Chapter Text
Adam Parrish is an anxious flyer on a normal flight, but this time, his anxiety ratchets up to fifteen. Maybe in the back of his mind, there's muscle memory of the last time he'd flown to Ireland. The flight that, though nearly disastrous, was actually the springboard for his current journey. But ever the planner, Adam feels like his mind is racing and his gut is twisting because, for what is probably the first time in his life, he has no plan. He just has himself, his messenger bag, and a carry-on suitcase.
He has no plan for what he’ll do if he shows up at The Greywaren and Ronan laughs him out of the building. He has no plan if Ronan turns him down. He’ll still own the pub, but he has no idea how to run a bar. He’s not even that big of a drinker. He has some modicum of business acumen, but he doesn’t know how to turn that into running a successful business in a country completely foreign to him. So all he can do is hope and cross his fingers and plead with the universe that everything will work out.
When he passes through customs at the airport in Dublin, Adam’s slight panic must be evident on his face, because the Immigration Officer asks him so many questions as she reviews his passport, his employment permit, and the other documents he has for the pub. Finally, she stamps his passport and wishes him the best of luck, and he’s through to go to the terminal for his connection to Kerry, but not before stopping at an airport bar to actually have a drink to calm his nerves.
The flight to Kerry starts descending almost as soon as it reaches peak altitude, and Adam doesn’t remember anything from the hour-long flight. Once he’s off the plane, he turns his phone back on as he makes his way through the airport to the exit, nearly balking at the fare from an Uber Black from the airport to Dingle. But he willingly accepts the hundred and twenty euro fare, because he really has no other choice, and shortly thereafter, he’s tucking himself into the back of a Toyota Camry and cutting through the countryside towards the westernmost part of Ireland in the waning afternoon.
After the Camry pulls up in front of The Greywaren, Adam looks up at the bar for a long moment. The sign is just as he remembers, gold painted with some wear at the edges of the letters, the green background still saturated and rich, mirroring the rolling hills around the town. Adam finally thanks the driver and climbs out of the back seat, lifting his small rolling suitcase out with him and strapping his messenger bag across his chest. Standing on the sidewalk, Adam fortifies himself with a deep breath, and then he pushes the door of the pub open and steps inside.
Just like the sign, the interior of The Greywaren is the same as he recalls from the few minutes he was inside the bar over three months ago. Shabby, worn, and well-used, but still good. There’s fewer patrons than the last time, taking up just a few seats at one end of the bar. And there, behind the bar, is Ronan, engrossed in conversation with one of the men posted up at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He looks good, he looks at home, but Adam can see there’s a tenseness in his brow and around his eyes that wasn’t there the last time Adam saw him in person.
Only one of the men at the bar turns when Adam steps into the pub, and Adam sees him do a brief double take before he turns back to the bar, waving a hand to get Ronan’s attention. “Isn’t that the lad you drove to Dublin a few months back, Ronan?”
Ronan pulls himself away from his conversation and turns to look towards the door, where his eyes settle on Adam as he stands just inside the threshold. Adam watches Ronan’s jaw work back and forth a few times before Ronan leans back against the counter behind the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. He assesses Adam for an almost uncomfortable length of time. When he finally speaks, he sounds like he’s not in the mood to be dealing with this right here, right now. “Adam, I don’t have time for your shite. If you're back here to pay me because you have some weird obsession with it, I don't want it. The new owner’s about to get here and I just wanna say goodbye to my regulars.”
Keeping his eyes on Ronan, Adam sets his suitcase down beside the door. “I'm not here about you not letting me pay you, and I’m sure the new owner would let you stick around for a while. I don’t think they’d just kick you out like that.”
“Well, from what I hear, he’s some arsehole from the States, so not likely. Probably trying to turn this into some quaint little trendy pub and then turn around and sell to Wetherspoons. So kindly feck off so I can get out of here before he comes.” Ronan pushes himself away from the counter and steps back to his small group of regulars to resume their conversation.
“And what if he’s already here?” Adam asks.
Ronan looks over at him then, and a complicated mix of expressions crosses over his face. First, it’s a shade of resentment that Adam’s continuing to waste his time, but then it turns into something that hints at uncertainty. When it finally passes into the realm of realization, Adam thinks there’s a brief glint in Ronan’s blue eyes before Ronan says, “You’re the arsehole from the States.”
