Chapter Text
Ronan Lynch is not lonely.
That sounds like a line, but he’s not; not really. He is chronically single, and constantly hounded about it by friend and foe alike, but the only thing that bothers him about it is that people keep asking.
Being single is fine. He hates most people, which maybe is a personal problem, but it certainly isn’t one that will be solved by dating people he hates. A lifetime of companionship sounds miserable when your companion is an annoying dipshit.
And it’s not like he’s never dated. He’s found little sparks of connection here and there with men over the years, and he’s tried to force sparks with other men, and none of his attempts have worked out. He didn’t have terrible role models growing up. He’s never had a traumatic experience that soured him on men forever. He’s never had his heart broken.
He’s never been in love.
Trying over and over again is exhausting. Dating apps are hell on earth and meeting people in person gets harder and harder the older he gets. What’s the point in searching for the one in a billion when he likes his own company perfectly well?
Sometimes, though, he wonders what it might be like. If he were to find that one in a billion. If there really was someone out there who would kiss him and make his heart flutter and his gut clench and his hands shake. If there was someone in the world who would send him a text he’d actually be eager to respond to. If he could grow to be completely comfortable in someone’s presence; to share everything with him, unperformative and unembarrassed. If that feeling could really last forever and ever.
But he only thinks about it sometimes, because Ronan Lynch is not lonely.
At the moment, in fact, he’s the opposite of lonely: he’s surrounded by family and incredibly annoyed about it. He fucking wishes he were lonely.
“So, how’s life toiling down in the dating mines?” Jordan asks as she reaches across him for the bottle of Bordeaux on the counter.
“It’s shit,” Hennessy butts in, allowing Ronan the luxury of a simple grunt of assent.
He’s never the only one under the interrogation lamp when Hennessy is around, for which he’s eternally grateful. Unfortunately, he is still the only one who always shows up single. Hennessy cycles through dates like it’s her job. She’s far more committed to it than her actual job, which she hates. This Christmas dinner, she’s turned up with a man at least a decade older than her and he won’t stop lecturing them all about their carbon footprint. He also doesn’t seem to have a last name. Maybe Bryde is his last name, and he doesn’t have a first name. Ronan hasn’t figured it out and he doesn’t care enough to ask. There’s no point anyways. The guy will be gone before the new year.
“Ronan just likes to take his sweet time about things,” Declan comments mildly.
Declan’s poking and prodding is less obvious than his wife’s, but as always, it makes Ronan feel far worse. He’s never quite shaken the feeling that Declan disapproves of the whole gay thing. He’s never said so, but Declan disapproves of everything Ronan does. Bad enough to be gay; worse that he can’t even be gay married about it.
“I’m sure it’ll happen before long,” another voice chimes in loudly.
Ronan feels a heavy hand clap his shoulder and he resists the urge to shrug it off. Their mother’s much younger husband has never been able to decide whether he’s meant to play the parent or the friend card, and for some reason he’s decided on both. It’s jovial and suffocating.
“Better get a move on, eh?”
And then there’s Matthew. Dear, sweet Matthew. The youngest Lynch, as long as you don’t count Declan’s children (which Ronan doesn’t on principle, though they’re extremely cool kids). Matthew has long been Ronan’s partner-in-crime, his comrade-in-arms.
Matthew has not only brought a girl home this year; he’s pulled out a goddamn ring.
Ronan escapes to a bar downtown, a cozy little number that doesn’t have a single Christmas decoration strung up on the outside. Maybe that has something to do with why it’s open. The interior is small and dark, like a little underground burrow, and it makes Ronan’s insides uncurl in relief.
The bartender takes one look at Ronan and pours him a pint of pale ale.
“Lemme guess, you’re looking for a few moments of peace away from the wife and kids?” he says dryly.
Ronan grimaces. Not at the beer, which is actually pretty good. “Shit man, do I look like someone who has a wife?”
The bartender looks him over again, slower this time, and shrugs. The look is calculating and utterly unconcerned. He probably gets a new sob story five times a night. He begins to wipe down the other side of the tiny wooden bar, his long forearm moving in lazy, hypnotizing circles.
Ronan keeps talking. “I’m more insulted by that than anything my brothers said to me tonight.”
The bartender makes a face that Ronan supposes is meant to be sympathetic. It doesn’t sit right. “Are they awful?”
Ronan frowns into his glass. “I wish. Then I could tell them to fuck off forever and mean it. They just…care about my eternal happiness, or whatever.”
