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The stagnant air of the motel room swirls with dust and smoke. Naim watches the smoke twirl upwards from Ryan's lips, the dim illumination from a lamp on the bedside table casting deep shadows onto his face. Music plays lowly from Ryan's phone which has been tossed somewhere into the tangled mess of a bed that they lay upside down on, shoulders pressed together. Ryan's fingers graze against his as he passes the joint to Naim, a small smile on his lips as he watches Naim place it between his lips.
Everything feels slow as the muffled speakers sing. The way that Ryan is looking at him through the fog, intent and sly with his infuriatingly charming smile and messy blonde curls, stirs something deep within Naim's gut. It's all he can do to exhale before surging forwards, kissing the smile from Ryan's face. Ryan rises to hover over him as the kiss deepens, and the joint nearly goes forgotten in his hand as Naim removes all space between them, clutching and pulling at Ryan as his tongue slips into his mouth. He whimpers, which would be embarassing if it weren't for the fact that Naim is all but lost in the feeling of Ryan's chest pressed to his and Ryan's hands grasping at his sweater.
Ryan pulls away, causing a noise of dissatisfaction from Naim. Ryan's lips draw into a smile at this, eye's still filled with intensity as he plucks the joint from Naim and lifts it to his lips. He drags deeply from it, holding eye contact as he leans in and presses a kiss to Naim's mouth before pulling away and hovering less than an inch away. Naim parts his lips, watching as Ryan exhales the smoke into the air between them, and inhales it into his own lungs.
He chases Ryan's lips as the blonde boy pulls away, his smile mischevious as Naim crawls on top of him, pressing their lips together. He feels as Ryan hums beneath him, mouth moving against his, and Naim realizes with idle suprise that Ryan enjoys when he does this — when he takes what he wants.
Ryan's hand reaches into his hair, tugging slightly before drifting to his neck. Naim lets his hands wander, reaching beneath Ryan's shirt and feeling the warm skin below. It's messy and unbelievably hot, and Naim is almost able to forget their circumstances as he straddles Ryan, rolling their hips together.
He's almost able to forget about the shitty motel and their nearly empty wallets and the noise of the car door swinging shut as he caught one last glance of his mum through the poster-mache windows of the gas station. He's almost able to lose himself in the taste and smell and feeling of Ryan, but as their mouths break apart and he gasps into Ryan's cheek, he leans in to suck at the space beneath the other boy's ear and remembers a bloodied white collar and jagged stitches just before he flicks out his tongue.
He pulls back abrubtly, Ryan's smile flickering and eyebrows creasing as he looks up at Naim. Naim attempts to shuffle off of Ryan's lap, but the boys hands move to his waist, stopping his movement and holding him in place.
"What's up?" Ryan questions, voice rough and breaths uneven.
"We should go to sleep." Naim responds shortly, diverting his gaze towards the wrinkled gray sheets below them.
Ryan ducks his head, refusing to be looked away from. Naim sighs at his persistance, giving in and meeting his eyes. He watches the furrow of the other boy's eyebrows and the way in which the blonde tilts his head in a sickeningly endearing way, prodding without speaking. The silence, their closeness, and the rumpled sheets beneath them all paint a scene too intimate and too warm for Naim. He can't help but feel the impulse to ruin it all.
Instead, he lets out a breath and blinks down at his lap, legs still on either side of Ryan's hips, "I'm sorry." he mutters into the space between them.
When he glances up at Ryan, Ryan glances down, leaning back so that his elbows are propping him up. The joint is out, tossed onto the wobbly bedside table, and as Naim pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his hands the lightbulb flickers ever so slightly.
Ryan exhales a breath he seems to have been holding in, "I know." he says.
"It's all my fault."
"Naim—"
"No, it is. I did this." he pauses, this confessional so much more difficult without a screen door inbetween them. With the real Ryan here. "I was scared. Scared about how I felt… about you."
There's a pause, and Naim glances upwards, meeting Ryan's eyes. He looks so sad in the dim lighting, blonde bangs messy over his forehead and expression nearly unreadable to Naim as they sit entangled and high.
"I thought I killed you." Ryan says, finally. He sits upwards, Naim sliding back in his lap but remaining intensely close. "You— not you, but… It came to mine last night. Told me It was sorry." Ryan looks away, the next words coming out in a low whisper. "I let It in. It attacked me of course — kept coming for me all night — and I just kept fighting It. Kept falling for It."
Naim feels himself slump at these words, weakened at their impact.
"I stabbed you— It. I stabbed It, and It spoke to me like It was you and I just." he inhales sharply and clears his throat, "I left you. You were crying and speaking to me and telling me all of these things and I just ran home. Packed a bag. Left."
"It wasn't me, though." Naim says. Ryan remains looking away, swallowing harshly and letting his shaky hands fall on Naim's thighs.
"I know." Ryan says unconvincingly.
Naim reaches a hand out, placing it on the blonde's cheek and tilting his head towards him. Ryan let's him, pliable in Naim's hands as he meets his eyes and sinks his cheek further into his palm. Naim leans in, pressing his lips against Ryan's tenderly.
He kisses him slowly, pulling away and pressing his forehead against the other boy's. "I fell for it too." he whispers.
These words are all it take for Ryan to lift his hands from Naim's thighs, instead encircling his torso and pulling him in, kissing him open-mouthed and desperately as Naim's hands entwine themselves into Ryan's hair.
Ryan falls back against the bed as Naim pushes closer and closer to him, their positions a reverse of their first kiss and filled with a desperation that didn't exist back then. Weeks ago, when they had nothing but time and Naim was content to kiss Ryan beneath the rusted pipes and crumbling infrastructure of the old Mill forever.
