Fantasy, Heist, Romance, Found-Family - Chapter 18: Chapter 18

If Ronan's favorite thing to do was to learn, then Amir's body was his new favorite subject. He studied, and studied, and studied.
Where Amir was earnest giving and long, drawn out pleasure, Ronan was teasing touches and slow torment. He grew addicted to the lilt of a plea on Amir's tongue, became an artist between his legs- he could lose himself painting strong thighs purple and red. The indents his teeth left behind were a thing of beauty, but nothing compared to the squeeze when Amir came undone, bowing tight in a magnificent arch with his head thrown back against the sheets - a crushing pressure immediately followed by achingly sweet hands at Ronan's cheeks, pulling him up Amir's body to indulge in the taste of himself.
Sleep came easier after they'd worn themselves out. Amir tended to succumb first, but he fought it every time, pouty whenever Ronan reached for the oil lamp. He seemed to have learned that Ronan was weak to his soft appeals for five more minutes. Weak in general when it came to Amir, but especially in the muted minutes between sex and sleep.
Worn, needy, and draped in a heady fog, Ronan was at his most vulnerable after he'd been strung out and kissed raw. He felt closer to Amir than ever, needed to get closer than ever or he'd start to quiver like a bowstring (at least, he felt he would - Amir never let him get far enough to find out). He savored those minutes for their emptiness, his mind quiet save for their hushed conversation and the ever-present, all-consuming awareness of Amir, Amir, Amir.
He hadn't realized, until now, that that emptiness was fragile.
"There's something on your mind," Amir noticed, tracing a hand over each knob of Ronan's spine. If he had been drifting off, concern had shaken him awake. "Are you alright?"
Ronan nodded, lying on his stomach as Amir mapped his skin. "Thinking about my family."
Tonight, they had outfought the quiet. They were loud, and very rude for disrupting his peace.
"Ah, that's never good." Amir drew five lines up his back, through his hair, soothing. "I try to avoid it."
And this was surely the smartest, if not quite the healthiest, way to live. At the least, it had been Ronan's tactic for years, and it had been working just fine. Family was one wound he would happily leave opened. He could handle the occasional memory outbreaks, the unfortunate flare-ups of the mind, if it meant he could go his whole life without facing his past.
But that had been impossible the last few days. What started as a harebrained thought had grown into a harebrained plan, and now Ronan was lucky for a moment where he wasn't thinking about his family. Lucky for Amir, who had the power to wipe his mind blank with something so measly as a smile.
Magical Amir, who had just, upon reflection, said something ridiculous.
"You do it all the time," Ronan pointed out, because he knew Amir didn't lie awake at night thinking about nothing, the way he did. They never discussed what was on his mind, but Ronan could well enough guess.
Amir's eyebrows betrayed his surprise, but then he shrugged. "I suppose I do."
His voice came quiet and pensive and not nearly as indifferent as he'd probably intended. Ronan winced. He should have just allowed the white lie. Amir's eyes began to dust with a look Ronan normally only saw in the dead of night; it was even sadder in the lamplight.
Ronan had been careless again. Here he was, feeling withered and raw over one man's rejection, which had lasted all of five minutes and taken place seven years before. Amir's own had lasted twenty-one years and had come from his father, his brothers, even the mother he still spoke of so fondly, and Ronan had called attention to how clearly it bothered him, like he needed the reminder.
Ronan pushed onto his forearms, relieved when Amir's eyes followed him up, clearing as they went. "Do you know? I hate everyone who's ever hurt you."
Amir's lips formed a startled, "Oh."
"That anyone could get to know you and still refuse you is beyond me." Ronan had tried. He'd ended up in bed with the man. "You are so-" Perfect seemed too strong a word, so he kept it to himself.
Amir turned onto his back and contemplated this. "I'm not sure any of them got to know me much."
"And that on its own is criminal!" Ronan leaned over him, into his space. Amir leaned up, automatically, but Ronan held him at bay with a hand at his jaw. "To waste twenty-one years with you . . ." If only he had that much time, Ronan would- well, he was getting ahead of himself.
"How did this turn into you comforting me?"
Ronan kissed him. " You have every reason to hate them, and yet you won't."
"I . . . might."
"You won't. It isn't in your nature," Ronan said, confident, because somewhere along the lines, he'd done the impossible and come to know Amir. "But I am not nearly as generous as you are. So I'll do it for you."
Amir had this habit of looking at him like he'd arranged the constellations by hand. It made Ronan want to devour him.
