Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Why have The Raven Boys never done a full interview before?

Sargent takes the first question. “Our group is surrounded by a lot of tragedy. We were barely ready to write about the events we were releasing music about, let alone talking to a stranger.” 

Why take an interview now?

Sargent hesitates, a stretch too long to be a pause for thinking. Lynch notices her discomfort. He answers in her stead. 

“I was always the most adamant that we wouldn’t take interviews before,” Lynch says. The others nod in approval. “I wasn’t, like, a dick–” Richard Gansey III shoots him a warning look “–tator about it. We all agreed, but I felt most strongly about it. The stories are in the songs. The songs are the versions we want to tell. So, we never did interviews.” 

So, why now?

Lynch rubs at his wrist, underneath one of the leather bracelets he’s known for wearing. He says, “It’s no secret that unkindness might be our last album. The story of why we’re taking a break isn’t one that we want to tell through music, but it’s one that our audience deserves to hear, and, hell, if we’re telling that story… might as well tell the others, too.”

— Quoth The Raven Boys, “Nevermore.”
Rolling Stones. August, 2025.

It was a sunny day in June the first time they ever heard Blue Sargent sing. They were in the Pig at the time. Ronan swiveled around in the passenger seat, neck craning to get a look at Blue as he said, “Jesus Mary. Where the fuck have you been hiding those pipes?” Blue had flushed faintly scarlet, hand wound in Adam’s. She didn’t answer, but she kept singing, despite her embarrassment. 

It hadn’t taken long after that for the boys to come to one conclusion: Blue needed to join the band. It had taken slightly longer to convince Blue of the same conclusion. 

Now, though, Blue stood behind a mic stand in the refurbished ground floor of Monmouth Manufacturing. She was framed by Ronan and Noah on either side, guitars resting on both of their shoulders—electric guitar slung against Ronan’s back, rhythm guitar nestled more carefully against Noah’s chest. Adam was at Blue’s back, seated behind the drum kit. He was tapping out a rhythm, soft and mindless. Gansey guessed he didn’t realize he was doing it. 

Gansey sat in a desk chair—the kind with a chunky headrest and wheels for feet—in front of them, watching. 

The image of them was more balanced than it had ever been before—when it was just Ronan and Noah, or when it was Adam too. It was cleaner with four. It was right with four. 

There was a break between songs. Blue gulping down water, Adam tapping out an absentminded beat, Noah finding a capo, Ronan still and quiet for once in his life. Gansey watched them, watched them shining in the lights of his—their—building. The ground floor had been the last of Monmouth to be resurrected, but it was the most important now. It was full of amps and sheet music and the drum kit Gansey had bought so many months ago. It was full of lyrics of songs not yet written. It was full of stories not yet told. It was their studio, their space. It was theirs. 

Gansey spun a little in the desk chair. The full room came to him that way. It came to him in past and present. What it once was: dusty and dirty and dangerous. What it was now: a dream. Gansey dropped one foot to the ground, halting his circular movement. He said, “I think you should try ‘tree rings’ again.” 

“Fuck, why?” Ronan asked. But, already, he brought his guitar back to his front, cradled tenderly in his hands. He plucked out the riff at the beginning of the song. He played it slower than it should be played, stripped down and intriguing. Gansey liked it; he liked hearing the foundations, the individual pieces that brought their songs to their final form. To his untrained ear, to his lack of musical inclination, it sounded like magic. Like incantations of a spell that only worked when it was said in harmony. 

“It sounded off,” Adam said, in Gansey’s place. Gansey wouldn’t have put it like that, but, admittedly, the rehearsal of “tree rings” had been rocky. It had been perfect, but it had been imperfect too. Adam added, “The dynamics and distribution’s wrong. We’re giving it all away at the beginning. We need to… start less.”

Ronan frowned. His thumb teased over the topmost string, but he didn’t pluck. “Care to be more specific?” 

It was Blue that answered. “He’s right. You’re telling a story. You have to build it up. The bridge is the climax, so everything before that should be…” she fumbled for a word, landed on, “gradual.” 

In Blue’s accent, the word meant more than its dictionary definition. She embedded a feeling—there was no other word for it, no better description, it could only be felt and not explained—into the vowels: like the tickling feeling of a hand hovering but not touching. Prickling anticipation of sensation. 

“Okay,” Ronan caved. He released his thumb from the guitar string, and a low sound reverberated through the amp. Gansey imagined he could feel the vibration all the way across the room, through the floor and up the legs of his chair. 

“Noah?” Adam prompted.

Noah rattled out the proper distributions, counted them in, and Ronan played the opening riff—to tempo, this time. Blue’s voice took the opening verse, Henrietta accent like syrup over Noah’s lyrics. Gansey had lost track of the amount of times he had heard this song, but this… this was the first time he ever heard it. Blue brought the song to life. Blue amplified the music. Blue made the lyrics, the words, the story breathe. 

“Trees carved with names no one knows. Bark rots away and there they go. Floorboards squeak with haunted moans.”

Gansey closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the chair, and listened. 

“Time is gonna come around again. Seasons are gonna die again. Oh, oh—nothing ends. Oh, oh—nothing ends; it just pretends.”

Emotion prickled in the gaps between Gansey’s ribs. If he opened his eyes, they would prickle there, too. The song pierced at him, honest and sharp and true. There were secrets written in the rhythm of the drums, there were confessions in the chord progressions. There was magic in this, Gansey was sure. 

By the time they got to the bridge, he thought: we’ve really got something here. 

For a long time, it was just Gansey and Ronan and Noah. 

Gansey was on the edge of sixteen when he first moved to Henrietta, when he started at Aglionby Academy, when he met Ronan Lynch for the first time. Gansey couldn’t remember the exact parameters of their first exchange—what class they were in, what day it was—but he could remember how it made him feel. Ronan Lynch had unruly blond curls just long enough to tuck behind his ears, if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He let his hair go wild, go rogue. His tie was just as messy. It hung crooked around his neck, knot done wrong and tight—like Ronan had to force it into submission. His standard Aglionby sweater was nowhere to be found, but his white button down had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing leather bracelets at each wrist. The whole display—the clothing, but the posture and the language, too—was defiant. Ronan was, ostensibly, someone who knew exactly who he was, and would not hide it for any authority. Gansey, who did not have the same luxury of self awareness, was attracted to this quality in potential friends. Gansey admired him at once. Gansey was obsessed with him at once.

The first time they spoke, Ronan narrowed his eyes at him and said, “You’re new.” 

“The name’s Gansey, actually,” Gansey had said. Ronan smirked in response. Gansey, brave or stupid, asked, “What do you know about ley lines?” 

“Not much,” Ronan shrugged. “You planning on teaching a class, Professor?” 

Gansey had laughed. He wasn’t sure yet if Ronan was making fun of him, but Gansey had learned that it was usually best to laugh along. Ronan’s smirk deepened. Gansey took a risk and said, “Yes.” 

They spent the next several weeks traipsing through the Virginia countryside, having dinner at the Barns, and forgetting what it was like to ever not know each other. 

Gansey had crossed the edge into sixteen when he first met Noah Czerny. Gansey couldn’t remember exactly how it made him feel, but he could remember the exact parameters. It was two days after Gansey’s November birthday and the end of seventh period. It involved the newly purchased Pig—a birthday present from Gansey to himself; legally, he wasn’t quite old enough to drive it unsupervised, but, fiscally, he could handle skirting the rules—in the crowded parking lot of Aglionby, and Noah on a skateboard. As Gansey remembered it, he had never noticed Noah before, and he had hardly noticed him in the moment either. As Gansey remembered it, he nearly ran Noah over. Ronan had, immediately, laughed. Loud and raucous, the sound peeled through the window as Gansey cranked it down. He did not laugh. He opened his mouth to apologize to the boy with the hair blonder than Ronan’s, the big ears, and the skateboard, but no sound came out. He was frozen in his guilt, foot pressing hard, hard, hard, against the Pig’s brake pedal. The boy had looked at Gansey, at Ronan. Gansey waited to get yelled at. The boy’s laughter joined Ronan’s instead. 

“Do you need a ride?” Gansey asked, in lieu of an apology. 

The boy jerked his chin towards a red Mustang. Meaning: no. And yet, he pulled open the Pig’s passenger door. Ronan climbed out, so he could climb into the backseat, and the boy did. Ronan got back in, slammed the Pig’s door out of necessity rather than anger, and threw himself over the console to extend a fist to the boy. 

“Noah,” he introduced himself. He bumped his knuckles against Ronan’s. “Where are we going?” 

Noah didn’t wear his identity all over himself like Ronan did, but he joined them on their trip to the mountains that day. And the rest, as they say, was history. 

The seasons had changed three times since Gansey had met Ronan and Noah. Spring was twisting into summer when he bought Monmouth Manufacturing. Gansey—for more than one reason, but for one reason more than the others—could not survive another year living in the dorms at Aglionby. He had, so far, only survived by luck. He transferred to the school too close to the start of term, and the only room left was a cramped single. He wasn’t going to get that lucky again, so he bought Monmouth Manufacturing the very first time he saw it. By then, there wasn’t much of Henrietta that he hadn’t seen yet. The fact that Monmouth had escaped his notice was part of what drew him to the building, but it was also the faded signs and the mystery of its origin and the big windows. Gansey, really, was too young to buy a building—he wouldn’t be eighteen for another year and five months. But he had that Gansey charm and more money than the space was worth. Only one week after exams at Aglionby had ended, Monmouth Manufacturing was under Gansey’s name. 

Gansey, Ronan, and Noah spent that summer renovating the building. Ronan helped more than Noah did. Ronan was used to manual labor. He had no qualms about getting his hands dirty, fighting spiders and cobwebs, and dealing with mold. Noah was less inclined, but he hung around, though. On days when the dust or the noise were too much for him, he skated around the parking lot. Ronan shouted out the window, trying to get Noah to do tricks like he was a stray dog and not their best friend. On other days, Noah sat on the creaky pool table in the corner—it was there when Gansey bought the place; Ronan was adamant it stayed. He played loud music and sang even louder and distracted Ronan so much that Gansey ended up doing most of the work. 

Neither Noah nor Ronan lived at the Aglionby dorms, and they never asked why Gansey didn’t want to. That was part of why it was so easy for the three of them to be friends. Noah, Gansey thought, understood better than Ronan did. Ronan lived at home with his family, and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Noah lived at home, too, but sometimes he looked at Monmouth with longing. Gansey had been toying with the idea of offering him the factory’s second bedroom. 

In the end, Gansey never offered. In the end, the first bedroom was Gansey’s and the second bedroom became Ronan’s. 

Things changed, for the first time, when Niall Lynch was killed. 

It was the end of July and hot as sin. Gansey had to make a run to the local hardware store—they were working on the bathroom now, and, once it was done, Gansey could officially move in—and the clerk said, “Hottest day of the year.” Niall Lynch was killed at the tail end of that same day. The warmest day, not just of the year, but on record. The hottest day Henrietta had ever seen. It was a hell to match the coming evening’s tragedy. 

On the first day, Ronan didn’t show up to help install the toilet. Gansey didn’t think much of it. Not until Noah showed. His sunken eyes were tight, his teeth crammed hard into his bottom lip. Noah had seen it on the local news. The body—Niall’s body—was found by his middle son only hours ago, and it was already making waves, making headlines. Niall was a prominent figure, and it wasn’t a surprise, but it felt wrong. To overhear it from his bedroom, as Noah had. To hear it from his friend’s frail voice, as Gansey had. To hear it at all, really. Gansey hadn’t spent much time with the ever traveling, elusive Niall Lynch. But he had spent enough time with and heard enough from Ronan to consider him untouchable, invincible. And then he was dead. 

