Chapter Two — His Brother’s Keeper
Chapter Two — His Brother’s Keeper
RONAN
Ronan Vale knew Elliot was pissed off because the kitchen was spotless.
Not clean. Spotless. There was a difference.
Clean meant Elliot had loaded the dishwasher, wiped down the counters, and maybe remembered to take the trash out without being reminded.
Spotless meant the stainless-steel sink had been scrubbed until it reflected the pendant lights hanging above the island.
It meant the mail that usually accumulated beside the refrigerator had been sorted into three precise stacks.
It meant the dish towel hanging from the oven door had been folded into thirds instead of thrown over the handle, and the ceramic bowl their mother had given them when they moved into the carriage house sat perfectly centered on the butcher-block island with six green apples arranged inside it like someone had staged the fucking place for a real-estate listing.
It also meant Elliot was cutting vegetables.
Aggressively. Ronan stood in the doorway for several seconds without announcing himself.
The carriage house had been converted into a two-bedroom apartment years before either of them had needed it.
From the outside, it still looked like something built for horses and carriages rather than two adult men who refused to move away from their parents' property.
Dark red brick. Black shutters. Ivy climbing one corner.
Two enormous carriage doors that had been permanently sealed and replaced on the interior by a wall of windows overlooking the backyard.
Inside, their mother had made sure nothing resembled a stable.
Exposed wooden beams crossed the ceiling.
The floors were old oak, refinished until every knot and imperfection had become decorative.
The kitchen occupied one side of the open first floor, separated from the living room by a broad island.
A staircase near the back wall led to their bedrooms upstairs.
It was too nice for two college students.
Ronan knew that. He also knew neither of them was stupid enough to turn down free housing.
Especially housing that put approximately eighty yards and several mature oak trees between them and their parents.
Elliot stood at the kitchen island with his back partially turned.
He'd changed since Ronan had seen him on campus.
The expensive wool coat was gone. So were the khakis and sweater he'd worn to class.
Now he had on gray sweatpants and an old Bellweather T-shirt that had softened from too many washes.
His dark blond hair was still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends near his ears. The knife in his hand came down.
Thunk. A piece of carrot rolled across the cutting board. Thunk. Another. Thunk. Ronan closed the door behind him. Elliot didn't look up.
“You're going to lose a finger.”
“No, I'm not.”
Thunk.
“You're holding the knife wrong.”
“No, I'm not.”
“You are.”
Elliot stopped. Slowly, he turned his head. His hazel-green eyes settled on Ronan.
“Would you like to do it?”
There it was. Ronan leaned against the door.
“No.”
“Then I think I'll survive.”
Elliot turned back to the cutting board.
Thunk. Ronan smiled despite himself. Most people would have heard nothing unusual in Elliot's voice.
That was because most people didn't know him.
They knew the version Elliot constructed for them.
Ronan had watched that version develop over years, although he wasn't entirely sure Elliot had ever consciously created it.
He simply understood people. Better than most. He remembered what they told him.
Not just names and birthdays, but things nobody expected anyone else to retain.
Someone's mother was having surgery. Someone hated cilantro.
Someone had an exam Friday. Someone's childhood dog had died three weeks ago.
Then Elliot asked about those things later.
People fucking adored it. They adored him. Ronan understood why.
He also knew the same sweet boy who remembered a classmate's grandmother had once removed every shoelace from Ronan's sneakers because Ronan had gone on a date Elliot didn't approve of.
Elliot had been eighteen. Ronan had found eleven pairs of shoes lined neatly inside his closet the following morning.
Not one had laces. When he'd asked Elliot about it, Elliot had looked him directly in the eye over breakfast and said, That's weird.
Ronan still had no idea where the shoelaces were.
“You gonna tell me?” Ronan asked.
“Tell you what?”
“What crawled up your ass.”
“Nothing.”
“Right.”
Elliot scraped the carrots into a bowl. Ronan dropped his backpack beside the couch.
“You know we're eating at Mom's.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you cooking?”
“I'm meal prepping.”
“You don't meal prep.”
“I do now.”
“You ordered Thai food four times last week.”
“Growth.”
Ronan walked into the kitchen. The smell of garlic and rosemary lingered in the air.