"Okay," Amir said as Ronan curled the fingers resting at his jaw, angling his head. He dragged his tongue along the side of Amir's, the roof of his mouth, behind his teeth, and Amir lay pliant and let Ronan explore as he pleased with a high-pitched sigh. Almost a whimper, but Ronan didn't dare think it, lest he lose his fucking mind.
He raked his nails lightly down Amir's torso to feel him shiver, stopping right beneath his navel. He leaned their foreheads together and asked, "Can I touch you?" partially because they had just thoroughly exhausted themself, mostly to hear that sweet plea lacing Amir's "yes, yes, yes" as his legs fell apart.
𓃥𓃥𓃥
Ronan traced pointed black ears and hollow eyes with gloved hands. The plaster mask was a familiar weight in his palm, and yet he doubted whether it would still fit the curves of his face. Which was ridiculous; the fox had been made for him, molded against his skin. There was nobody else it would fit so well.
Still, he was wary. He supposed that if he was caught, he'd rather be caught as a no-name burglar than part of an infamous band of thieves. He would only cause trouble for the others if he was captured wearing the Merry Men signature. This was what he told himself, at least, as he opted instead to pull Amir's scarf over his nose.
In truth, he knew he wouldn't be caught. He wasn't a goddamn amateur.
He shoved the mask into his back pocket and pulled the hood Amir had given him low over his eyes. Bracing himself, he raised his head.
A lawn as long as a city block behind a wrought-iron fence; white stucco walls beneath a low-pitched roof. Long, rectangular windows- three stories worth of them. Perfect symmetry. Twin staircases leading to a portico whose columns framed the entryway, a door with ornate designs he had only twice gotten close enough to make out. He remembered: carved rosettes.
Ronan's world did not tilt on its axis. It did shudder, only for a moment. He waited for more, for an earthquake, but the shock of first encounter settled and he was- fine. Ronan faced the home he'd never been allowed to have and wondered if he had, quietly, secretly, moved on.
He shifted the empty black bag at his shoulder, took a couple of steps back, and mounted the fence much like he had at the Wycliffe manor. He landed inside the Dumas estate. His father's estate.
He knew this spot along the fence well. He had met his sister here in secret every week for the better part of a year. Or, nearly here; several paces to the left. With a great deal of pride, he realized he'd had a good eye for these things even then. If they had shifted their meeting spot just so, to where he stood now, their father may have never caught them.
Ronan wondered how things might have been different with that outcome, and his stomach rolled, just once. Still, his movements were clinical as he cut across the grass in a strict line. He maneuvered as he would during any other mission, except he was alone, and he was no longer a thief, and he wasn't doing this for himself.
At least, not entirely. He would've liked to say his only motive was to help Sadie and her family, but he wasn't that selfless.
Once he reached the house he pressed close, skirting along the tall foundation toward the glass conservatory doors his sister had used to reach him. Every window was dark. He doubted anyone was awake at this hour, but he knew to never act carelessly or arrogantly.
Crouching low on the steps, he unbuttoned his toolbelt. It wasn't until he raised an L-shaped tension wrench to the lock that he noticed the tremor in his hand.
He whispered, "Oh."
Okay, so. Not entirely over it, then.
The door was tricky. Even with the wrench and a hooked pick, Ronan couldn't quite get the lock to give. With a sardonic - albeit shaky - huff of a laugh, he mused that the Dumas house was still trying to keep him out, even now. Then he mangled a piece of wire and twisted it inside the keyhole and laughed again when he heard a soft click, because this time around, he had the nerve and the skill to force his way in.
In a different place, under different circumstances, Ronan might have taken a second to admire the glass walls and overflowing greenery inside the conservatory. As it was, he swerved past exotic plants and a trickling fountain with little regard to reach the door on the other end. This one was unlocked. The windows on the other side did not let in nearly as much light, but Ronan had been hunting in the dark for years.
He moved silently down a wide hallway that seemed to bisect the bottom floor, taking in no more than he needed to. He had waited tirelessly between the ages of ten and twelve for the day he was allowed inside this house. At nineteen, he feared that if he dwelled too long on the scenery, he would freeze up under the shame of realizing it had never been an option.
Ronan did not want to be here. If he had any better ideas, or more useful skills, he would rather be anywhere else. But Ronan was on his own and not particularly capable, and this was a house he knew well.
He had mapped its layout from the outside hundreds of times. He could travel here with his eyes closed. And thanks to his sister, who had often indulged his curiosity, he knew to avoid the third floor where the family slept and the far side of the first floor, which housed the servants' quarters.
Ronan was not as smart as Felix or Vito, nor as talented as the others, but he could manage this.