“I’m the arsehole from the States, yes.” Adam nods.
The regulars watch Ronan as he steps from behind the bar and moves closer to Adam, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Why?”
Adam thinks over his response for a second. Taking a step towards Ronan, he drops his voice slightly, “You should have seen the way you came alive talking about working here. I hardly knew you. Hell, I still hardly know you. But I saw it. And when you were talking to Declan about him selling this place, you pretty much said he’d be sending you to your death. That’s how much you love this bar, this pub. And it made me realize that even though I was really, really good at my job, I hated it. That it wasn’t worth the money if I couldn’t feel good about it at the end of the day. So I quit and I bought a pub.”
“You bought this pub.” Ronan meets Adam’s eyes for the first time as he waves one of his hands at the room around them.
Adam nods, matching Ronan’s gaze, “Conveniently, I knew it was for sale.”
The corner of Ronan’s lips twitches slightly. “And what do you know about running a pub?”
“Not a single thing,” Adam admits.
Ronan smirks then, and it takes on a shade of haughtiness, but he keeps looking back at Adam. “Seems like a right waste of money, then.”
“It could be.” Adam lifts a shoulder in a shrug and he takes another step closer to Ronan. “But I happen to know someone who is very good at running a pub.”
Leaning in to Adam, Ronan’s eyes narrow slightly before he asks, “And what makes you think he would want to stick around and work for some arsehole from the States?”
Adam holds Ronan’s narrow stare as he begins to open his messenger bag. “I don’t know if he’d want to do that, but I wouldn’t want him to work for me. I’d want him to work with me.”
Reaching into the front pocket of his bag, Adam pulls out a folder of papers, looking away from Ronan only long enough to find the document he was looking for. He holds it out to Ronan, who reluctantly takes it and starts to read. Long after he would have reasonably finished reading, Ronan’s continuing to look at the paper. When he finally lifts his eyes to Adam’s, his voice is low and incredulous, “You want to sell me half your stake for a euro.”
There’s a soft ‘whoop’ from one of the men at the bar, which Adam ignores before he tells Ronan, “There’s two other conditions, but I didn’t want to bring them up with the lawyer.”
Ronan works his bottom lip between his teeth for just a moment before he quirks an eyebrow. “And what are they?”
Taking a breath, Adam starts going further down his already crazy path. “The first is that it’s my understanding Dingle is short on accommodations, so I would like to stay with you.”
Ronan holds back a small smile as best he can as he responds, “I live upstairs and my flat’s tiny.”
“It’s just the two of us,” Adam points out.
“I’ve only got one bed,” Ronan counters.
“We’ve slept together before.” Adam shrugs.
“We’re probably going to fight,” Ronan states. “All the time.”
“I know,” Adam acknowledges.
“You’re probably going to hate me sometimes because I can be a real bastard.” Ronan nods his head back over his shoulder to the men at the bar. “Ask them.”
Adam just barely holds back a smile and a laugh. “And you’re probably going to hate me sometimes because I can be a real bastard.”
Ronan’s quiet, but his blue eyes are twinkling. Edging closer to Adam, he asks, “What’s the second condition?”
“Kiss me,” Adam says so quietly he doesn’t think it’ll make it to the men at the bar.
Ronan closes the final gap between them, his voice just as low as Adam’s, “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“You’re right, I don’t.” Adam nods minutely as he looks at Ronan. “But I have to try. I came all this way and I don’t have another plan.”
“You don’t need one.” Ronan reaches up to cup Adam’s cheek, and then he’s pressing his lips to Adam’s.
Six Months Later
Pulling a rack of clean glasses from the dishwasher in The Grewaren's not-quite kitchen but not-quite storeroom, Adam carries it out to the front of the pub and slips behind the bar. He starts putting glasses away, putting highball glasses with the stock of highball glasses, lowball glasses with the lowball glasses, and at one point pressing a pilsner glass into Ronan’s hands as Ronan instinctively reaches for one in the space they’re usually kept under the bar. He and Ronan move with ease around each other in the narrow space, because there’s always ease between them and they always seem aware of where the other is, and when Adam’s sliding wine glasses into their hanging rack, he feels Ronan’s large, warm hand on his arm and the other man’s leaning in to speak into his ear, "The Wicklow stout just kicked. Can you go down and swap it out?"