On the second day, there was nothing. There was no story on the news. There was no Noah. There was no Ronan. It was twenty-four hours of Ronan’s life that Gansey would never ask about. Gansey installed the toilet on his own, and waited. 

On the third day, Niall’s stolen BMW squealed into the parking lot of Monmouth. Ronan had a black eye and he smelled like booze. Ronan recited the will to Gansey from memory, and Gansey shuddered at the implications, at how many times his friend must have agonized over its language. Ronan was, for all intents and purposes, rendered homeless. Gansey hugged Ronan, Ronan let him. 

On the fourth day, Gansey and Ronan moved into Monmouth Manufacturing together. 

On the fifth day, Ronan woke screaming. Gansey held him while he cried. 

On the sixth day, Gansey went to the funeral with Ronan. It all came together too fast, Gansey thought. Less than a week ago, the world was burning and Niall Lynch was alive. But Gansey put on his best suit, and he attended the service at St Agnes, regardless of the fact that he wasn’t ready. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about getting Ronan there, tie neat for once even as his curls still ran away from him. Aurora got up to the podium to speak, and then didn’t say a word. Declan had to pull her back to the pews. Matthew sobbed into Declan’s shoulder. Ronan was stony and silent. Ronan hadn’t been back to St Agnes since. Ronan hadn’t seen his mother since. 

On the seventh day, Ronan put a pair of clippers in Gansey’s hand. Ronan sat on the lid of the new toilet, and Gansey shaved away the blond curls he shared with his mother and Matthew. 

The summer went dark, as if Daylight’s Saving had come early. They stopped working on Monmouth and they stopped looking for magic. Instead, Ronan drank, and Gansey put Tylenol and water on his bedside table. Ronan raced, and Gansey stole his keys when Ronan was inebriated enough to show it. Ronan oscillated impossibly between hypersomnia and insomnia, and Gansey sat awake with him until both their eyes burned. Ronan fought Declan, and Gansey got between them and became collateral damage. Ronan got a tattoo, and Gansey changed the bandages and kept it clean. Ronan cursed and didn’t smile, and Gansey rambled about Welsh history and smiled for him. Ronan nearly got himself arrested, and Gansey talked the cops out of cuffing him. Ronan was dying, day by day, and Gansey was killing himself trying to save him. Gansey was losing him. 

Noah came around more, though. Noah brought a guitar with him, and he played. Noah made Ronan laugh for the first time in months, by playing a ridiculous song and singing in a terrible impression of an Irish accent. Noah sat with Ronan while he slept in till four in the afternoon. When summer ended and fall began, Noah convinced Ronan to go to class. Gansey was losing Ronan, but Noah was drawing him back in. 

Gansey had tripped into seventeen by the time he bought Ronan his first guitar—Niall had a couple Fenders, but this was an instrument that was only Ronan’s. The ownership, at the very least, would be good for Ronan, even if the music wasn’t. Ronan named it—her—Chainsaw. It was two months after the purchase when Ronan actually held Chainsaw for the first time, when he managed his first chord. Music was sacred in the Lynch family, and it was a big step when Ronan welcomed it through the door. Niall Lynch had taught Ronan two things: how to throw a punch, and how to play a plethora of stringed and wind instruments, obscure and common alike. Niall’s teachings came back fast. Ronan made the simple acoustic guitar his own in a matter of weeks, if not days. 

Ronan drank, but less. Ronan raced, but less. Ronan fought Declan, but less. Ronan played music, and Noah played with him, and Gansey listened. Ronan was different, but he was still here. He was alive. 

It was fall when Gansey bought Ronan the guitar. It was winter when he joked that Noah and Ronan should start a band. It was becoming spring when they finally took him seriously. 

Things changed, for the second time, when they put out an ad for a drummer. 

It was Gansey’s number on the flier stapled to the student memo board at Aglionby. Ronan had taken a vow against answering his phone and Noah was, admittedly, not great at people. Gansey was good at people, and so he put his number on the flier, and waited for a call to come through. 

Gansey wasn’t disillusioned. He knew non-senior students at Aglionby cared more about extracurriculars that would look good on a college application while most seniors were gunning to get out of town, not put down roots in a local band. Gansey also knew it didn’t help that it was Ronan and Noah’s names on the flier—Ronan’s name which had become synonymous with trouble, and Noah’s name which wasn’t well known. It would have helped, Gansey thought, if he was part of the band. But he wasn’t. So, it was unlikely he would get many calls. But he had faith that he’d get at least one. 

It took longer than he thought. The flier hung and Gansey’s phone went unringing for so long that he was close to accepting defeat. Ronan and Noah never asked, took his silence on the subject as answer enough. Gansey didn’t think they were all that invested yet, which was good. He didn’t think either one of them needed to suffer the disappointment; Gansey certainly couldn’t stomach being the cause of it. Gansey was invested, though. Gansey knew this could be something. He felt it. Gansey was good at spotting potential, and Ronan and Noah had it. 

After a month, his phone finally rang. 

Gansey had, almost, forgotten about the ad when he answered the unknown number. “Hello, Richard Gansey speaking.” 

“This is Adam Parrish,” a thick Henrietta accent spoke against Gansey’s ear. “I was calling about the drummer position. Is this the right number?” 

“Yes,” Gansey said, quickly. His heart beat a little faster in his chest, anticipatory and adrenaline-filled. “Yes. I’m Gansey,” he said again. “I’m not in the band, but I’m,” he laughed, “their manager, I guess.”

“Right,” Adam said. His voice stretched the vowel out, long and lingering, like dusk in the summertime. 

“So, you play?” Gansey asked. He was pacing the front room of Monmouth. It was a good thing Ronan wasn’t home—he was watching Matthew’s soccer practice—because Ronan hated when he paced. “Do you have experience?” 

“Sort of,” Adam said, honest. “I was in the percussion section of the marching band at, um,” he hesitated, “the school I went to before Aglionby.” 

“Oh,” Gansey said, cheerful. “That’s great. What year are you at Aglionby?” 

“Junior,” said Adam. He paused, long enough that Gansey started speaking before he did. Gansey got one word out, another question beginning with so, before Adam accidentally cut him off. “I think we have Latin together.” 

“Oh,” Gansey said again. He racked his brain for a face to match with the name Adam Parrish, but he came up short. Matching Adam for integrity, Gansey admitted, “Sorry, that’s the only class Lynch, Czerny, and I have together. We’re usually in our own world.” 

For a long moment, Adam didn’t say anything. Then, he exhaled a short, shallow laugh. “I’ve noticed.”

“Right,” Gansey said, laughing too. There was something to the tone of Adam’s voice that Gansey couldn’t place. He decided to ignore it, for now. “So, I’m going to get a drum set for the rehearsal space. We don’t… We don’t exactly have a rehearsal space yet, but Ronan and I live together off campus, so I figure you all can practice there. And I’m going to talk to Noah and Ronan about when the three of you could play together, as like a trial run. Is this a good number to call you back?”

“Uh,” Adam said. “No.” 

“Is there a better—” 

“No,” Adam said again. 

“Okay,” Gansey agreed, easy. “Well, then, we’ll talk at school. In Latin. Tomorrow.” 

“Sure,” said Adam. 

“Thank you for your interest,” Gansey said, and then Adam hung up before he could. 

Gansey grinned, and he was still grinning when Ronan got home. Ronan was scowling and his shoulders were a bit red from exposure to the sun. He stomped into Monmouth and toward his room, but he stopped when Gansey cleared his throat. Ronan whipped his gaze to Gansey’s attention, like the act itself was an act of war. “What’s wrong with your face?” 

“What’s wrong with yours?” Gansey retorted, but he didn’t give Ronan enough time to get wound up—or, more wound up than he already was. Ronan was always tricky these days, but he was worse after seeing Matthew. It was good for them to see each other, and it was good when Ronan was with him. But it also messed with him when Ronan had to go home, and when home didn’t include his younger brother. Gansey didn’t want to remind Ronan of the grief that needed no reminder, so he moved quickly into his actual answer, “Got a call from a drummer.” 

“Okay,” Ronan said. He was still scowling, his voice was even. Gansey couldn’t tell if Ronan was excited or annoyed or if he was anything at all. He didn’t give anything away. That wasn’t new—and new, with Ronan, always means post-Niall. Gansey’s first impression of Ronan hadn’t been entirely accurate. Yes, Ronan knew exactly who he was and he wore it all over his exterior. However, Ronan hardly ever knew what he felt, so it was impossible for him to show it. It was no surprise, then, to see him emotionless, hiding, concealing. That wasn’t new. It had, however, gotten worse and more often since Niall.

“His name’s Adam Parrish,” Gansey said. Ronan’s expression didn’t shift, showed no signs of recognition. Gansey wasn’t surprised. If he didn’t know Adam, then it was unlikely Ronan did. Ronan had barely been to school this year, let alone paid attention. Most of the time, Ronan fell asleep or he scribbled frantically in a notebook that certainly wasn’t filled with conjugations. It was lyrics, Gansey thought, but Ronan hadn’t shared anything yet. “He played percussion in the marching band at his old school.” 

Ronan scoffed. “So, he’s not actually a drummer, then. Does he know this is a Rock band and not the fucking military march?” 

Gansey fought the urge to roll his eyes. “If Noah were here, he would say you’re not a Rock band.” 

In the weeks since Ronan and Noah had agreed to make the band official, there had been no original music. Mostly, it was whatever cover song they could agree on—an easier feat than expected when it was Noah and Ronan; usually, it was only Gansey who begrudged and judged their choices. Mostly, it was other artists’ songs that they practiced while they waited for a call to make them not a duet, but a triad. Gansey knew there was material, though. Ronan certainly wrote furiously, and Gansey was sure Noah wrote even more. But he hadn’t pushed them to share yet. So, for now, there was no music. So, there was no genre. But Noah had made it clear it would not be purely Rock and it would not be the electronic garbage Ronan listened to when he got drunk. 

“He’s got enough experience,” Gansey continued. “This is, after all, an amateur band.” 

“We’re not amateurs,” Ronan said. His scowl deepened, eyes icy. He wasn’t wrong, per say. Noah started guitar lessons when he was ten, and Ronan had been taught at home since before he could walk—probably. But he wasn’t right either. 

“Amateur as in unpaid,” Gansey said. “Not unskilled.” 

Ronan said nothing. He leveled Gansey with a stare and silence, both weaponized and both harmless against Gansey. 

“No one else has called,” Gansey said, putting his foot down. “You’re going to give him a shot.” 

Ronan shrugged. “Fine.” 

It took a week for the music store in Harrisonburg to deliver the drum kit. It took four attempts before the delivery stuck. The first time, the delivery driver assumed the address was wrong and left without knocking or stopping at all. The next two times, the delivery driver came by when Gansey and Ronan were at Aglionby, and had to turn back. The fourth time, the delivery had been scheduled for early that Thursday morning, long before they had to leave for school. Gansey and Ronan set the drum kit up in the living room. It looked out of place among the old of Monmouth. Gansey spotted Ronan eyeing the drums with interest, and he said, simply, “No.” 

