Chapter Text
The streets are empty by the time Naim and Ryan step out of Hunter's apartment; Ryan fumbling with his key before locking the door behind them with a click. The wind has picked up in the last few hours, the sting of it sharp on the back of Naim’s neck. He pulls his jacket close, trying to ignore the burning in his back.
Hunter had passed out— face smushed into the arm of the couch, and drooling a puddle into the threadbare fabric— and Ryan had looked so disgusted, Naim suggested it was time to go home.
Plus, he wants his bed, no matter how shitty the mattress is.
Ryan’s dragging his feet beside him, not stumbling, but clumsy in a way that makes Naim giggle. The noise drags his attention, and his eyes meet Naim’s across the small distance; dark and reflecting the glow of the streetlights. There was something different about Ryan, when it was just the two of them— a bite in the curve of his mouth, something intense in the heat of his eyes. This wasn’t the Ryan who sat quietly next to Hunter, or the one who hid in the back of his classes, not letting others see him. This wasn’t even the Ryan that Naim had seen at pubs and parties, lively and untouchable.
This was Naim’s Ryan.
“What?” Ryan’s voice hitches up around a snort, the edge of something teasing mixed into it.
“Mmm, nothing.”
Ryan just clicks his tongue, kicking his foot out until it taps the side of Naim’s leg.
Naim feels charged in a way he’s not used to. Almost electrified. It leaves a fluttery feeling in his chest, and his stomach bubbly and warm, like there’s a laugh sitting in his body waiting to be let out. He feels so light.
He definitely drank too much.
Naim turns his head, Ryan settling fully into his view. His curls have grown out in the last couple months, hanging long over his face, honey colored from the yellow lit street. Two hoops dangle from his ear, two round studs sitting further up on his helix, all reflecting the same warm hue. It was like Ryan himself was a yellow hue; a vibrant, engulfing light.
Ryan left Hunter's apartment still in his pajama pants, his hoodie still rumpled and loose. He looks so soft, and Naim has to fight the urge to reach for him— the urge to tangle his hands into the green fabric around his shoulders, and pull their bodies flush together until all he can feel is Ryan. Until he's all he can see, and hear, and smell.
Now Naim kind of wants to sniff him.
He stumbles on a rock.
Ryan looks up and catches him staring. Naim doesn’t look away.
“What, seriously?” Ryan insists, giggling around the words.
Naim bursts out laughing.
He briefly considers the possibility that Ryan will be offended, what with Naim standing here seemingly laughing in his face. But before he can explain himself, Ryan's own cackling note follows, the noise deep and ripping from his chest. “What'cha laughing at me for?”
“I'm not! I’m laughing with you.”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“You are now, though.”
“Yeah, because you’re laughing.” Ryan says it like it's obvious. Like anyone in the presence of Naim would be consumed by his laughter, flattered to be in its path instead of insulted.
“You're laughing at my laugh?” Naim asks, his own voice teasing. “Is it that ugly?”
“Mmm… nah,” Ryan shakes his head, a smirk planted lazily on his face, and reaches out until his arm is slotted snug around Naim's shoulders. “It's not ugly. Just a little gross.”
Naim pushes his elbow up into the other boy's ribs, laughing despite himself. “Shut up, cunt.”
Naim feels like he's soaring.
Their laughter settles as they reach their building— Ryan having to enter the code three times before the door beeps open— and slowly climb the steps to the second floor. When Naim opens the paint chipped door to their apartment, hot air instantly blasts into his face.
That'd be his doing; he's always hated the cold.
He kicks off his shoes, not really bothering to look where they land, and makes his way towards the toilet as Ryan locks the door behind them. When he reaches the doorframe, he snakes his hand around it to reach for the light switch, flicking it on.
It instantly blinds him, and he walks straight into the frame stubbing his toe. “Shit!”
“You good?” Ryan calls from down the hall.
“Yeah, thanks!”
He pulls out his toothbrush from the cabinet behind the mirror, wasting no time unscrewing the toothpaste and scrubbing his teeth. His head is starting to hurt. He rinses his mouth out in record time, dragging himself back down the hall.
When he reaches his room, he throws himself down on his bed with a long sigh. He can feel the vent beside his bed drifting air into the room, the dry heat of it circling around him, and starts to instantly doze off.
