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There is only so much luxury you can afford when you barely have a few savings. Summer jobs, a few months’ allowance, and the money Ryan took from his parents before leaving. It’s not like you get many life savings when you’re still a teenager, really.
The moment they got out of the bus, they sat at a small bench at the station, writing numbers, calculations, making sure they could manage to sleep under a roof for at least a week. Then, they walked for about an hour until they reached a small, cheap motel. The best they could find (“best” meaning something cheap that they could afford while also not risking being human trafficked or something along those lines).
They sit on the bed. Neither of them talk much — after all, both are physically and emotionally exhausted, and they really need a break. Sleep sounds like a fucking dream, no pun intended, but every time they close their eyes, they see an entity possessing their bodies, torturing them under their eyelids.
Nonetheless, they end up falling asleep in the end. After all, there’s only so long a body can stay awake without proper food or rest.
Naim dreams of sitting in a too-big table and confessing secrets he should keep to himself and take to the grave.
-
By the third day in the motel, they start growing more familiar with these ugly walls. But their energy isn’t the best. After all, their lunch for the past few days have consisted of a $3 sandwich and a glass of water, and they get more and more sleep deprived with each day. Because sleep doesn’t come easily at night. They rather nap during the day instead of laying in a dark room at night.
Even though Naim sleeps with his lighter on his pocket, keeps it by him at all times, he cannot help but feel so, so fucking scared.
He doesn’t know which torment is worse. Closing his eyes and having nightmares of Ryan wrapping his hands around his throat, staring at him blankly, or opening his eyes and seeing the real Ryan.
And even after all, he probably guesses it’s the latter.
Because when he sees Ryan, all he can feel is guilt. It’s like a parasite that implants itself deep into the folds of his brain, one that makes him nauseous every night, one that makes him want to sob.
It is hard to feel bad about himself, when he considers the fact that everything that happened was his fault. Because of a petty fucking mistake. Because of his lack of maturity.
God. He’s a fucking idiot.
He slowly opens his eyes when the sun starts bothering him enough to finally move. He grumbles, rubs his eyes, blinks sleepily to get used to the rays of sun hitting his face.
Ryan is shirtless on the bed, sitting next to him. He’s focused as he sews into a shirt. It’s one he likes, wears it a lot, but it got a bit torn a few days ago, after… yeah. There’s a focused frown on his face, the tip of his tongue peeking between his lips, and then he notices Naim slowly waking up.
He says nothing, initially. Keeps working on the rough fabric, until he finishes. It’s a little messy, but it’s honest work, and it does the trick, so it doesn’t really matter. “Morning,” he finally says, voice scratchy, a little rough. Probably just woke up a few minutes ago. “Did you sleep well? Heard you complaining a few times in your sleep.”
Naim looks up at him. Nods slowly, unsure whether his throat works right now, or if he could manage to speak through the lump in his throat.
He feels so fucking pathetic.
“Mhmm,” he hums. “Probably had a nightmare. I can’t remember. What about you?” he says, downplaying the fact that he did had a nightmare — a pretty bad one, at that.
Ryan hums back. He puts the shirt, needle and thread aside, and leans down to nuzzle Naim’s neck. “Slept alright. You were warm. Think i’m getting used to this fucking mattress…” he admitted, laughing airily.
Naim frankly admires the ability Ryan has to act so casual after everything that happened during the past few weeks. He wishes he, too, could ignore it so easily.
Then again, it’s different for him. Ryan is resilient. He’s strong, and reliable. Naim, meanwhile, is a fucking asshole. It’s why he tries not to talk about how much he’s still struggling. It would be so embarrassing to talk about his suffering, when all of this was his fault, in the first place.
His eyes sting. “Yeah,” he mumbles, slowly tugging Ryan closer into him, even though he doesn’t deserve the closeness. Anything so he can hide the way his face is twisting as he tries not to cry. “Can’t say the same. It’s fucking uncomfortable.”
Ryan snorts. “Well, it’s not like we can afford something else right now,” he murmured, arms firmly wrapping around Naim’s torso.
It surprises Naim that, even now, Ryan is so… comfortable around him. Still clingy. Still warm and safe and many other sweet things Naim thought he no longer deserved. Not after everything.
Still, he decides to be a little greedy. Nuzzles back into Ryan’s shoulder, inhales the scent of his bare skin, humming quietly. “I know,” he mumbles, voice muffled into Ryan’s skin. “It’s just temporary, at least…”
“Yeah,” Ryan agrees simply. They spend a few more seconds like that, simply laying down, before Ryan sits up with a groan. “Okay. I need to move. My body gets sore as fuck if i stay like this too long,” he huffs, standing up and walking into the small bathroom within the motel room. “And i need a shower,” he grumbles to himself as he closes the door behind him.