Ronan made a rude gesture. 

“School,” Gansey said, and they left the drums alone. 

It was another week after that before Adam was available to come over. He had work and he had to study, and none of them asked him not to. (Noah was the only one of them who knew who Adam was before the phone call. He said Adam went to Aglionby on scholarship, and that he was top of their class in every subject. Ronan had, briefly, had him beat in Latin. Not anymore, though.) There was no rush, Gansey supposed. This wasn’t urgent, although it felt like it was. 

Eventually, Adam played with them for the first time. It was true, of course, that Adam didn’t have much experience. What he did have, though, was interest and passion and enthusiasm. He played hard, and even Ronan couldn’t find a reason to deny him entry. And so, the band picked up a third member. They would need a name next. And a proper studio, but at least Gansey had some ideas on the latter front. 

Adam started coming to Monmouth often—to practice, in the first month, and then, in the second, to hang out and practice. Time stretched on that way: music and laughter and energy, energy, energy. Those, Gansey thought, were the golden days. 

Gansey liked watching Adam play more than he liked listening to Adam play. The drums were a harsh instrument and, on their own, didn’t do much for Gansey sonically. But Adam… transformed with the sticks in his hands. Adam was never just one thing, Gansey was learning. There was—almost—always an entire world within Adam Parrish, a world of feelings and impossibilities and contradictions. Adam was a keeper of secrets just as they all were; Adam had stories he never told. Really, he fit in like he had been there the whole time. Adam was quiet, kept all his noise inside, but not when he was playing. When he played, he got this wild look in his eyes. When he played, it consumed him. When he played, it was just him and the drums and his secrets ricocheting off the cymbals. He had a singularity to him then that Gansey found enchanting to witness. Often, he couldn’t look away.  

Ronan kept writing, and eventually he started sharing. Noah shared lyrics, too. Gansey started renovations of the ground floor. They went for drives in the Pig. They went to Nino’s. They went hiking through the old ley line haunts, places they hadn’t been since the previous summer. Gansey—and sometimes Ronan, but less and less Ronan as spring properly came to fruition, and then Ronan not at all when fall came again—picked Adam up where the tarmac ended, and they drove to school together each morning. Noah brought a huge stack of CDs over to Monmouth, and they laid on the floor like starfish, just listening. The others were learning, Gansey presumed. But he just listened. 

Golden. 

But the kind of gold that was tarnished. 

Adam and Ronan fought like ocean and fire, but they weren’t the only ones. Adam was complicated. He was talented, smart, witty, funny. He was a perfect addition to the band, and to their friendship too. Gansey, like with Ronan and Noah, loved him at once. But Adam was prideful, Adam was defensive. Adam came from a different life than they did, and he never let them forget it.

Adam offered to pay Gansey back for the drum set. They got in a screaming match when Gansey said no. Adam didn’t have a CD player at home, so Gansey offered the use of his. They got in a screaming match when Adam said no. Adam had to work, so they couldn’t practice often, so Gansey offered to pay him for his services with the band. They got in a screaming match when Adam said no, and then they didn’t talk for two weeks. Gansey had to show up at the double-wide and beg for Adam’s forgiveness; the groveling had hurt, but not talking had hurt worse. Adam showed up to rehearsal or school or Nino’s with bruises, and they all knew where they came from. Gansey offered Adam a home at Monmouth, and Adam said no. By then, Gansey knew better than to get in a screaming match with Adam Parrish. There was no winning, for either of them. 

Adam was complicated, but there was no denying he made them better. Which was why it nearly killed Gansey when, a year in, he quit. The band, and the friendship. 

There was only one hospital in Henrietta. Mountain View Urgent Care was a cardboard building, no more stately or defined than the local drugstore or the Post Office. It was only larger in its decay, in its gaunt age. It was a weeping willow portico and paper glass windows. It was the strong scent of antiseptic, the metronome of monitors, and the endless white hallways—all things that made Gansey weak kneed and tight chested on the best of days. 

This was the worst of days. 

Gansey had been to this hospital four times since his move to Henrietta. One for each of them. First, for Ronan. Ronan got drunk and got in the sharp nosed BMW he stole from his father. He came out the other side of the crash with a dent in the BMW that was going to cost thousands to fix and a concussion; the latter was the only reason Gansey didn’t lecture him. Second, for Noah. Noah had a skateboarding accident, slipped off the board and caught himself on frail wrists. He was lucky that neither was broken, only the right was strained. Gansey carried guilt around in the shape of Noah’s guitar, his fear that Noah wouldn’t be able to play for a while that was more for Ronan’s sake than anyone else’s. Third, for himself. Ronan got in a particularly vicious fight with Declan, Declan said something particularly nasty, Gansey did something particularly stupid. He broke his thumb on Declan’s nose; Ronan hadn’t been decent enough to save him the lecture. (“How many times I gotta tell you to keep your thumb outside your fist if you’re gonna punch someone? Loser.”) Fourth, for Adam. 

Adam. 

Adam’s father shoved him down the stairs of the double-wide. Adam hit his head off the railing. Adam lost all hearing in his left ear. Adam called the police. Adam. 

Adam. 

Ronan, who had been with Adam at the time of the incident and had a bruised cheekbone and split lip to show for it, had called Gansey. Gansey had rushed to the hospital. Gansey had been told Adam was deaf in one ear. Gansey had been told Adam didn’t want to see anyone. Gansey went back to the Pig, and he sat in the parking lot, and he waited. 

Adam’s eyes were hollow when he finally stepped through the sliding doors. They found the orange shape of the Pig quickly, as if he knew Gansey would be waiting. His gait was awkward and unbalanced as he approached. He was silent as he slipped into the car. He had to slam the door to convince the latch to stick. The bang reverberated through the evening quiet. It was a physical blow, that sound and that look in Adam’s eyes. 

He looked hollow. 

For a long time, neither boy said anything. For a long time, they sat in the Pig. Gansey couldn’t remember if Adam had ever sat in the passenger seat before, but he was there now. Eyes closed and hand cupped over his deaf ear. He looked empty, exhausted. 

Gansey should have just drove. But he didn’t. 

“I quit,” Adam said, barely a whisper and barely audible among the crickets and the bustle of foot traffic around them. 

“What?” 

“I’m going to Harvard,” Adam said. So, he had gotten in. Gansey should have expected it, really. He had gotten his letter from Yale last week, delivered to the doorstep of Monmouth while Gansey and the band explored Henrietta’s record store. Gansey hadn’t paid the letter much mind, hadn’t thought much about college at all—except for how to postpone it, except for a stack of research articles about the benefits of a gap year, except for a list of reasons why Gansey needed to take one. But he knew Adam had thought about college hungrily, like something he needed to take a bite of now; he knew Adam’s letter must have arrived the same day his did. Gansey put some pieces together then, some implications of acceptance and Adam’s angry father. His stomach churned. Adam repeated, “I quit.” 

“You quit?” Gansey asked. He knew exactly what Adam meant, but he didn’t want to hear it. 

“The band, Gansey.” Adam made him hear it anyway. He dropped his hand from his ear. It fell to his knee where he picked, picked, picked at the hole in his jeans. “I can’t play anymore.” 

“You don’t know that,” Gansey said, at once and without thinking. Something desperate and raw was building up inside him, clawing up his throat and scratching for release. 

Adam scoffed. His voice was cold and empty, same as his eyes. “Don’t tell me what I know.” 

Gansey kept looking at Adam, but Adam wasn’t looking at him. Adam was looking at his hands, at the hospital, at his hands, at the hospital. He was avoiding Gansey, but Gansey wasn’t going to let him. He was going to fight, even though he hated nothing more than fighting Adam. Gansey said, “Don’t let him get away with this.” 

“I’m not!” Volume burst from Adam, like the bang of the car door: sudden and shattering. Gansey gripped the steering wheel hard—so as not to flinch or react. “I called the cops, didn’t I?” 

Adam got into Harvard. Adam had his ticket out of Henrietta—his one way track to leaving this secret buried in dirt the same color as his hair. Adam was five months away from escape, from success. He wouldn’t have called the police. Not if he didn’t have to. Not if Ronan hadn’t been there. 

“Because of Ronan,” Gansey said, simply. “For Ronan.” 

Adam laughed, but it was humorless. It was a poison breath, a gust of acrid air that filled the Pig impossibly. Gansey was choking on that sound. Adam said, “Don’t tell me why I did what I did. You could bail him out without blinking an eye, don’t tell me otherwise. Ronan dropped out six months ago, don’t tell me he has some future he can’t risk.” 

“He does!” Gansey yelled. His voice rose, and he knew it was a mistake, so he pushed his ire back down inside himself. He folded it with neat corners and tucked it away to never be exposed again. He turned to sincerity, to something nearly a plea. “He does have a future, if you don’t quit.” 

“How many times do I have to tell you that Ronan’s problems are his problems? It’s not my job to make him successful.” 

Gansey didn’t want to argue about Ronan. He didn’t want to argue at all. He said, “That’s not what I meant.” 

“Then what the hell did you mean?” Adam asked. He finally turned his gaze to Gansey, and Gansey wished, at once, that he hadn’t. There were no bruises on his face, no cuts on his lips or his brows. There was no evidence of how broken he was. There was just the dull look in his eyes. 

I’m losing him, Gansey thought.

“I meant: don’t quit, Adam,” Gansey said. He tried to keep his tone even and objective, but emotion crept to the surface. It bled between the syllables, an aching pain of regret. Regret for what had happened to Adam, regret for not being able to control any part of it. Regret for knowing he still couldn’t control it now. “You’re good. You’re really good.” 

“I was,” Adam corrected. Hopeless. 

“You’re not even going to try?” 

“All I ever do is try!” Adam shouted. He slammed his hand, palm down, against his own knee. It made an awful slap against his skin, where it was bared by fraying denim. “I work a hundred times harder than anyone else. This was the one thing that was easy, Gansey, and it’s not going to be easy anymore, so—” he took a breath, “no. No, I can’t.” 

Gansey didn’t know what else to say. He kind of felt like crying. But if Adam wasn’t going to try, then Gansey was going to try for him. 

“You could.” 

“I don’t want to!” Adam’s voice was louder than it had been all night. It was a sob more than it was a scream. His words cracked and splintered. Gansey wanted to glue them back together, but he couldn’t fix this. Adam whispered, “Is that what you want to hear?” 

“No,” Gansey said. The fight drained out of him all at once, and, with it, came something bitter. Something he would add to his list of regrets. “But it’s better than saying you can’t. It’s better to admit you’re just giving up.” 

“Fuck. You.” Adam’s eyes were daggers, his tongue was coated in the blood of his enemies—himself, more than anyone else. “You don’t get it.” 

“I—” 

“I don’t want to,” Adam repeated. It had all the qualities of an echo. Softer, dying but not dead yet. “I don’t want to try anymore. I’m tired.” 

He sounded pitiful. He was pitiful. 

“Please,” Gansey implored. It was all he could manage, just one more go. “Don’t let him take this from you.” 

“It’s already gone.” Adam’s hand shook as he reached for the Pig’s door handle. His fingers closed around metal, but he didn’t open the door. He was turned away from Gansey when he gave just an inch. When he said, “Take me home.” 

Gansey didn’t know what home meant for Adam Parrish anymore, and he figured Adam didn’t know either. It didn’t matter. Gansey took him to Monmouth, and Adam didn’t protest. He followed Gansey into the building. Adam wouldn’t look at him; Gansey wouldn’t take his eyes off of him. 

