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It doesn’t approach them, not anymore. Naim wasn’t sure if this was due to their codepence, or the fire. If it’s control was weakened by their acceptance. If it was fear. If it could feel anything at all.
It just watches.
The day of their first coach ride, Naim saw not-Ryan everywhere. In the paddock, first, then on the median, then in the line behind a young woman at the next stop, his eyes never leaving Naim.
His grip on Ryan’s hand tightened, sitting up to peer over the seats in front of them. It never turned the corner.
As they climbed off the coach in Melbourne’s west in the early evening, searching for a cheap motel, Naim saw not-Ryan across the street. The footpath below him was cracked and uneven, the watery autumn sunset lit him in a lilac hue. He was beautiful.
—
“So what’s it like?” Ryan says, sat up against the motel wall, cigarette resting between his fingers.
Naim looks up to him, the pillow rustling with his movement. Ryan’s rings catch the dim light, steel wrapped between knuckles.
“The not-me. Him.”
The curtains rustle with the cool breeze. Naim shivers and shifts closer to Ryan’s warmth, watching the smoke swirl above his head.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice low. “He’s… you. But not.”
Naim doesn’t know how to describe the difference. How not-Ryan is indistinguishable in voice, in touch. In words. How he’s everything he wants, everything he desires. How it seems to know, instinctively, what he craves, and how to use it against him.
How he fell for it, every time, despite knowing better. Because it was Ryan, even when it wasn’t.
Ryan takes another drag, embers burning in the dim light. His gaze is distant, resting on the TV opposite them, not there at all.
He exhales, smoke slipping past his lips. “Did it ever touch you?”
Naim’s stomach churns. He curls towards Ryan, shifting onto his side, as Ryan’s gaze lands on him, piercing. He shakes his head.
“Good,” Ryan says, lifting the cigarette to his mouth.
Naim thinks of photobooth pictures, of hot blood trickling down Ryan’s neck, of flame and fear. He presses a soft kiss to Ryan’s side, over his ribs, over the soft cotton of his shirt, and inhales his scent.
—
They pay for food, and rack the rest.
Ryan, having had more preparation than Naim, brought a couple grand, thanks to a job at the servo he quit following the deliverance healing. It had felt like so much, that first day, before they watched it slowly eaten up by motel fees and coach fares and packet noodles.
Knowing work would be hard to come by–with the constant movement and the fear that followed separation–they had to make do with what they had, for as long as they could.
On the second day, they duck into a woolies. They were in the toiletries aisle, Naim looking for a cheap pack of toothbrushes and deodorant, when Ryan’s gaze caught, his head turning. The movement sent a sharp spike of nerves through Naim, pulse thrumming.
“What?” Naim had questioned, his voice breathy.
Ryan had turned back, a small, sharp grin pulling at his lips. He had reached out, grabbing a bottle of lube, holding it up to Naim.
Naim had glanced over Ryan’s shoulder, at the middle aged woman behind him, and then at the man to Naim’s right, separated by the short aisle divider. He pushed Ryan’s hand down, hiding the bottle in their shared space.
“Dickhead,” he said, smiling, as Ryan had laughed, pocketing the bottle.
—
They figure out their boundaries between motel rooms.
Bathroom door always open. Hands linked, a palm on the small of their back, or an arm around the waist. Shoulders brushing, when they feel unsafe.
When showering, they do so together, or one of them sits against the door, cold tile below them. Always, always woken up by the other, if they need to get up.
When Naim wakes to Ryan staring at him, the first morning, he jumps, scrambling across the bed. His chest heaves, gasping for air.
“Naim,” Ryan says, sitting up, eyes wide. “It’s okay,” he reaches for him, ring’s glinting in the morning sun.
Between gasping breaths, Naim shifts further away, back hitting the wall. Ryan falters, hesitating. His brows are furrowed up, pained, a soft frown pulling at his lips.
Naim grasps at the sheets, cold between his fingers. He feels himself shaking, before crumpling, curling in on himself, hot tears escaping him as he gasps.
“Naim,” Ryan says, all pained and punched out, before grabbing Naim’s shoulders, shifting him into his arms. He curls around him, his grip tight, as Naim grabs at his bare back, head tucked into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” he gasps, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,”
Ryan presses a kiss into his hair, tucking Naim’s head below his chin. “It’s okay,” he whispers, and holds him tight. “I’ve got you,”
—
They stop at a Salvos, the morning after their fourth night, for Naim.
