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Hunter and Ryan stood shoulder to shoulder with one another, Ryan's calmness partly weed-induced and Hunter's entirely false bravado. Hunter's smirk didn't reach his eyes or match the incessant shake in his hands, not that it was garnering him any sympathy from either attending party. The deliverance healer was preparing for them in the room over, and Hunter looked like a man about to walk to his death. Hunter promised him, quietly, that this was all for show. Ryan barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Just Dad trying to make it look like the family's not falling apart," His eyes searched Ryan's for something that Ryan couldn't name. Forgiveness, maybe. Whatever it was, Hunter wouldn't find it.
Ryan's personal theory was that this was Hunter's own attempt at gluing his family back together. The preacher's son growing a guilty conscience, or maybe just growing a little too honest in a confessional booth. He couldn't fault him for it, not entirely. It wasn't in his nature to understand what could drive Hunter to confess after years of sneaking around. There had never been pretending in Ryan's family, they simply weren't and that was fine by him.
"You don't need to be scared of them, Hunter," Ryan offered. No matter the differences between them, their reasons for doing what they did with one another, they had shared this feeling together and would thus suffer for it together.
"I'm not scared." Hunter had always been stubborn, he thinks almost fondly.
Ryan risks bumping shoulders together, gentler than he would if they were alone. By the time he's opened his mouth to respond, they're being hurried to the next room. The room where mucus pours from their mouths, where Ryan writhes on the floor and contorts in every direction. He's being torn apart, there's a fire burning every gap within him, and his eyes lock on Naim as his limbs twist and shove his mother back. Run, he thinks while looking at Naim. He listens, the smart bugger.
After, Ryan offers Hunter a hit from a joint held loosely between shaking fingers.
"I never want to see you again."
Hunter was a liar. Was. The word sticks in Ryan's mouth and tastes like copper. The last words Hunter ever said to him were just another lie. That he ever said to the real Ryan, he supposed. If what Naim said could even be trusted anymore. Hunter was a liar, and Ryan had trusted that Naim wasn't.
There are fresh, bleeding gashes on his forehead and cheek and a car that belongs to another family in his garage. They might be even more broken than the Whelan's, now, Ryan thinks before heaving into the toilet. Images of Izzie and Hunter, of Naim, flood his mind as his stomach leaves him. A family full of liars, the lot of them. Hunter hadn't even been honest with his family, in the end. And Ryan had ignored him, after. He'd stood at his funeral, and been convinced it was Hunter who'd turned them in. But it was Naim who had done it. Sweet Naim, his heart and stomach lurched again in tandem.
Naim had moved to their town and joined their Church with all the subtlety of an elephant entering a small pond. He stood out like a sore thumb, too quiet for most of the boys but uninterested in anything the few friendly girls who approached him had to say. Ryan had kept his distance for as long as he could handle, but after the mill, he itched constantly to be near him.
Naim looked at him differently than Hunter did. Naim looked at him like he liked him, like he wanted to follow him around and listen to his secrets and care about him. And Ryan couldn't help but feel differently for Naim, too. He liked his too-honest stories and blunt nails, the way he found meaning in tiny acts of nature and then made fun of his mother for doing the same thing. Desire clawed at Ryan whenever he was near Naim, and Ryan tried his best to channel it out gently when he touched Naim at every given opportunity.
Even now, Ryan's arms ached with a need to hold onto Naim. To know that he was okay, to trace his cheekbones and ensure that Izzie's horrendous friends hadn't hurt him. That the entity wasn't circling his house, when it should've been Ryan's arms circling his waist and keeping them both safe. Ryan wasn't done learning about the way Naim's lips curved into a smile, before letting out a laugh or dipping downwards in anger.
You are only making it worse.
The toilet seat stared at him in a poor attempt at comfort. Maybe Jessica had been right. The more time he spent with Naim, the more he believed that they'd make it out of this together. That there was a future waiting for them. One where he knew Naim well enough to differentiate instantly between him and the poor fake wearing his face. And it would always wear Naim's face, for Ryan. Ryan didn't think he could ever desire someone more than he desired Naim, now or ever.
He'd even garnered some scrappy sense of hope that Izzie could rid them of this monster. Why did the one thing she was honest about have to be Naim?
Ryan had scarcely finished cleaning the stitches in his ear when there's a thud against the frontdoor. He instinctually goes to answer it, before freezing midstep. He shifts awkwardly on feet that are sore from spending the past week sprinting. Wailing replaces the sound of floorboards creaking. His heart starts beating fast enough to feel like it's making an attempt to escape his ribcage. A louder thud, at the kitchen window this time. Ryan's right ear starts to burn, remembering.
"RYAN!" It's Naim's voice, because of course it is. Ryan's grip on the bathroom doorknob tightens and his breathing quickens impossibly.