That night, Ronan gave up his bed to Adam—by virtue of never coming home. Gansey could have been worried about Ronan. But he knew what this was. If Ronan never came home, if Ronan never offered, then Adam never had to refuse. Ronan didn’t accompany Adam Parrish to the hospital. He fought Robert Parrish, though. Ronan didn’t try to comfort Adam. Ronan—hater of all phones—called Gansey, though. Ronan didn’t corral Adam to safety. He gave up his bed for Adam, though. Gansey knew exactly what Ronan was doing. 

Except that he didn’t. 

Two days later, Ronan moved Adam into a room belonging to St Agnes. Two days later, Gansey lost Adam Parrish entirely. 

It was only Noah and Ronan in the beginning, but there was no band without Adam Parrish. With no band, Ronan got worse again. Gansey tried to help, but to no avail. Gansey took the BMW’s keys to school with him; Ronan got in a car with Joseph Kavinsky. Gansey poured Ronan’s beer down the sink; Ronan got caught stealing booze from Fresh Eagle. Gansey invited Matthew to come over; Ronan punched a hole in the wall when he left. Gansey decided he couldn’t take it anymore; Ronan crawled into his bed after a nightmare. 

Gansey called Declan once. Declan told him his brother was nothing without their father, same as their mother. Gansey, inspired, called the Barns. Three times. On the third, a nurse answered and told him not to call again, or else Aurora would disconnect the phone line. He didn’t call again. 

Gansey was at a loss. 

Gansey was losing everything. He wasn’t so disillusioned to think he would ever get the old Ronan back, just as he would never get his old self back, either. But he wanted to keep the version of Ronan that he did have, and, like this, he was losing him. There was no denying it. He was losing everything.

Still a student at Aglionby, Gansey had no choice but to leave Ronan at Monmouth for eight long hours, five days a week. Each day, Gansey feared this would be the one. This would be the day that Ronan drank himself to death. Or this would be the day that Ronan totaled a car and totaled himself. Or this would be the day that Ronan got arrested for a charge the Gansey family’s charm and money could not absolve. Or this would be the day that Ronan drove to the Barns and left one home for another. 

On the good days, Ronan was asleep when Gansey left and he was still asleep when he got home. On the bad days, Ronan was gone when Gansey left and he was still gone when he got home. 

Today, Ronan had been gone when Gansey left. Today, same as every day this month, Parrish sat at the very front of the classroom and ignored Gansey and Noah’s existence. Today, when school let out, Gansey drove past Monmouth and toward the sprawling fields of an estate only Virginia money could afford. 

Adele Czerny opened the door when he knocked. 

She smiled at him with Noah Czerny’s smile, and said, “Noah’s in his room.” 

Gansey thanked her, and she moved to let him in. Gansey hadn’t been to the Czerny household very often—there was no reason when it was so far on the edge of Henrietta, when Monmouth had everything they needed, when Noah hardly offered an invitation. The house’s exterior was brick, the portico was boldly white like a building of congress, the building was framed with huge hedges. It was everything one would expect from an Aglionby boy’s house. But the inside… the inside was a home. Family pictures on every surface, shoes discarded in the hallway, a skateboard propped against a priceless plant pot. Gansey sort of loved this strangely dichotomous house. 

Noah’s bedroom wasn’t so much messy as it was crowded. The walls were covered in pictures, paintings, posters. The floor was covered in sheet music, guitar picks, more shoes. Every surface of the room was stacked tall with CDs or records. Noah’s guitar case was pride of place: propped up in a corner. This was a musicians’ room if Gansey had ever seen one. It would have fit right in at Monmouth, really. 

“Did you say you were coming?” Noah asked. He had a pair of headphones looped around his neck and his laptop open to a production software that, from what Gansey could surmise, seemed too professional to be free. “Did I forget?” 

“No,” Gansey said. He didn’t wait to be invited in, just toed off his boat shoes and took a seat in the wooden chair at Noah’s desk. “I didn’t want to go home.” 

Noah merely nodded. Gansey knew he understood the feeling, knew that was why invites to the Czerny estate were so rare. The Czerny family was kind and accepting and normal, but so were the Ganseys. Sometimes, the family could be perfect and it still didn’t matter. The sons still didn’t want to be there. They still wanted to run. After all, Gansey lived two hours from the house he grew up in. After all, Noah spent more time at Monmouth than he did here—although, that was becoming less and less true as the calendar dragged out a month since Adam quit. 

“Was he there this morning?” Noah asked. Quietly, so Gansey could barely hear it, music played from the headphones resting at his clavicle. He clicked and dragged something, released, did it again. 

“No,” Gansey said. There was a pearl necklace on Noah’s desk—Gansey assumed it belonged to the youngest Czerny sibling, Margot. Gansey didn’t know why Noah had it, but he fiddled with the gold clasp, just to give his hands something to do. 

“Mm,” was all Noah offered. 

“What are you doing?” Gansey asked. They had a paper due tomorrow for World History, but Noah wasn’t writing. 

“Just a second,” he said. 

It wasn’t just a second, but Gansey didn’t mind waiting. He listened to the quiet music and the clicking of computer keys until Noah was ready. When he was, he pulled the plug from the headphone jack, and hit play. An unfamiliar melody burst from the speakers. Noah turned the volume down two notches. The drums came in. Then, Noah’s voice over the lyrics:

“Pinch me, I’m falling awake. Tires cry, you’re running away. Long is the night on my own. Lies down in your undertone.”

“What is this?” Gansey asked. 

Noah shushed him, and Gansey went quiet once more. The sound quality of the laptop wasn’t great and the song was clearly just a draft, but it was also so clearly incredible. The lyrics weaved through nonsensical and purposefully plain, between certainty and uncertainty, between reality and something that could only be considered dreamlike. By the end, Gansey had gone so still with listening. He didn’t want to miss a single beat, a single world, a single note. 

“It’s called ‘what is real?’,” Noah said, as the outro played out. The room felt empty when the song ended, when the music drained from the space. “Adam and Ronan wrote it a few months ago. I started helping them record it—just with my laptop, y’know—but, now,” Noah shrugged. “I finished it myself. It’s basically just a demo. It’s good, though. Isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Gansey said. “Yes, it’s good.” 

Gansey felt breathless. Gansey felt hopeless. 

“I think you should play it for Adam,” Noah said. 

Gansey opened his mouth to protest, but Noah didn’t let him.

“He needs to hear it.” 

Gansey didn’t want to let the hope in. He didn’t want to believe that Adam could come back, could save the band and Ronan and Gansey, too. He couldn’t bear to open himself to the disappointment and heartache and rejection. But he also didn’t want to believe that Adam could hear this and not feel something either. How could he, when it was such proof of their potential?

Gansey let the hope in.

“Alright,” he said. 

Gansey sat in a pew at the back of St Agnes Church. He hadn’t been since the funeral, and it felt wrong. At night, when the sun didn’t light up the stained glass. Alone, when Ronan wasn’t at his side. At all, when he didn’t believe, not fully or completely or unconditionally. Gansey wondered if there was a God. He wondered if that God knew that he was an abomination—a death that didn’t stick but clung, a body broken and changed. He wondered if that God loved him or hated him. He wondered if there was a difference. Both were suffocating, all consuming. Both expected things of Gansey that he couldn’t provide. 

Gansey’s laptop and the transferred file sat on the pew beside him. It felt more holy than anything else here. 

An engine rumbled as a car pulled up outside. Gansey grabbed his things and slipped out of the back door of the church. As expected, the Hondayota was crawling into the parking lot, a mismatch of colors looking like it could crumble in a strong enough breeze. Adam got out of the car. His shoulders were drawn towards his ears, his fingers were dark with grease. He noticed the Pig before he noticed Gansey. 

“What are you doin’ here?” Adam asked. His voice was tired, too worn to clip the Henrietta vowels. So that here felt heavy, sickly sweet. So that his annoyance was played up in false manners. 

“I just want to talk,” Gansey said. 

Adam eyed the computer bag slung over his shoulder. Adam had always been suspicious; this time, he had reason to be. And yet, Adam didn’t fight Gansey off, didn’t tell him to leave. He let Gansey follow him up to his cramped apartment. Gansey bashed his head on the ceiling—Adam hadn’t warned him of its height, or lack thereof. 

Adam was smirking a little, when Gansey looked at him, one hand covering his to-be-probably-bruised forehead. 

“Nice,” Gansey said. 

Adam shrugged. “That’s what you get for ambushing me.” 

“This isn’t an ambush,” said Gansey. But he opened his bag and pulled out his laptop. He propped it awkwardly on one knee—Adam’s apartment didn’t really have any surfaces, it was just a twin mattress on the floor and cardboard boxes. He opened the file, and started playing “what is real?” before Adam could stop him. 

Adam recognized the song quickly. 

“This isn’t talking,” he said. When he said talking, he meant: I’m listening. 

Gansey said nothing. He let the song play through. It was less foreign to him now. He had listened to it a dozen times the night before, when he left the Czerny household and found Ronan asleep in his bed instead of his own. He played it over and over. He knew all the lyrics by now, knew the melody like he knew the drive to this church—through no practice of his own, but through the knowledge of its importance to those he cared about. The song was familiar now, but it hadn’t lost its power. It was still just as good as the first time. 

When the song finished, Adam crossed his arms over his chest. He had tears in his eyes. “So?” 

“Adam,” Gansey said. It wasn’t the wrong thing to say, but the way he said it was. His pity was flushed and obvious. Gansey had seconds before Adam told him to get out. He closed his laptop, slipped it back in his bag. He stamped his voice back to neutral, managed a less sullen sounding, “You know I transferred to Aglionby a year before you did, right?” 

The change in subject faltered Adam enough that his anger wasn’t unleashed. He only scrubbed an aborted hand at his eyes, and said, “Sure.” 

“Do you know why I moved to Henrietta?” Gansey asked. He and Adam stood in the middle of the small room, the only place they could stand without hitting their heads. They faced each other like two telephone poles, hung together only by fraying strings of connection. 

“‘Cause your parents could afford to send you to a fancy Ivy League prep school?” Adam said. He cocked his head to the side. His voice wasn’t full of venom, but the movement was. 

Adam wasn’t entirely wrong. He wasn’t entirely right either. 

The story: Gansey came to Henrietta because his father wanted him to attend Aglionby Academy, the notorious prep school perfect for the Yale track his father desired for his son. The truth: Gansey agreed to Henrietta because it was a prominent place in Virginia’s most mystical history. The truth beyond the truth: Gansey agreed to Aglionby because he wanted the all boys part.  

“When I was ten, I came out to my parents as transgender,” Gansey said. “When I was thirteen, I started my transition. I moved to Henrietta when I started passing.” 

Gansey looked at Adam; Adam looked at Gansey. Gansey waited for the moment that Adam’s eyes dropped to his chest, but it never happened, the moment never arrived. 

“Oh,” Adam said. His previously crossed arms dropped. He shoved his still greasy hands in his front pockets—that staining movement, more than anything else, gave away how disoriented he was. “I don’t really know what to say. No one’s ever come out to me before—I mean, Lynch does, a few times a day, but—um. That’s cool. Your… your family was cool about it?” 

There was a note to the way he said your family. Probably he was thinking about Gansey’s mother’s politics.

