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Driver is quiet when Ryland ushers him into their apartment building.
He still hasn't let go of Ryland's hand; his leather gloves are sticky with drying blood, chafing uncomfortably against Ryland's palm. Still, Ryland can't bring himself to let go. Maybe it's the way Driver's hand remains limp in his grasp, even with their fingers laced together, or maybe it's the look on Driver's face — but there's a feeling in his gut, deep down, telling him that if he lets go of Driver's hand now, he will never see him again.
That thought shouldn't scare him as much as it does.
Quickly and quietly, they enter the building and slip into the elevator. Ryland is briefly grateful for the late hour; he'd cleaned the blood off Driver the best he could, but the stains on his jacket would still be difficult to explain to a passing observer.
They stand side by side in the cramped space. Ryland feels more than sees Driver's gaze on him, the weight of his stare so heavy that it almost seems tangible, curling around his wrists and draping itself across his shoulders and nape. Driver always does this, when he thinks Ryland isn't looking; toothpick wedged between his teeth, blue eyes always on Ryland somehow — his face, his hands, his body. In contrast, his gaze always flickers away, embarrassed, whenever Ryland musters up the courage to meet his eyes, the muscle in his jaw flexing almost imperceptibly as he bites harder on his toothpick — but it inevitably returns when Ryland looks away. It's almost like he's afraid Ryland will disappear, the moment he takes his eyes off him.
Given Ryland's own track record (if avoidance was an Olympic sport you'd be a gold medallist, Marissa had once accused him during one of their Thursday dinner nights, cheeks flushed and fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of her bottle. Ryland, who had been somewhat inebriated himself — a choice he'd immediately regretted the following morning —, hadn't been able to find a word of denial), it should feel unnerving, being the object of such focused, steady attention. Ryland doesn't know what it says about him that it doesn't.
"We'll be home soon," he whispers, hushed. It lands awkwardly, like a basketball shot that misses the hoop by an embarrassing distance (there was a reason why, had it not been for Colt, Ryland would have been picked last for every team competition in PE class). He doesn't turn to look at Driver's reaction; he's too much of a coward to admit that it's because he's almost afraid of what he'll see.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push the image out of his mind: Driver, standing by the mouth of the alleyway, watching Ryland's would-be mugger shove him against the ground. The minute widening of his eyes as he took in the mugger's hand pinning Ryland down, then the glint of the man's knife, clenched in his other fist. His expression had changed, then — an almost alien rage colouring his face, contorting his features for a brief moment before he went terrifyingly blank.
He'd rushed forward, in a burst of motion so fast that Ryland barely registered it, withdrawing his hammer with such fluid ease that Ryland knew that this couldn't have been his first time using it as a weapon, and then —
And then.
…
Ryland can admit it to himself, in the safety of his own mind: Driver had frightened him. There was something almost animalistic in the snarl that crossed his face, upper lip peeling back to reveal white teeth; the cold emptiness of his blue eyes as he drove the hammer into the mugger again and again and again. Ryland didn't recognise the Driver he knew, then — Driver, who smiles as slow and sweet as liquid honey in the sun, who enters rooms like he's already thinking of when he has to leave them. Who takes Ryland through San Francisco on nights when neither of them can sleep, the city lights casting his face in orange and blue and pink as he hums quietly to whatever song is on the radio; one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding Ryland's, their fingers laced together on the car's centre console. Driver, who crouches next to stray kittens, holding a tentative finger over their fuzzy heads because he's terrified that he'll hurt them somehow.
No. There was nothing of the person that Ryland knew. That look on his face — it was an expression that belongs to the kind of man who wields a weapon like an extension of himself, the kind of man for whom violence is an old friend.
But…
Ryland casts his mind back to that alleyway: this time, Driver stands in the middle of it, swallowed in its gaping maw. Still clutching his hammer, blood dripping thickly from the head and splattering against the ground. Staring at Ryland, shoulders slightly hunched, his fingers white-knuckled around the hammer's handle. Trembling. He'd looked like a child expecting to be hit.