Something was roasting in the oven despite Elliot's insistence that he was merely preparing food for later.
Ronan opened the refrigerator. Glass containers occupied an entire shelf.
Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. Ronan stared.
“You've lost your fucking mind.”
“Close the refrigerator.”
“You cooked enough food for a family of six.”
“Ronan.”
He closed it. Elliot continued chopping. Ronan reached for one of the carrots. The knife stopped.
“Don't.”
Ronan picked one up anyway. Elliot stared at him. Ronan ate it.
“You're incredibly brave.”
“It's a carrot.”
“I spent time on those.”
“You cut them.”
“Exactly.”
Ronan reached for another. Elliot slapped his hand. Hard. Ronan laughed. Elliot didn't.
“You're in a mood.”
“I am perfectly fine.”
“Who pissed you off?”
“Nobody.” “Claire?” “No.” “Professor?” “No.” “Mom?” “No.” “Me?” The knife paused.
There. Ronan smiled. Elliot noticed. “Don't look so pleased with yourself.” “Dylan?” Elliot resumed chopping.
Ronan's smile widened. “Holy shit.” “I'm making carrots.” “You're jealous.” “I'm making fucking carrots.” “Very angrily.” Elliot put the knife down.
“I'm not jealous of Dylan.” “Sure.” “I don't even know him.” “That has never stopped you.” Elliot wiped his hands on the dish towel.
“You're incredibly annoying.” “And you're jealous.” “Why would I be jealous?” Ronan shrugged.
“You tell me.” “I have nothing to tell.” “Then we're good.” “We were already good.” “Perfect.” “Perfect.” Ronan nodded.
Elliot nodded. Neither moved. Ronan had learned long ago that silence worked better on Elliot than interrogation.
Five seconds passed. Ten. Elliot's jaw tightened.
There it was. “He touched you.” Ronan almost laughed.
Instead he kept his face neutral. “Who?” Elliot stared at him. “Oh. Dylan.” “You know exactly who.”
“He touched my arm.”
“I saw.”
“I gathered.”
“He didn't need to.”
Ronan folded his arms.
“You gonna start policing who touches my elbow now?”
“No.”
“Forearm?”
“No.”
“Shoulder?”
“Fuck off.”
Ronan laughed. Elliot grabbed the bowl and carried it toward the refrigerator. Ronan stepped into his path. Elliot stopped.
“Move.”
“No.”
“Ronan.”
“You're cute when you're jealous.”
Elliot's expression hardened.
“Don't.”
That made Ronan smile.
“There's that face.”
“What face?”
“The one nobody at Bellweather knows you have.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Of course you don't.”
Elliot tried stepping around him. Ronan moved with him.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Mom expects us in two minutes.”
“Mom expects us whenever you show up because you've been late to everything since birth.”
“Three minutes.”
“Plenty of time.”
“For what?”
Ronan took the bowl from Elliot's hands and placed it on the counter.
Elliot watched him. Something changed in his expression.
Not much. His shoulders relaxed first. Then his eyes.
The irritation didn't disappear. It concentrated.
That was another thing nobody knew about Elliot.
Anger didn't make him loud. It made him still.
Ronan preferred that version. Probably more than he should have.
“You're doing this on purpose,” Elliot said.
“Doing what?”
“Trying to piss me off.”
“Seems redundant.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently Dylan already handled it.”
Elliot's eyes narrowed. Ronan stepped closer.
There was nobody here to misinterpret the distance between them.
No students crossing Hawthorne Quad. No professors.
No friends. No parents looking through the windows.
Just them. The difference always hit quickly.
Outside this house, Ronan monitored himself around Elliot without thinking about it anymore.
How long he looked at him. Where his hands went.
How close he stood. The thousand tiny calculations required to make something unnatural look ordinary.
Here, those calculations disappeared. Elliot lifted his chin.
“You think this is funny.”
“A little.”
“Would it still be funny if I let someone hang all over me?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Elliot's mouth twitched. Ronan saw it.
“That was fast.”
“I don't pretend I'm not jealous.”
“You pretend plenty.”
“Not about you.”
Something warm and dangerous moved between them. Elliot's gaze dropped. Ronan knew exactly where.
“Eyes up.”