“Yeah,” said Gansey. “They were. I’m very lucky and very privileged. I know that,” he nodded. Gansey wanted to break Adam’s heavy eye contact, look down at his feet and hide from this. But he was asking Adam to face his pain, so he had to face his own too. “My point in telling you is that— is that you’re not the only one who has secrets. I know it’s not the same, and I know I’ll never get it. But I know what it’s like to run from the truth. And, speaking from experience, it doesn’t stop being true just because your postal code has changed, or because you’re the only who knows.” 

Adam sighed. It was a world weary sigh, it was the sigh of someone who had never been safe a day in their life. Gansey wanted to make Adam safe. 

“I’m the only one who knows?” Adam asked. 

“Yes,” Gansey said.

“Thank you for telling me,” said Adam. There was sincerity in the way his jaw clenched before it opened, like he was bracing himself for his own honesty. “But, Gansey, I am never going to be able to listen to music the same way. I am never going to be able to play the same. I’m— I’m going to Harvard.” 

“I know,” Gansey said. “I know you have to go, and I’m not asking you to stay. I’m asking you to give us one more summer. Ronan needs it, Noah needs it. You need it, Adam. You need to try, even if you don’t want to.” 

It was a risk to tell Adam Parrish what he needed, but it was also the truth. Gansey had never seen Adam more at ease than when he was wailing on the drums. Sweat would cling to his brows and a smile would cling to the corners of his mouth. When he took a break, his shoulders would drop. Tension bled from him like water pouring through cracks in a dam: slowly, and then shattered all at once. 

“Adam, please,” Gansey said. One last plea. 

It was a point of pride, Gansey knew. Adam must be missing the music, the drums. He must be, but to concede would be to set his ego aside. To concede would be to accept that he had been wrong, and Gansey had never seen Adam Parrish admit to being wrong before. And yet, he did. And yet, he said, “You can have the summer.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Why ‘Gansey’?” asked Adam. 

“Dick is a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Gansey said, as if he hadn’t chosen his father’s name for himself. It was about tradition, it was about who he would have been if he had been born proper. It was a gesture of goodwill towards his father. It was his name, but it wasn’t his. Gansey was his. 

Adam laughed, and Gansey smiled. There was still space between them, Gansey knew, but it was closing. Adam wasn’t walking out the door anymore. 

When Gansey was ten, he went with his parents to a Congressional fund-raiser. He was too old for the children and too young for the adults. He followed Helen around for most of the night, until she got annoyed and told him to go away. Gansey ended up in the backyard, playing hide and seek with kids three years younger than him. Gansey wasn’t thinking about the environment, about the potential consequences of his negligence. He knew better, and yet he went into the backyard. He got stung by a wasp. Twice. 

Gansey had, later, tried to research the odds of getting stung twice in one day. He couldn’t find any data, which meant it must be a rare enough occurrence. It was not as rare as what happened next. 

One sting would have been enough to kill him, and he had died. But then, he came back. He had been out for seven minutes; it felt more like a lifetime. His parents rushed him to the hospital, and he was deemed a medical miracle. Gansey had died, and yet he had lived. There was no explanation, so miracle it was. 

Gansey had, later, tried to discover his own explanation. Miracle didn’t sit right with him, but the party’s house sat on a ley line. That awakened Gansey’s fascination with the perfectly straight energy lines—with all the magic that would, later, lead him to Henrietta, Virginia. 

Two days after the incident, Gansey came out to his parents. They were receptive, but Gansey had a horrible feeling in his gut that they were only so accepting because of how relieved they still were, how scared they still were. 

Gansey had known since his first Republican mixer that he was different, and he had figured out why long before age ten. However, Gansey had never intended to tell anyone. Because that wasn’t what Ganseys did. Ganseys swallowed their discomfort. Ganseys played their part and never deviated from it. Ganseys’—or, rather, Gansey’s—feelings didn’t matter. 

But, after his death—when he had died and he had never gotten a chance to live as he was supposed to live—the truth mattered more than anything.  

Gansey died with a name he hoped that, one day, no one would remember. He was reborn Richard Campbell Gansey III. 

Two days after Gansey told Adam, he told Noah and Ronan. He didn’t have to, he knew. Adam would keep his secret, and Gansey could come up with some other explanation for the would be question of how—how did you get Adam to agree to come back?—but it was time. Gansey had meant what he said to Adam. Being surrounded by those that didn’t know, didn’t make him feel any better about the lingering trauma of death and rebirth and dysphoria. Sometimes, it made him feel worse. It made him feel shame when he knew he had no reason to. It made him feel isolated when he wanted, more than anything, to feel like he was a part of it—boyhood. It made him wish his parents didn’t think it should be kept hidden, too. 

Gansey meant what he said to Adam, so he had to live beside his words. He had to show his integrity. And so, Gansey told them, same as he told Adam, “I’m trans.” 

Ronan held out his fist for Gansey, and Gansey knocked his knuckles against Ronan’s. It was the clumsy gesture of another language, but it was a language Gansey was learning. Noah had smiled, knowingly, and guessed, “So, Adam’s coming back?” 

Adam was, and he did, and the band was whole once more. Three cogs working together, and Gansey watching. He didn’t feel isolated, though. He didn’t feel on the outside looking in. He felt like the conductor. He felt like Nicholas Copernicus, like the first in history to discover that the world revolved around the sun. This band was his axis, and he knew, like he knew the ley line saved him more than God did, that he wouldn’t be the only one. One day, the world would revolve around Noah Czerny, Ronan Lynch, and Adam Parrish. One day, Gansey’s vision and this band’s blinding shine would be seen by more than just him. 

One day. 

The days and weeks that followed were, truly, golden. Not the stuff of metal, but the stuff of sun rays. It was light that couldn’t be diminished. No matter the dark clouds that rolled through, it was always there. Shining. Golden. 

Gansey got to work renovating the ground floor of Monmouth. In this space, it was impossible to ignore that Monmouth was a warehouse. The ceilings were high and the windows stretched from floor to ceiling. The support beams were metal and the place smelled, faintly, of sawdust. It was a big undertaking, turning the open floor into a studio, but it would be worth it, Gansey knew. 

Ronan, Noah, and Adam helped him speed up the process. Gansey liked it best when Adam didn’t help, though. When he bashed on the drums instead, and Gansey listened and watched. Adam was right, of course. He played differently now—more angry but less focused, less adhered to technique and more at the whim of feeling.

Adam wasn’t always with them—he was working overtime to save for Harvard expenses—but he was often. Gansey liked it best when he was. He was well aware of how much it meant that Adam was giving them so much time, giving them an entire season. 

While Gansey renovated, the band worked, too. Sometimes, hours would pass in silence as they wrote lyrics. Sometimes, hours would pass in conversation as they wrote together. Sometimes, hours would pass in music as they rehearsed, as they put melodies to the words they shared. While Gansey renovated, he listened. They were making progress, he could tell. They were getting closer to having songs, to having something to record, to having substance. The next step, Gansey was told, was an electric guitar. 

One afternoon, after school, the four of them piled into the Pig. Gansey drove through and out of Henrietta, coaxed the Camaro onto the highway, and navigated towards Harrisonburg. To the music store where Adam’s drums had been purchased. 

Gansey watched, as the band entered the store. The AC hit like a wave of relief, the sight of instruments everywhere struck them with awe. Adam gaped—too impressed to pretend that he wasn’t. Ronan grinned—too happy to pretend he was miserable. Noah laughed—too excited to keep quiet. They were all so… affected, by this space and its contents. Gansey was happy just to watch them enjoying themselves so blatantly. 

Hours passed in that store. 

It was unnecessary. Gansey and Noah had talked to the salesperson, asked good questions about different electric guitars and their value and benefits. They knew within thirty minutes which guitar and its subsequent amp would best fit the needs of the band. But they stayed anyway, even as Ronan walked around the store with a spine made of shiny black plastic and strings. Even as it wasn’t needed, they stayed and explored. Gansey thought, absently, that this must be what it felt like for the others to join him in the hunt for ley lines. No personal interest, nothing to gain, but happy to be there to be able to witness this. 

Joy, excitement. Golden. 

Eventually, though, they left the store. Gansey got behind the wheel, Noah and Ronan shoved into the backseat with the amp and guitar between them, and Adam took up the passenger seat. Once more, Gansey coerced the Pig to starting and merged onto the highway. The radio played loud and the AC spluttered and refused to work. It was glorious. 

They were still fifteen minutes out from Monmouth when the Pig broke down. 

Gansey couldn’t say he was surprised by the occurrence. With the longer drive, it would have been safer and smarter to take the BMW. But Gansey hated that car’s shark-like grin and the paint scratches evident of Ronan’s carelessness. So, they had taken the Pig. And so, they were paying the price. 

Gansey and Adam left Ronan and Noah in the backseat, and popped the hood. There was a permanent towel in the glovebox of the Pig, which Adam procured now. He placed it between the car and his Aglionby uniform, and he looked into the steaming engine. 

“Prognosis?” Gansey asked. 

“Not sure yet,” Adam said. 

Gansey glanced up at the sky. The afore-likened sun was hiding behind clouds, clouds that were quickly turning gray. They rumbled and collided, like a face screwed up against tears. Gansey didn’t particularly want to be caught on the side of the road, too far from home to walk, when those sobs began to fall. Gansey didn’t doubt the validity of the threat; after all, it had rained yesterday. The puddles on the side of the road were evidence enough. 

Adam, if he heard the thunder, didn’t show his concern. He worked quietly and Gansey didn’t bother him. 

Some minutes later, a car slowed down beside them. Gansey was expecting a saving grace, but that wasn’t what they got. Gansey and Adam both looked up, and the car sped up once more. With the window rolled down, a surly looking teenager yelled, “Fuck you, raven boys!” He tore through a bath of water, and Gansey and Adam were drenched before they could register what was happening. 

Gansey looked at Adam. His uniform was wet and likely stained; he would have to borrow clothes when they got back to Monmouth—if they ever did, with the way fat, slow raindrops were starting to fall and the Pig’s engine laid idle. Gansey looked at Adam, and he was expecting anger—at the wasted money in the potentially ruined uniform, in the indignance of the strangers’ assumptions—but Adam just laughed. 

“What?” Gansey asked. 

Adam shrugged. “It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” 

“What?” Gansey repeated. The rain was falling heavier now. His shoulders were damp, but, really, all of him was damp. His socks were wet in his shoes, his glasses were speckled with water. He should have been miserable, but Adam wasn’t, so he couldn’t be. 

Adam slammed the Pig’s hood closed. He tapped its orange nose twice, like the Camaro was a sentient being and Adam was saying good Pig. Adam said, “The Raven Boys.” 

Gansey grinned as they ducked back into the car. Ronan was laughing at them, at their water logged sweaters and the apparent look on their faces when the assailant drove on. Noah was laughing at Ronan’s words. Adam was scowling. Gansey was grinning. He felt electrified, he felt struck by lightning, he felt… 

He felt resurrected. 

He tried the engine, and it came to life. The car bucked and whined and fluttered to life. Gansey grinned harder, tapped twice at the wheel like Adam had at the hood. This time, Gansey spoke aloud. He said, pleased, “Good Pig.” 

Ronan laughed harder.

They returned to Monmouth with more than just an electric guitar. They returned to Monmouth with a name. 

The Raven Boys. 