Naim stares at the ceiling. Fidgets with the lighter and sighs heavily. Digs his knuckles into his eyes and allows one or two tears to slip out.
-
Once their budget starts growing more and more limited, Ryan steals a few groceries from the big supermarket located twenty minutes away. It’s a big chain, so he doesn’t care.
Initially, Naim scolds him for it, grumbles something about how they shouldn’t be risking it, not now. Then again, they don’t really have many other choices. Both of them are trying to get part-time jobs, but it’s certainly not easy.
Though it is easier for Ryan, because he is charismatic. One evening, he goes to the small market that’s on the same street as the motel, for something quick, something they ran out of, and he bumps into an old lady. They talk for a few minutes — because Ryan is charming, and sweet, and he offers to help her in anything she needs. Which is how they get a new income.
It’s great.
Naim should feel happy, really.
He isn’t.
Is it annoyingly self-centered to feel useless about this, too? Certainly not, right? Naim can spend the whole afternoon knocking on stores to see if they need some more staff, to no avail, but Ryan simply crosses the street, has a nice conversation and suddenly he has a fucking job?
Delightful, really.
The good news is that they can finally move into a… proper place. If you can call it that.
It’s a (very) small studio apartment in a cheap, old building. It’s small, but they don’t need a whole lot more right now, and at least they have a kitchen, which means they can finally cook proper food.
Naim is making dinner by the time Ryan comes back after running some errands for the old lady, an envelope in his hand — his pay.
There’s shame gnawing at every single cell of Naim’s body, tingling uncomfortably on his skin, stabbing every nerve ending of his entire being.
“God, fuck, did you hear that? My stomach fucking growled. It smells great,” Ryan practically moans, stealing a bite of the chicken Naim is making.
“Don’t think it’s that good. We’re probably just starving,” Naim snorts, keeping it on low heat as he leans into the dishwasher instead, desperate to have something to do with his hands. To look useful. To feel useful.
“Dunno,” Ryan says, chewing with his mouth open. “I think it tastes great, so it’s fine,” he hums simply, resting his forehead on Naim’s nape. “Ah, i’m tired. Wanna hear what i did today? M’telling you either way, but…” he trails off, laughing at his own words.
Naim doesn’t want to hear it. He has never been the self deprecating kind, not to this extent at least, but right now the least thing he wants to hear is how Ryan can somehow manage to exist so easily in an unfamiliar place, after a traumatic experience, with limited resources and a low budget and time and— everything, really.
Still, he clears his throat. “I’m all ears.”
Ryan rambles about it. How he washed the lady’s son’s car, then went to the store to buy a few things she needed, then reorganized her pantries because she didn’t like the order anymore and fixed a door that kept making a weird noise. Mentions something about gardening tomorrow.
“Do you even know how to mow the lawn?” Naim asks with a snort, serving dinner into two plates. Two sets of utensils on the table.
Ryan gnaws at his bottom lip, then shrugs.
Naim blinks.
They laugh. For the first time ever since they arrived here, Naim feels slightly at peace, if only for a moment. He simply has to force himself to stop overthinking, or else his head will explode, like in the gruesome horror movies he used to see behind his mother’s back when he was younger.
After they finish eating — very quickly, at that, because it’s the first proper meal they’ve had in what feels like years but has only been a few days — Naim does the dishes and Ryan showers.
By the time he’s out, Naim is already in bed, under the sheets. He’s dripping, a towel hanging low on his hips, golden necklace shining over his skin. He tries not to stare as Ryan slips into his pajamas (boxers and a shirt, really), but it’s a losing battle. He stares at the tiny bumps of his spine, the firm muscles on his shoulders, the way his biceps flex as he shifts.
He smells clean, and there’s a few droplets of water still dripping down his blond curls, and there’s a warmth blooming low in Naim’s belly that feels like hunger, a hunger that isn’t sated by food, a sensation that reminds him of how many days he’s been neglecting his most primal needs. The thought, traitorous, immediately makes his mind drift.
The back of a bus. His hand on the window, trying to ground himself, to stay quiet, while Ryan’s hand worked on his hard cock up, and down, and up, then down again, stroking it wetly. His thumb tracing circles on the sensitive head, making Naim’s eyes close in sweet pleasure. He licks into Ryan’s ear, feeling high. He’d like more privacy, but even now, he feels free. He wants to whimper into Ryan’s mouth, thrust into Ryan’s warm, tight fist, hear Ryan talk him through it. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. Naim has never felt so warm before.
