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linndechirTitle: A Place of Wonder and Dreams
Fandom: The Raven Cycle
Pairings/Characters: Declan Lynch/Ronan Lynch
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5860
Warnings: sibling incest, obviously; not really hate sex, more like love/hate, and lots of angst and daddy issues
Summary: After Ronan changed their father's will, Declan returns to the Barns one afternoon. He'd been hoping to reminisce in peace and quiet, but instead he runs into Ronan.
Author's Note: Written for Inshipping for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
outboxed (we keep writing for each other all the time, I think we just share too many ships ;)).
The Barns had barely changed since the last time he'd seen them. The old farmhouse still looked the same, the plants by the side of the gravel driveway were a bit more overgrown and the oaks were a bit larger, and yet despite the bright autumn sun there was something almost ghost-like about the silence, even as the leaves rustled in the wind. The Barns without Niall Lynch were like a dream, muffled sounds and eerie lights, and the time Declan had spent away from them only made them feel more unreal. It was hard to believe that he'd grown up here, and yet he was aching from how much it felt like coming home.
A charcoal grey BMW was parked in front of the house, and what had once brought the joyous realisation that his father was home now meant that Ronan was here. Declan had hoped to avoid his brother, that Ronan would be too busy roaming around with Gansey and Adam and that girl they'd added to their little band. He was in no mood for an argument, certainly in no mood for a fight. His shoulder still hurt on some days from the beat-down he'd been given not too long ago, and while his face had healed and he'd been assured that this particular danger at least had been dealt with, he was still tired and worn out from the fight, from worrying about Ronan, too.
He breathed in deeply as he entered the house – the air was a bit stuffy and dusty, but underneath it was the smell of home, and Declan had to close his eyes for a moment as he remembered coming home to his mother baking bread in the kitchen, his father's laughter from the living room, Ronan and Matthew chasing each other over the stairs while mother half-heartedly told them to take it easy and father threatened to join them.
There had been times when Declan had felt like an outsider at home – the sensible one when his parents and siblings were anything but, the ordinary one among dreamers and dreams, the one left out when Matthew lay with his head in his mother's lap and Dad couldn't take his eyes off Ronan. Times when he'd wanted to leave and never look back, when he'd run out to find company elsewhere, in a world as ordinary as himself, in a world where nobody would find him lacking.
He'd regretted every single one of those days after losing his home, every day he'd wasted away from here, away from mother's smiles and father's eyes, even if they only glanced at him briefly.
The wooden stairs creaked under his feet when he went upstairs, the sound deafening in the silence of the house. He stilled for a moment, listening intently, but he figured that if Ronan had been in the house, he would have made himself heard by now. If he was lucky, his brother would stay outside the entire time he was here – maybe Ronan would never even know Declan had come here at all.
The sunlight falling in through the windows gave the dark wooden doors an almost coppery shimmer – Declan had never been able to find out what kind of wood those doors were made of, if they were even made from anything real or just taken out of Niall's dreams like everything else around them, a vast dream transported into the real world so he could live in it and fill it with two sons of his own, two sons he'd made just like he'd made his dreams.
Declan pushed open the door to what had once been his room, his chest tight as he entered it. It was untidy, clothes strewn over the bed that wouldn't fit him anymore, textbooks and notes from classes he had long passed, a soft, worn shirt that he knew had belonged to Ronan. It wasn't his father and his mother that he missed most when he'd lost everything – it was Ronan, Ronan with his wild eyes and his fierce smile, Ronan who was the spitting image of their father, except that Ronan used to look at him with all the adoration that Niall had denied him.
Declan picked up a picture frame from the nightstand – knocked over carelessly by his younger self, who hadn't yet known its value – dark wood framing a picture of himself and Ronan lying on the meadow behind the house, both of them shirtless in the summer heat, Ronan's face half buried against Declan's shoulder and Declan's arm wrapped tightly around him. Declan remembered that day, the summer before his father had died, when Declan and Ronan had spent every day from dawn until sunset outside; Niall had been gone for weeks and mother had taken that picture of them. Declan had been laughing because Ronan's hair had been tickling his nose, Ronan had been laughing for reasons Declan couldn't for the life of him remember anymore, because when had Ronan not laughed back then, romping around the Barns like the wild, carefree animal he'd been?
He touched the picture with careful fingers, and for the first time in years he allowed himself to dwell on the memory of Ronan's hair against his hands, the softness of his brother's skin on his, the warm breath of his laughter. He tried to imprint the picture on his memory, and stood there for a whole minute before he remembered that Ronan had changed their father's will, that Ronan had dreamt a new will, probably just like Niall had always intended – and that meant that Declan could simply take the picture with him.
Despite that he felt like a thief when he took it, even more so when he sneaked into his parents' room next – trying to keep the floor boards from creaking underneath his feet – and took one of the large photo albums from the shelf. Both his parents had always taken countless pictures of them, more pictures of Ronan than of his brothers, but still so many pictures of all of them: the whole family on a day out, Niall's sons with their instrument at music competitions, all three of them curled up with their father on the couch in one big pile, vying for his attention, for his kisses and his caresses as if it hadn't been clear from the start who'd win. Declan hadn't gone to see his mother yet since Matthew had told him what had happened – smiling, happy, blissfully oblivious to the ache in Declan's chest because nobody had bothered to ask him to come along when they brought their mother back to life – and he felt strangely guilty looking into her eyes on the pictures. But he drank up his father's smiles like he'd been crawling thirsty through a desert for years, and the Ronan that laughed at him from the pages barely even resembled the angry boy who'd thrown all his rage at the world in Declan's face.
The photo album's binding was warm to the touch, the edges discreetly ornamented in the same way that Niall's favourite boots had been, made from that same black leather. Declan had never been sure how much of his childhood had been a dream, to the point where he'd sometimes even wondered if any of them were real at all, if they didn't just live in Niall Lynch's dream world. Then he'd asked himself if maybe he was like Matthew, if maybe Ronan had dreamt him, too – if the reason father loved Ronan so much more was because only Ronan was truly his son. But Declan was more like one of Niall's dreams than like Ronan's, and he doubted that his father ever would have bothered to take him from a dream.
He put both the photo album and the framed picture under his arm before he went back down the stairs – he'd planned to stay for longer, but something about the silence was oppressive, like he'd walked onto a graveyard, like he'd intruded on something that was not meant for his eyes. After all, father had left the Barns to Ronan, a dream for his dreamer, a place that wasn't meant for the ordinary, the mundane.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the rattling of a screen door opening and falling shut, and Declan knew that sound too well, the sound of summers in the Barns and that back door opening and closing every time one of them ran into the house for a glass of lemonade and a snack before running out again. He might have had enough time to leave before Ronan saw him, but it was not like him to run from a fight, so he simply steeled himself for the inevitability of it, stepped into the large living room that looked out over the fields behind the house.