Adam got a girlfriend in April. Her name was Blue, and she worked at Nino’s, and that was where he met her. The four boys had been crammed in a peeling orange booth at the back of the restaurant, listening to the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the buzz of other late night diners—it was nearly too late for pizza. It was gearing towards 10 PM, and Nino’s closed in just over an hour. Gansey was grateful Adam didn’t need to get home like he used to. (He still should get home, to catch up on all the rest he was missing, but he wouldn’t go home until Noah did.) 

They were supposed to be recapping the rehearsal they had only just finished, but they weren’t. Gansey was telling the boys about a new pseudoscience study that argued that those who lived on ley lines lived longer—it was personally relevant to Gansey. Only Adam was listening, and even then he was distractedly so. Ronan and Noah, on the other hand, were using cutlery and napkin dispensers and plastic straws to create a haphazard rhythm and melody. It was slowly dissolving into a sword fight, though. 

Jabbing for Ronan, Noah accidentally threw an elbow into Gansey. Gansey accidentally spilled his ice tea down his front and across the table. He was left with an empty cup in his hand. He was left dumbfounded. 

A waitress, in the typical black t-shirt of Nino’s uniform but with an array of rainbow in her hair clips, laughed as she walked by the table—in a way that suggested she was trying not to laugh, in a way that suggested she knew it was rude. She couldn’t seem to help it, though. Adam flagged her down and said, “Er, miss? Napkins?” 

The waitress eyed the horizontally tipped dispenser on the table. Ronan was still drumming at it, creating a sound that was more noise than it was music. 

“Sure,” the waitress said, all Henrietta vowels. That close lipped amusement of hers was long gone. In its place, was vexation. It carved itself in the lines of her frown—derisive. 

“Miss,” Lynch mocked as the waitress walked away. His voice was a parody of Adam’s overly polite accent, pitched a notch higher than it should have been. It came out rude and exclusionary, but it wasn’t excluding Adam. It was excluding the waitress—she wasn’t far enough away not to have heard; she showed no signs of it, though. 

“Sorry, man,” Noah said, sullen. His lower lip jutted out. 

It was the second time this week Gansey had found himself suddenly drenched, stained with murky brown. Gansey should have been irritated. But, because it was Noah, Gansey wasn’t. He found himself grateful to have chosen to slide into the booth beside Noah, so he didn’t have to deal with the corrosive bitterness of if it had been Ronan instead. 

“It’s fine,” Gansey said, and he meant it. 

The waitress brought back a stack of napkins. Gansey, at once, dabbed at his shirt. Adam, at once, wiped at the table where it was sticky with sweet tea. It revealed too much of them. It revealed parts of Gansey that Gansey didn’t like—his instinctive selfishness, his material things. The moment bristled at his skin. 

They didn’t stay long, after that. No amount of one-ply napkins could staunch the bleeding of Gansey’s polo. His shirt clung to his bones. His shirt went sheer enough that, under the right lighting, his binder would be visible. Gloom squeezed itself between the gaps of his compressed ribs, made itself at home in Gansey’s heart, Gansey’s mood. He felt suddenly nauseous. He was burning under the fluorescent filament of Nino’s. The once soft buzzing was now a roaring spotlight shining over his deepest hurts, his most hidden secrets. He felt flayed. He felt laid bare. 

He wanted to leave. 

He didn’t have to say anything of this, and that was the only upswing. Gansey stopped rambling and crossed his arms over his chest, and the other boys knew. Noah said, not truthful, “I need to get home,” and they all let the lie pass without scrutiny. Even Ronan. 

Gansey wanted to leave. And so, they left. 

Except, that night, Adam went back. Just before closing—when Gansey was clueless; when Gansey was in the shower, scrubbing tea from his skin with his eyes squeezed closed—Adam went back to Nino’s. Adam apologized to the waitress, Blue Sargent, and she gave him her number. Adam sent flowers the next day, and called the next. 

Or so Gansey would later learn. 

For now, Gansey was oblivious. For now, Gansey scrubbed his skin raw. For now, Gansey ached. 

Blue Sargent’s front teeth battled in her mouth. One pushed out farther than the other, like books placed crooked on a shelf. It was endearing in a way Gansey wasn’t supposed to notice. Blue Sargent had a faint scar along her right eyebrow. Pale pink skin cut a line through the arch, like a river through a mountain’s peak. It was beautiful in a way Gansey wasn’t supposed to notice. Blue Sargent had calf muscles more impressive than Gansey’s. When she walked, they tensed and released, like a ball thrown and snapped back into his hand. It was attractive in a way that Gansey wasn’t supposed to notice. 

There were lots of things about Blue Sargent that Gansey wasn’t supposed to notice, and yet he did. 

Adam started bringing her around only a week and a half after the Sweet Tea Incident—its emotional distress earned the night a formal title from Gansey. Gansey knew he should be glad. That Adam had found someone who made him happy, that Adam wasn’t splitting his minimal free time between them. Gansey should feel lucky. That Adam prioritized his friendships and the band so much so that he gave up alone time with a girl to hang out or to practice. Gansey did not feel glad and he did not feel lucky. Gansey felt threatened. Gansey felt that familiar, terrible thrill in his gut that said: I’m losing him. 

And yet, Gansey could not dislike Blue Sargent. She came from a family of local psychics, she dressed in a way that was so much more intriguing than her Nino’s uniform had been, she shared her opinions loudly and confidently. 

She got on with Noah at once, which was always a good indicator of a person’s value. She let Noah readjust her hair clips, and Noah, who had two younger sisters, implored her to grow her hair longer. He would braid it then, he said. 

Blue did not get on with Ronan at once, but it was Ronan. It showed nothing of Blue’s character, only Ronan’s. 

Gansey wanted to get on with Blue, but he seemed incapable. Gansey watched her, observed her. It was no different than how he watched and observed Ronan, and Noah, and Adam. But it felt different—it felt wrong, it felt forbidden. He could not stop, though. He could not stop noticing Blue Sargent, and so he could not stop noticing that she didn’t like him. 

It upset him. Which it should. Blue was one of Gansey’s closest friends’ girlfriend. Of course he should want her to like him, of course he should be upset when she didn’t. But it upset him more than it should. Gansey didn’t have an explanation for that, but that was mostly because he refused to look for one. Instead, he looked at Blue’s teeth, at the scar above her eye, at her legs. Instead, he noticed that she didn’t laugh at his jokes. Instead, he noticed that she rolled her eyes sometimes when he spoke. Instead, he noticed Adam leaning in to whisper in her ear, and he noticed that she leaned closer instead of away. 

Gansey’s skin felt tight. 

Today, they were alone for the first time. They weren’t supposed to be. Ronan, Noah, and Adam were supposed to be back from the record store by now, but it wasn’t hard to imagine their distraction. Blue was supposed to join them after her shift, after the band returned from perusing the week’s new releases. But Blue arrived and the BMW still hadn’t joined the Pig in the parking lot. Blue knocked on the door of Monmouth, and Gansey had no choice but to let her in. And then, they were alone. 

It was awkward. Gansey didn’t know how to make it not awkward. 

He wanted Blue to like him. He liked her. He didn’t see why it couldn’t go both ways. He didn’t know how to make her see him. She had seen Monmouth, she had seen the Pig, she had seen him with his glasses on. But she still didn’t like him, and it was making Gansey’s skin feel tight. He wanted to pace, but he didn’t want to bother her further. 

Blue sat at the desk in the corner, the desk that was certainly more Gansey’s than Ronan’s. Gansey sat on the couch that Ronan insisted they buy even though Gansey sort of liked the space better when it was open and empty—when it was potential not yet achieved or ruined. They sat in silence. It was awkward. It was so awkward. 

“Why don’t you like me?” Gansey asked. He shouldn’t have said it, but honesty had become his vice in the years since his death. It was easier, he thought, to get it out in the open. 

It didn’t feel easier when Blue scoffed. “Because you’re a condescending jerk.” 

“I don’t mean to be condescending,” Gansey said. Adam had told him, more than once, that he was. That he was being passive aggressive, when Gansey just thought he was being nice. Apparently, the polite manners he learned from his family were not always sincere. Gansey didn’t know how to tell the difference. 

“So Adam tells me,” said Blue. Gansey didn’t know if he should feel good that Adam was standing up for him, or bad that he had come up in private conversation between them. 

“When have I been a jerk?” Gansey asked. It seemed a strong word. He could accept that he had been condescending, but he did not think he had ever been a jerk. That seemed cruel, malicious, mean. Gansey was none of those things, he thought. He hoped. 

“You made a mess, and you didn’t even try to clean it up. You didn’t tip,” Blue said. She did not say: the night of the Sweet Tea Incident. But she did not have to say it. 

Gansey did not remember forgetting to leave an extra set of bills on the table, but he believed her at once. Gansey had receded into the depths of his mind that night. Now, it was all a mere blur between Noah’s voice saying home and the scalding spray of the shower. Gansey must have forgotten. Gansey felt awful. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t a good night for me. Can I tip you now?” 

Blue looked murderous. Her eyebrows furrowed. The scarred right one was nicer than the left. “You’re not paying me for this conversation. I’m not a prostitute.” 

Gansey thought she was being unnecessarily obtuse. Gansey thought she was being purposefully defensive, searching for wrongdoing in his words by tugging context from beneath them. It made Gansey flare with frustration, but he drowned it out inside of himself. He covered the negative feeling with a blanket of poise, with the charm of meeting strangers. He said, clearly, “I meant: I could tip you for the other night. I was distracted, and I forgot, and that’s not okay. I’m sorry.” 

“Forget it,” Blue said. “Adam covered it.” 

Gansey didn’t allow himself to wonder how many hours that amount—that amount that to Gansey was measly, was nothing—set Adam back. If he did, the guilt would swallow him whole. 

“Adam is my best friend,” Gansey said. Because the other boys weren’t around to hear, to get jealous. Regardless, he meant that Adam was his best friend, the same as Ronan and Noah were too. He said, genuine and a little plaintive, “I want you to like me.” 

“We don’t have to be friends just because I’m dating yours.” 

“Yes, we do,” Gansey said. He could not imagine it any other way. He could not imagine surviving this summer with the ice between him and Blue Sargent. It had only been a couple weeks and he was already freezing. 

The furrow between Blue’s brows softened, finally. But, born from the ashes of her anger, came not forgiveness, but hurt. “You didn’t even look me in the eye when Adam introduced us. Like I was below you, or something.” 

Gansey wanted to make a smarmy, terrible joke about the height difference between them. He wanted to brush it aside, but he also wanted Blue to like him. And he barely knew her, but he knew enough to know she wanted his accountability. She didn’t want excuses, but she wanted something more than an apology. Gansey tried to humble himself, with stark vulnerability and a confession of, “I’m sorry. I’m, admittedly, not very good at eye contact.” 

“What are you good at?” Blue asked. 

“Usually, conversations. Believe it or not. I feel like I’m screwing this one, though,” Gansey said. He wondered if his self deprecation would rile her further. It made Adam angry, sometimes. Most times. “I feel like… I feel like I should tell you why that night was a bad night. But it is— sensitive information.”

Gansey did not want to tell Blue about the binder compressing his chest. He did not want to tell her about the body he was born in. (Yet.) But he would, if he thought it would help her to understand. Gansey, more than anything, wanted her to understand. He wanted her to see him. 