Ryland had looked back at him, in that moment. Past the blood splattered across his face, past the mugger splayed facedown on the ground like a corpse, past the ease by which all of this brutality had come to the man standing before him.
Ryland looked at him, and thought:
He looks so scared.
It, it's okay, Ry.
Ry?
Hey, you're safe.
He'll — he'll never hurt you or Colt again. I promise.
His older brother reaches out; he hasn't dropped the gun. Blood drips from his fingers.
He doesn't mean to, but he is twelve and hurt and terrified beyond belief. He flinches.
His brother stops.
Withdraws his hand.
I'm sorry, Ryland wants to say. But the damage is done.
(You can't un-pull a trigger.)
"I'm sorry," Driver says, jostling Ryland from his thoughts. His voice is almost a whisper. It's the first thing he's said since he took Ryland's hand in that alleyway, looking as though Ryland was both his unmaking and his salvation.
"It's…" Ryland can't quite bring himself to say 'it's okay,' because it's not. Not yet. But he squeezes Driver's hand, hoping the other man will understand what he means to say.
"We'll figure it out," he replies, sounding more confident than he feels. "It'll be okay."
The steel elevator doors, aged from lack of maintenance, are spotted with shallow dents. It warps Driver's reflection in them, making him look unfamiliar and strange. But — it's still him. Distorted that they are, it's still Driver's eyes and mouth and nose and face. Ryland can still tell that it's him, in the end. He wonders if a day will come where he can't.
He doesn't think so.
He feels the hand around his squeeze back.
When Ryland closes his front door behind him, Drivers lingers in the entrance hall like a ghost. If this was a normal situation, Ryland would be tempted to make a joke ('why do ghost molecules make terrible friends? You can always see right through their bonds!') — but, well.
"Come in," he has to say. "We need to get you cleaned up."
Driver does. After he gingerly takes off his shoes and places them by the welcome mat, Ryland takes his hand again, leading him to the bathroom. Driver knows where it is, being one of the very, very few regular guests of Ryland's apartment (the only other two being Colt and Marissa, and even then it's not like they pop by every other day for dinner, or drive him to and from work, or accompany him as he grades papers at his local diner every Saturday morning even though it must be the most boring thing in the world to do —). Still, it's important to Ryland somehow that he takes Driver there, that he physically makes sure Driver gets there.
"Sit," he directs, pointing to the closed toilet lid, and Driver does. Slowly, like he's half-waiting for Ryland to rescind his words, but he does. He looks almost bewildered, sitting with his back straight and hands on his knees, staring wordlessly at Ryland. Ryland, in turn, kneels down in front of him, sitting back on his heels so that his knees don't bear all of his weight.
"Hands," he continues, and Driver holds them out. He recoils a little when Ryland reaches for them, intending to take his gloves off.
"Wait," he says quickly, "I'll do it —"
He shuts his mouth with an audible click when Ryland curls his hands gently over his fists.
"It's okay," Ryland murmurs, "let me do it. Please."
He doesn't know why, but just like when he'd guided Driver to his bathroom, he needs to do this. He needs to be the one to peel this layer from Driver's skin, and he needs Driver to give him the permission to do so.
Driver doesn't speak. His eyes, blue like the summer sky on a cloudless day, are piercing, like he's searching for something in Ryland's face. Ryland doesn't know what it is, but he must have found it — because he nods slowly, carefully loosening his fists into Ryland's grasp.
Ryland exhales. A little of the tension knotted between his shoulder blades — tension that he hadn't even noticed until it left him — relaxes.
Strangely, even though he's no longer looking into his eyes, Driver's stare feels even heavier, watching Ryland as he slowly peels the leather gloves from his hands. They're soft and worn from use, moulded to Driver's palms and fingers, clinging slightly to his skin when Ryland gently coaxes them off. A few stray drops of blood are splattered on the leather; he puts them to the side next to the sink to deal with later.