“I dunno,” Ryan had said that morning after Naim mentioned it, grinning up at him, his cheek pressed against Naim’s chest. “I don’t mind seeing you in my clothes,”
Naim had smiled, shaking his head as heat pricked his cheeks, dragging his nails gently along Ryan’s back.
They end up picking out a couple shirts, a grey zip up, and a pair of camo cargo pants.
In the fitting room, when the pants hung too low on his hips, the band of his boxers visible, Ryan had grabbed his waist, pressing open mouth kisses along his jaw and neck. Ryan had sunk to his knees after lifting Naim’s shirt, dragging his fingers through the trail of hair below his navel.
They grabbed a belt on the way out, Ryan’s arm over his shoulder. Naim ran his fingers through his own hair, nervous that Ryan had tousled the strands, sticking up on end.
—
They smoke Ryan’s last joint in the dark street out the front of a twenty-four hour laundromat, sitting on the curb.
Ryan was stretched out across the asphalt, leaning back on his palms against the footpath.
Naim rested his cheek on his knee, joint between his fingers. Ryan’s blond curls were lit by the bright light escaping the laundromats' windows and the neon sign behind them. Naim lifted the joint to his lips.
“What did you want to do, after school?” Ryan asked, as Naim passed him the joint. He had shrugged, hugging his knees.
“Dunno,” he answered, eyes trained on Ryan’s lips wrapped around the joint, inhaling.
“What, you’re saying you hadn’t thought about it? Not ever?” Ryan said, exhaling, the smoke curling over his cheekbone, trailing up, up, up.
Naim rolled his eyes, pressing a smile into his forearm, wrapped in Ryan’s baggy zip up.
“Music, I guess. Art.”
Ryan nodded, holding the joint out for him, clasped between his pointer and middle finger. Naim leaned towards him, lips against Ryan’s fingers as he took a drag. He felt Ryan’s breath hitch, slight. Naim couldn’t tell if his dilated eyes were from the darkness, the weed, or his touch.
“And you?” Naim asked, voice thick with smoke. He took the joint from Ryan’s outstretched hand, lifting it to his lips.
Ryan’s gaze trailed from his lips, to his eyes, and back, before he turned to the sky, leaning back on his palms.
“To travel,” Ryan answered. Naim thought of abandoned buildings. Of bike rides, pedaling to catch up, Ryan looking back over his shoulder. Of Ryan nabbing his mum’s car, late at night, driving down the empty industrial roads, windows down.
“Where would you go?”
“Dunno. France.” Ryan said, cheek pressed against his own shoulder.
“France?” Naim said, shocked laughter bubbling out of him, shoulders shaking.
“Oi,” he said, full of fake offence, shoving at Naim’s shoulder. Gentle–always gentle, now. “Anywhere,” Ryan continued, tone more subdued, grabbing the joint from between Naim’s lips.
It was all but burnt to the filter, rolled from a ripped cardboard packet of red cigarette papers from the bottom of Ryan’s school bag. He took the last hit, coughing at the acrid smoke of the dregs, ashing it beside him.
A car passed them in the quiet street, and they shrank away from the bright headlights. Naim knocked their knees together, looking back at Ryan.
“We’ll go there, then,” Naim murmured.
Ryan looked to him, before dropping his head onto Naim’s shoulder. He wound an arm around Naim’s thigh, holding it gently in his palm, thumb trailing over the denim. He kissed Ryan’s hair, arm around his shoulder.
“Reckon we should try and get some jobs, first,” Ryan said, voice tight. Naim rolled his eyes, smiling.
The next day, following a stop for supplies, Ryan pulls a small sketchbook and some pencils from his pockets. Naim swallows thickly, and pulls him in tight.
—
Naim had woken to Ryan’s sharp breaths, muttering under his breath in distressed tones. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
He had shaken him awake, and Ryan’s eyes had flown open, breath stuttering, pupils blown wide in the watery moonlight. He shuddered away from Naim, sitting over him.
It was painful, knowing the subject of their nightmares wore the other's face. That, to Ryan, Naim was something to be afraid of. Something to fear, something to shrink away from, something that could hurt.
“Shit,” Ryan said, trying to catch his breath. He sat up, hunched, eyes on his own lap, before turning to meet Naim’s gaze. “Naim?”
Naim opens his mouth, then hesitates.
Ryan stares, then surges towards him, capturing his lips between his own. His palm reaches back, cupping Naim’s neck, pulling him in.