“Don’t tell me. I don’t care,” Blue said, but it wasn’t dismissive or unkind. It was open and accepting. She was letting him off easier than she had to, and Gansey’s skin loosened around his bones. “Never offer me money again, and we’re good.” She admitted, in the same voice that Gansey had invoked his need for her to like him, “I like Adam.” 

“Me too,” said Gansey. 

Blue made a face. Her tongue was prodding at her cheek, her eyes were alight with something Gansey couldn’t name. 

“Not like that,” Gansey laughed. 

Blue’s face didn’t change. Gansey, then, recognized the something more in her eyes. Mischief. 

“You’re messing with me?” he guessed, still a little unsure. He felt like he was standing on shaking ground, like his knees could buckle at any moment. Everything was so new. 

“Yeah,” said Blue. She smiled now. She plucked a paper clip from the desk. She threw it at him, and it faltered less than halfway. “You’re going to have to get used to it. If we’re going to be friends.” 

Relief pulsed in Gansey’s veins. He felt glad, to be forgiven. He felt lucky, to be friends. 

It was a sunny day in June the first time they ever heard Blue Sargent sing. They were in the Pig, taking the scenic route to the mountains. Blue, in all her psychic upbringing, knew more about ley lines—she called them “the corpse road”; the name made Gansey’s heart spike every time he heard it—than any of the Aglionby boys did. She had agreed to come exploring with them, and she had her own ideas for a destination: the ruins of an old church. And so, they followed her lead. And so, they were in the Pig: Gansey driving, Ronan beside him, Noah and Blue and Adam squeezed into the backseat. 

The radio blared a song from the 80s. Gansey didn’t know it, but Ronan was miming along to the guitar. That would have been enough, Gansey thought, to make this day glorious. Ronan carefree, untethered by his reputation of mystery and darkness. It would have been plenty, but then Blue started to sing along. It was soft at first, like she didn’t realize she was singing at all. Then, louder, as the chorus kicked in and the song solidified in her range. Her vocal cords wrapped around the notes like a rare warm day in autumn, like foliage protecting the gravel of antiquated ruins. It was rich and full and round like all Henrietta voices were. 

Gansey was tempted to slam on the Pig’s brakes, just to watch her as she sang. Ronan had the same idea. He threw himself sideways, air guitar abandoned as he forced his body over the console and towards the backseat. For safety reasons, Gansey wanted to shove him back into his own seat. For his own curiosity, Gansey did not. 

“Jesus Mary,” Ronan spoke. He did not sound like he was praying, he sounded like he was cursing. “Where the fuck have you been hiding those pipes?” 

Gansey flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror. He watched as Blue’s face tinted with scarlet, but she didn’t stop singing. Her hand found Adam’s—their fingers tied tight together, a life line in the onslaught of Ronan’s cold eyed gaze—but she didn’t stop singing. Her voice dropped a little in volume, like a feather floating gently through the air, but she didn’t stop singing. She kept singing, and they kept listening, and Gansey knew each boy was thinking the same thing.

She was perfect. For the band. 

Gansey’s interest in the ley line church faded impossibly. They explored, and they wondered at the history of such a decay, and Gansey swatted stupidly at bugs that weren’t bees. All the while, though, Ronan and Noah were pestering Blue. (Adam was suspiciously quiet, but his soft smile showed how much he wanted it.) At one point, Gansey overheard Blue say, to Ronan, “I’ve literally never heard you speak this much.” Gansey was inclined to believe it was true. Gansey, however, didn’t say a word. He didn’t trust himself not to say the wrong thing. Instead, he let Ronan go off on the talent she was depriving him of; he let Noah ramble about the glory of potential success—tours and albums and the world at their feet. They were melodramatic, feeding off of each other’s desperation. Gansey thought they made great points. 

Blue must have thought so too, or she must have just wanted them to shut up, because, three days later, she stood at a mic stand on the ground floor of Monmouth. Noah and Ronan flanked her sides and Adam supported her from the back. Noah and Ronan strummed over guitars and Adam banged at the drums. Blue crooned over their lyrics as she sang with them for the first time, like she had been singing with them the whole time. Gansey sat in a desk chair, and he spun idly, and he listened. 

He thought: there she is. He thought: this is what we’ve been waiting for. He thought: The Raven Boys. 

Graduation came shortly after Blue’s indoctrination into The Raven Boys. As expected, Adam was their valedictorian, and, as expected, he gave a wonderful speech about his time at Aglionby. Most of their classmates weren’t properly listening, but Gansey was. He listened as Adam made reference to survival and the future. Gansey was happy for Adam—Gansey was proud of Adam—but he was also terrified for this summer to end. And it hadn’t even properly begun yet. 

As it did begin, though, schedules eased. Adam picked up extra work at the trailer factory, but there were no more eight hour school days or late nights studying. Blue, too, was working more, but she matched her load to Adam’s, so they had the same availability. So much time had been freed up. Time had been gifted to them, and they were taking advantage. With that came rehearsals, writing sessions, and, soon, recordings. Days were spent in the ground floor of Monmouth, sweat clinging to skin and humidity seeping through the walls of the factory. Days were spent playing, rehearsing, working. While the others played, Gansey scoured the Internet for gigs, and managed to book a couple. 

It was a hot day at the tail end of June, after the solstice, when Noah accompanied Gansey to the music store. Calculated, they chose their trip for a time when Adam and Blue were both working. Ronan had been invited, but he was too hungover. So, they left him to sleep it off. So, it was just Gansey and Noah as they left Henrietta altogether. Noah forced the Pig’s radio to find a decent channel—a show full of oldies—and he sang along loudly. Gansey grinned.

At the store, they dropped a couple grand on recording equipment. It was lavish and too much and Gansey was already bracing himself for Adam’s wrath—Blue’s too, probably. Noah, however, did not have the same hold ups. Noah, however, did not have the same shame about his wealth that Gansey did. Likely, because it was easier for Noah to use it right. Noah was not selfish. Noah had his own dreams for college and his future, Noah had his own ideas on making a difference, Noah had his own philanthropic goals that didn’t have to worry about reflecting wrong on his Republican parents (his parents were Democrats; Gansey was sorely jealous). Noah was unapologetic about the cost of their purchase, and, if he noticed that Gansey was, he didn’t say anything. When they packed the equipment into the backseat of the Pig, Noah merely said, “This is going to change our lives.” 

They spent that afternoon setting up a recording booth at Monmouth, and, when Adam saw it the next day, he did not get angry. He pretended like he didn’t know how much it must have cost them, and he agreed amiably when Noah said they should record “what is real?” first. 

That indifference, more than anything, reminded Gansey that Adam was leaving. 

They all were, in their own ways. Adam was going to Harvard, Noah had gotten into Columbia, Gansey was set for Yale, Blue wanted to travel. Ronan, Gansey thought, was the only one who didn’t have a path out of Henrietta. But, even then, Declan was threatening to move Matthew to DC. If he did that, surely Ronan would follow. Soon, The Raven Boys would be no more. Soon, they would leave Henrietta—a town that felt like it was theirs more than it was anyone else’s. 

Gansey did not want to leave. Gansey did not want to go to Yale. Gansey did not want The Raven Boys to split before they even began. 

Gansey knew Noah, Ronan, and Blue felt the same. It was Adam, who was adamant that the Ivy League was the only route towards success. It was Adam, who would be most difficult to convince. But Gansey was going to try. 

First, though, came an important trip to DC. It was the second day of July when Gansey drove two hours northeast. He would have to drive back tonight, to make it to Henrietta in time for Adam’s nineteenth birthday. That was fine, though. Gansey figured that, after this impending conversation, he would not be inclined to stay. 

On the second day of July, Gansey returned to his childhood home. It was cavernous and prim and Gansey hated it as much as he loved it. He had been a kid here. This home knew him by a name that wasn’t Gansey; this home accepted him as Richard Campbell Gansey the Third. It hated him and loved him all the same. 

Dinner was quiet, seated at a table made up with a runner and place settings—like this was a party and not three parts of a four-wheeled family. It was stiff, but that might have just been Gansey’s nerves. He ate his criminally bland chicken even as it settled like lead in his stomach. He cleared his throat when he was through, wiped his hands on a cloth napkin. He said, “I want to take a gap year.”

Gansey’s mother, Heather, said nothing. Gansey’s father, Richard Senior, said, “Son.” 

It was a warning, Gansey knew, but he was not going to back down. He stood from the table, and he returned moments later with a stack of printed research. He said, “Studies show that gap years are highly beneficial for people like myself.” 

Gansey did not define people like myself. Mostly, he meant people who did not have goals. He kept that to himself, and let his parents fill in the blanks with their own assumptions—as Ganseys were prone to do. 

Gansey’s father shuffled through the research. Gansey could tell, by the way his eyes widened, when he reached one particular article. It was not about gap years—not specifically. It was about suicide. Suicide was the leading killer of college students; suicide rates were higher among transgender individuals. It was a low blow, Gansey knew, to include such a study when Gansey’s parents had seen him dead before. But these were the facts, and they were facts that Gansey thought they should know. 

“I want to do the surgery this year,” said Gansey. “And start college after.” 

He had a second stack of research, about doctors and recovery and timelines. He did not offer it to either of his parents. He had left it out on his desk back at Monmouth, a secret here but not a secret there. 

“Okay,” said Heather Gansey. She reached across the table; she covered Gansey’s hand with her own. “If that is what you need.” 

Gansey’s father nodded, and it was settled. Gansey would defer Yale, and Gansey would get top surgery during his gap year. 

That was the plan, but that wasn’t what happened. In the end, Gansey’s surgery was delayed and Yale was never attended. And it was all because of The Raven Boys. 

It was two years, to the day, since Niall Lynch’s murder when the band released their debut EP. It had four songs—not even a fraction of the amount TRB had written since its formation a year and a half ago, but the four that were best. The four that were the most finished, the four that they could release now. There was a rush, and they all knew it. So, the EP only had a runtime of fourteen minutes. 

It was called vespae. Gansey had been told the EP’s title only a week prior, and he had promptly asked, “Is that Latin?” 

Ronan had replied, “Yes, dipshit. It means wasp.” 

Gansey had said they could not call the album that. Ronan had said that it wasn’t an album. Noah had said that it was the only title all four of them could agree on. Adam had said that the album—EP, Ronan corrected—was all about the things that could have killed them, but hadn’t. Blue had said nothing, but she looked at him with big brown eyes that made Gansey feel seen. Gansey had let it go—he felt, oddly, touched at the gesture. It felt like an inside joke, a reference just for the five of them. Like, even now that the EP was being released out into the world, there was still part of it that was just theirs. 

The day of the release was spent monitoring Ronan’s moods—fluctuating between depression and excitement—and calling local radio stations. There was no official single of vespae, but the band had decided that “burdened by being born” was their best work. So, Gansey requested the song until it actually got played. The band erupted into cheers as they heard their instruments and their voices and their words playing through the static of Monmouth’s radio. Adam, Gansey noted, had red rimmed eyes. 

The night of the release, Gansey had organized a party. He was just so proud, and he wanted nothing more than to celebrate his friends’ achievement. They invited Blue and Noah’s families, Helen, and kids from both Aglionby and Mountain View. Monmouth was full of more people than it ever had been before—Gansey felt a little territorial, but he washed it down with beer he was too young to drink. The EP was playing on loop and their guests were sharing their compliments. 

Helen asked, when she caught Gansey alone for a moment, “When are you telling Mom and Dad?”

“About what?” asked Gansey, even though he already knew what she meant. 