The first door opened up to a drawing room. He looped the bag around his wrist and scanned the space.
Without Bandit around to help him with the load, he had to be selective with his steals. The ornate candelabra on the table was too heavy. The candlesticks scattered around the room were too generic. They would pay, but not nearly as much as the grecian figurine clock in the display cabinet, and Ronan wouldn't waste room on both.
He did not spare a second glance at the family portrait on the wall.
The music room he found himself in next was useless. He would have ducked back out after the first glance of string instruments mounting the walls (valuable, but bulky) was it not for the spot of yellow at the center of the room.
A bird that looked like sunset, with a strange glittery sheen to its wings that Ronan could only see if he didn't look too head-on, perched lonely in a cage that hung just shy of the grand piano.
It perked up at Ronan's entry. With a small, excited flap of its wings, it began whistling a low tune. Something classical - probably a song played on that very piano - beautiful, and sad.
Ronan pressed a finger to his lips. To his surprise, the bird instantly quieted, tilting its head as if to say, Why can't I?
Reason #55 I can't stand the rich: They see something beautiful, and their first thought is to put it in a cage.
He was tempted, as he shut the door behind him, to come back for the bird later. He really might've, if he didn't think Delancey's idea of fun would be to stuff it.
Ronan's intention in the dining room was to raid the china cabinet and silver chest, but then he looked up and got a much, much better idea.
He had learned through rather embarrassing experience that most crystal chandeliers were made with glass, not actual crystals. However, he had also learned to recognize diamond when he saw it.
Dumas, you pretentious fuck, he thought as he climbed onto the long mahogany table. The prisms snapped off their clips in his hands, dropped one-by-one into the bag, and he finally felt like he was doing something right.
The morning room was a step less formal than the others. Which was to say, still oppressively stuffy, but having a homely air that the rest of the house lacked. If he squinted, there were even signs of wear in the sofas. Or maybe those were just shadows.
He had avoided looking directly at any and all portraits so far, but he made an exception for a trio of miniatures on a corner table (Reason #36: Normal portraits aren't enough; they must capture their essence in bite-size). Delancey would be thrilled.
Ronan snatched the first portrait roughly and without pausing, but he hesitated on the second. The woman it captured was striking, just barely showing the first signs of age. At last, a face to a name he had known for years: Elvira Dumas, his sister's mother. She had sharp features, strict despite the gentle smile she wore - so unlike the girl in the next portrait, whose round cheeks seemed to glow pink even in the dark.
Ronan wondered bitterly if he might've grown up that beautiful, had he not been left out to dry.
He threw Elvira into the bag, then Elena. He had no want for their life.
His next turn led him back the way he'd come and into an ostentatious entrance hall. Wary of stumbling upon the servants' quarters, he took the grand staircase up and landed at the center of an open library. If he'd had Felix's eye for valuable literature, he might've looked around. Ronan skimmed the spine of a massive text and tried not to miss him too much. He slipped between bookshelves to the hallway at the far side of the room.
He came out at the end of the hall, next to a window that overlooked the lawn. His eyes cut a familiar diagonal as he looked toward the main gate, and he tried to make sense of this - how a view from a place he'd never stood could be familiar.
With a shrinking feeling in his chest, he put the image in reverse. He imagined himself just inside the gate, following the line of Vernon Dumas' arm as he pointed to a window on the second floor. A promised bedroom, waiting just for Ronan.
If his memory served him right - and he had never forgotten this - that room was the first in this hall. Ronan was turning the knob before he could think better of it, opening the door to-
A study.
He practically threw himself down the hall and into the next room, mourning the fact that he couldn't even slam the doors. He settled for leaning against the wall while he blinked his eyes rapidly. He would not cry over this, he had cried enough over this, and he had known - he had known there was never a bedroom, so there was no excuse.
The room he'd wound up in was black. Closed curtains. Ronan felt like a faint-hearted child, hugging his arms around himself in the dark.
Get over it, he willed himself, again and again until his pulse settled.
Within a few minutes, the room started to take shape. Vague outlines of furniture, then varying shades; dimension. A chest, a loveseat, a vanity, a mirror- a bed.
There wasn't supposed to be a bed. Bedrooms were on the third floor.
But here was a very real bed with a very human-like lump tucked beneath the covers. All Ronan could make out was a mess of hair. A favored servant, perhaps. He sneered at the memory of that snooty handmaid, Ms. Macy.
Not ideal, but not disastrous, either.