Ronan had stopped just inside the room, his hands and arms smeared with grass stains and earth like when he'd been a child, but anger coursed through him like an electric shock when he saw Declan, the muscles in his shoulders and neck tensing up immediately, a storm clouding his blue eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ronan snarled once he'd got over his surprise. He had a spring in his step like a boxer before a prize fight as he closed the distance between them, and Declan found his own muscles tensing up instinctively, his sore shoulder already aching in anticipation.
“This used to be my home, too,” he said. It was the wrong thing to say, he knew that, but it wasn't as if there was ever a right thing to say to Ronan.
“And now it's mine.” Ronan's upper lip twitched in contempt, and his hands curled into fists. “You didn't give a fuck before, you don't get to pretend you give a fuck now. What's that?”
Ronan had only now seen the photo album under Declan's arm, and Declan tightened his grip on it almost unconsciously.
“Some old pictures,” he said. “It's really not like there aren't enough.”
“I thought we weren't supposed to take anything from here,” Ronan snorted, but at least he didn't seem intent on keeping Declan from taking what he wanted.
“We weren't.” Declan shrugged, like it hadn't mattered to him, like it had been easy to leave everything behind, to go out and buy new clothes and new shoes, new books and new laptops and new everything for himself and for his brothers just days after losing his father. Like it had been nothing to turn his back on his childhood, because if he'd let Ronan see how hard it was, he wouldn't have been able to keep him away from the Barns. “Now we can. Would you have preferred if I'd let you run back here and make us lose the place for good?”
The words alone were enough to fuel the rage in Ronan's eyes, and Declan carefully set down the photo album on the large wooden dining table in the middle of the room. He'd always been able to read his brother like an open book – not his secrets, but his moods. He'd known when Ronan would prank him, he'd known when Ronan was so lonely in their father's absence that he crawled into Declan's bed at night like he wasn't years too old for that, he'd known when Ronan had pretended to be asleep so he could enjoy the touch of Declan's fingers in his hair in the morning. He could tell when Ronan's anger boiled over, that moment when he'd snap and go from glares and accusations to punches. He shifted his weight to turn his left side towards Ronan so his recently dislocated shoulder wouldn't take the brunt of the first attack.
“You didn't do shit to make sure we could stay here, and now you crawl back after I did.” Ronan's voice was tense, like he was pulling all his rage together for the first punch.
“Dad's the one who wanted you to bring us back here. He left me the ungrateful task of keeping you away from here until then, so you can thank him for that,” and the moment Declan said the word 'dad' he knew he'd gone too far, his last words already ending in a groan as Ronan's fist connected with his jaw.
Their father had taught them to fight like they meant it, but for all that he'd let his sons spar together, he'd certainly never intended for them to use every dirty trick he'd taught them against each other. Ronan was fast and vicious and angry, a combination that always managed to make up for the fact that Declan was still broader and stronger than him. They crashed into the unyielding wooden table even as their fists found each other's faces, before Declan wrapped his arms tightly around his brother to restrain him, more wrestling than boxing, and for his trouble Ronan's next punch found his ribs rather than his jaw.
They didn't get loud when they fought, quiet growls and pained gasps and that sickening thump of fists on flesh, wheezing breaths and the clatter of a chair falling to the floor. Ronan tried to break free from Declan's grasp, ended up shoving him onto the table, hands fisted into Declan's shirt while he tried to headbutt him, missing him only because Declan turned his head to the side just in time.
“Are you really gonna do this here?” Declan asked breathlessly when Ronan stilled for a moment. Usually he knew better than to try and talk Ronan out of a fight, but it felt so wrong to do this on their family's dinner table, it made him feel like he could see their parents watching them, his mother's eyes sad, his father's angry.
Ronan was heavy on top of him, all muscle and bones and rage, but Declan's words seemed to have an effect. He didn't let go of him, just stayed where he was, one hand grabbing Declan's shoulder, the other his shirt, his legs trying to trap Declan's underneath him. For the first time in years Ronan smelt of the Barns, of grass and damp earth and home. He smelt like the boy Declan had adored every bit as much as their father had. And now Ronan just lay there, shifting the slightest bit until his face was pressed against Declan's shoulder, and Declan half expected Ronan to bury his teeth there and bite him bloody. Ronan's buzzed hair brushed against his chin, softer than Declan had expected it to be.
Another shift, squirming almost, and the next thing Declan consciously felt was something hard pressing against his thigh, for just a split second before Ronan tensed up all over, his hips arching up as if to get away from his brother, but his hands were still clinging to Declan's shirt.
Declan's first thought was, what the fuck?. His second thought was, he's seventeen. He never got around to a third thought before Ronan ground down against him, the movement every bit as angry as his fists were, and this time Declan felt the slide of Ronan's cock against his thigh through both their jeans. He grabbed Ronan roughly and flipped them over, the table just broad enough that he managed to push Ronan onto his back and kneel over him, one hand securing Ronan's right wrist.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked, and hated how breathless his voice sounded, hated that it had to come to this for him to see something other than anger in his brother's eyes as they looked up at him, hated that he couldn't help but notice the sharp lines of Ronan's shoulder muscles, of his jaw and his cheekbones.
“Fuck you.” Ronan's voice was harsh, the look in his eyes a frantic mixture of guilt and rage and a longing that Declan could barely believe he was seeing, and he realised he should have held on to Ronan's left hand as well when he felt it smash into his side, bruising his ribs and pushing him off the table.
But he was still holding on to Ronan, so they tumbled off the table together, both of them groaning in pain as they crashed to the floor, legs and arms entangled while they still tried to get a better hold of each other, but the fall had slowed them both down. The heat of Ronan's body pressed against his was heady, filled him with memories of more playful scuffles in happier days. They'd both grown hard a few times during those, they'd laughed about it in embarrassment and teased each other, or just quietly ignored it when it had happened while they were curled up in bed together. Declan didn't know how to ignore it now, let alone laugh about it – even less so when he felt his own cock hardening against Ronan's tense body.
He tried to push him away again, but Ronan's hands were like vices on his shoulder and his side, and this time Ronan did bite him, his neck rather than his shoulder, teeth snatching soft skin. It hurt, but it also made Declan's hips jerk into Ronan's, and he realised too late that he'd all but agreed to another challenge when Ronan bit him again.