Helen rolled her eyes. It was an expression she wouldn’t make for anyone besides her brother. “About all this. You—” She gestured around them. At the party, at the stack of blue CDs printed with vespae and The Raven Boys, at the band huddled in a corner grinning and ignoring the world. “This is impressive, and this music is good. This could be something.” 

“I know,” Gansey said. “I want it to be something.” 

He told Helen about his gap year, and he told her he had a feeling it wouldn’t be used for his surgery. She smiled at him, and she didn’t give him any advice. She didn’t say he should prioritize his needs before the dreams of his friends. She didn’t say he was being stupid, giving up a sure thing at Yale for a risk here that he, really, was only a part of peripherally. She did not lecture him. She just smiled and said, a repeat of before, “I’m impressed.” 

It was the closest the Ganseys would get to pride, and Gansey was grateful. 

The party, at some point, spilled into the parking lot. There was a fire going, and the cops were probably going to be called. Gansey was back on Ronan duty: monitoring his moods, tracking his movements, and watering down his alcohol when Ronan wasn’t looking. Ronan was wasted—the kind of wasted that meant he probably wouldn’t remember much in the morning. Gansey sort of hated him for it, but he also understood. 

Blue’s entire, huge family was here. Noah’s parents had left with Margot after an hour, but Adele was still hanging on. 

There was no one here for Ronan or Adam. Adam was better at hiding the way it must hurt him, but Ronan wore it on his face and in his veins. 

Gansey knew—without being told, because he knew Ronan—that Ronan had gone to the Barns. It wasn’t forbidden anymore. Months ago now, Adam had helped Ronan fight the cruel, cruel will. And they had won, but Ronan hadn’t moved back. He had visited, though, and he would have visited recently. He would have told Aurora, and she hadn’t shown. Gansey knew—without being told, because he knew Ronan—that Ronan had called Declan and Matthew, too. Neither one was here, though. Gansey could only assume that was Declan’s decision, his rules. Matthew would have been here if he could have been. Matthew should have been here, but he wasn’t. There was no one here for Ronan, and there was a date on the calendar that burned. 

It was coincidence. That today was two years after his father’s death. But it still didn’t help. It still made Ronan worse. He drank away his grief and excitement, and Gansey hated him for it. But he loved him and he didn’t blame him. 

The night wore thin, and Gansey found Adam. He was sitting outside, a wallflower in the dying party that was, at least in part, for him. Gansey joined him. Together, they looked up at Monmouth and up further to the twinkling stars of the night sky. 

Whispered like a secret, Adam said, “I wish this summer didn’t have to end.” 

There was an opportunity there, but Gansey didn’t seize it. There were a million wrong things he could have said, arguments he could have pitched. But he let the moment pass, said only, “Me too.” 

The party finally ended as the clock struck towards 3 AM. Gansey herded his drunken friends inside Monmouth, where they all crashed with smiles on their faces. The harsh melody of “anarchy” played around them, but they slept through it. The day was done, the party was done. The summer was ending. 

Gansey grieved. 

For the next five days, Gansey fielded calls from interested record labels. He turned down each one, and each one hurt more than the last. For the next five days, the town of Henrietta noticed them like they had never been noticed before. People congratulated them at the grocery store, at Nino’s, outside St Agnes. For the next five days, Gansey heard “burdened by being born” on the radio three separate times. He turned it up loud each time, sang along even as tone deaf as he was. 

Gansey wanted all of it to mean something. He wanted it to be enough, but Adam had already started packing. 

A week after the EP’s release, Gansey got a call. This time, it was the manager of fellow Virginian band, Bad Karma. Gansey had heard their single, “Unlikely”, on the radio a dozen times a day since he started listening religiously for TRB. He was a little star struck, but he forced himself to composure, and he listened. Bad Karma’s tour began in only two weeks (the same week the fall semester was set to begin). Their previous opening act had gotten swept up in controversy, and no longer made for a good fit. They were interested in The Raven Boys. 

Gansey said they needed to think about it—he hadn’t said that to any of the record labels. The manager said this was an incredible opportunity. Gansey said he knew, but he needed to talk to the band before agreeing. The manager said they could have forty-eight hours to decide. Gansey thanked her. 

He stared at his phone for an hour after that. Only forty-seven left. 

Immediately, Gansey wanted to barge into Ronan’s room and tell him the news. Immediately, he wanted to pick up the phone to call Noah, and then Blue after that. Immediately, Gansey knew he couldn’t do any of it. He needed to talk to Adam. Immediately. 

Gansey drove to St Agnes, and he waited in the parking lot. Adam was working at Boyd’s today, which was better than the trailer factory because it exhausted him less. Gansey had a wicked sense of déjà vu, of bombarding Adam after work at the mechanic’s and doing the impossible: convincing him to come back to the band. Last time, though, Gansey had only had to ask Adam to give up his pride. This time, Gansey had to ask Adam to give up Harvard. It was all that Adam had ever wanted, and Gansey was going to ask him to sacrifice it. For him, for the band. 

It was never going to work. Gansey was going to try anyway. 

It was dark by the time the Hondayota rolled into the parking lot. (If Gansey couldn’t convince Adam to abandon Harvard, he was, at least, going to convince him to abandon that car. There was no way it would ever survive driving him to Cambridge from Henrietta.) 

“What’re you doing here?” Adam asked.

“I needed to talk to you,” said Gansey. There was no use brushing it off or trying for subtlety. Adam already looked too suspicious—although, possibly, that was just his default expression. 

“Hm,” said Adam. He went inside, and Gansey followed him. 

Adam toed off his work boots, washed his greasy hands at the dribbling sink in his tiny bathroom, and came to sit at the edge of his twin bed. Gansey joined him on his right side—didn’t like the idea of standing over Adam, looking down at him—and had to hide his reaction to the thinness of the mattress. It was like cardboard. No wonder Adam’s default expression was of paranoia and pain. 

“What’s up?” Adam asked. 

Gansey took a moment to steel himself. The clock was running, time was ticking away. It was a selfish beat that he would never get back. A single second to take a breath, and another second to release it. 

“I know you’re going to Harvard,” said Gansey. “I know it’s what you want, but I can’t let you go without saying: it’s not your only option.”

Adam made a noise, like he was opening his mouth to protest. Gansey held up his hand to stop him. 

“Just wait,” he said. “Please.” 

They weren’t looking at each other, seated like this, like two parallel lines. They were staring forward, at the water stained drywall and the scratched floor of the room above the church. It helped, Gansey thought. That he couldn’t even try to read Adam. 

“I got a call, earlier today, from the manager of Bad Karma,” Gansey explained. “They invited The Raven Boys to be the opener for their tour. In two weeks.” 

Adam said nothing. The room was silent. 

“I know it’s not what you planned or what you wanted, but it’s an amazing opportunity. It’s a steady paycheck for five months. It’s a huge amount of exposure for the band. It’s… it’s a chance for success in something that makes you happy, Adam.”

Gansey just wanted Adam to be happy. He knew he wouldn’t be at Harvard. He knew he could be if they chose music. 

“Can I think about it?” asked Adam. 

And that… that wasn’t what Gansey had been expecting. Gansey knew enough, despite his ignorance, to know that Adam wasn’t the type of person who had the luxury of a gap year and deferment. If he did this, he would be giving up his scholarship. Without it, he would never attend Harvard. And so, Gansey had been expecting a denial. He had been expecting a fight. He had been expecting a shouting match, words like privilege and cruel. But Adam wasn’t yelling. 

Adam was asking for time. Adam was, impossibly, considering the option. Adam was so used to the right choice being painful that, now, when both choices were painful, he didn’t know what was right. He was considering both because both paths demanded sacrifice. Both options took something from Adam, something he didn’t want to give up. 

Gansey wished it didn’t have to be that way. Gansey wished Adam could have it all. 

“Their manager needs to hear back in forty-eight hours,” said Gansey. He offered, “Sleep on it, and we’ll discuss further tomorrow.” 

“I really want this,” Adam confessed. His voice took on the same tone it carried the night of the party. Longing, yearning. “I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but it’s a risk. I don’t know if I can afford to take it.” 

“I know,” said Gansey. Because he did. 

Quiet passed between them, and, despite Gansey’s offer to give Adam space and time, he didn’t leave. He lingered on Adam Parrish’s mattress, and Adam Parrish didn’t tell him to go. They sat in silence instead. There was so much want in this room, Gansey thought. It was a physical presence, it was a taste at the back of his tongue. His want was the dust clinging in the corners of the room, a ticklish itch that demanded to be scratched. Adam’s want was the low hanging ceilings, bearing down on him. 

They were hungry with desire, they were greedy with dreams.  

“Do the others—?” 

Adam started and stopped, but Gansey got the message regardless. He said, “I haven’t told them. If you say no, they’ll never know.” 

“Thank you,” said Adam, genuine. It shouldn’t have been necessary, but it was appreciated when Gansey was allowing a secret to fester. Gansey did not want to keep secrets from Noah and Ronan and Blue, but he would take this one to his grave, if he had to. For Adam, he would. 

Gansey stood to leave. He looked over his shoulder at Adam. One glance at his tense shoulders and his wild eyes revealed everything Gansey needed to know: he really was torn. There really was hope. 

“Think about it,” Gansey said. “Good night.” 

“Good night,” Adam returned. 

Gansey left. He got in the Pig, he drove back to Monmouth, he didn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned over possibilities. He imagined being on the road, watching his friends perform each night, seeing the world. He scripted conversations in his head: what he would say to Adam tomorrow, what he would tell his parents if Adam said yes. He made himself dizzy with the future that was suddenly knocking at his door. 

He wanted, he waited, he wanted. 

Early the next day, Adam Parrish knocked at the door of Monmouth. Gansey let him in, and Adam followed him inside. 

“Call the manager,” said Adam. No lead up, no build up. Just the determined set of his shoulders and the hardening of his eyes. He had made his decision, and he was living with it now. There was no going back. There was no changing his mind. 

“What am I telling her?” Gansey asked. 

There was a long pause. Time, usually billowing like a breeze, went stagnant and stale in the air. Quiet stretched like taffy being pulled, like the tug before a leaf snapped off the mint plant. Anticipation was a valley between them, a cavern in Gansey’s stomach. Potential warred like a scale tipping one way and then the other, two paths that could never be balanced. It was an eternity between the moment the question left Gansey and the moment Adam answered it. 

“We’re going on tour.”

Tell me a bit about the formation of the band. 

“Right. Well,” Lynch says, “it started as sort of an inside joke between me, Noah, and Gansey. Nowadays, Gansey claims he was never joking, but I’m not convinced.” 

What was the moment you knew the band had something special? 

“I think we all had our own moments of realization, somewhere along the way,” Parrish answers. “But collectively? Collectively, I think we knew when we played with Blue for the first time.” 

“It’s kind of a deeper cut, but there’s a song on SHAME called ‘It’s Starting’. Noah and I wrote it a few days after we played with Blue for the first time,” Lynch says. Parrish puts a hand on Lynch’s knee; Lynch does not react to the simple affection. “If you listen to it, you’ll hear what we knew then: there was something more when the four of us played together.” As an afterthought, he adds, “No offense, Cheng.” 

“None taken,” says Cheng. “Our music is good, for sure. But Noah’s was better.” 

— Quoth The Raven Boys, “Nevermore.”
Rolling Stones. August, 2025.