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John 4:18. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
Naim peers up at Ryan, who’s settled carelessly on a tree branch, blond curls catching the light of the dying sun in the feverish afternoon. Ryan’s gaze is cast out towards the horizon, long lashes tossing a faint shadow across his cheek. Naim feels himself flush, with exertion and desire and pure want as he pulls himself up another branch, and then another. Ryan kicks his feet back and forth above Naim’s head, tapping his fingers on the branch to the rhythm of a song Naim doesn’t recognize.
“You coming?” Ryan teases from up high, eyes dropping towards Naim, pale cheeks flushing.
“Yes, you dickhead,” he spits, hauling himself up further. His arms ache, but he keeps going.
“Y’know, we don’t have all day up here,” Ryan calls. Naim feels his face crumple into a scowl, pushing himself harder. He tries not to look down at his feet, but his jogger catches on a loose twig sticking off the branch and almost sends him flying—he grabs the next closest branch, wincing at the scrape against his palms, and looks down. He feels his stomach drop, fear gripping every muscle in his body as he tries not to move.
“You okay?” Ryan sounds half concerned, still drumming that beat against the branch. His rings hit the wood with every tap, sending a jolt of panic through Naim’s chest with each moment of contact.
“Y-yup,” Naim calls back, desperately trying to stabilize his trembling voice. His eyes are locked on the ground; he can’t look away even if he wanted to, the idea of falling from this height constricting his lungs.
“Come on, Naim,” Ryan complains, “you’re like two fuckin’ branches away. Just keep going.”
“Fuck off,” he snaps, hands beginning to sweat. “You knew I’m scared of heights and you dragged me up here anyway. Just give—fuck, give me a second.” Naim can’t breathe. For a brief, horrible second, he imagines passing out right here, hands slipping off the branches as he hurtles aimlessly through the branches and onto the ground.
“Oh, my God,” Ryan mumbles. Naim presses his forehead to the trunk, taking in a shuddering breath through his nose.
“I can’t,” he says in a small voice. “I—Ryan, I can’t.” He sniffles. “I’m sorry, it’s too high, I—I can’t do it. I need to go back down.”
“What, Naim, c’mon,” Ryan says pleadingly. Naim risks a glance upwards; Ryan is practically close enough to touch. He can see every freckle on his face, could count the sparkles in his eyes, could number the soft sweeping curls in his hair. It doesn’t matter: Naim needs to get out of the tree, or his heart will give out and he will fucking die. Ryan searches Naim’s eyes and must find something he doesn’t like, because he sighs and shifts forward on his branch, eyebrows drawing together as he leans closer to Naim. “Alright, then, let’s go down.” Naim takes a breath of relief, a second too soon. He scoots his feet backwards to make room for Ryan to hop down onto his branch, and his right foot rolls over the twig again. He doesn’t catch himself, this time. All he can do is look at Ryan, who’s barely started turning towards him anyway, and fall.
Hitting the ground back-first fucking hurts. It knocks the wind out of Naim’s lungs, leaving his eyes watering from pain, now, and not from fear, though the feeling is still sticky-sour in the back of his throat. His hands ache from where he’d tried to break his fall on the way down, face burning from a small scratch as his cheek had glanced against a wayward branch, lower back throbbing with the stress of the landing.
“Fuck,” Ryan barks, still in the tree. Distantly, Naim is aware of Ryan scrambling down the branches towards him, but in the present moment all he can do is lie there and try to catch his breath. “Shit. Fuck, Naim, are you okay?”
“Ow,” he manages. Ryan huffs out a stressed giggle, dropping to his knees beside Naim’s supine form. He helps Naim sit up, hands gentle, and quietly brushes the dirt off of Naim’s back.
“That fuckin’ scared me,” he says softly.
“S-sorry,” Naim says, unable to manage more than a whisper as he gasps in shallow breaths.
“Shut the fuck up,” Ryan says fondly, tipping Naim’s head back. The sun hits Ryan’s face fully now, bathing him in golden light.
Who the fuck cares about sin, Naim thinks wildly. Who gives a fuck when I get to have him here with me.
“Y’alright?”
“Not really,” he mumbles, ducking his head when Ryan laughs, a real one this time, tossing his head back and exposing his neck. Naim wants to pull him in for a bruising kiss, wants to tuck his face against the column of Ryan’s throat, wants, wants, wants. He fixes his gaze on his lap, fiddles with the ragged edge of his hoodie, and waits for Ryan to shut the fuck up.
“Aw, Naim,” he says, laughter dying down. He tilts Naim’s head up again. Ryan’s blue eyes, the color of the morning sky and the walls in Naim’s old bedroom, flicker from Naim’s left eye to his right, back and forth, for what feels like a minute but must be ten seconds. His thumb strokes gently across Naim’s left cheek, right over the small freckle under his eye. His hand lowers, and Naim tries not to miss it too much before it settles on his waist.
“Um,” he says quietly, but Ryan shakes his head and leans in, presses his lips soft and sweet to the spot his hand had just abandoned, lingering for a moment before he draws back, satisfied with Naim’s burning face. “Ryan…”
“Shh,” Ryan soothes, lifting one of Naim’s palms and pressing a kiss there, too, to every part of him that’s hurt. When he’s done cataloguing Naim’s scrapes and scratches, he settles back, sitting on his heels. “Feel better?”
“Yeah,” Naim says, and he’s long since caught his breath but he doesn’t dare raise his voice for fear of shattering the delicate moment between them, Ryan’s right hand searing heat through his hoodie onto Naim’s waist, his left resting on Naim’s outstretched leg. Ryan leans in again, kissing the small spot of blood away from under his eye, and just rests there, breath puffing softly from his nose to settle warm against Naim’s cheek, a kind of comfort Naim and Ryan both had denied themselves for too long.
“Fuck me,” Ryan mutters to himself, the words a prayer of their own kind against Naim’s skin. He leans back, ever so slightly, and tips his head down. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown; a promise. Naim tilts his head.
He realizes with startling clarity as Ryan finally, finally kisses him properly, that nothing actually hurts anymore.
I could stay right here forever, he thinks to himself, as he shifts forward to let Ryan pull him into his lap. I could stay here forever, and no one could tell me it was wrong.