Declan hadn't been in the mood for a fight before, but now he felt anger tightening his chest, forming a knot in his throat. He hadn't hugged his brother in over a year, hadn't held him and stroked his hair and touched him in any of the ways that brothers should touch, and now he got this instead, Ronan's anger and loneliness and needs that he did not have the words for, as if being Ronan's punching bag for all his pain hadn't been enough already.
He grabbed Ronan's chin so hard that his brother breathed in sharply, and Declan couldn't tell anymore which sounds were pain and which were pleasure when he smashed his lips against Ronan's. His teeth burrowed into Ronan's bottom lip until he tasted blood and only let go when Ronan's tongue pushed into his mouth.
It was nothing like kissing girls. Declan was always in control then, every move careful and calculated to produce the desired result, to get them to the place where they let him do what he really wanted – and even then, he never felt like he lost control when he fucked them. He felt good, distracted and content, but not overwhelmed in ways he wasn't even entirely sure were pleasant. He doubted that Ronan had ever kissed anyone before, but if he had, it certainly hadn't been like this for him either. He wouldn't kiss Gansey like this. He'd worship Gansey, not fight him.
Ronan rolled on top of him without breaking the kiss, and even though the hard floor made the fresh bruises on his body ache more, Declan didn't push him off again, wrapped his arm around Ronan's hips instead and let his hand slide underneath his tank top. Ronan's skin was burning as if he was feverish, his hips jerking against Declan's, and the friction was almost painfully good, just nowhere near enough.
He knew he had to put an end to this, it was his job to be responsible when Ronan wasn't, but he felt almost drunk on being so close to Ronan, Ronan's fingers digging into his skin like he wanted to retrace every single bruise he'd ever left on Declan's body. He was panting against Declan's lips, his eyes wide with want and impatience, and there had always been something contagious about Ronan's wildness, about that irresistible storm in his eyes he'd inherited from their father.
So Declan reached down between them and covered the bulge in Ronan's jeans with his hand, palmed his cock through the fabric, and Ronan moaned into his mouth.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ronan,” Declan mumbled, barely making it a question, shuddering when Ronan ground his thigh against his brother's groin.
“Same thing that's wrong with you,” he said breathlessly, and Declan had never heard Ronan's voice like this, the meanness in it softened by need. “Weren't you supposed to be the good boy?”
Even Ronan's scorn felt less vitriolic than usual, and he shut up completely when Declan's fingers undid his belt buckle, opened his jeans until he could wrap his fingers around Ronan's cock. The feeling was achingly familiar, and he wondered if it was because Ronan's cock truly felt like his own or because he'd simply never had another man's cock in his hand – wondered if Ronan had the same thought when he followed suit, never one to be outdone, to be more timid than his brother was. Ronan's touch on his cock was almost painfully tight, like he wanted to rip it off rather than stroke it, and Declan's hips still jerked helplessly into every touch.
“Fuck, come on, Ronan, take it easy,” he said. He didn't expect Ronan to listen to him because Ronan never listened to him, but Ronan's grip loosened a fraction, became firm rather than painful, and Declan dared to soften their kiss into something almost tender. Ronan moaned against his lips, squirming on top of Declan as if he was trying to get away and yet pressing closer to him, and it didn't take much more than a few strokes until he came over Declan's hand, his tense body shuddering like a released bowstring.
Declan rolled them over before Ronan could get it into his head to run off now, but that seemed to be the furthest thing from Ronan's mind. He kept stroking Declan's cock as if trying to make him come was just another way to provoke him, but his lips were surprisingly gentle under Declan's now, and if Declan had known that all he had to do to shut Ronan up was kiss him, he might have done that earlier.
“Is that good?”
Ronan's voice was so quiet that Declan wondered if he'd only imagined the words, only imagined that Ronan cared for his approval, but the look in Ronan's eyes was more open than it had been in a long time when he looked up at his brother, and Declan only broke the kiss to smile at him.
“Yeah,” he said. Fucking perfect, why can't we always be like this, why did we have to do this for you to look at me like that, I've missed you so much, and he couldn't say any of those things, could only think them because he wasn't really thinking at all, so he merely added, “Really fucking good.”
Ronan didn't smile at him like he used to – the boy he'd once been was gone and Declan had long given up the hope that he'd ever see him again – but his smile was still almost happy, triumphant and a little smug, but without any viciousness in it. What was more, he didn't flinch away when Declan brought his hand from Ronan's side to his cheek and caressed it gently, like he was still allowed to show him any tenderness. Ronan leant into his touch, his eyes closing, his body finally relaxing underneath Declan's, and even though his hand slowed on Declan's cock, Declan felt himself come, more languidly than he had expected, his eyes fixated on his brother's face like this too was a memory he'd have to cherish forever.
Moments passed while he only leant his forehead against Ronan's, fingertips still stroking his brother's cheek carefully, and he could already feel a bruise starting to form over Ronan's cheekbone from their fight. Ronan's movements were slow as he wiped off his hands on Declan's shirt before he wrapped his arms slowly around his brother, and Declan barely dared to breathe for fear of destroying this moment of peace.
Ronan's skin wasn't as soft as Declan remembered, his cheeks and chin rough with stubble, but his hair felt almost as silky as it used to, just long enough not to be scratchy when Declan touched it. He smelt different, too, underneath the earthy smell of the Barns – more grown-up, somehow, less like a boy and more like a man, or maybe that was just the smell of their come clinging to them.
After a minute or two Declan leant in to kiss him again, but this time Ronan turned his head to the side, and something shifted in the air around them, not back to their previous aggression, but from one moment to the next it felt wrong again to touch him. Declan rolled to the side and let Ronan sit up, and a sickening wave of guilt flowed over him when his eyes fell on Ronan's cock, and the shame remained after Ronan had tucked himself in quickly. Declan wiped himself clean best he could and followed suit, but it made neither of them look much more respectable, both their clothes stained with come and sweat and blood, Ronan's tank top torn in one place, though Declan couldn't remember ripping the fabric during their fight. Without any distractions Declan's shoulder and ribs started aching again, and he touched his jaw gingerly to feel a new bruise blooming there.
“What the fuck was that?” Ronan finally said, more disbelief in his voice than anger, and Declan couldn't help but laugh softly.
“I don't know,” he said, sitting up as well. “But don't you dare put this on me.”
Ronan had his back turned towards him, but he still looked relaxed, and Declan stared at the black lines of his tattoo sneaking out from underneath the tank top. Their father would have loved that tattoo – maybe not that Ronan had it inked into his skin, but the design of it, the thorns and blossoms and claws and whatever the hell else it was supposed to depict. Maybe nothing, or just dream things he wouldn't understand anyway. Declan had never actually seen it in its entirety.