A knock on his bedroom door startles him, and he cranes his neck to see Ryan leaning against the frame, a water bottle gripped in his hand. His hoodie is gone now, exposing the hard lines of his stomach, his silver chain dangling against his chest. The band of his pajama pants sits too low on his waist, and Naim has to force himself to look away.
“You need to drink some water, babe.”
Naim throws his head back down with a groan. “Fuck off.”
“No, I will not fuck off,” Ryan snorts.
The floor creaks under his feet as he crosses the short space, the bed dipping as he sits. The small mattress leans in until the two of them are pressed together; Ryan's hip digging into the side of Naim’s shoulder. Naim tries desperately to ignore it, but the pressure feels like hot coals against his skin.
Ryan waves the bottle over his head. “Drink.”
Naim sighs, but reluctantly reaches for the water, their fingers grazing as he grabs it. Ryan gives him a satisfied hum. The bottle is cold against his skin, the condensation dripping onto his shirt and leaving a cool puddle there. He fumbles slightly with the lid, and Ryan’s staring so intensely at his hands he’s sure he’s going to say something about it, but he stays silent.
The water is so refreshing, Naim can't help but close his eyes with a moan. He downs the bottle in one go.
Ryan coughs beside him.
“Don't choke. I don't know CPR, and I'm not kissing you.”
“Gee, thanks,” Naim says, wiping a drop from the edge of his mouth. The headache he can feel coming, the pressure starting to build behind his eyes, eases with the cool water. For now, at least.
Naim has to work in the morning, an early Friday shift, and he knew he was going to regret the three glasses of whatever that horribly sweet wine was in the morning. But right now, despite the buzz starting to dwindle, he feels calm. And his mind is silent for once, so he can't entirely bring himself to care.
The light flutter of fingers sweeping against his shoulder has him opening his eyes again.
Ryan stares down at him. His eyebrows are curved in, leaving a dent in the middle of his forehead, and his mouth tips down at the corners. It's a look Naim finds painstakingly adorable. “You’ve been flinching all night.”
He’s always been too perceptive of Naim. It was like every small shift in his posture, every small tick in his face, gave off glaring signals to Ryan; exposing all of the thoughts running through his mind, all of the feelings passing through his body. It had made him uncomfortable, at first, to be so seen. Now, though, he realizes it just makes him scared. And a little turned on.
“It’s not too bad.”
Ryan gives him a considering look.
Naim makes a point of not turning away from his stare, meeting his gaze head on. His eyes are steel in the dark room, almost black, and the faint stars and streetlights outside the window reflect in his irises. Naim gets hit with how pretty they are. How pretty Ryan is. It's not something he ever forgets, but moments like this make the fact feel heavy. As heavy as the staring— the intensity of it like a string tied between them that'll snap if they look away.
Naim blinks.
After a moment, Ryan gently pries the bottle from Naim’s fingers. Standing up, he walks out of the room without a word. Naim can hear the familiar scrape of the recycling bin lid echo from the kitchen, then the light thump of Ryan’s bedroom door.
He feels oddly cheated.
Not even a second passes, though, before he hears the bedroom door opening again, and the rhythm of Ryan’s footsteps moving closer down the hall. When he reappears under the doorframe, the bottle’s gone from his hands, and in its place is a small jar of lotion.
“Take your shirt off, and turn around.” Naim freezes.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Uh, why?”
“You're hurting.”
“What's that got to do with anything?”
“Don't play dumb. Now, c’mon, let me get my hands on you.” The smirk he sends Naim is a teasing one, a joke that nonetheless makes his stomach squeeze up.
Ryan stops in front of him, knocking their knees together, and Naim sits up. “I'm fine. Seriously.”
“Seriously, I don't believe you,” He reaches out to grip the bottom of Naim's shirt, tugging it between his fingers. “Off.”
“Has anyone ever told you desperation isn't attractive?”
“You like it.”
“What I’d like is to shove a pole down your throat.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would.” A grin spreads across Ryan’s face, so big— lighting his eyes, and making the dimple pop on his left cheek— that Naim can feel the force of it in his chest. A rush of blood slams into his face, the heat of it sudden and hot.
Rolling his eyes, Naim relents, and sits up straighter.
