photography. The kind of hand that would look good with a wedding ring on it.
Ronan hadn't realized he had lowered to the floor. He lay on the cold concrete, and scrolled. Harvard Law, Juris Doctorate magna cum laude. Barred in D.C. since 2017. Ronan did the math. He was likely thirty-three or thirty-four, depending on his birth month. A summer baby, maybe? Specialty: criminal defense. Ronan went back to the Google results and found a youtube video.
Press conference in the hall of the court, Navy blue suit, just like this morning. He looked so fine, sliding a hand in his dusty hair, leaning over the journalist to listen to his question. That question is misleading, Sam. Adam smiled indulgently, the smug bastard. Dimple digging into his slim cheek. Do you want to try again?
Good Lord, he was so fucking arrogant. Ronan Lynch-Parrish had a nice ring to it.
Ronan locked the phone and closed his eyes.
It was 10:38a.m. It was humiliating to text this soon. Maybe he would get off on it, the degradation of it all. Better ask nicely, Adam had said earlier. Ronan got cruised on all the time, he had an army of twinks devoted to his Instagram account. The only reason why he even attended art events was to get laid. But this was something else. A different kind of man, a different set of standards.
Ronan opened his eyes and unlocked the phone. The video started playing again; he put the speaker to his ear. Adam's voice was warm and smooth even as he eviscerated the opposite party. The prosecution has failed to produce a single piece of evidence that wasn’t coerced. He was so horny he could barely think.
He texted Hennessy.
hennessy<3
10:39a.m.
can i call you
He called anyway. It rang but she didn't pick up. She was probably still sleeping: Hennessy didn't get up until noon most days.
10:39a.m.
pick up
pick up
pick up
pick up
pick up
dude pick up it's an emergency
hennessy<3 has notifications silenced ☽
Ronan nodded slowly. All right then.
10:40a.m.
you're on your own tonight, judas
Enough of this shit. He got up from the floor, dusted his coveralls, and went to work.
Ronan put his dad's Cocteau Twins record on. Everything looked better in that kind of lighting; the sun shone straight on the canvas. He hung one of the paintings he was working on, a liminal flat tint of blues and lavender, lined up the jars of ultramarine and ochre on the shelf. There were too many yellows, but he liked having them close.
Come over the studio. He had said that already, in a weird, out of character impulse. But he had noticed Adam's smile widen at that. The airbrush compressor thrummed against the concrete floor. I want to see you again. He grimaced, finger working the nuzzle of the brush pen. Gross. The ochre-diluted paint sprayed nice and evenly on the canvas. He snorted. Are you into choking?
Midtown on a Monday at lunch was a fucking zoo. The deli was packed, of course it was. Ronan unzipped his coveralls, peeled off the top half, and tied the sleeves around his hips. Phone screen dimmed at 20% in his hand. Battery low, dignity lower. Someone behind him sighed loudly. He shuffled forward in line.
adam parrish added to his contact list. He opened the Messages app. Started typing.
hi it's ronan
offer still stands if you wanna swing by
That was fine, right? Casual and chill. Just like him.
“Hi, what can I get you?”
Ronan tore his eyes from the screen.
“Hi, uh,” he said, blowing out his cheeks. “Roast beef, bacon, cheddar. Burn the bread. Pickles, no salad. Mustard. Sriracha. If you’ve got a fried egg, throw that on. Salt & vinegar chips in. Yeah, in. In the sandwich, man. Thanks.”
The guy snorted. “You sure you want an egg on that?”
Ronan narrowed his eyes. “It’s not your fucking sandwich, is it?” He reached for his pocket. “I’ll have a Diet Coke, too.”
He lowered his eyes back to the phone. Added a location pin to the studio to the text. That was chill. Public space, although that wouldn't stop Ronan from getting on his knees. Ball's in your court, Adam Parrish.
What if he thought that was like a casual, friendly offer? Was he gay? No straight guy would look at him like that. Well, some would, some had. Were they gay?
The sandwich guy handed him the paper-wrapped mess. Ronan left the change on the counter to apologize for being a cunt.
As he made his way to the studio, he decided to grow a pair and send the text. It was 12:45p.m. This was…reasonable. He reread it five more times, dodged a lamp post; the sandwich was leaking in his hand.
12:47p.m
hi it's ronan
offer still stands if you wanna swing by
sent a location pin
Sent.
Wasn't very sexy, was it? Shit, shit shit. He groaned under his breath. He tried several options, deleted them all. At last, because he never lied, he added:
12:47p.m
keep the suit on
And because he liked being manhandled, he added:
12:48p.m
please
Then, Ronan turned off his phone.