Ronan ran his fingertips over the uneven wooden floor, retracing the grooves and furrows. When they had been children, they had spent hours looking for faces and figures in the wood, telling each other stories about them. Eventually Ronan turned his head to look at Declan, the black lines on his shoulders shifted, like his tattoo was a living thing crawling over his back. Declan would never admit it, but it had a certain savage beauty to it. It suited Ronan.
“The rules of the world don't apply here,” Ronan said softly, his eyes meeting Declan's, and for a moment Declan could barely breathe. Their father had often said that, winking and laughing, revelling in the things he could do even though he'd never really talked about them. But Ronan had known, and Declan had known, and they'd both grown up with the knowledge that rules were for the world out there, that home was a place of wonder and freedom and dreams. The problem had always been that Ronan didn't give a shit about the world out there.
“I don't think this is what he had in mind,” Declan replied, half expecting Ronan to punch him again just for mentioning their father, but Ronan's fingers just kept moving over the wood. He looked lost, and lonely, and all Declan wanted to do was kiss the soft fuzz at the nape of his neck, hold him, tell him it would be all right if Ronan only let him make it all right.
Even now he knew better than to try that.
“You know, normal brothers just hug,” he said after a while.
The grin he received in return was all Ronan again, wild and raw and ready to bite someone's head off.
“Normal brothers aren't such assholes,” he said, still not sounding quite as venomous as he did the rest of the time.
“I'm assuming you're talking about yourself,” Declan replied and shook his head. He felt oddly detached, like his brain couldn't quite process what had just happened, what they'd just done. It wasn't that he wasn't ashamed, it was more that the shame couldn't displace that warm feeling of closeness he still felt, the relief and gratitude that for the first time in ages he and Ronan had, somehow, got along.
Or maybe it was just that as weird as this had been, it still wasn't the weirdest thing they'd ever done. Not after he'd visited his brother in a hospital after a suicide attempt that had turned out to be an attack by a literal nightmare come to life. Not when he and his brother usually fought like they were each other's worst enemies. It wasn't as if they had behaved like normal brothers in a long time.
Ronan got up somewhat shakily, still with his back half turned towards Declan. Even with that tension back in his shoulders, that hint of insecurity on his face because he had to be feeling the same shame as Declan, he looked more like he belonged here than he ever had elsewhere, at Aglionby or even at Monmouth. Declan's chest was tight with longing, for Ronan as much as for their home, for a time when this had still been his home, too. Ronan stood there for a minute like he was waiting for something, and when Declan stayed quiet he walked past him towards the corridor.
“Aren't we going to talk about this?” Declan called after him. He groaned in pain when he forced himself up to his feet again. Ronan whipped around to glare at him.
“Do you want to talk about this?” he snapped back. “Because I sure as fuck don't.”
Out of habit alone Declan opened his mouth to argue, but he could think of nothing to say – nothing that wouldn't sound either like blaming Ronan or like apologising for what had been both their fault, and he could neither pretend he regretted this nor admit that he didn't. He certainly couldn't tell Ronan that no matter how fucked up this had been, he'd do it again for another chance to kiss his face and stroke his hair.
For once his silence seemed to calm Ronan rather than provoke him further. Ronan let out a slow breath and looked away until his gaze caught on the photo album that had fallen from the table at some point during their fight. He bent down slowly to pick it up, along with the picture frame. The glass had shattered, but the frame was still intact, and Ronan took the time to look at the picture. There was recognition on his face, as if he too remembered that day, and his fingertips brushed over the photograph as carefully as Declan's had up in his room.
Declan expected him to put it back down afterwards, or take it with him if he decided after all that he didn't want Declan to take anything from the Barns. But instead Ronan suddenly looked up again and held both photo album and picture frame out to Declan. Declan narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but there was no malice anymore in the way Ronan was looking at him, and he didn't flinch when their fingers brushed.
“I always liked that picture,” Declan said and hated how much he sounded like he was justifying himself. Ronan nodded like that was explanation enough, then looked away. His lips were pressed into a thin line, dark red from dried blood, and Declan wasn't sure if that was from a punch or from his teeth when they had kissed. He wasn't sure either if Ronan was still about to leave or if he expected Declan to leave now, though he did know that there was no way they'd both stay here.
“You should go and see Mom,” Ronan said, still not looking at him. He sounded weirdly like Declan, or maybe it was just not the kind of thing Ronan usually said. “She's asked about you. Matthew can take you to her.”
Declan stared at him like he'd grown a second head, which only led to Ronan glaring at him again like he already regretted every single whiff of kindness he'd shown him.
“Or don't,” he snapped before Declan could think of a reply. “If you're too busy with your latest fling.”
It was unfair, all things considered, but it was far from the worst thing Ronan had ever said to Declan, and so Declan decided to let it go as Ronan stormed out. He heard the front door slam shut and then the rumble of the BMW's engine. It was hard to imagine Ronan voluntarily leaving the Barns, but Declan supposed he was starting to get used to the fact that he could come back any time now.
He put the photo album back on the table, then bent down to pick up the shattered glass from the floor and throw it away before Ronan could step in it the next time he was here. He put up the fallen chairs as well and wiped the blood – his or Ronan's, he wasn't sure – from the table, and by the time he was done the room looked like it had before, neat and too quiet.
He looked out of the window over the green hills behind the house, idly wondering what Ronan was up to there all day, and not entirely sure if he wanted to know. Try as he might, he couldn't figure out what their father would have said if he'd seen them today. The fight would have made him angry, that much Declan was sure of, but what had come after? It should have been obvious that he would have disapproved, but in their own ways neither Ronan nor Declan had ever done wrong in Niall's eyes. He'd adored Ronan and trusted Declan, and somehow Declan thought it more likely that his father would have said something about how his sons should rather love each other too much than not enough. As if one precluded the other.
The afternoon sun outside was almost blinding after the dim light of the farmhouse, and his mouth felt dry from how beautiful the Barns still were, achingly beautiful like a dream he could never take with him, as unreachable as his murdered father and his unforgiving brother and his dream of a mother who could only survive in other dreams.
He couldn't bring himself to care whether his father would have approved of this or not, would have approved of him, when it was his father's will that had cost him his brother's love in the first place. As if denying himself to Declan had not been enough, as if he had to deny him Ronan, too.
Declan opened the screen door and stepped outside, considered for a moment to brush the earth off the bench near the house and sit there for a little while, but instead he stepped onto the mossy ground of the seemingly endless hills behind the house and started walking.
