Chapter Two — His Brother’s Keeper #2
Elliot looked at him again. Ronan's pulse accelerated.
It always did. That annoyed him. After everything, after all the arguments with himself, after every promise that whatever existed between them was temporary or stupid or something they could eventually outgrow, Elliot could still look at him and make Ronan's entire nervous system behave like it had never encountered him before.
Their parents had married four years ago.
Elliot had been seventeen. Ronan had been twenty.
Nothing had happened then. Nothing had happened for a long time.
Ronan reminded himself of that whenever guilt tried crawling somewhere it no longer belonged.
They hadn't grown up together. They didn't share blood.
They hadn't shared childhood bedrooms or Christmas mornings or family vacations.
They'd been two nearly grown men shoved into the same newly assembled family because their parents fell in love. That explanation had once mattered enormously to Ronan. It mattered considerably less now. Elliot reached up and caught the zipper of Ronan's jacket between two fingers.
“You going Friday?”
Ronan looked down at his hand.
“Maybe.”
“With Dylan?”
“It's a party.”
“That wasn't the question.”
“No.”
“No, you're not going?”
“No, I'm not going with Dylan.”
Elliot considered that. His fingers remained on Ronan's zipper.
“Did you sleep with him?”
Ronan's eyes returned to his. Elliot's expression was perfectly calm. Too calm.
“Why?”
“Curious.”
“Bullshit.”
“Answer me.”
Ronan should have lied. Not because there was anything to hide.
Elliot had no right to demand exclusivity they had never formally agreed upon, especially when the relationship itself existed entirely behind locked doors.
But lying to Elliot had always been more exhausting than dealing with the truth.
“Once.”
Elliot's fingers stopped moving. The room seemed to change temperature.
“When?”
“Couple months ago.”
“Before us?”
Ronan hesitated. That was enough. Elliot released his jacket.
“Ah.”
“Elliot.”
“It's fine.”
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Do the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where you say something is fine and then act fucking insane for three days.”
Elliot smiled. There was no warmth in it.
“I'm not going to act insane.”
“Comforting.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
Ronan stared.
“Seriously?”
“It's a question.”
“One I'm not answering.”
“Why?”
“Because you're already chopping vegetables like they insulted your mother.”
Elliot's jaw shifted. Ronan sighed.
“Jesus Christ.”
He caught Elliot's wrist. Elliot looked down. Ronan pulled him closer. The resistance lasted less than a second. Elliot's chest met his. His body was warm from the kitchen.
“You know I don't give a shit about Dylan,” Ronan said.
“Apparently you gave him something.”
Ronan barked a laugh. Elliot tried pulling away. Ronan tightened his grip.
“You're an asshole.”
“You started it.”
“You asked.”
“And you answered.”
“You wanted me to lie?”
Elliot looked away. Ronan caught his jaw with his free hand and turned his face back.
“Hey.”
Elliot's eyes met his. There was something almost childish buried beneath the anger.
Not innocence. Elliot had never been as innocent as people thought.
Fear. That was different. Ronan recognized it because he'd seen it before.
Every time Elliot believed someone might replace him, even temporarily, something ugly crawled out of whatever dark little corner he kept it hidden in.
Ronan had spent years pretending he hated that. He didn't. Not entirely.
“You're impossible to replace,” Ronan said.
Elliot stared at him.
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“You could get bored.”
“I've known you four years and somehow haven't murdered you.”
“High praise.”
“You could become significantly less annoying.”
“No.”
“Then we're probably stuck.”
Elliot's mouth softened. There. Ronan brushed his thumb once along Elliot's jaw. The gesture was too intimate. Which was precisely why he did it. Elliot leaned into the touch before catching himself. Ronan noticed that too. He noticed everything Elliot did when nobody else was watching.
“You're mine,” Elliot said quietly.
Ronan's thumb stopped. The words should have irritated him. They did. They also sent something hot through his stomach.
“You don't own me.”
“I know.”
“You don't sound like you know.”
Elliot's gaze lowered again.
“Maybe I don't care.”
Ronan inhaled slowly.
“Elliot.”
“What?”
Their faces were inches apart now. Ronan could smell toothpaste beneath the garlic and rosemary.
He could see the faint freckles across Elliot's nose that almost disappeared during winter.
He could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow from falling off a bicycle when he was eleven, a story Ronan had heard from Elliot's mother so many times he could recite it himself.
Elliot looked sweet. That was the problem.
He could say the most unhinged shit imaginable while looking like somebody's first love.
Ronan's phone vibrated. Neither moved. It vibrated again. Elliot smiled.
“Mom.”
“Probably.”
“She's going to come over.”
“Definitely.”
“She has a key.”
Ronan released him. Elliot looked annoyed. Ronan laughed.
“You want your mother walking in?”
“I'd rather die.”
“Then put your shoes on.”
Ronan checked his phone.
MOM: Dinner is ready.
Then, thirty seconds later:
MOM: I can literally see the lights on.
Ronan looked toward the enormous windows.
“Fuck.”
Elliot laughed. There it was. The real laugh. The one Ronan liked.
“Come on.”
They grabbed their jackets. Elliot switched off the oven and followed Ronan toward the door.
Ronan opened it. Cold evening air rushed inside.
They crossed the yard together. Their parents' house glowed beyond the trees, warm yellow light spilling from tall windows onto the grass.
The smell of woodsmoke drifted from somewhere nearby.
Fallen leaves crunched beneath their shoes. Halfway across the yard, Elliot spoke.
“Ronan.”
“Yeah?”
“If Dylan touches you again, I'm breaking his fingers.”
Ronan glanced sideways. Elliot was smiling. Sweetly. The exact smile he used on professors, neighbors, and strangers carrying too many coffees. Ronan laughed.
“Good boy.”
Elliot stopped walking. Ronan took another step before turning. Elliot stood beneath the branches of an old maple, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. His expression had changed. Ronan knew that look too.
“Don't call me that.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Ronan walked backward toward the house.
“Good boys don't threaten people's fingers.”
Elliot followed.
“No?”
“No.”
“What do good boys do?”
Ronan smiled.
“Behave.”
Elliot's eyes remained fixed on him. They reached the back steps.
Ronan opened the door. Warm light spilled across Elliot's face, transforming him instantly.
His shoulders relaxed. His expression softened.
By the time their mother called from the kitchen, the jealous man beneath the maple tree had disappeared completely.
“Sorry we're late,” Elliot called.
Sweet. Warm. Perfect. Ronan followed him inside. He never once wondered whether Dylan Price should have taken Elliot's threat seriously.