Driver's hands are clammy. They tremble slightly when Ryland holds them; palm against palm, skin against skin. It is the first time tonight that Ryland has touched his bare skin. He's still silent, but his gaze still hasn't left Ryland's face, only flickering down to their hands when Ryland brushes a thumb over his knuckles, frowning.
"Are they sore?" He asks. He'd seen Driver get in quite a few punches between hammer swings, and he knows that his gloves may have absorbed some of the impact, but not all. He's tended to Colt after one too many brawls back in high school to assume otherwise. "They might bruise a little."
"No," Driver replies. He's still looking down at their intertwined hands. "I didn't even feel it."
Does that mean he genuinely doesn't feel it, or is he just used to it? Something twinges in Ryland's chest at the latter thought. He pushes it to the side in favour of reaching for the cabinet door under his sink, opening it to retrieve one of the tubes of ointment lying inside.
This time, Driver doesn't protest when he uncaps the lid and squeezes a dollop of bruise cream on the back of his hand. Ryland rubs it into his knuckles with the pad of his thumb, using gentle circular motions; it brings back memories of doing the same for Colt, where he would treat his injuries from whatever fight he'd got himself into, while admonishing him for it at the same time. He's doing this for a different person, now, but it's easy to fall back into the routine.
When he's done, he places the cap back on the tube and puts it away.
"You should shower," he says, releasing Driver's hands as he stands back up. "I'll bring you a towel and change of clothes. Let the cream settle for a few minutes before showering; I'll reapply it for you again once you're done."
He exits the bathroom without waiting for a reply.
Driver's jacket is soft to the touch.
On his living room sofa, Ryland runs his fingers over the satin, tracing the fine yellow thread of the scorpion embroidered on the back. It's a beautiful jacket; he's always wondered where Driver got it from. Did he buy it for himself, or was it a gift?
He can't imagine Driver having the patience to shop around in a luxury boutique. He tries to envisage the man walking around in an expensive clothing store, scrutinising every item with his typical blank stare, the shop attendants trailing behind him in confusion as they try and fail to get his attention.
Ryland chuckles quietly to himself. Maybe he thrifted it. That would make more sense.
He can appreciate a good sale himself; a good portion of his wardrobe is comprised of clothes bought from kilo sales and thrift stores. A product of his childhood, maybe; they didn't exactly grow up in poverty, but he remembers all too well the precise awareness of just how much money could be spent for food, of counting every penny at the dinner table alongside Colt — because even a few coins could mean the difference between keeping the lights on and having to fumble around in the dark for the rest of the month.
He's in a much different place now, of course, him and Colt. But old habits are hard to kick, and out of all the habits he could have learnt as a child, he could do so much worse than frugality.
The TV plays softly in the background, set to some kind of children's cartoon. Ryland hadn't been paying attention to the channel when he'd turned it on, only wanting some white noise to fill the silence.
He dips a paper towel into the basin of cold water on his coffee table, before using it to gently press and blot the small bloodstains splattered on the jacket. He'd flushed the affected area with cold water beforehand, while Driver was still preparing the shower, so according to Google, this is just the final step. It takes a bit of effort and patience, but he eventually manages to blot out most of the blood. Only the slightest discolouration remains, but its unnoticeable to anyone who isn't looking for it.
Satin is finicky like that, Ryland guesses. Then again, it's always hard to get stains out of white fabric.
…Courtland had been wearing a white shirt, that night.
Ryland sets the paper towel aside, dotted with blood, and exhales shakily. He puts his head in his hands.
"Damn it," he whispers.
In the bathroom, the water shuts off.
Why did you do it?
Because you're my baby brother, Court replies. I can't lose you.
The detention centre hasn't given him a change of clothing. He's still wearing that white t-shirt splattered with their father's blood. Dried and crusted, it sticks to the fibres of the shirt.
All the washing in the world will never get it out, now. Ryland still wishes he could try.
And you're my big brother, he says.
I can't lose you, too.
But he does, anyway.