“Naim,” Ryan says. It looks like he’s been trying to get Naim’s attention for a while, now. “What’s up with you, huh? Daydreaming?”
Naim swallows, shaking his head, scratching his cheek to hide the way his face is growing warm. “Sorry, uh. I’m just tired. Wasn’t listening. What is it?”
“I was asking,” Ryan says calmly, “if you have a spare lighter.”
Naim blinks. “What? Why?”
There’s fear immediately knotting on his stomach, strange, cold. He doesn’t know why.
Ryan frowns. “Hey. Don’t look so worried, now, it’s nothing serious,” he says, voice growing all soft and fond, in the same gentle tone he has always used with Naim, which right now, absurdly so, makes him want to cry. “I was just wondering because i lost mine. Just in case i want to smoke, so i don’t bother you asking for yours. I just don’t want to take that one, because… you know. It’s like, your thing.”
It’s hard not to notice how attached Naim is to the lighter. It’s one of the few stuff that makes him feel safe, right now. It makes him feel a little stupid, too. First, he’s unable to say sorry. And now, he can’t be calm if there isn’t a lighter close to him. Is there anything he isn’t afraid of, really?
Naim shifts, a little embarrassed. “Right, uh…” he mumbles, grabbing one of his hoodies and searching through the pockets until he finds another one, hands it to Ryan. “Here.”
“Lifesaver,” Ryan sighs. He places it on the small nightstand on his side, then gets into bed. They’ve been smoking less ever since they got here. It’s most likely due to the fact that they are not allowed to do it inside of the apartment and they don’t have a balcony, so they have to go all the way downstairs to do so, and they’re lazy. That, and the fact that their budget is strictly used for rent and food. Cigarettes are a luxury, right now.
They lay down together, both of them staring at the ceiling, the lights off aside from a small lamp on the floor that Naim insists on keeping it on during the night, physically unable to sleep in a fully dark room without being mentally tortured with memories he’d rather not have.
An hour passes. Ryan’s breathing had gotten steady, but eventually, he shifts slowly. “Naim?” he whispers groggily.
“Mhmm…?”
“Why are you still awake?” he asks in a tired sigh, naturally tugging Naim closer, until he’s tucked into his chest. “Sleep,” Ryan whispers. “It’s late. Are you having trouble sleeping? Is that it?”
Naim shakes his head, even though it’s true. He’s been unable to sleep properly for weeks. He’s scared. He feels like a kid.
“I dunno…” he whispers, allowing himself to nuzzle Ryan’s collarbone. “I’m just not sleepy,” he adds. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep, Ryan.”
“You sleep too, Naim,” Ryan hums, imitating his tone, amused. He places a kiss on Naim’s hairline. “Okay, seriously. Sleep. I’ll be watching you,” he mumbles as a warning, even though barely a minute later, he’s back to snoring quietly.
-
It’s a pity, really.
Finally, after a few hours, Naim falls asleep. And yet, he’s only been resting soundly for half an hour when he suddenly wakes up.
He can’t move.
He can feel, with the tip of his cold fingers, that Ryan’s side of the bed is still warm, but empty. And Ryan—
Ryan is in the corner of the room.
Staring at him in the darkness, absolutely silent. Dread starts to creep in his mind, his chest tightening up, and he can’t move, he can’t move, and Ryan is now walking closer.
It is, of course, not Ryan.
But even now, even after it happening many times before, and even more frequently now whenever he’s alone, he still feels terrified.
There’s a whimper stuck in Naim’s throat, and he tries to close his eyes, but he’s unable to do so. It almost feels like a sleep paralysis — if it wasn’t for the fact that this is very much real, this is happening right now, and “Ryan” can (and will) hurt him.
Maybe he deserves it.
Ideally, the one who should put an end to his life is the real Ryan. As some sort of vengeance, after what Naim did to him. But this works too, he guesses. His heart has been rotting inside of his body for the past few days, so he might as well be dead, already.
There are firm hands wrapping around his neck, then. Tightly holding onto it, with violence and love all the same. And yet, none of it hurts more than the huge amount of feelings he’s been carrying lately, like a backpack that keeps getting heavier, but instead of his back, it’s a pressure on his chest, making it harder to breathe.
There is guilt clawing at Naim’s throat, and it feels just like “Ryan’s” fist digging into his mouth weeks ago, forcing the molten hot sensation of dread into his trachea like bile, like acid pooling low on his stomach, and his eyes sting, and he cannot feel the tips of his cold fingers.