He exhales, groaning, muffled by Ryan’s mouth on his. He presses his chest to Ryan’s, wanting, needing to feel his body against his, tangible and unafraid. Ryan lowers himself down, bringing Naim with him.
He grabs Naim by the hips, urging him into his lap. Naim shifts, breaking the kiss, Ryan’s cheeks cupped between his hands. His gaze darts from Ryan’s eyes to his mouth and back, before leaning down to recapture Ryan’s lips.
Ryan ruts up into him, hardening below Naim, pressed into his soft thigh, the cotton of Ryan’s boxers smooth against Naim’s skin. Ryan breaks their kiss, trailing down to mouth at Naim’s jaw, his neck, his throat. Naim exhales, breath shaky, moaning as Ryan softly nips at him.
Naim grasps Ryan’s jaw, pulling him back up to his mouth, rocking down into Ryan’s lap. Ryan’s hands, hot to the touch, slide up under Naim’s shirt, palming along his sides. Naim pulls back, lifting his shirt up and over his head, as Ryan’s hands rove over his skin, his chest, his waist.
He leans back in, inhaling as their lips meet. Ryan pulls Naim’s lip between his teeth, nipping gently at the skin. Naim feels Ryan’s smile against his mouth. Naim groans, soft, as Ryan moans, grinding together.
Ryan’s kisses grow messy, heated, before pulling away, leaning his head against the headboard. A strand of saliva snaps between them.
“Oh, fuck,” Ryan breathes, as Naim punctuates a particularly slow grind of his hips. Naim grins, eyes heavy-lidded as he caresses Ryan’s face, leaning down to mouth at his neck, his jaw, up to his ear.
“Shit, Naim,” Ryan moans, “let me fuck you,” he exhales, words breathy.
Naim pauses, frozen. He sticks close to Ryan’s skin, nose against his neck, breathing him in. His pulse roars in his ears.
“Or–you could fuck me,” Ryan says, after a pause. “Shit. Sorry. We could do whatever. Or nothing,”
He wraps his arms around Naim.
“I just want to be close to you,” Ryan murmurs, pressing a kiss to Naim’s temple. He inhales shakily, tucking his forehead into the crook of Ryan’s neck.
He lets out a sound embarrassingly close to a whine, muffled into Ryan’s bare skin.
“Naim?” Ryan presses, voice nervous.
“You can,” He whispers, quiet. He's almost worried Ryan couldn’t hear him. He’s almost glad.
“Can what?” Ryan asks, his breath ghosting over the shell of Naim’s ear. He shivers.
“...Fuck me,” Naim murmurs, pressing a soft, open mouthed kiss to his neck.
Ryan swears, palms shifting down along his skin, resting on Naim’s hips. “Fuck, Naim,” he whines, grinding up into him. “Are you sure?”
Naim nods, swallowing. He’s hot to the touch, burning up, he's sure, with Ryan a furnace below him.
“Look at me,” Ryan says. Naim breathes in, deep, pushing off Ryan’s chest, meeting his gaze. Ryan looks up at him, Naim’s waist between his palms. He groans, head falling back against the wall. “Naim,” he groans.
“Ryan,” he answers, whispering, a moan bubbling past his lips.
“Fuck,” Ryan says, reaching down between them to palm at Naim’s boxers. Naim moans, rutting into his palm. He can feel the wet patch forming, his face growing hotter. Ryan reaches into the waistband, using his thumb to gather the precome, spreading it over him.
Naim whimpers, leaning forward to rest his forehead along Ryan’s collarbone. He’s slow, careful of the friction, twisting as he reaches the head. Naim breathes, thighs shaking around Ryan’s hips. He feels Ryan pressed up into his thigh, again, hard.
“Ryan,” he says, “I’m not gonna last,”
He laughs, breathy, giving him a few more strokes before pulling his hand free from Naim’s boxers. Ryan presses a kiss to his temple, his hands ghosting over his sides. He pulls back, gazing down at Ryan, his pupils blown in the dark of the room, pale moonlight illuminating his face.
“Fuck,” he exhales, “you’re so beautiful, Naim,”
Smiling, he captures Ryan’s lips in a kiss, leaning down–slower, sweeter. He can feel the smile pulling at the corners of Ryan’s mouth, too, and a breathy laugh escapes him.