For once he let himself dream a little longer still.
Fandom: The Raven Cycle
Pairings/Characters: Declan Lynch/Ronan Lynch
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5860
Warnings: sibling incest, obviously; not really hate sex, more like love/hate, and lots of angst and daddy issues
Summary: After Ronan changed their father's will, Declan returns to the Barns one afternoon. He'd been hoping to reminisce in peace and quiet, but instead he runs into Ronan.
Author's Note: Written for Inshipping for
outboxed (we keep writing for each other all the time, I think we just share too many ships ;)).The Barns had barely changed since the last time he'd seen them. The old farmhouse still looked the same, the plants by the side of the gravel driveway were a bit more overgrown and the oaks were a bit larger, and yet despite the bright autumn sun there was something almost ghost-like about the silence, even as the leaves rustled in the wind. The Barns without Niall Lynch were like a dream, muffled sounds and eerie lights, and the time Declan had spent away from them only made them feel more unreal. It was hard to believe that he'd grown up here, and yet he was aching from how much it felt like coming home.
A charcoal grey BMW was parked in front of the house, and what had once brought the joyous realisation that his father was home now meant that Ronan was here. Declan had hoped to avoid his brother, that Ronan would be too busy roaming around with Gansey and Adam and that girl they'd added to their little band. He was in no mood for an argument, certainly in no mood for a fight. His shoulder still hurt on some days from the beat-down he'd been given not too long ago, and while his face had healed and he'd been assured that this particular danger at least had been dealt with, he was still tired and worn out from the fight, from worrying about Ronan, too.
He breathed in deeply as he entered the house – the air was a bit stuffy and dusty, but underneath it was the smell of home, and Declan had to close his eyes for a moment as he remembered coming home to his mother baking bread in the kitchen, his father's laughter from the living room, Ronan and Matthew chasing each other over the stairs while mother half-heartedly told them to take it easy and father threatened to join them.
There had been times when Declan had felt like an outsider at home – the sensible one when his parents and siblings were anything but, the ordinary one among dreamers and dreams, the one left out when Matthew lay with his head in his mother's lap and Dad couldn't take his eyes off Ronan. Times when he'd wanted to leave and never look back, when he'd run out to find company elsewhere, in a world as ordinary as himself, in a world where nobody would find him lacking.
He'd regretted every single one of those days after losing his home, every day he'd wasted away from here, away from mother's smiles and father's eyes, even if they only glanced at him briefly.
The wooden stairs creaked under his feet when he went upstairs, the sound deafening in the silence of the house. He stilled for a moment, listening intently, but he figured that if Ronan had been in the house, he would have made himself heard by now. If he was lucky, his brother would stay outside the entire time he was here – maybe Ronan would never even know Declan had come here at all.
The sunlight falling in through the windows gave the dark wooden doors an almost coppery shimmer – Declan had never been able to find out what kind of wood those doors were made of, if they were even made from anything real or just taken out of Niall's dreams like everything else around them, a vast dream transported into the real world so he could live in it and fill it with two sons of his own, two sons he'd made just like he'd made his dreams.
Declan pushed open the door to what had once been his room, his chest tight as he entered it. It was untidy, clothes strewn over the bed that wouldn't fit him anymore, textbooks and notes from classes he had long passed, a soft, worn shirt that he knew had belonged to Ronan. It wasn't his father and his mother that he missed most when he'd lost everything – it was Ronan, Ronan with his wild eyes and his fierce smile, Ronan who was the spitting image of their father, except that Ronan used to look at him with all the adoration that Niall had denied him.
Declan picked up a picture frame from the nightstand – knocked over carelessly by his younger self, who hadn't yet known its value – dark wood framing a picture of himself and Ronan lying on the meadow behind the house, both of them shirtless in the summer heat, Ronan's face half buried against Declan's shoulder and Declan's arm wrapped tightly around him. Declan remembered that day, the summer before his father had died, when Declan and Ronan had spent every day from dawn until sunset outside; Niall had been gone for weeks and mother had taken that picture of them. Declan had been laughing because Ronan's hair had been tickling his nose, Ronan had been laughing for reasons Declan couldn't for the life of him remember anymore, because when had Ronan not laughed back then, romping around the Barns like the wild, carefree animal he'd been?
He touched the picture with careful fingers, and for the first time in years he allowed himself to dwell on the memory of Ronan's hair against his hands, the softness of his brother's skin on his, the warm breath of his laughter. He tried to imprint the picture on his memory, and stood there for a whole minute before he remembered that Ronan had changed their father's will, that Ronan had dreamt a new will, probably just like Niall had always intended – and that meant that Declan could simply take the picture with him.
Despite that he felt like a thief when he took it, even more so when he sneaked into his parents' room next – trying to keep the floor boards from creaking underneath his feet – and took one of the large photo albums from the shelf. Both his parents had always taken countless pictures of them, more pictures of Ronan than of his brothers, but still so many pictures of all of them: the whole family on a day out, Niall's sons with their instrument at music competitions, all three of them curled up with their father on the couch in one big pile, vying for his attention, for his kisses and his caresses as if it hadn't been clear from the start who'd win. Declan hadn't gone to see his mother yet since Matthew had told him what had happened – smiling, happy, blissfully oblivious to the ache in Declan's chest because nobody had bothered to ask him to come along when they brought their mother back to life – and he felt strangely guilty looking into her eyes on the pictures. But he drank up his father's smiles like he'd been crawling thirsty through a desert for years, and the Ronan that laughed at him from the pages barely even resembled the angry boy who'd thrown all his rage at the world in Declan's face.
The photo album's binding was warm to the touch, the edges discreetly ornamented in the same way that Niall's favourite boots had been, made from that same black leather. Declan had never been sure how much of his childhood had been a dream, to the point where he'd sometimes even wondered if any of them were real at all, if they didn't just live in Niall Lynch's dream world. Then he'd asked himself if maybe he was like Matthew, if maybe Ronan had dreamt him, too – if the reason father loved Ronan so much more was because only Ronan was truly his son. But Declan was more like one of Niall's dreams than like Ronan's, and he doubted that his father ever would have bothered to take him from a dream.
He put both the photo album and the framed picture under his arm before he went back down the stairs – he'd planned to stay for longer, but something about the silence was oppressive, like he'd walked onto a graveyard, like he'd intruded on something that was not meant for his eyes. After all, father had left the Barns to Ronan, a dream for his dreamer, a place that wasn't meant for the ordinary, the mundane.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the rattling of a screen door opening and falling shut, and Declan knew that sound too well, the sound of summers in the Barns and that back door opening and closing every time one of them ran into the house for a glass of lemonade and a snack before running out again. He might have had enough time to leave before Ronan saw him, but it was not like him to run from a fight, so he simply steeled himself for the inevitability of it, stepped into the large living room that looked out over the fields behind the house.