(He feels so cold. His lighter isn’t where it’s supposed to, he realizes. He yearns for warmth. Right now, lightheaded, he simply wants to be greedy, to be in Ryan’s gentle embrace, to cry into his chest, admit how scared he is, how terrified he’s been the last few days. More than anything in the world, he wants to apologize. Wants to say sorry for triggering all of this in the first place. Wants to apologize to the real Ryan. He desires to love freely, to—)
There are black dots swimming on his vision, like static.
He deserves the pain, he realizes. All of it was his fault. Ryan should’ve ditched him long ago.
He is a second away from passing out when the pressure on his throat finally stops, but he’s too lightheaded and sluggish to understand what happens in the next few seconds.
Suddenly, “Ryan” isn’t on top of him anymore, choking him, staring down at him with eyes full of hatred, as if every eyelash asks the same question — “aren’t you sorry?”
No. Ryan is sitting on the bed, hovering over Naim, hurriedly checking on him, his palm gently patting his cheek, and slowly, his ears and the rest of his senses finally function again—
“Naim. Naim, it’s me. Are you okay? What the fuck happened? Fuck, i’m so sorry, i went downstairs for a cigarette and i took the lighter you gave me but it didn’t work so i took yours, i figured i’d be quick, i didn’t know this would happen, god, i’m sorry—“ he rambles, eyes full of worry and palms warm and gentle on his hollow cheeks.
A sob is ripped from Naim’s chest, ugly and raw, and his face crumbles as he melts into Ryan’s embrace, shaky hands guiding Ryan’s arms to wrap around Naim’s body, desperate for warmth, for just a moment to allow himself to feel weak and vulnerable and small without shaming himself for it.
Ryan immediately gets the message, holding him close, tight. “You’re safe, Naim. Hey. It’s me, okay? It’s really me. You’re okay, now, come on,” he whispers gently, even when he’s scared too, because he entered the room and Naim was choking and barely breathing and, fuck, this shit is so frustrating. “I’m here. It can’t hurt you.”
Naim cries. For the first time since it all started, he allows himself to really cry. His sobs are making him tremble, he feels unwell, still a little lightheaded, and yet—
“I’m sorry…” he gasps, voice all wobbly and sad.
“What?” Ryan breathes out. “Naim, hey. You don’t have to apologize for this, it’s—“
“No,” Naim interrupts. The next words slip out of him like a broken faucet. He is unable to stop himself, now. “I’m sorry for w-what i did to you. It was all my f-fault, and i can’t stop feeling guilty, and i apologized once but it wasn’t the real you and now i just couldn’t dare to say sorry— it’s like the words were stuck in my throat and i couldn’t get them out, and i’ve been so scared—“ his voice breaks at the last word, then on every syllable, and he has to take a shaky breath before continuing because he’s almost hyperventilating, now. “I’m so scared, i was terrified but i didn’t want to tell you that because that would be s-so rich coming from me when i caused this shit in the first place because i was petty and jealous and—“
“Naim,” Ryan’s voice cuts through his panic. Surprisingly, his voice isn’t loud, and yet it’s the only thing that managed to get through Naim’s ears. Ryan’s warm hands are cupping his face oh so gently, and he’s looking at him with a bittersweet glint in his eyes. “Hey,” he says softly, thumbs wiping the tears and snot off his face, barely caring if it’s gross or something.
Naim blinks slowly up at him, shaking like a leaf, sniffling. He looks like a wet puppy.
Ryan… he just looks fond. Worried. He stays quiet for a moment, as if trying to find the adequate words for this. “Naim,” he repeats his name once more, as if he simply enjoys the sound of it and that’s why he always says it in the same warm, kind tone. “I already forgave you, okay? It’s okay. We’re both fucking stupid, what you did was…” he sighs. “I won’t praise you for it. I don’t think— no, let me rephrase. It was an awful thing to do, yeah. And it… it caused some harm, but i need you to understand that i get it. And i forgive you,” he says softly. He laughs tiredly. “God, i had already forgiven you, stupid,” he whispers. “You really think i’d look at all of this and blame you?”
Naim doesn’t look comforted at all. As always, it is hard for him to be gentle and understanding with himself. His lower lip wobbles, and his chest aches. “But it’s my fault Hunter died,” he whispers, voice so small, so heartbroken, it could’ve been an exhale.
“No it wasn’t,” Ryan muttered, one of his hand still on his cheek, the other one gently searching for one of Naim’s, to squeeze it softly, ground him slowly. “It wasn’t your fault. You did a mistake, yes, but you had absolutely no fucking way of knowing all of this would happen, idiot,” he whispers.
