“Wanna try again?”
Ronan looked from the TV to Noah then back to the TV with an awestruck expression. “You’re dead. How the fuck are you doing this?”
“It’s like riding a bike, I guess.”
“There was no Call of Duty when you died.”
Laughter bubbled out of Noah as he made a buzzing sound, “wrong. I’d just gotten Modern Warfare when– I’d just bought Modern Warfare and I never got to play it.”
Ronan’s ribcage tightened with the reminder that Noah —Noah who he loved dearly— was murdered, robbed of the rest of his life by a power hungry psycho who had the audacity to call himself Noah’s friend.
The unfairness of it stung with a familiarity Ronan dreaded. Not for the first time, he wished, he ached, for Gansey’s King to be real, to grant them one thing before riding into the sunset or whatever undead, sleeping kings did when they woke up.
Setting the controller aside, Ronan reached for Noah’s cold hand, wrapped his fingers around his pale wrist and felt for a pulse. There was nothing, but he could swear the ley line beat inside of him.
Soon, he promised. To whom? He had no idea.