Ronan had stopped just inside the room, his hands and arms smeared with grass stains and earth like when he'd been a child, but anger coursed through him like an electric shock when he saw Declan, the muscles in his shoulders and neck tensing up immediately, a storm clouding his blue eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ronan snarled once he'd got over his surprise. He had a spring in his step like a boxer before a prize fight as he closed the distance between them, and Declan found his own muscles tensing up instinctively, his sore shoulder already aching in anticipation.
“This used to be my home, too,” he said. It was the wrong thing to say, he knew that, but it wasn't as if there was ever a right thing to say to Ronan.
“And now it's mine.” Ronan's upper lip twitched in contempt, and his hands curled into fists. “You didn't give a fuck before, you don't get to pretend you give a fuck now. What's that?”
Ronan had only now seen the photo album under Declan's arm, and Declan tightened his grip on it almost unconsciously.
“Some old pictures,” he said. “It's really not like there aren't enough.”
“I thought we weren't supposed to take anything from here,” Ronan snorted, but at least he didn't seem intent on keeping Declan from taking what he wanted.
“We weren't.” Declan shrugged, like it hadn't mattered to him, like it had been easy to leave everything behind, to go out and buy new clothes and new shoes, new books and new laptops and new everything for himself and for his brothers just days after losing his father. Like it had been nothing to turn his back on his childhood, because if he'd let Ronan see how hard it was, he wouldn't have been able to keep him away from the Barns. “Now we can. Would you have preferred if I'd let you run back here and make us lose the place for good?”
The words alone were enough to fuel the rage in Ronan's eyes, and Declan carefully set down the photo album on the large wooden dining table in the middle of the room. He'd always been able to read his brother like an open book – not his secrets, but his moods. He'd known when Ronan would prank him, he'd known when Ronan was so lonely in their father's absence that he crawled into Declan's bed at night like he wasn't years too old for that, he'd known when Ronan had pretended to be asleep so he could enjoy the touch of Declan's fingers in his hair in the morning. He could tell when Ronan's anger boiled over, that moment when he'd snap and go from glares and accusations to punches. He shifted his weight to turn his left side towards Ronan so his recently dislocated shoulder wouldn't take the brunt of the first attack.
“You didn't do shit to make sure we could stay here, and now you crawl back after I did.” Ronan's voice was tense, like he was pulling all his rage together for the first punch.
“Dad's the one who wanted you to bring us back here. He left me the ungrateful task of keeping you away from here until then, so you can thank him for that,” and the moment Declan said the word 'dad' he knew he'd gone too far, his last words already ending in a groan as Ronan's fist connected with his jaw.
Their father had taught them to fight like they meant it, but for all that he'd let his sons spar together, he'd certainly never intended for them to use every dirty trick he'd taught them against each other. Ronan was fast and vicious and angry, a combination that always managed to make up for the fact that Declan was still broader and stronger than him. They crashed into the unyielding wooden table even as their fists found each other's faces, before Declan wrapped his arms tightly around his brother to restrain him, more wrestling than boxing, and for his trouble Ronan's next punch found his ribs rather than his jaw.
They didn't get loud when they fought, quiet growls and pained gasps and that sickening thump of fists on flesh, wheezing breaths and the clatter of a chair falling to the floor. Ronan tried to break free from Declan's grasp, ended up shoving him onto the table, hands fisted into Declan's shirt while he tried to headbutt him, missing him only because Declan turned his head to the side just in time.
“Are you really gonna do this here?” Declan asked breathlessly when Ronan stilled for a moment. Usually he knew better than to try and talk Ronan out of a fight, but it felt so wrong to do this on their family's dinner table, it made him feel like he could see their parents watching them, his mother's eyes sad, his father's angry.
Ronan was heavy on top of him, all muscle and bones and rage, but Declan's words seemed to have an effect. He didn't let go of him, just stayed where he was, one hand grabbing Declan's shoulder, the other his shirt, his legs trying to trap Declan's underneath him. For the first time in years Ronan smelt of the Barns, of grass and damp earth and home. He smelt like the boy Declan had adored every bit as much as their father had. And now Ronan just lay there, shifting the slightest bit until his face was pressed against Declan's shoulder, and Declan half expected Ronan to bury his teeth there and bite him bloody. Ronan's buzzed hair brushed against his chin, softer than Declan had expected it to be.
Another shift, squirming almost, and the next thing Declan consciously felt was something hard pressing against his thigh, for just a split second before Ronan tensed up all over, his hips arching up as if to get away from his brother, but his hands were still clinging to Declan's shirt.
Declan's first thought was, what the fuck?. His second thought was, he's seventeen. He never got around to a third thought before Ronan ground down against him, the movement every bit as angry as his fists were, and this time Declan felt the slide of Ronan's cock against his thigh through both their jeans. He grabbed Ronan roughly and flipped them over, the table just broad enough that he managed to push Ronan onto his back and kneel over him, one hand securing Ronan's right wrist.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked, and hated how breathless his voice sounded, hated that it had to come to this for him to see something other than anger in his brother's eyes as they looked up at him, hated that he couldn't help but notice the sharp lines of Ronan's shoulder muscles, of his jaw and his cheekbones.
“Fuck you.” Ronan's voice was harsh, the look in his eyes a frantic mixture of guilt and rage and a longing that Declan could barely believe he was seeing, and he realised he should have held on to Ronan's left hand as well when he felt it smash into his side, bruising his ribs and pushing him off the table.
But he was still holding on to Ronan, so they tumbled off the table together, both of them groaning in pain as they crashed to the floor, legs and arms entangled while they still tried to get a better hold of each other, but the fall had slowed them both down. The heat of Ronan's body pressed against his was heady, filled him with memories of more playful scuffles in happier days. They'd both grown hard a few times during those, they'd laughed about it in embarrassment and teased each other, or just quietly ignored it when it had happened while they were curled up in bed together. Declan didn't know how to ignore it now, let alone laugh about it – even less so when he felt his own cock hardening against Ronan's tense body.
He tried to push him away again, but Ronan's hands were like vices on his shoulder and his side, and this time Ronan did bite him, his neck rather than his shoulder, teeth snatching soft skin. It hurt, but it also made Declan's hips jerk into Ronan's, and he realised too late that he'd all but agreed to another challenge when Ronan bit him again.