"Please, please, please let me in! It's out here and it's going to eat me, please, Ryan!" It talks just like Naim, too. Ryan recognizes that same voice crack and horror from when Naim was locked outside the bus. But it always talks just like Naim.
There are only two ways into the house, excluding any windows. The frontdoor where the first rock hit, and the backdoor that Ryan had let the entity in through before.
"I'm sorry! I'm so, so, so, so sorry, Ryan, I shouldn't have told them and I know it's all my fault and I hate myself for it but I don't want to die!" Against his will, Ryan opens the bathroom door. "It's my fault Hunter's dead. It's all my fault but you need to know I'm so sorry and I had no idea any of this would happen and even if I deserve to, I don't want to die!" Ryan faces his frontdoor, and is greeted with nothingness.
Images of Naim's dead body flood his vision. Of scratches on his back that cut bone deep, his hips covered in claw marks from a demon wearing Ryan's face. Absorbed in his own hurt, he'd left Naim alone. What if Arlene wasn't home? Would Naim have told him, as silent as he was on the drive back? He was beginning to feel like he might be sick again, the world swaying.
What was the last thing he'd told Naim? It'll never be me. A lie. It had to be a lie, whether he meant it in the moment or not. He would always go looking for Naim.
A rock hits the doorway just above the backdoor screen, right above where Ryan's face would be. He wouldn't let Naim die like Hunter. Ryan refused to let his last words to Naim be a lie born from fear.
Naim stood at the backdoor. He'd let the entity in through there before, but never Naim.
"It's not your fault." Ryan croaks out, eyes taking in Naim's hunched figure. He doesn't look anymore injured than the last time they'd spoken, but he didn't trust Naim to not hide injuries from him underneath one of those baggy jackets.
"Ryan," Naim's reverant in a way Ryan doesn't usually hear outside of a particularly good handjob. Naim's hand looks small against the screendoor, the backdoor light barely illuminating him. If Ryan squints, he can make out the laundry line blowing in the wind behind him. "Please let me in, please, Ryan."
Ryan takes a hesitant step near him, watching Naim's hand press harder against the screen. His hand repeatedly taps the screen and his wide eyes plead with him, creating the pefect replication of the scene outside that godforsaken bus. Naim's scanning him back, looking either desperate, terrified, hungry or all of the above. Ryan doesn't trust himself to decide which.
"Why are you here, Naim?" Naim's name fills Ryan's chest with a warm buzz, and he realizes with a start that he's missed the other boy with a fierceness that shouldn't exist for their brief time apart.
Naim inches closer, his full body pressed against the screen. "I- I needed to apologize and when I came to knock on the door I saw it. I don't know where it went, please, Ryan, you don't know how stupid I've been." Ryan steps forward, feeling desperation and hope clawing at his chest and begging to be proven right.
"I was scared. I was scared of this... feeling. I have these feelings for you and they terrified me, and when I saw you and Hunter I couldn't tell if I was more scared of myself or of you not reciprocating." Naim looks so bashful, clinging onto the screendoor for dear life but looking down to avoid Ryan's gaze. Comforting Naim is a craving Ryan has everytime he sees a distressed Naim, yet Ryan hates himself for it as he approaches the door. He hates himself even more when he realizes its distress he's caused. He wants to bring Naim in close and kiss the corners of his mouth until all the fear had left them both.
"I don't trust anyone or anywhere here besides you, Ryan. But I wanted to. I wanted to trust Hunter's parents, to believe my mum and the Church when they said they'd always protect us. All of us." Ryan puts his hand over Naim's on the screendoor. "I never should've done it. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you let me." Naim's voice sounds like solace, like the answers to every prayer Ryan's had all his life.
It's everything Ryan needed to hear since getting out of Izzie's car. Maybe all his life. The only thing he needed to hear for his heart to slow down and a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding escape his lips.
"Why did you throw the rocks?"
Naim looks up, startled. Ryan, agonizingly, lets his hand fall away from the warmth of Naim's and takes a step back. "Why did you throw the rocks at my house tonight, Naim?"
"To get your attention. I needed to find you and apologize, I told you that. And then I saw that thing out here and I really, really needed to find you." For one, long and painful moment, neither of them moves.
Naim punches through the screen and Ryan doesn't think to scream before darting back. He runs to the kitchen, grabbing the sharpest knife he sees just as the entity brings the door down in one swift pull. Ryan's searching, searching through every item in the kitchen for something to throw, something to protect himself with- he hurls a shot glass at the entity standing in the kitchen doorframe. The entity doesn't bother to smile or move the way Naim does, an abomination carrying the skin of the only person worth anything to Ryan.