Ryan’s fingers are still gripped to the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. Naim lifts his arms as Ryan guides the fabric over his head— the soft material caressing his cheek— and throws it off to the side. Naim can feel the gust of warm air wafting from the vent behind him, the light skim of it sweeping against his back, and lets out a content sigh.
They’re both silent as Ryan wraps his arm around Naim’s waist— cupping the curve of his back— and pushes him until they’re faced away from each other. Naim goes down softly, resting his face in the dent of his pillow.
The cap of the lotion bottle is loud in the quiet room as Ryan unscrews it, and Naim’s heart speeds up. The smell of citrus and vanilla is strong and familiar in the air.
Ryan moves to the bed, kneeling on it, and waddling up the short distance until he’s sat beside Naim’s hips. The space on the small mattress is thin, though, and has him leaning to the side. He tries futilely to right himself, and Naim has to stop himself from laughing as he nearly falls off the edge. After a moment, he settles for throwing his legs over Naim, straddling his back.
The weight of the other boy throws him off and Naim starts to shift into a more comfortable position, only for the press of a hand on his lower back to stop him.
“Don’t do that.” There’s something clipped in the note of Ryan’s voice that Naim doesn’t comment on as he settles.
The first touch is cold. The silky, smooth glide of Ryan’s hands curve around the base of Naim’s shoulders, before dragging a long path down his spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Naim's almost surprised with how nice it feels, the light touch airy before Ryan presses his hands flat, spreading the lotion over Naim's back with steady fingers.
The touch quickly turns hot, the heat seeping into Naim's skin.
Ryan’s thumbs dip into the curve of his shoulderblades— his rings cool against Naim's warm body— and kneads at the knot there. It hurts for a second, the pressure resisting the probing of his fingers, before giving way with an odd melting sensation. Naim thinks he hears a pop in his shoulder, but it's quickly forgotten over the warmth pooling into his back. It's so good, Naim feels his body go boneless.
Ryan pushes relentlessly against another knot, the pain coming then going in quick succession.
Naim groans.
“You okay?” Ryan asks softly, his breath hot against Naim’s ear. Naim can feel him leaning over him, his body heat flush against his back.
“Mmhm,” Naim drawls. “Feels good.”
Ryan drops the lotion bottle. The rim of it smacks against Naim's neck at an awkward angle, sending a jolt through his spine. He flinches, before feeling Ryan rub his thumb back and forth over the spot gently. He waits for the ache to subside before turning his head, trying to see Ryan from the corner of his eye.
“Sorry,” Ryan mumbles awkwardly.
“Are you okay?” Naim shoots back.
“Yep! Great.”
His weight shifts as Ryan rearranges himself, his hands traveling lower. Naim can't see him at this angle, but the pressure on his mid back grows as Ryan sits up straight, and scoots back until he's sitting on Naim's legs. Ryan's hands roam from his shoulder blades, over the curve of his spine, and down to his hips. The scrape of his nails drag across the left side of Naim's lower back, and he doesn't have to see him to know he's caressing the tattoo there.
It's a small thing, no bigger than his pinkie finger— the form of a black currawong in flight, wings spread wide and curved behind its small body. Naim had gotten it on a whim about two months ago, after he accompanied Jessica to a local tattoo shop to get her navel pierced. Ryan has only seen it once, after Naim walked into the kitchen one morning shirtless, and had stared at it like he was trying to engrave it into his brain.
Now, the slow drag and bite of his nails feels like he's trying to engrave it into his skin. Or possibly fuse his hand with Naim's bones.
Naim's body feels like it's burning up; all flushed and tingly. There's an odd numbness in his fingers. A knot of heat in the pit of his stomach.
His fingers start to fidget without his control, and he rubs his thumb in circles around the ridges of his knuckles. The silence in the room is almost deafeningly loud. Tense and thick. Naim gets the sense of waiting, like his body is anticipating something his mind isn't aware of. It leaves his nerves churning in his gut, his heart beating, and lungs breathless.
It isn't until Ryan shifts again— leaning over Naim, his hands gripping his waist, breath coming out in quick rushes against Naim's back— and places a light, barely there kiss to the tattoo that Naim lets out a breath. The air punching out of him.
“Ryan-” Naim's voice comes out quick, almost frantic, and wavering. If his brain wasn't short circuiting right now, he’d feel embarrassed. But as it is, he's pretty sure he's dying.
“Mm?” Ryan hums behind him, his voice low and almost inaudible over the ringing in Naim's ears.