That a handmaid possessed anything of value was doubtful, but he crept regardless toward the wall to his left, eyes never straying from the sleeping figure until he stood before the vanity.
His attention caught on a small box. Running his fingers along the edges, he felt the dips of scrollwork carvings, then the smoothness of metal around a keyhole. He checked over his shoulder that his host still slept soundly, facing away from him, then tried the lid. Locked.
It had to be a jewelry box. A nice one, at that.
Something a servant would never have.
His gaze shot to the lump in the bed and found it turning, sheets rumpling as the figure just barely shifted. A lock of hair spilled over her shoulder. And color was hard in this light, but contrast was not. The strands that fell were drastically lighter than the ones already splayed across the pillows- much like Ronan's own, hidden beneath his hood.
And Ronan was absolutely, undeniably, debilitatingly not over it, because that was his sister in that bed, and despite his years as a high-profile thief, his first instinct was to turn tail and fucking bolt.
He fought it long enough to reach for the jewelry box and nearly blew everything, nearly knocked the damn thing over with how badly his hands were shaking. He didn't trust himself to try again, not yet, he needed a minute, needed to- needed to breathe, because he wasn't doing that, and it couldn't have been that long, but his lungs burned like he'd start gasping any second, and he couldn't afford that kind of noise.
Couldn't afford to fucking bolt, either, but it was a near thing. He collapsed against the wall just beyond the room door, and he ripped the scarf down his nose but didn't make a sound as he desperately sucked in air - it didn't do much to fill his lungs, but it gave him something to work toward. Breathe, breathe, calm down and breathe so you can go back for that box.
This wasn't about him. Sadie needed that box. And if he couldn't do this one thing for her, for Amos-
He almost didn't hear the door past the blood roaring in his ears.
The scarf was back in place by the time he whipped around. A handheld candle shed a pulse of light; Ronan took in angular eyes and mismatched hair (like his, all of it like his) in the time it took to get behind her. He crushed a hand over her mouth before the scream ballooning her chest made it up her throat, then shouldered his way into the room, kicking the door carefully closed with his knife to her throat and a growl of, "Scream and I cut you."
They entered backward, facing the standing mirror, so he saw the moment her eyes blew impossibly wider. He didn't know why until he felt fabric slipping around his ears. He looked closer at his own reflection and saw white.
Ronan pressed her close with his knife arm and dug the blade to her skin in warning for the half-second his other hand released her, reaching around her to snuff the candle between his fingertips.
The bedroom plunged once more into darkness. Ronan found the sleeves of her nightgown regardless, twisting his hand in the fabric at her wrists to keep her hands behind her back as he spun them away from the mirror. He let up on the pressure until the knife just skimmed her neck, threatening.
The hood fell back over his eyes as he pitched his head downward.
"Ronan?"
It was barely a whisper. Ronan's ears rang as though she'd screeched.
"I'm not familiar," he grumbled, "And I told you not to speak."
"You told me not to scream." Her voice sounded terrible, quiet and wet and ragged.
She gasped when he yanked at her arms, forcing them straight and bowing her back. "Don't sp-"
"I'm sorry," Elena cut him off. Crying- she was crying. "For when we were children, I was- I was selfish and stupid and I thought- I don't know what I thought but I never wanted you to get hurt, Ronan, that's the last thing-"
"Listen, lady, whoever it is you believe I am-" Ronan started, but he hadn't taken a proper breath in minutes, and it caught up to him here. His voice ran out, and he had no choice but to inhale deeply through his nose and hope Elena couldn't hear it, couldn't feel the panic in the swell of his chest.
She trampled on the open end of his sentence with a whispered cry of, "I know my own brother when I see him!"
"I am not your brother!" Ronan hissed. He didn't mean to feel it so much.
The only sounds that followed were faint weeping and Ronan's labored breath. The candle had thrown his vision, but it was starting to readjust.
"You- you're right, I shouldn't . . . I just mean . . ." Elena could barely speak around sobs that rocked her against him. "I know that- that birthmark . . . a-and those . . . eyes . . ."
"Quiet!" he finally commanded. He bore closer with the knife.
"I never thought I'd . . . get the chance . . . to apologize," she continued anyway, and Ronan was out of moves, because if he pushed any harder he would cut her, and he couldn't do that. He wasn't entirely confident that he wouldn't keel over the moment he tried to take a step, but he did it anyway; one foot forward, then another, dragging her to where he knew the vanity stood against the wall.
Elena's attempt at a deep breath fragmented pitifully on the way in. She tried again and managed a full inhale. "It shouldn't have happened this way, but- but that's my fault . . . it's my fault you've become-"
Leather came down over her mouth once again, nearly slipping over wet cheeks.
