The resentment in his voice resonates through Arthur’s bones, and he remembers the day after Ronan ran away. After the healers fixed him. He’d gone back to his room, seen the bed where they’d fucked, the table where they’d shared mugs of ale, too much ale, the shirt on the floor that Ronan always liked to steal. The loss and self-loathing surged up inside him, and instead of praying, Arthur punched a hole in the wall. The pain didn’t help, but he did it again, just to see. Shae hasn’t been punching walls for the past ten years. He’s been too busy punching holes in himself.