Ryan sits up, easing Naim from his lap onto his side. Naim follows, pliant, as Ryan lays him down, kiss unbroken. His head hits the pillow, and Ryan’s kisses remain soft, gentle. Naim’s hand drifts across Ryan’s bare chest, pressing right above his heart.
He breaks away, leaning over Naim, shifting to place his knee between Naim’s parted thighs. Naim groans at the pressure, rutting down. Ryan gives a breathy laugh, smiling down at him.
“Stop teasing,” Naim spits with less venom than intended, landing with more desperation than he wanted to show.
Ryan shakes his head, leaning down to press a kiss to Naim’s jaw. “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, and Naim feels as if his every nerve ending is on fire, alight. He screws his eyes shut, exhaling, as he seeks friction from the press of Ryan’s thigh.
The rusty bedside drawer is opened, loud in the quiet of the room, and Naim looks over, watching as Ryan pulls out the stolen lube. Ryan turns back to him, running soothing hands along Naim’s sides.
“Have you–done this before?” Naim murmurs. Ryan sits back, gazing down at him, bottom lip between his teeth.
A moment passes, before he nods, minutely, gaze flicking to the window. “To myself,” he says, before looking back to Naim. He imagines Ryan, alone in his room, opening himself up, and feels dizzy. “Have you?”
Naim shakes his head, feeling raw, exposed.
Ryan leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Naim’s mouth.
He wraps an arm around the back of Ryan’s neck, pulling him in. Ryan sighs into the kiss, hand coming up to hold Naim’s cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He pulls away, tapping at the side of Naim’s hip.
“Lift up,” he murmurs into his skin, grabbing at the waistband of Naim’s boxers. Naim swallows and pushes off the bed, lifting his hips, allowing Ryan to gently peel his boxers off, face hot.
Ryan sits back on his haunches, eyes trailing down, slow, then back up Naim’s body. He pushes at Ryan’s shoulder, gentle.
“Ryan, c’mon,” he says, his precome leaking over his navel.
Naim knows he's sensitive, easy, desperate. Hates it, and hates how Ryan seems to relish it. Ryan leans down over Naim, pressing slow kisses along his neck, down across his sternum, and over his stomach. Naim sighs, canting his hips up, receiving no friction.
“How’d you wanna do this?” Ryan says, breathy, looking up at him, pupils blown. The words ghost over his skin, making him shiver.
Naim closes his eyes, turning his head to the side, half-burrowed into the flat motel pillow. A moan is drawn out of him, eyes fluttering open, when Ryan takes hold of him, gently sucking the tip into his mouth.
“Stomach’s probably easiest,” Ryan says, pulling off, still holding Naim at the base. He presses a soft kiss to the tip. “Could do it on your side, or on your back,”
Naim shudders, eyes fluttering closed, as he presses open mouth kisses up and down his length. He groans, head rolling back, arching off the bed.
“Naim?” Ryan prompts, a teasing lilt to his voice that is unfairly charming, and so, so annoying.
“I–wanna see you,” he breathes, reaching down to grasp between the strands of Ryan’s hair, pulling gently at the scalp. Ryan moans, breath ghosting over Naim, who twitches, leaking precome down the ridges of Ryan’s knuckles, seeping over his thick, silver rings.
He takes him back into his mouth, the soft heat enveloping Naim. He whines, pulling at Ryan’s hair, who moans around him, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through him.
“Shit, Ryan,” he says, attempting to pull him off, “stop, or I’ll come,”
Ryan pulls off–a lewd, wet sound, as he smirks up at Naim.
“So sensitive,” he teases, chuckling, moving up Naim’s body, hand caressing his cheek.
Naim kicks him in the stomach, no real strength behind it, pushing him away. “Shut up,” he murmurs, capturing Ryan’s lips between his own. He can feel Ryan’s smile against his.
Ryan pulls away, silver chain dangling between them. He grabs around beside Naim on the bed, searching for the lube. Naim inhales shakily, closing his eyes, when he hears the soft pop of the lid.
“Alright,” Ryan murmurs, laying on his side next to Naim, his leg between Ryan’s. He can feel the hard length of him, pressed into his hipbone. He sighs, soft, as the arm Ryan leans on beside his head gives him leverage to brush the hair from Naim’s forehead.
“Just relax for me,” Ryan says, breath ghosting over Naim’s ear, mouthing at the junction between his neck and jaw. Naim moans, letting Ryan ease his thighs apart, eyes fluttering closed.