Naim looks away, tears clinging to his eyelashes. He hiccups, tiredly blinking some tears away from his glassy eyes.
“Come on…” Ryan begs in a small whisper. “Look at me, please? I want you to listen to me. None of what happened was your responsibility. And you went through it, too, so that can make us even, if it makes you feel better,” he jokes.
Nonetheless, Naim still looks miserable. He’s barely even able to look at Ryan’s eyes. But then, small, his mouth opens. “I’ve been so scared…” he whispers weakly.
Ryan softens even further. “I supposed you were. I always knew that tough guy act was a joke, see?” he whispered softly, tugging Naim closer until he’s buried in Ryan’s chest once again. His hands trace gentle, small circles on Naim’s back, softly humming a nonexistent melody. “I bet you were just as terrified, hm? Maybe even more. You should’ve told me…” he sighs softly, almost a coo.
It’s the sweetness of it, the way he’s so tender, so calming, what makes Naim break all over again. He silently cries into Ryan’s throat, small, clinging into him as he nods. “I was s-so scared… everyday, i’ve been so afraid… it keeps appearing when you’re gone, but i thought i had no right to complain about it because it was my fault in the first place…”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Ryan whispers into his ear. He would repeat it as many times as it would take for Naim to believe him. “Naim, how should i say it for it to finally click in your brain?” he asks softly. “It wasn’t your fault. It was everyone else’s. With their spiritual bullshit and that stupid attempt to fix us just because we were—“
—In love. It goes wordlessly.
Ryan continues, gently speaking into Naim’s ear, as he finally starts calming down. “We’ve all done petty mistakes in the past. But you can’t let it follow you forever. That’s another mistake, and it’s one we can avoid, okay?” he says softly. “We will avoid it. But for that, i need you to stop blaming yourself, you hear me?”
It takes a while, but eventually, Naim calms down. He’s letting out small, warm puffs of breath into Ryan’s shoulder, blinking slowly. “Okay…” he whispered. “I think i’m… a little better, now. Sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry,” Ryan whispers, kissing Naim’s earlobe, nuzzling it softly. “You’ve been forgiven, so stop beating yourself up over it,” he hums softly, hands slowly wrapping around his waist, caressing the skin under his shirt gently, kissing down his neck. “I forgive you, Naim. You’re forgiven. Well, half forgiven.”
Naim tenses up, looking at him, glassy eyed.
Ryan laughs airily. “I’ll forgive you fully once you stop blaming yourself over dumb mistakes,” he says. “Mistakes that will stay in the past, by the way. So quit that. Or i’ll get upset.”
Finally, it seems like Naim is becoming more receptive, nodding slowly, tilting his head to the side to give Ryan more access.
Ryan hums quietly, fingers drawing random figures on Naim’s back underneath his shirt, placing soft, dainty kisses into his neck. “You’re too pretty to bottle up so many emotions and then explode like this,” he sighs. “You need to start trusting me and being more honest to me. We only have each other right now, you know.”
Naim lets out a shaky breath, nodding. He parts his lips, leaning in to kiss Ryan timidly. “Okay. I’m sorry,” he whispers into Ryan’s lips.
Ryan smiles into the kiss, then lets out a quiet sigh, tugging him close for another hug, not getting enough of the closeness. “You must’ve been struggling so much, hm? You poor thing…” he coos quietly into Naim’s neck. “Keeping it all to yourself, too, suffering alone… how silly.”
Naim tentatively gets a little closer, as if trying to glue himself together with Ryan, to carve a spot inside his chest, bury himself inside his ribcage. “Won’t do it again,” he breathed out, voice raspy and sore after crying so much. He nuzzles Ryan’s throat, like a cat seeking warmth. For the first time in weeks, he allows himself to be fragile. Cared for. Held.
Ryan nods slowly, satisfied, as they lay down together under the covers. He places Naim’s lighter back on its usual spot on the little nightstand, presses a kiss into his forehead, and then he simply decides to hold Naim through the night. “We’ll have a proper conversation about it tomorrow, okay? But now you just rest, baby. That’s all you need to do.”
Naim slowly nods, exhausted. He knows, of course, that Ryan has more stuff to say about the situation, about their… predicament. But right now, he only focused on comforting Naim. And maybe that was the one thing Naim needed, right now.
As he rests his head on Ryan’s chest, Naim listens to his heart. It beats steadily under his ear, lulling him into a deep slumber.
And for once, instead of whispering sorry, instead of having nightmares of self hatred and fear, he whispers; “thank you,” and dreams of nothing at all.