It stalks closer as Ryan gets backed into a corner, throwing a cutting board, a metal water bottle, anything in reach at it. Ryan hates the stupid layout of his stupid house as it stalks closer. A knife held out in front of his chest is his only form of protection. A quick study of his surrounds certifies his worst fear: his only way of escape is to somehow run past the entity.
"You didn't want to hear my apology? I can make it sound just like him, y'know. He really is so, so, so sorry." The mocking words sound so wrong from Naim's voice.
Ryan uses every athletic bone and muscle in his body to hunch down and launch himself past the entity, stabbing wildly at its heart as he goes.
Not that the entity seems to care, laughing and grabbing hold of him with ease. It hoists him onto the kitchen counter, keeping him pinned against the window with one forearm and digging the knife out of its chest with the other. Ryan squirms and grabs the hand of the entity, attempting to shove the knife back into its body. "Enough of that, now. Be good for once, Ryan."
The entity lets the knife clatter to the ground and holds Ryan's wrists in each hand, almost hard enough to break the delicate bones there. It slams them against the kitchen window just to remind Ryan it can, as Ryan lets out his first desperate screams for help. Naim's fingers bruise his wrists, as the entity allows them to hold him even tighter before digging his nails into the soft skin of his inner wrist. They draw blood, but not enough. The entity looks down dissatisfied at its vessels nails, before digging them in deeper and repeating the motion as Ryan shouts in pain.
The entity grows quickly bored with Ryan's abused wrists. It throws Ryan like he's nothing more than a ragdoll onto the floor, hard enough to make his head spin and almost definitely leave a mark on the hardwood. Mom's going to be so pissed, he thinks distantly.
"Focus on me, Ryan." It whispers as it wraps Naim's hands around his neck and squeezes tight. Ryan flails as he tries to pry its hands off of him, shoving at its chest with renewed anguish. Naim's face morphs into a deliriously happy grin, and Ryan can't help but give pause. If this is it, he thinks, atleast Naim will be the last thing I see.
The frontdoor opens. "Ryan? Ryan, whose car is-" Mrs. Whelan screams as she walks into her kitchen. Her son lays, seizing, on the floor and bleeding from his wrists whilst choking on air. She rushes to his side but is immediately shoved back by inhuman strength. Her head hits the fridge with a dangerous clunk just as Ryan begins to gasp in air and crawl to her side.
When she comes to, she's laying in her own bed. The dingy light in the middle of the room illuminates Ryan's face, shaking as he sits in the armchair in the corner. He sits, curled in half of a fetal position but refusing to take his eyes off of her. It's not an unfamiliar feeling for either of them, to have to look after one another. Mrs. Whelan sits up to get a better look at him.
Her only son. The only good she felt she'd ever brought into the world, curling his head into his knees to avoid meeting her gaze. She lays back down. She isn't sure she can meet his gaze, either. There's nothing wrong with prolonging that moment. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"
Ryan looks up from his knees in horror. Mrs. Whelan has long since stopped trying to understand her son, and he's long since stopped considering her his mother. But there was a time where she was the only one he called family, so he says, "No. No, I would never do that. If they ever tell you that's what I was trying to do, know that it wasn't me." His voice comes out hoarse, and his throat screams with the effort it takes to speak following strangulation. But still, it's said with more confidence and surety than he's said much else in past week.
Mrs. Whelan closes her eyes and lets out a sigh. Regret colors her every movement nowadays, but especially so when Ryan's involved. She beckons him closer, and when he sits on the edge of the bed, she scoots over to make room.
As he settles in next to her, awkwardly and with any self-surety gathered in the last 30 seconds dissipated, she covers him with the comforter. They lay next to each other, silent but unable to fall asleep for what feels like hours. Ryan thinks about Naim, if he's alive, if he's battling a monster with Ryan's face on it now, if he had actually been trying to come over and apologize before the entity- Mrs. Whelan places a cold hand on his shoulder.
"In the morning, we're going to go to the hospital and they're going to look at your wrists." Her hand is too cold, her words useless, but he knows she means it to be comforting. To help, in the only way she can guess how.
"I love you," he offers. She hums back, rolling over and closing her eyes before attempting to fall asleep. Ryan lays next to her, spares a wandering thought to where his father is, and takes in the moment. This is the last time I'll be in this house, he thinks. It's not as much of a decision so much as it is a realization or acceptance of the fact. There's no space for him left. He thinks of his school backpack he never bothered to fill all the way, and thinks that at least now it'll be quicker to pack. There had never been any use for him in that school, the other kids either messed with his papers or teachers gave him sideways glances and quietly deducted points as they saw fit. Ryan thinks about every outfit he owns, and picks apart which to bring and which to leave.
He shuffles out of bed before the Sun can rise, shushing his mother with as much love as he can before going to his room and slowly, patiently folding clothing and essentials into his crammed backpack. Ryan glances at his blue tank top, totally unfit for this weather, and thinks of the mill and Naim before layering it under as many shirts and jackets as he can fit on his body. Naim, Naim, Naim. Please be okay, Ryan pleads silently. Nobody would listen were he to speak, anyway.