He opens them, looking between the hard press of Ryan’s body, with his thigh and knee holding Naim’s legs apart, and the ceiling. Ryan sucks at the skin on his neck, when Naim feels the first touch of his fingers.
He jumps, twitching, the sensation foreign. A hot spike of shame courses through him, prickling and hot.
“Alright?” Ryan says, moving his fingers in circles. He shifts back, looking down at Naim.
He nods, attempting to hide his face in Ryan’s bicep, right beside his face on the pillow.
“It’s okay,” Ryan murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s only me,”
Naim blinks up at him, exhaling. He nods. Ryan leans down, kissing him, soft, slow, open mouthed, until Naim relaxes against him, melting into the mattress.
Ryan softly presses in, to the first knuckle of his pointer finger. Naim adjusts to the sensation, moaning as Ryan licks a long stripe up his neck, pulling his earlobe between his teeth. Naim throbs, leaking precome, as Ryan grinds down against his hip, movements so small they seem subconscious.
“That’s it,” Ryan whispers as Naim moans, his lube-slick finger bottoming out. “Fuck, Naim,”
Naim nods, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He feels hot with shame, with sickening desire. Ryan’s inside him. His stomach flips.
“Talk to me, Naim,” Ryan says, slowly pulling in and out.
He whines, turning into the crook of Ryan’s neck. “Feels–weird,”
“Good-weird or bad-weird?” Ryan says, movements slowing further. He mouths at Naim’s neck, pressing soft kisses to his skin. “Naim?”
Naim presses his face further into Ryan’s skin, inhaling, breathing shaky. “Good-weird,” he exhales, words muffled by Ryan’s body.
Ryan pushes in again, though this time, crooking his finger, pad of his finger brushing against–
“Oh, fuck,” Naim moans, pleasure coarsing through him. “Ryan,”
“Yeah? There?” Ryan says, pupils blown. Naim screws his eyes shut, nodding, as Ryan grinds his finger in and out, in and out. He sighs, legs falling open, all previous embarrassment forgotten.
“Jesus, Naim,” he breathes, “look at you,”
Naim pants, hips canting down. He can’t imagine what he looks like, overheated, sweaty, with Ryan’s finger inside him. Ryan brushes away the hair from Naim’s forehead again, kissing him.
He pulls out, and Naim whines at the loss, before stifling the sound. His face burns.
“Sorry,” he says, the lube cap popping open, “I know it’s weird,” Ryan says, squirting more onto his fingers, warming it up in his hand.
He reaches between Naim’s thighs again, two fingers rather than one, this time. Naim tenses, before relaxing, trying to let the tension bleed out of him, eased by Ryan’s soft touches.
“You’re doing so good,” Ryan murmurs, and Naim groans, accepting every slow, slow centimetre. “So perfect for me,”
“Fuck,” Naim sighs. He reaches out, nails dragging up Ryan’s back, gripping for purchase. He feels Ryan shiver above him.
Ryan is tortuously careful, movements slow as he scissors Naim open, adding a third after a while. Naim oscillates between white-hot shame and a desire so potent he aches.
“Ryan,” Naim says, panting, sure that a lifetime must have passed, “I said stop teasing,”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ryan says, mouthing along Naim’s throat, his neck, his jaw.
Naim groans, annoyed. “You’re not that fuckin’ big,”
“Oi,” Ryan nips at his skin, and Naim can hear his smile. “Dickhead,” he says, and makes no move to withdraw.
Naim reaches down, running his hot palm along Ryan’s stomach, down to palm over Ryan’s boxers. Ryan’s movements stutter with his hips, moaning at the friction, before resuming his slow movements inside Naim. Naim’s fingers ghost over the sticky patch at the front of Ryan’s boxers and shivers.
Ryan’s hot breath ghosts over him as Naim reaches into his waistband, palming at him, gathering Ryan’s precome with his thumb before rubbing at the head. He all but fucks up into Naim’s palm, whining. Naim tilts up to mouth at Ryan’s ear, with heavy, panting breaths.
“Fuck,” Ryan whines, “you’ve got no idea what you do to me, Naim,”
He grins, catching Ryan’s earlobe between his teeth. “I’ve got some,”
Ryan moans, forehead resting against Naim’s, breath mingling.
“I know what you’re doing,” Ryan says, resting his forehead beside Naim’s, movements inside Naim forgotten as he ruts up in Naim’s grip.
“Is it working?” Naim asks, grinning.