I've become what? He wanted to sneer. A thief? Are you disappointed, sister? It was this or a wretched fucking orphan.
Instead, he said, "Put the jewelry box in the bag."
Elena was shaking worse than him when she reached for the box on the vanity and slipped it into the sack hanging from his wrist.
Once her hands fell to her sides, Ronan was forced to face how utterly stuck he was.
He didn't know what was in that box. It was tiny; he had no idea whether it would be enough, but he couldn't very well keep searching with his hands tied like this, and even if he could - even if he hauled Elena around the room, demanding she stash all her valuables for him, and slipped out the window - he was screwed the moment she screamed. He didn't doubt he could get away, but her father knew where he lived, and, Christ, his life was over, and he was just as useless to Sadie as he'd been to Vito.
And Elena was trying to say something.
Her jaw worked under his grip. Smothered words caught in her throat. Ronan weighed his options and decided to loosen his hold, just barely.
"There's another one under the bed," was her muffled confession.
"Another . . .?"
"Jewelry box. A bigger one."
"You do realize I'm robbing you?"
Ugly tears marred a lovely face, and she quivered so badly it was hard to hold her still. Nothing about the circumstance called for a smile, but Ronan felt a twitch against his hand.
He heaved her to the bedside. Or, tried to, except she went willingly, almost led him, so it was more like they- walked together. She was lowering herself to a crouch before he could kick her knees in, moving like they were a team. Save for the knife to her throat.
Which was starting to feel pretty useless. Elena reached beneath the bed and drew out a much larger, flatter box, stuffing it into the bag like an accomplice.
"Can we talk?" she pleaded only after. "If not tonight, then another? Will you come back?"
"Stop acting like you know me."
"I knew you."
But I never knew you. "You're delusional."
"Fine, just- take whatever you need, I won't scream if you release me. And I won't tell, ever. I prom-"
A high-pitched, strangled noise from her throat as she careened forward. Ronan's hand at the back of her head, pushing her face into the duvet. His mouth inches away, whispering,
"Have you already forgotten?" Fury tinted his words black and oil-thick. He was starting to really hate that word. "You. Are. A. Liar."
He let go of her, shoved the knife into his boot, and stood. Elena didn't scream as he picked toward the window on this side of the bed, didn't say a word as he drew the curtains. She cried, quietly.
Ronan pried it open and looked for a foothold. "It wasn't your fault," he said. He had never blamed Elena for their father's rejection; she had been ten-years-old and powerless to change his mind. But, "You should have told me, is all."
The scarf over his cheeks was soaked through by the time his feet dangled above the grass. He was already running when he touched down, and he didn't stop until he was back in the city, even though he foolishly, predictably believed that his sister wouldn't tell a soul. The tears didn't stop, either.
His heart sank when he returned home to dark windows and a locked door. Amir had been over only two nights before; of course he wouldn't be back so soon.
But Ronan was freezing cold on a late-summer night, and the thought of crawling into bed alone made him want to turn on his heels, if only he had somewhere to go. It would be hours before he could reasonably escape to the farm.
He remembered that he had asked for the day off and had to squeeze his eyes shut against a sob.
He didn't even want to step inside, into the house his father had bought. He wished desperately that Amir were here, or Sadie, or . . . god, Felix, or even Tony- she wouldn't hold his hand, but she'd tell him to suck it up and push him inside, and that would work well enough.
Or- Vito, with his contagious bravery, throwing an arm over Ronan's shoulder and leading him through the door without hesitating, wordlessly reminding Ronan that nothing inside could hurt him.
He was no good on his own - he had proven that much tonight.
But then he looked up and noticed his bedroom window. The curtains were open, even though he was fairly sure he'd drawn them before he left. He flung himself through the door with the frantic hope that he wasn't on his own tonight, after all. He dropped his haul unceremoniously at the foot of the stairs and rushed to the bedroom and had to bite back another sob, because there was Amir, slouched against the wire headboard, half- under the covers like he had tried and failed to wait up.
Ronan ripped off his gloves and kicked away his boots as he stumbled to the bed. He curled himself into Amir's side with the rest of his clothes still on, uncaring that he would surely wake up drenched in sweat. Amir shifted in his sleep to hold him, like Ronan had just appeared in his dream, too.
Ronan would normally take a moment to appreciate the softness of his forehead, his cheeks, or perhaps giggle at the line of drool down his chin. Tonight, he skipped the ogling to tuck his head against Amir's chest and cry himself to sleep.