The bathroom door swings open. Ryland sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut with such force that when he reopens them, his vision goes fuzzy for a moment.
"Your jacket's all clean," he tells Driver, and hopes that his voice doesn't sound as fragile as it feels. "But I think you'll have to take your gloves to a leather specialist."
Driver pads quietly to his side. He's wearing a pair of Ryland's sweatpants and one of his old shirts from college, the faded UCLA logo printed across the black fabric. His cheeks are still flushed from the heat of the shower, and he must have only roughly towelled his hair; damp locks stick out everywhere, a marked contrast to his usually neat hairstyle. It makes him look even younger than he already is.
Ryland watches him take in his jacket spread out over Ryland's lap, the basin of water on the coffee table; the paper towel dotted with red.
"…You cleaned it for me," he murmurs. He touches the damp surface of his jacket, unknowingly tracing the same route that Ryland's fingers had travelled. He turns back to Ryland, an undecipherable expression on his face. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," Ryland says, because it's the truth.
Driver doesn't respond.
Cheerful music plays from the TV, the opening theme song to a new cartoon. A cast of brightly coloured cartoon fish waves at the camera, clearly the main characters of this cartoon. Driver turns his head to watch a red shark appear on the screen and bare its teeth at the main characters, who then hurriedly turn and swim away from him.
"Do you think that's the villain?" Driver asks, apropos of nothing.
Ryland pauses.
"…Maybe?" He offers uncertainly, when it's clear that Driver is expecting an answer. "But isn't that jumping to conclusions a bit? All we know is that he's red and has really sharp teeth."
"Well, just look at him." Driver's voice is flat. The difference from his usual tone is jarring; Driver is generally a quiet man, but that doesn't mean he lacks emotion. Ryland has learnt to identify the small tells in his mild voice — the lilt in his speech when he smiles, the tight, tense note that his tone takes on when he's feeling on edge, the way his words go all soft and warm when he's being shy. But Ryland doesn't think he's ever heard him sound like this, his voice so utterly devoid of inflection. "Does he look like a good guy to you?"
In the background, the cartoon keeps playing, the animated shark now segueing into a villainous monologue.
I smell blood and I bite! The shark declares. Its serrated teeth are drawn in identical isosceles triangles. That's just what I do!
Driver is still turned towards the TV, expression so blank that it can't be anything more than an act. He's holding himself so rigidly that it must be painful.
Ryland doesn't need to be a psychiatrist to understand that the cartoon itself isn't the issue here. It's just as obvious that Driver isn't really upset about a villain shark, of all things.
This thing is: Ryland is a middle-school teacher. This means he teaches young children with volatile temperaments, who will sometimes get upset and will be unable to explain why. It's not really their fault; sometimes the reason for their hurt gets tangled in so many different things that it's hard to pick apart the Gordian knot of their pain.
Driver is not an eighth grader, and he certainly isn't one of Ryland's students. But, Ryland thinks, the same logic applies. There's a knot of hurt somewhere, old and deep; Ryland just has to pick it apart.
"Does it matter?" He asks quietly.
Driver looks as though Ryland had struck him.
"'Does it'…" He trails off, before picking up the sentence again. "Of course it does."
Ryland disagrees. He thinks that the answer to Driver's question matters less than he thinks he does.
He thinks about broken beer bottles and blood crusted in the fibres of white cotton t-shirts, about guns in bedroom drawers and the kind of men who put them there. He thinks about a boy who is older than him by four years and forever younger than him by twelve, who put himself between Ryland and a man who would have killed him, and brutalised the man before he could brutalise him. He did it for Ryland.
So did Driver.
Gordian knot, he thinks. Maybe he doesn't need to pick it apart after all — not when he's got the sword to slice it in half all along.
"Driver," he says, "you're not a bad person."
Driver freezes.
He blinks, mouth opening and then closing, half-formed words trapped between his teeth. Ryland reaches up and takes his hand, tugging him down to sit beside him on the sofa. They both know it's only a request; if he wants to, Driver is more than strong enough to break free from his grasp.