Ryan groans into the pillow.
“C’mon, Ryan,” Naim says, “I’m ready,”
He shifts, nose brushing against Naim’s as he turns to face him.
“You won’t hurt me,” Naim murmurs, “I trust you,”
A tender expression flickers over Ryan’s face, blurred by their closeness. Ryan nods, pressing a soft kiss to Naim’s mouth. Naim smiles, pulling at the waist of Ryan’s boxers, trying to pull them down.
Ryan breaks the kiss, laughing. “Alright, alright, I’m goin’,”
He grins, watching as Ryan kneels, shucking off his underwear. His length hangs, heavy and bloodshot, between his own legs. Naim flushes, hot, reaching out for him. Ryan stops his search for the lube under Naim’s touch, moaning. He gives the head a soft kiss, enveloping the tip with his mouth, sucking gently.
“Naim,” he breathes, threading his fingers through Naim’s hair. He pulls off, kissing down his length. “Fuck, c’mon,”
Naim grins, pulling away and leaning back, propped up on his forearms.
Ryan fumbles for the lube, lost in the bedsheets, before finding purchase. Naim watches as he spreads it along himself, settling between Naim’s thighs. Ryan grabs hold of his hips, and Naim’s legs fall open, subconscious, almost reflexive. He swallows.
“All good?” Ryan asks, breathless, after lining himself up. Naim nods, flushing hot from the first press of him. He moans, soft and breathless, as Ryan enters him, arching up under his touch. Ryan grabs hold of the underside of his thigh.
As Ryan bottoms out, Naim’s eyes flutter closed. He feels so full. So connected to him–him, Ryan, his Ryan. He’s scared of how much he craves this, how much he doesn’t think he could live without it.
He’s surprised he doesn’t feel the hot prick of shame, doesn’t feel the churning guilt. He just feels hot with desire, a tinge of embarrassment, and a soft, unnamed feeling that envelops them both. He can’t name it, not yet, but he knows it’s all consuming.
“Naim?” Ryan says, breathless, “you alright? Does it hurt?” His hands come up to cradle Naim’s cheeks, brushing away tears he wasn’t aware he had shed.
He shakes his head, words escaping him, tilting in Ryan’s hands to press a soft kiss to his wrist, right over his pulse. “‘M okay,” he murmurs, smiling.
Ryan leans down towards him, and Naim threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, capturing him in a gentle kiss. He tugs, gently, at Ryan’s hair, more a reminder of his grip than anything more. Ryan moans into the kiss, breaking away, hot breath ghosting across Naim’s cheeks.
He starts rocking his hips, grinding down onto Ryan, who whines, breathless, tucking his head to Naim’s neck.
“Just–gimme a second,” Ryan says, and Naim recognises the edge to his voice, as if he’s barely held together. Naim smiles, scratching gently along his scalp, tousling the blond curls.
“And you say I’m easy,” he teases, feeling so light, bubbles bursting under his skin.
“Shut up,” Ryan says, biting at the flesh of his neck, punctuating his words with a sharp, half thrust that has Naim gasping.
“Ryan,” he moans, as he slowly begins to move inside him. He pulls at the curls in his grip, pulling Ryan up to him, capturing him in a kiss. He breaks away, unfocused, and they share the air between them, hot and panting.
“I know,” Ryan says, “I know,”
Naim looks at him–his ears, flushed and red, sweat dabbling his skin. His chain necklace, hanging between them, and the faint spread of bruises along his collar and neck, evidence of Naim’s touch.
He thinks he may want this to last forever. Just the two of them, sharing space, sharing air, sharing their bodies. Completely enmeshed with one another.
He moans, grinding down to meet Ryan half way.
“I’m not gonna last,” Ryan murmurs into his skin, and Naim nods, beyond words, watching the ripple of Ryan’s muscles along his abdomen. His biceps caging him in, surrounded. Naim runs his hands up Ryan’s sides, up his chest, resting one at the junction of his neck and shoulder, feeling his pulse, and the other right above his heart.
Ryan moans, chain shifting with each movement. Naim threads his fingers through it, right at the base of Ryan’s neck.
“Fuck, Naim,” he whines. Naim moans, rolling his hips down, and all he can think about is Ryan. Ryan around him, Ryan above him, Ryan inside him.
Ryan holds one side of Naim’s hips, the other hand coming up, up to ghost over Naim’s hand, resting over Ryan’s thrumming pulse, threaded through his chain.
