If you read the books carefully, you can get a sense of the physical heights.
Ronan’s the tallest:
“Are you kidding?” Cialina replied, eyeing the four boys. Having finally ended his call, the first one slid into one of the orange vinyl booths. The tallest of them knocked his head on the green cut-glass light hanging over the table; the others laughed generously at him. He said, Bitch. A tattoo snaked out above his collar as he swiveled to sit down. There was something hungry about all of the boys.
One can assume Adam is taller than Gansey, because one of the few descriptors Gansey spares for him in his description is that he’s tall:
Unlike Ronan, Adam’s Aglionby sweater was secondhand, but he’d taken great care to be certain it was impeccable. He was slim and tall, with dusty hair unevenly cropped above a fine-boned, tanned face. He was a sepia photograph.
(Which if Adam is tall, and Ronan is visibly taller, it indicates they’re both notably tall.)
Gansey is of average height, maybe on the taller end of it:
“I certainly hope so,” he said, in a way that indicated less hope and more certainty. He had to speak loudly to be heard, and he had to incline his head to meet her eyes. There was something annoyingly impressive about him, an impression that he was very tall, although he was no taller than most boys.
Noah is not described as short, so one can assume he is also of average height, probably shorter than Gansey.
And then there’s Blue. Poor Blue:
Really, she didn’t know if she’d truly like to find out more about the pygmy tyrant. She just liked the name, because, for a five-foot-tall girl, pygmy tyrant sounded like a career.
i say, how about scallops? - because my reward for trekking to the city to see him despite my travel anxiety is a home-cooked meal he’s promised to be delicious; because i haven’t had scallops in such a long time, and because something about his secondhand cable knit sweater makes me believe he’d cook them well. he smiles and nods and says we’ll have to go to the store and pick some stuff up, but he’s got a plan and i am going to love it.
we walk to the whole foods a few blocks over and the faint autumn chill feels nice on our faces because it’s still pretty warm, for october, but we want to wear our layers. after the fifth or sixth time his hand brushes mine i start to wonder if it’s on purpose but i’d never assume; certain i’m imagining it.
he gets close to me, when he asks me if i want pasta or rice; leans into me, bodies touching, as we contemplate the aisle we’re in. i’m holding a basket full of fresh herbs and onions and garlic. i think i want pasta, and i tell him this. he says to pick whatever kind i want, regardless of whether it classically pairs well with scallops; i choose small shells and this seems to amuse him. he chooses big bay scallops.
on the walk back to his apartment he puts his arm around my waist and there’s no way i’m making this up in my head and i’m confused. i make a joke about slumming in public where people he knows will see him and he tells me to shut up so i do and he pulls me in.
he puts me to work, chopping garlic and scallions. the sparse but appealing apartment smells like butter and so much garlic. he says he’ll use a lot of it because he knows i like it and that he doesn’t mind garlic breath and i can’t help but be suspicious and skeptical and goddammit, i have always found him handsome… but he has only ever dated really fucking beautiful girls and i have always just been a really fucking good friend.
we sit across from each other at his little retro dinette table and he’s right, the food is amazing and i was right, he knows how to cook scallops and he tells me he’s so happy i’ve finally come to see the place and i apologize for the way i am and he says he likes the way i am just fine and i ask, since when? and he says since always - he’s loved me since the day we met and been in love with me since the 4th of july when we got drunk and made out and felt each other up a little at his sister’s time share.
i just sit there not saying anything and swirling a piece of onion skin in the butter on my plate because what if i’m just in a coma, or something? waking up alone after this would suck so bad; he asks if i want more edamame and i say no and he sits back in his chair and watches me play with my food and when i finally glance up, he’s looking at me like this is literally everything he’s ever wanted and i want to kiss him again. i want to kiss him forever, and it’s fucking unnerving.
i break my super-charged silence to ask him if he’s sure-sure and he sighs while flipping channels. by this point we’ve been sitting here a while, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me. so fucking casually, as if we’d been playing this game for years. he asks me if i really think we’d be here right now, like this, if he wasn’t and i know we wouldn’t; i’ve known him long enough to know.
he falls asleep there on the couch in the middle of a docuseries about all the insects that could potentially kill you in brazil, and i watch him intently, looking for signs of bullshit, but i don’t find any. when he kissed me that first time it had felt urgent and raw and there were fireworks but only because it was july 4th and when he felt me up his hands had lingered a lot, almost like he was trying to memorize me or the experience or something, i don’t know, he’d seemed really into it.
and he’s asleep, and awfully calm about it all when i’d spent years wondering if maybe he’d one day notice me-notice me and want to kiss-kiss me or hold my hand in public but then i remember he’s always been nonchalant and casual and we’re both passive, non-assuming people and i spent at least half an hour learning to be terrified of yellow scorpions while also debating whether or not to wake him with a surprise blowjob.
“I don’t like things that are pretty and clean and nice, I can’t buy new clothes, I have to wear my old clothes. I mean, these are the same pants that I’ve worn for the last three years. This is a mohair sweater. I buy mohair sweaters secondhand. I like to buy old things. I like old, dingy, dirty things because they have more character. There’s more detail to weathered things. There’s more detail to decay. I can’t stand anything that’s new. So even though I’m a really rich Rock star I have to wear old dirty clothes because it’s the only way I feel comfortable.” - Kurt Cobain, 1992.
Went out and got some pictures printed to change up the photos in our room from winter. Hopefully it cools down and we can finish up painting the deck chairs. I’m excited for our outdoor space to look nice. I just need more plants!!