Declan hadn't been in the mood for a fight before, but now he felt anger tightening his chest, forming a knot in his throat. He hadn't hugged his brother in over a year, hadn't held him and stroked his hair and touched him in any of the ways that brothers should touch, and now he got this instead, Ronan's anger and loneliness and needs that he did not have the words for, as if being Ronan's punching bag for all his pain hadn't been enough already.
He grabbed Ronan's chin so hard that his brother breathed in sharply, and Declan couldn't tell anymore which sounds were pain and which were pleasure when he smashed his lips against Ronan's. His teeth burrowed into Ronan's bottom lip until he tasted blood and only let go when Ronan's tongue pushed into his mouth.
It was nothing like kissing girls. Declan was always in control then, every move careful and calculated to produce the desired result, to get them to the place where they let him do what he really wanted – and even then, he never felt like he lost control when he fucked them. He felt good, distracted and content, but not overwhelmed in ways he wasn't even entirely sure were pleasant. He doubted that Ronan had ever kissed anyone before, but if he had, it certainly hadn't been like this for him either. He wouldn't kiss Gansey like this. He'd worship Gansey, not fight him.
Ronan rolled on top of him without breaking the kiss, and even though the hard floor made the fresh bruises on his body ache more, Declan didn't push him off again, wrapped his arm around Ronan's hips instead and let his hand slide underneath his tank top. Ronan's skin was burning as if he was feverish, his hips jerking against Declan's, and the friction was almost painfully good, just nowhere near enough.
He knew he had to put an end to this, it was his job to be responsible when Ronan wasn't, but he felt almost drunk on being so close to Ronan, Ronan's fingers digging into his skin like he wanted to retrace every single bruise he'd ever left on Declan's body. He was panting against Declan's lips, his eyes wide with want and impatience, and there had always been something contagious about Ronan's wildness, about that irresistible storm in his eyes he'd inherited from their father.
So Declan reached down between them and covered the bulge in Ronan's jeans with his hand, palmed his cock through the fabric, and Ronan moaned into his mouth.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ronan,” Declan mumbled, barely making it a question, shuddering when Ronan ground his thigh against his brother's groin.
“Same thing that's wrong with you,” he said breathlessly, and Declan had never heard Ronan's voice like this, the meanness in it softened by need. “Weren't you supposed to be the good boy?”
Even Ronan's scorn felt less vitriolic than usual, and he shut up completely when Declan's fingers undid his belt buckle, opened his jeans until he could wrap his fingers around Ronan's cock. The feeling was achingly familiar, and he wondered if it was because Ronan's cock truly felt like his own or because he'd simply never had another man's cock in his hand – wondered if Ronan had the same thought when he followed suit, never one to be outdone, to be more timid than his brother was. Ronan's touch on his cock was almost painfully tight, like he wanted to rip it off rather than stroke it, and Declan's hips still jerked helplessly into every touch.
“Fuck, come on, Ronan, take it easy,” he said. He didn't expect Ronan to listen to him because Ronan never listened to him, but Ronan's grip loosened a fraction, became firm rather than painful, and Declan dared to soften their kiss into something almost tender. Ronan moaned against his lips, squirming on top of Declan as if he was trying to get away and yet pressing closer to him, and it didn't take much more than a few strokes until he came over Declan's hand, his tense body shuddering like a released bowstring.
Declan rolled them over before Ronan could get it into his head to run off now, but that seemed to be the furthest thing from Ronan's mind. He kept stroking Declan's cock as if trying to make him come was just another way to provoke him, but his lips were surprisingly gentle under Declan's now, and if Declan had known that all he had to do to shut Ronan up was kiss him, he might have done that earlier.
“Is that good?”
Ronan's voice was so quiet that Declan wondered if he'd only imagined the words, only imagined that Ronan cared for his approval, but the look in Ronan's eyes was more open than it had been in a long time when he looked up at his brother, and Declan only broke the kiss to smile at him.
“Yeah,” he said. Fucking perfect, why can't we always be like this, why did we have to do this for you to look at me like that, I've missed you so much, and he couldn't say any of those things, could only think them because he wasn't really thinking at all, so he merely added, “Really fucking good.”
Ronan didn't smile at him like he used to – the boy he'd once been was gone and Declan had long given up the hope that he'd ever see him again – but his smile was still almost happy, triumphant and a little smug, but without any viciousness in it. What was more, he didn't flinch away when Declan brought his hand from Ronan's side to his cheek and caressed it gently, like he was still allowed to show him any tenderness. Ronan leant into his touch, his eyes closing, his body finally relaxing underneath Declan's, and even though his hand slowed on Declan's cock, Declan felt himself come, more languidly than he had expected, his eyes fixated on his brother's face like this too was a memory he'd have to cherish forever.
Moments passed while he only leant his forehead against Ronan's, fingertips still stroking his brother's cheek carefully, and he could already feel a bruise starting to form over Ronan's cheekbone from their fight. Ronan's movements were slow as he wiped off his hands on Declan's shirt before he wrapped his arms slowly around his brother, and Declan barely dared to breathe for fear of destroying this moment of peace.
Ronan's skin wasn't as soft as Declan remembered, his cheeks and chin rough with stubble, but his hair felt almost as silky as it used to, just long enough not to be scratchy when Declan touched it. He smelt different, too, underneath the earthy smell of the Barns – more grown-up, somehow, less like a boy and more like a man, or maybe that was just the smell of their come clinging to them.
After a minute or two Declan leant in to kiss him again, but this time Ronan turned his head to the side, and something shifted in the air around them, not back to their previous aggression, but from one moment to the next it felt wrong again to touch him. Declan rolled to the side and let Ronan sit up, and a sickening wave of guilt flowed over him when his eyes fell on Ronan's cock, and the shame remained after Ronan had tucked himself in quickly. Declan wiped himself clean best he could and followed suit, but it made neither of them look much more respectable, both their clothes stained with come and sweat and blood, Ronan's tank top torn in one place, though Declan couldn't remember ripping the fabric during their fight. Without any distractions Declan's shoulder and ribs started aching again, and he touched his jaw gingerly to feel a new bruise blooming there.
“What the fuck was that?” Ronan finally said, more disbelief in his voice than anger, and Declan couldn't help but laugh softly.
“I don't know,” he said, sitting up as well. “But don't you dare put this on me.”
Ronan had his back turned towards him, but he still looked relaxed, and Declan stared at the black lines of his tattoo sneaking out from underneath the tank top. Their father would have loved that tattoo – maybe not that Ronan had it inked into his skin, but the design of it, the thorns and blossoms and claws and whatever the hell else it was supposed to depict. Maybe nothing, or just dream things he wouldn't understand anyway. Declan had never actually seen it in its entirety.