For a few moments, Driver says nothing at all. It doesn't even look like he's breathing; his eyes flit between Ryland's hand and his face, looking increasingly lost. But finally, he follows Ryland's hand, allowing himself to be guided onto the sofa.
Ryland takes the tube of ointment lying beside him, uncapping it with his thumb. Before he even has to ask, Driver holds his hands out again, allowing him to massage the cream onto his knuckles once more.
"I do believe that, you know," Ryland repeats, "that you're not a bad man."
"I nearly beat someone to death right before your eyes," Driver replies, voice leaving his mouth in a rasp. "How is that not 'bad?'"
It doesn't make him good. But it also doesn't necessarily mean he's bad. Ryland likes to think he knows the distinction; he grew up with a bad man, after all. Driver isn't anywhere near that.
"Did you like it?" He asks nevertheless.
With his attention on Driver's hands, Ryland doesn't see his face when he asks that question. But he feels the other man's body tense, like he's resisting the urge to recoil. "I wanted to protect you."
Ryland sets the tube of ointment aside; he'd want to fidget with the cap, otherwise. He looks back at Driver. "And you did, Driver. You protected me. But did you enjoy beating that man with your hammer until he stopped moving?"
The words taste like gasoline on his tongue. But it is the truth of the matter, and Ryland, before finding his calling in teaching, had once made his career around objective truths, no matter how ugly or inconvenient. Therein lies the crux of the matter — and perhaps Ryland's most important question yet.
"Why not?" Driver challenges, something almost angry in his voice. Unfamiliar. He knows the importance of this question, too. Briefly, the shadow of the man in the alley eclipses his features. "Maybe I did. Maybe I did enjoy hurting him. Maybe I wanted to kill him, because I knew I would like it. Did you consider that?"
"Yes," Ryland says softly.
Driver physically flinches.
But, before he can speak, Ryland reaches up to cup his face, preventing him from turning away. Driver looks back at him, something naked and raw in his eyes; like an oyster cracked open at the seam, revealing the soft entirety of itself. It is the same look in his eyes earlier tonight, when he'd turned towards Ryland in that alleyway.
"But I decided that you're not that kind of person," Ryland says, injecting his voice with as much determination as he can muster. He hopes Driver can hear it. "And I want you here. I want you here with me. I wouldn't bring back someone I didn't want to stay."
This too, is true. Ryland isn't someone who tries to hold onto people longer than he should. All his life, he's known that the people around would never be there for long: his mother, whom he's never met. His father, who in Ryland's opinion had died the night he'd decided he liked his sons better dead. Linda, and all the other people who found him interesting enough to hang around for a while, but never valuable enough to stay.
(The only exception and constant in his life is Colt, whom Ryland will never tell how grateful he is to him for that alone.)
The first time he had ever tried to grab onto someone with his own hands, to beg them not to leave, was Court.
This is the second time. He's not sure if he can survive a third.
He swallows. He's trembling, too. For all his false bravado, he's just as scared as Driver. Maybe that's what love is, really: being scared to fall, but doing it anyway. Because the love is more than the fear.
"Do you want to stay?"
Does Ryland love Driver? He isn't sure. But he cares for him, cares for him more than almost anyone in his life. When he thinks of coming home, he thinks of Driver: of him sitting by the coffee table as he tinkers away at his projects and lacquers the surface with another layer of oil, of him leaning over the stove in the kitchen as he carefully stirs a pot, of him turning towards the door and welcoming Ryland home, smiling that soft, small smile of his that appears when he's truly happy.
Surely then, Ryland thinks, that must count for something.
"Yes," Driver whispers. His eyes are wet. "Please, I do. Keep me."
Ryland smiles tremulously. For the first time tonight, he feels a weight fall away from his chest.
Maybe one day, he can put away that white t-shirt for good, too. But for now, he has a mostly-clean satin jacket, an open tube of bruise cream, and a man who wants to stay. That is enough.
"Then that's all that matters," he replies.