“Damn,” the bartender says. “You’re right. That sounds terrible.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Ronan protests. “My brother—my little brother—just got engaged to some girl he brought home after three months on a sweet potato farm. Meanwhile my single ass got relegated to the kids table with my nieces. All of whom have boyfriends, they told me, by the way. And the oldest is eight.”
The bartender laughs. It’s quiet and secretive and it makes Ronan feel like he’s the butt of the joke. Somehow, it’s different with this stranger than it is with his overbearing family.
“You think that’s bad? I got second date ambushed by my date’s parents. And matching Christmas sweaters.”
“Wow,” Ronan snorts. “That’s gotta guarantee a third date, right?”
“Not after I accidentally implied she was a prostitute.”
Ronan stares. “…in front of—”
“—in front of the parents, yes,” the bartender finished. “It was not my finest moment.”
“So now you’re here, working on Christmas instead.”
The bartender raises his hands in acknowledgment. They’re nice hands, Ronan notices. Large and wiry and elegant.
“Why did you even set up a second date on Christmas?”
“It wasn’t Christmas.” He grimaces and concedes, “It was Christmas Eve.”
Ronan laughs at him. Like that’s any better.
The bartender returns to his cleaning. He says, in a perfunctory sort of way, “Family isn’t an option for me. Sometimes it’s nice not to be on my own at the holidays.”
Ronan feels a pang of something under his ribcage. Pity, maybe.
He says, “Wanna swap? You can go to my family holidays and I’ll hang out here with the sad sack losers. You can get all of my stepdad’s nagging about why haven’t you found a nice man to settle down with yet, Ronan? for a change.”
The bartender cracks a grin. “Hey, I know a girl and some Christmas sweaters you could bring for next time, if you’re really desperate.”
Ronan isn’t nearly desperate enough to date a girl.
“Sounds like something Hennessy would do. My sister-in-law’s sister, I mean. Sister-in-law-in-law? Shit, is there a name for that? Anyways. She parades around some new lunatic every single time we all get together.”
“That’s not a terrible idea,” the bartender says, frowning, drawing it out.
Ronan’s nose wrinkles. “I’m not bringing your prostitute to my New Year’s Eve party.”
“Not her specifically. Just find someone—I believe you said sad sack loser, earlier—who can be your backup date around the holidays. Takes the pressure off with your family, and you have someone to talk to while all the couples do their gross couple-y thing.”
He’s…right, actually. It’s not a bad idea at all. Ronan doesn’t like enough people to go out of his way to find stand-ins the way that Hennessy does, but if an opportunity falls into his lap, he’s not about to say no. He’s enjoyed himself with this guy so far. He could stand a few more hours in his company.
If he’s offering.
Ronan can feel a smile start to grow as he takes stock of the man in front of him.
The bartender looks back flatly. “I didn’t mean me.”
“You suggested it.”
“I suggested someone.”
“You literally just said you don’t like spending holidays alone!”
“That implies that I won’t be able to get my own real date for the next holiday—”
“—which is New Year’s Eve and it’s in, like, four days.”
The bartender stops short. He frowns, but not in anger. “Fuck. You're right. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve got tickets to this club thing; I’m meeting some friends there. I was gonna be the solo fifth wheel, like I always fucking am. You can come with. If nothing else, showing up with a date might give Hennessy a heart attack.”
The bartender says, “You’re trying to murder your sister-in-law-squared?”
Ronan’s smile spreads. “Nah, that’d just be an added bonus.”
The bartender looks like he’s actually considering it. Ronan takes a split second to wonder whether this is actually a terrible idea. He doesn’t know anything about this guy. He could be a murderer himself. He’s probably straight, considering the very obvious story he dropped into their conversation about his date with a woman. He’s wry in a judgy sort of way, and he’s not intimidated by Ronan’s gruffness.
He’s very pretty.
Ronan doesn’t know his name. He wants to.
“Just to be clear,” the bartender asks, “Are you trying to scam someone? Am I gonna have to learn a bunch of facts about you so we can pretend we’ve been in love for years?”
“What? Of course not. What is this, a movie? No one fakes dating in real life. I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to come with me to a party—free ticket, by the way—and get drunk on free champagne and make fun of the couples getting engaged at midnight with me.”
The guy thinks about it. Ronan gets the impression that he thinks very seriously about a lot of things.
Finally, he says, “Alright. You’re on.”