“Of course.” Adam glances at the customers waiting two-deep at the bar before raising his eyebrows at Ronan. "We need to hire someone.”
"You remind me three times a week." Ronan squeezes Adam's bicep before dropping his hand. "I'll get to it. The Wicklow?"
Adam snags the dish towel draped over his shoulder in his hand and snaps it at Ronan's ass before he retreats into the back room. He climbs down into the cellar and changes out the empty keg of stout for a fresh one before joining Ronan back behind the bar, pulling down the tap for the Wicklow until the beer is flowing freely again. As Adam starts helping Ronan serve customers, the trio they've hired for the night starts playing on the riser Adam had built into a corner of the pub. Tables are pushed aside to clear the floor and people start dancing, and when there's a lull at the bar, Adam steps beside Ronan, resting his hand in the small of Ronan's back.
"See what your little pub's become?" Adam looks out over the lively room, which has been more and more full over the past month or two since they'd finished fixing up The Greywaren's interior and started bringing in live music again.
"Our little pub." Ronan winds his arm around Adam's shoulders and then turns to kiss the side of Adam's head.
Adam smiles lightly and leans his shoulder into Ronan’s and they stand quiet for a few moments, enjoying their closeness and casual touch, until a woman steps to the bar for another drink and Ronan moves to serve her, dropping his arm from around Adam.
"Hey, I got it." Adam grabs Ronan's arm gently and tugs him back from stepping towards the customer. "Take a break. You've been non-stop for hours."
“You sure?” Ronan looks at Adam and cocks an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” Adam nods. “As your not-really boss, take a break. As your partner, take a break.”
“Well, then, who am I to say no to my not-really boss and partner.” Ronan smirks, hand barely grazing the back of Adam’s jeans as he goes.
Moving to the bar, Adam serves the woman and then a few others, mostly pulling pints but mixing an occasional gin and tonic. At one point, he briefly hears footsteps overhead in their apartment, but Ronan isn’t gone for ten minutes before he’s back behind the bar. The trio, two fiddles and a bodhrán, finish up one song, and then a few moments later start another, one that’s familiar to Adam’s ears, one that he's heard a number of times since Ballybrittas.
"You slick bastard." Adam shakes his head as he looks over at Ronan, but a smile spreads over his face.
Ronan grins sharply in response, holding his hand out. "Dance with me."
Adam reaches out and takes Ronan’s hand without any hesitation. He never hesitates with Ronan, because they’re in this not-making-plans thing together, they own this pub together, they’re building this life together. And Adam would choose this every single time without hesitation.
He lets Ronan pull him around the bar to an open space on the floor, and Adam’s left hand slips familiarly around Ronan’s back as Ronan’s right hand finds his waist, and Adam takes Ronan’s left hand in his right, and they’re in a position they’re well accustomed to after late nights when Ronan had turned music on after they’d spent hours painting or fixing tables or planing the floor. Late night dances that hadn’t ended tensely, but had ended in a tangle of limbs in their bed upstairs or, a few times, behind the bar.
"You still don't know the footwork," Ronan criticizes tauntingly as he starts guiding Adam around the floor.
"I still have two left feet," Adam says dryly, but his lips quirk."And someone once told me the stomping and the clapping are the important bits, anyway."
“They weren’t wrong.” Ronan grins, and Adam feels so light, so effervescent that he feels like if he didn’t have Ronan tethering him to earth, he’d float away.
The song eventually ends and turns into something slower, but Ronan keeps Adam in his arms as they stand, stationary among the couples slow dancing around them, and he tips his head forward a bit to rest their foreheads together. “Do you like what you do, Adam Parrish?”
“I do you, and I sure as hell like that.” Adam smiles, trailing his hand over Ronan’s shoulder to cup the nape of his neck.
Ronan barks a laugh and holds Adam’s waist tighter. “Always avoiding the question. Should have expected that.”
“So then don’t let me deflect.” Adam’s still smiling as Ronan begins moving them in languid circles in time with the trio’s new song.
“Do you like what you do, Adam Parrish?” Ronan asks again, eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile.
“Yeah.” Adam tilts his chin forward so his lips are a hair’s breadth from Ronan’s. “Yeah, I love what I do.”