He's out of the house just as the first rays of light begin to illuminate the street. He walks for two hours, not letting himself feel the sleep deprivation but reveling in the heat seemingly consuming his body underneath a multitude of clothing layers. He seeks out Naim's face around every turn or structure. It's disappointment more than it is relief that floods him everytime he's greeted with a stranger or classmate. He ducks especially quick when a member of the Church crosses his path, but he manages to avoid confrontation.
Ryan kicks rocks and thinks about violence. He wishes to kill the entity just as he wrings his hands and rubs his wrists raw at the thought of Naim's dead body. He tries not to think about Naim. He stares at the Sun and thinks about the deliverance healer's lighter, and hopes smoking isn't ruined for him forever. He'll make an active effort to make sure it's not. Ryan thinks about smoking on the floor of the mill with Naim, and has to pause to catch his breath and not let tears fall. Naim, Naim, Naim. Please be okay.
Religion had long since abandonded Ryan, and he had abandoned it just as viciously in turn. But the urge to worship at Naim's alter threatens to take over Ryan's body, and his thoughts loop through his head with the strength of a prayer. Please forgive me for leaving. Please don't come looking for me. Please find me, please stay with me.
Ryan thinks back to the entity wearing Naim's face, who convinced him to go to the roller rink. Who placed soft hands on his waist and laughing before dodging his kisses. Before the choking and nails in his back, of course. The apology that had given Ryan the strength to keep on going. Ryan craved the answer to whether it was real or not; if the entity knew them well enough to act based on Naim's true wishes or simply did what Ryan wanted to see and hear.
Ryan wanted to know. He needed to. It wasn't fair that he was leaving without Naim, it wasn't fair that he didn't get to know. He wanted all of Naim's apologies and to give him all of his forgiveness, he wanted to do this with him. He didn't even know the boy well enough, yet. Not enough for his liking. Ryan wanted to stick by his side and grow sick of each other, to argue over plebian matters and make up with a love that made everything feel worth it. He wanted to see Naim pick a career and for greys to grow in his dark hair, he wanted to give the other boy bad haircuts and listen to him yell at him for it.
By the time he's settled at the bus stop, Ryan's played through every conversation they've ever had. Attempting to savour it, he thinks. When Ryan looks up from his own wallowing, the bus is approaching and Naim stares at him from the other side of the road.
Fear paralyzes him. Run, a voice that sounds like his mother urges him. If he gets on the bus now, he can still escape without figuring out if this is Naim or a monster wearing his face. But he remembers Hunter's last words, and thinks of telling Naim that he would never search him out again. It'll never be me.
"Please tell me it's really you," His eyes are bloodshot and frantic but his voice is as soft as it always is when presented with Naim. Naim nods, and Ryan doesn't think about it much harder before wrapping arms around him as tight as possible and letting out a strangled sob. He holds Naim as tightly as he can for as long as he can, reveling in the feeling of Naim holding him back.
Before they can miss it, he's holding hands as tightly as he can with Naim and pulling them both onto the bus. Naim had once done a mockery of his mother's voice, Someday, Naim, you'll believe in things you cannot see. Ryan thinks that for once, that wretched woman was right. He does believe, quite fervently, in Naim. In his future with Naim, in the hope that he'd kept allowing to come back even after being squashed at every turn and possibility. Maybe a little bit in fate and soulmates, too, as he begins to understand that Naim had had the same idea as him and gone to the exact same bus stop at the same time.
By the time they're seated in the very back, Ryan's showering Naim in kisses with feverish urgency. He cradles Naim's neck, grazes his fingers over his collarbone and grasps tighter than he'd ever allowed himself before onto the smaller boy's hips. By the time Ryan's pulling back to catch his breath, Naim opens his mouth to speak.
"I'm sorry," Naim holds both hands around Ryan's wrists, stroking a thumb over his knuckle.
The words have barely left his mouth when Ryan whispers back, "You don't ever need to say that to me again," And it's the truth, for both of them. He hugs Naim again, just to relish in the fact that he could. That they never need to be hide or be apart again. He notes the way Naim slouches against the seat to hold him closer, to feel Ryan on top of him just a little bit better. "It's okay. I understand. We're here now," Ryan offers at Naim's alter.
Naim kisses him hard, and their arms refuse to leave each other. By the time they're satisfied with kissing, they've looped arms and tangled their legs. Ryan's still trying to inch closer, to rest his head as close to Naim as possible. Naim tugs him closer as Ryan curls into his side, and they breathe out together. A tangled mess of bodies and minds, the two of them. But Ryan thinks they just might make it.