Ronan ran his fingertips over the uneven wooden floor, retracing the grooves and furrows. When they had been children, they had spent hours looking for faces and figures in the wood, telling each other stories about them. Eventually Ronan turned his head to look at Declan, the black lines on his shoulders shifted, like his tattoo was a living thing crawling over his back. Declan would never admit it, but it had a certain savage beauty to it. It suited Ronan.
“The rules of the world don't apply here,” Ronan said softly, his eyes meeting Declan's, and for a moment Declan could barely breathe. Their father had often said that, winking and laughing, revelling in the things he could do even though he'd never really talked about them. But Ronan had known, and Declan had known, and they'd both grown up with the knowledge that rules were for the world out there, that home was a place of wonder and freedom and dreams. The problem had always been that Ronan didn't give a shit about the world out there.
“I don't think this is what he had in mind,” Declan replied, half expecting Ronan to punch him again just for mentioning their father, but Ronan's fingers just kept moving over the wood. He looked lost, and lonely, and all Declan wanted to do was kiss the soft fuzz at the nape of his neck, hold him, tell him it would be all right if Ronan only let him make it all right.
Even now he knew better than to try that.
“You know, normal brothers just hug,” he said after a while.
The grin he received in return was all Ronan again, wild and raw and ready to bite someone's head off.
“Normal brothers aren't such assholes,” he said, still not sounding quite as venomous as he did the rest of the time.
“I'm assuming you're talking about yourself,” Declan replied and shook his head. He felt oddly detached, like his brain couldn't quite process what had just happened, what they'd just done. It wasn't that he wasn't ashamed, it was more that the shame couldn't displace that warm feeling of closeness he still felt, the relief and gratitude that for the first time in ages he and Ronan had, somehow, got along.
Or maybe it was just that as weird as this had been, it still wasn't the weirdest thing they'd ever done. Not after he'd visited his brother in a hospital after a suicide attempt that had turned out to be an attack by a literal nightmare come to life. Not when he and his brother usually fought like they were each other's worst enemies. It wasn't as if they had behaved like normal brothers in a long time.
Ronan got up somewhat shakily, still with his back half turned towards Declan. Even with that tension back in his shoulders, that hint of insecurity on his face because he had to be feeling the same shame as Declan, he looked more like he belonged here than he ever had elsewhere, at Aglionby or even at Monmouth. Declan's chest was tight with longing, for Ronan as much as for their home, for a time when this had still been his home, too. Ronan stood there for a minute like he was waiting for something, and when Declan stayed quiet he walked past him towards the corridor.
“Aren't we going to talk about this?” Declan called after him. He groaned in pain when he forced himself up to his feet again. Ronan whipped around to glare at him.
“Do you want to talk about this?” he snapped back. “Because I sure as fuck don't.”
Out of habit alone Declan opened his mouth to argue, but he could think of nothing to say – nothing that wouldn't sound either like blaming Ronan or like apologising for what had been both their fault, and he could neither pretend he regretted this nor admit that he didn't. He certainly couldn't tell Ronan that no matter how fucked up this had been, he'd do it again for another chance to kiss his face and stroke his hair.
For once his silence seemed to calm Ronan rather than provoke him further. Ronan let out a slow breath and looked away until his gaze caught on the photo album that had fallen from the table at some point during their fight. He bent down slowly to pick it up, along with the picture frame. The glass had shattered, but the frame was still intact, and Ronan took the time to look at the picture. There was recognition on his face, as if he too remembered that day, and his fingertips brushed over the photograph as carefully as Declan's had up in his room.
Declan expected him to put it back down afterwards, or take it with him if he decided after all that he didn't want Declan to take anything from the Barns. But instead Ronan suddenly looked up again and held both photo album and picture frame out to Declan. Declan narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but there was no malice anymore in the way Ronan was looking at him, and he didn't flinch when their fingers brushed.
“I always liked that picture,” Declan said and hated how much he sounded like he was justifying himself. Ronan nodded like that was explanation enough, then looked away. His lips were pressed into a thin line, dark red from dried blood, and Declan wasn't sure if that was from a punch or from his teeth when they had kissed. He wasn't sure either if Ronan was still about to leave or if he expected Declan to leave now, though he did know that there was no way they'd both stay here.
“You should go and see Mom,” Ronan said, still not looking at him. He sounded weirdly like Declan, or maybe it was just not the kind of thing Ronan usually said. “She's asked about you. Matthew can take you to her.”
Declan stared at him like he'd grown a second head, which only led to Ronan glaring at him again like he already regretted every single whiff of kindness he'd shown him.
“Or don't,” he snapped before Declan could think of a reply. “If you're too busy with your latest fling.”
It was unfair, all things considered, but it was far from the worst thing Ronan had ever said to Declan, and so Declan decided to let it go as Ronan stormed out. He heard the front door slam shut and then the rumble of the BMW's engine. It was hard to imagine Ronan voluntarily leaving the Barns, but Declan supposed he was starting to get used to the fact that he could come back any time now.
He put the photo album back on the table, then bent down to pick up the shattered glass from the floor and throw it away before Ronan could step in it the next time he was here. He put up the fallen chairs as well and wiped the blood – his or Ronan's, he wasn't sure – from the table, and by the time he was done the room looked like it had before, neat and too quiet.
He looked out of the window over the green hills behind the house, idly wondering what Ronan was up to there all day, and not entirely sure if he wanted to know. Try as he might, he couldn't figure out what their father would have said if he'd seen them today. The fight would have made him angry, that much Declan was sure of, but what had come after? It should have been obvious that he would have disapproved, but in their own ways neither Ronan nor Declan had ever done wrong in Niall's eyes. He'd adored Ronan and trusted Declan, and somehow Declan thought it more likely that his father would have said something about how his sons should rather love each other too much than not enough. As if one precluded the other.
The afternoon sun outside was almost blinding after the dim light of the farmhouse, and his mouth felt dry from how beautiful the Barns still were, achingly beautiful like a dream he could never take with him, as unreachable as his murdered father and his unforgiving brother and his dream of a mother who could only survive in other dreams.
He couldn't bring himself to care whether his father would have approved of this or not, would have approved of him, when it was his father's will that had cost him his brother's love in the first place. As if denying himself to Declan had not been enough, as if he had to deny him Ronan, too.
Declan opened the screen door and stepped outside, considered for a moment to brush the earth off the bench near the house and sit there for a little while, but instead he stepped onto the mossy ground of the seemingly endless hills behind the house and started walking.
For once he let himself dream a little longer still.