It takes a moment for Naim to say anything— him trying to collect his thoughts, and put a lid on the pot of his crashing metal state. Maybe even try to shove these overwhelming feelings into a box to bury while he's at it. He isn't successful.
“What are you doing?” He finally forces the question out.
“What’cha mean?” Ryan's voice is pitched too high now, sarcastic and lilted up around the fake question.
And, yeah no, Naim thinks. I’m not doing this. He kicks his leg up and into Ryan's back. “Let me up.”
Ryan doesn't move.
“Now, Ryan.” With a whine, Ryan slowly slides to the side, untangling himself from around Naim's body. The small mattress only lets him go so far, and Naim has to throw his leg over the other boy's knees as he sits up. Turning around, Ryan finally lands within his view, and the look on his face slams into Naim's brain. He looks like he's expecting Naim to scream at him; his eyebrows curve in, the flesh of his bottom lip worrying between his teeth. His eyes are big and glossy, pupils blown wide.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean– I wasn't thinking.” Ryan's looking down and peaking up through his eyelashes, focused on Naim's frame but not quite meeting his eyes. His voice comes out scratchy and quiet.
Naim tries to breathe around the lump in his throat, but his voice comes out just as soft. “It's okay.”
And then comes the staring again. Thick as a rope, heavy as lead. It's a hard thing to keep his eyes attached to Ryan’s, a feeling he can only describe as someone else's mind wandering into his consciousness, exposing every crevice of his soul. But no matter how hard it is, it's impossible to look away.
Naim isn't sure who moves closer first. Maybe it's both of them, pulled by some invisible magnets hidden underneath their skin. That's how it feels, anyway. Before he even registers his body moving across the small distance, he can feel Ryan's breath on his mouth. Their noses press together, angled awkwardly in the way such closeness requires.
Naim can't think, his mind rushing with every thought and feeling so fast he can't catch hold of them. It's intoxicating.
He reaches up to touch Ryan, just any part of him, having to know he's real. Ryan reaches back. And their hands don't slow.
It's this: Fingers tugging at hair, hands wrapping around necks, nails sinking into flesh with a sharp, stinging burn.
And it's Ryan, his mouth pressed firmly against Naim's cheek, whispering please please please over and over like a prayer.
Naim kisses him.
It's not soft. The smack of it is so sudden and hard, it almost hurts. Naim would feel bad, but Ryan kisses him back with the same crushing weight, his teeth scraping against Naim's lips and tongue, and his mind goes blank.
Naim reaches out blindly, his hands settling on Ryan's back, roaming the hot skin there. He can feel the dips and curves of his muscles, the ripple of them moving under his fingers with Ryan's movements. Ryan seems to be trying to touch every part of Naim at once; his hands frantic against Naim's chest, knotting against his scalp, dragging down from his cheek to the base of his neck.
Naim feels like his body is on fire. Lava mixed into his veins, pumping straight into his heart. Naim lets his mouth wander. To Ryan's chin, to his arm, to his ear. Ryan smashes their lips together even harder than before.
And Ryan's pulling. Pulling his hair, pulling his knee, pulling his waist until the two of them bump together. His fingers grasp the skin of Naim's shoulder blades, pulling, pulling, pulling. Then he's pushing; Naim's shoulders, and his chest, and his hips. The weight of the other boy leaning into him has Naim falling, his back hitting the mattress. Ryan follows him down.
The thrust of a thigh pressing in between his legs makes Naim jump, and he pulls back with a gasp, trying to catch his breath. Ryan only gives him a second before latching onto his neck, sucking with a bruising pull.
“Ryan–” Naim tries, his voice raspy and clogged. He cuts off with a moan as Ryan presses his thigh further up.
“I’ve got you, baby.” Ryan's tone is steady, so different from the rushing, shaking pulses coursing through Naim's body. His face is still pressed into Naim's neck, the words whispered tenderly there, hot against Naim's skin. Ryan's hands fumble against the buckle of Naim's belt, before slotting their lips back together. The metal is loud in the quiet room, the zipper of his jeans even louder. Naim can still feel the air coming from the vent to his right, the heat making him dizzy, sweat building up on his hairline.
Ryan's hand snakes into the waistband of his pants.
When Naim leans his head back, the stars wink at him through the window.