The Merry Men Masquerade

17. Mirror, Mirror

When Ronan returned from the Abrams' past ten to find light coming from the lower floor of his house, a house he was decidedly not inside, his steps stuttered to a clumsy halt on the pavement. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them for good measure, then opened them again, but his windows were still yellow, and he hadn't had enough to drink to start seeing things.

He started for the window, then thought better of it and made cautiously for the door instead. Crouching on his doorstep, he rucked up the right leg of his pants to reach inside his boot for the knife a certain someone had gifted him – insisted he took, really – only a handful of days before. Ronan had ignored most of Amir's rant about the importance of self defense in favor of staring at his lips; he scorned his own uselessness now as he found himself entirely unsure of how to proceed.

He checked the street behind him, only to confirm that there would be no witnesses should he be cut down on entry. He glowered at the short blade. Could he even use this against somebody if the need arose?

He wouldn't find out loitering on his doorstep.

Ronan charged in with his little knife bared and the makings of what surely would have been a very threatening shout to find Amir at his hearth, stirring a pot of boiling water with raised eyebrows facing Ronan over his shoulder.

Slowly, Amir let go of the wooden spoon and turned with both hands raised.

Ronan deflated with a huff, tossing the knife onto the table so he could put his hands on his hips and give Amir his most thoroughly unimpressed stare. "Breaking and entering now, are we?" he said evenly, as if he couldn't still feel his heartbeat.

Amir's smile came sheepish. "You were the one who taught me to pick a lock, weren't you?"

Ronan's mouth twitched. He hopped onto the table with his legs dangling off, replacing the knife in his boot before starting on the laces. "So you broke in."

"My original intention was the same as usual. The house went to sleep early tonight, since– well, everyone was rather tired. And I wanted to see you." Amir's voice grew louder as he approached. He swatted Ronan's hand aside to unlace his boots for him. Despite his attempt to mince his words, Ronan heard what he hadn't said. Such a lively house rarely tired early unless the day had been particularly full. It must have been a scouting day.

Ronan didn't bring this up, too endeared by Amir's attempt to guard his feelings and the disastrous state of his hair, like he had decided to come over after he'd already settled into bed for the night. Ronan smoothed it with both hands as Amir slid off his right boot, then his left, explaining, "I thought you might have fallen asleep, but when I saw your curtains were open I figured you must've gotten held up at work–"

"It's Micah's birthday."

"And– ah, well happy birthday, Micah –and it seemed a waste to turn back without seeing you, but I felt dreadfully creepy waiting outside– though in retrospect I suppose letting myself in wasn't much better–"

Ronan was laughing as he pulled Amir close, gratified by the sound that came low and pleased from his throat when their lips met. He hooked a leg behind Amir's thigh to pull him closer, heat from Amir's hands and cheeks and tongue joining the lingering warmth from Ronan's last swig of rum.

Ronan drew Amir's lip between his teeth before pulling away, leaning back on his wrists. "Break in whenever you'd like," he invited.

"Be careful what you wish for."

"I won't," said Ronan. "I kind of like it– befitting a thief. Which reminds me!" From his pocket, he procured the days-old newspaper he had swiped from Amos' table that afternoon and tapped it to Amir's chest. "Congratulations on your named debut, Mercenary."