He looks down at Naim, pupils blown, ears red, and he shifts Naim’s hand with his own, to wrap around the base of his throat. Naim feels him swallow, the bobbing of his adams apple below his palm.
Ryan squeezes, Naim’s hand threaded through his, at the sides of his neck.
Tingles spread along Naim’s skin, Ryan’s hand enveloping his, calloused, his neck in his hand. The rushing of his pulse. The pressure over his fingertips recedes.
Naim swallows, mouth dry. He mimics Ryan’s movements, pressure over Ryan’s pulse points, thrumming below his fingers. Ryan groans, panting, head rolling back, as he grinds into Naim. His back arches, eyes fluttering closed, Ryan’s throat bobbing in his grip.
“Naim,” Ryan moans, and he feels the vibrations tingle through his palm, “Naim, Naim, baby,”
He nods, wordless, panting. “Ryan,” he whispers. It’s a reminder that he’s real, he’s tangible, that he’s alive.
“Fuck,” Ryan says, spits in his palm, and reaches between them. Naim arches off the bed, moaning.
“‘M close,” he says, panting. He feels his hair sticking to his forehead, and looks up at Ryan. He smirks down at him, and Naim can’t even pretend to be annoyed. He tightens his grip around his neck again, having loosened with his distraction.
“Oh, fuck,” Ryan says, and his grip around Naim tightens, too, pace quickening. Naim whines under his touch, grinding down to meet his thrusts.
“Shit, Ryan,” Naim moans, before he's coming, eyes screwed shut, arching under Ryan’s touch.
Ryan lasts a few more seconds before he pulls out, and Naim whines at the loss. He thrusts into his own palm, coming over Naim’s stomach, mixing with his own. Ryan whines, panting, and Naim grasps his chain, pulling him down into a bruising kiss.
Ryan pulls back, just so, coming up for air, before collapsing over Naim, chin tucked over his shoulder.
“Holy shit,” Ryan says, muffled by the pillow. Naim snorts, breathy laughter bubbling up, and he muffles it with his palm. Their skin is tacky with sweat and the come between them, and Naim feels so happy he could burst. He turns to press a kiss to Ryan’s hairline, right above his ear.
After a minute or so with Ryan’s dead weight on top of him, Naim pushes at him, shifting. Ryan groans, holding him tighter.
“C’mon,” Naim says, smiling, “I feel gross,”
Ryan shakes his head, twisting to mouth over Naim’s pulse. “Tired,” he murmurs into Naim’s skin.
“Ryan,” he says, sitting up, as much as he can, with Ryan’s chest pressed against his.
“Naim,” he answers, eyes opening, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Naim rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the fluttering of his heart. He looks down, pointedly, then back up to Ryan’s gaze, raising his eyebrows.
Ryan groans, before shifting. His weight recedes, but not fully–he sits, still between Naim’s thighs, and presses open mouth kisses along the column of Naim’s neck. Naim sighs under his touch, grasping at Ryan’s back.
His kisses trail down, down Naim’s chest, his sternum, until he reaches Naim’s stomach. He sits back, looking up to meet Naim’s eyes, before opening his mouth–the flat of his tongue ghosting over Naim’s navel, where their come had mixed and cooled across his skin.
Naim watches, fixated and unblinking, as Ryan licks over his stomach, swallowing, gaze unshifting from Naim’s.
“You’re so gross,” Naim murmurs, enraptured, scratching at Ryan’s scalp, hair in his grip. He feels himself twitch, hardening, as Ryan’s breath ghosts over his skin, and flushes.
Ryan raises his eyebrows, presses kisses along his skin, before kissing along Naim’s length, smirking as he arches into his touch.
—
A faint breeze blows through the room, the curtains billowing in the pale moonlight. Naim’s sure the wind is cold, biting, autumn fading to winter, but he can’t feel it, not with the heat shared between them.
“I love you,” Ryan murmurs, lips ghosting over Naim’s sternum, legs threaded between Naim’s. His arm is curled across Naim’s stomach, feeling along each of his ribs with his thumb, then the pads of his fingers. Up and down, up and down.
He’s beautiful. Naim can’t look away. Won’t look away.
Ryan’s chin drags along Naim’s chest, glancing up to look at Naim.
“I love you,” Naim answers, soft and whispered. Ryan grins, shifting to hide in Naim’s chest, as if Naim couldn’t feel his smile pressed against his skin.