He let's Ryan unzip his sweater clumbsily and toss it to the carpeted floor of their motel. He pulls Ryan's shirt off in return, running his hands unabashedly over the flex of Ryan's biceps. He can't help but smile into their kiss, holding back a laugh.
"What?" Ryan mutters before pressing kisses to the corners of Naim's mouth, moving lower and lower until he's knipping at his neck.
"Y'know," Naim says, voice kissed away into something breathless, "back when you kissed me the first time, I lifted that pipe because I wanted you to lift it."
"What?" Ryan asks, nose nuzzled into Naim's neck. Naim let's out a breathy moan as he feels Ryan suck at his jaw.
Their mouths slot together again, before Naim finally manages to mutter into the air between them, "I wanted you to lift up that pipe." he squeezes Ryan's arm like a punctuation to his point, groaning at the way that Ryan's hands burrow beneath his shirt, ring's cold against his back.
"I told you there was a funnel web," Ryan gasps against his mouth as Naim rolls his hips again, "because I wanted to touch you."
The two of them grin into each others mouths, seperating only to undress each other further. They strip each other piece by piece, Naim gazing at Ryan's nakedness through the warm lighting of the room. Everything is fleshy and warm and sweaty, every touch enciting a gasp from Naim as they clumsily pick eachother apart upon the weathered sheets. Ryan's fingers find their way into Naim's mouth at some point and Naim has to push down the moment of fear he experiences, the softness of Ryan's fingertips pushing through his lips nothing like the cruel push of It's.
Ryan whispers praise into his ear, gasping "please" and "yes" as Naim touches him and holds him. His hands roam, and Naim swears he can feel him drawing lines between his moles like a cartographer mapping the shores. It's tender at moments, sloppy and rough at others, but beautiful in it's inconsistency as they learn exactly where to press to make the other shiver or kiss to make the other moan.
Afterwards, they clean themselves and lay together on the undampened side of the bed, legs intertwined and Naim's head against Ryan's chest.
"Did It kiss you?" Naim asks through the fading haze of the weed, only to remember stupidly that he knows the answer to this question.
"Yeah." Ryan says, the hand that's resting on Naim's back tracing the skin lightly. It tickles ever so slightly, but he enjoys the idea of the rough pads of Ryan's fingers on his skin too much to care for this slight discomfort. "What about you?"
"Yeah." Naim responds, and then after a moment, "Did It ever do anything else with you?"
Ryan exhales a laugh, although Naim can tell it isn't one of amusement, "No. It just kissed me. Would do the things you always do and turn them sour."
Naim's stomach twists in understanding and he peels his cheek from Ryan's chest, looking up at his face. He looks at Ryan's ear, and Ryan nods in understanding, turning his head so that Naim can see it better. Even through the dull lighting, the stitching on his lobe is visible.
"Does it hurt any?" Naim asks, and Ryan quickly shakes his head.
"Only when I lay on it and all. Otherwise it's fine."
Naim looks at the break on Ryan's brow, glances towards a shallow cut he noticed on his torso earlier, and finally grabs the scratched and bruised hand laying on Ryan's stomach, examining it against his own. Fingernails not quite clean, rings covering the splinters and scratches that break up his already worn and calloused hands. Naim idly remembers Ryan mentioning playing guitar at some point and feels himself warm up at the thought.
Ryan let's him look at his broken skin for a moment before pulling his hand gently from Naim's grip, placing his fingers beside the scratch on Naim's temple.
"Did It ever do anything with you?" Ryan asks, voice strained, although he attempts to hide it.
"No." Naim says, and he feels the echo of a past conversation through these words. Can tell they're not really talking about just the not-Ryan and not-Naim anymore.
Ryan moves his hand from Naim's temple and lowers it to where a bruise is forming on his arm which Naim recalls earning by being pushed off of the scaffolding in the Mill. It aches when Ryan presses his fingers against it, and Naim can't help but wince slightly.
"Sorry." Ryan mutters, pulling his hand away.
"It's okay."
A car engine sputters to life outside, it's headlights piercing through the thin, beige melange flower-patterened curtains. The beam of light slides over Ryan's face, painting him in a glimpse of holy light which fades with the sound of the car's tires pulling out from the parking lot. Naim can't help but simply stare, the lines of Ryan's face beautiful and rigid like those of the cross, his smile white like stoning pebbles, and his blue eyes the shade of the Virgin Mary's veil.
"Whenever I see It, It does that thing you do— with your hands." Ryan says finally, voice hardly louder than the muffled noise of a television in the room beside them, although suprisingly light in tone. "Where you pull your sleeves down and, like, hold your own hand—"
Naim smiles besides himself, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of this mimickery. "Fuck off."
"And you always do this thing where you frown and your eyes get all teary like some sort of kicked pup." Ryan scrunches his face up, as if giving a horrid impression, and Naim bats a hand towards him, only for Ryan to laugh and grab it.
"You know, you're one to talk. You do this thing where you like, act all chill and uninterested and then jump my bones—" Ryan grabs one of the pillows from behind him, aiming it at Naim and cutting him off mid sentence.
"Oi! You cunt." Naim wrestles the pillow from Ryan, tossing it back at him and watching as he catches it and holds it in his arms. "Did you know that you tilt your head to the side whenever you want something? And yet I'm the dog?""
Ryan's head tilts backwards, adams apple protruding with the wave of his laughter as his lips pull into something giddy. Naim waits for a rebuke or another pillow to be aimed at him, but Ryan just shakes his head and speaks through his smile "You always grab at my hair when you kiss me."
"And you grab at my neck" Naim counters, and he feels as Ryan's eyes lower to the faded yellow finger-prints on Naim's neck, but Naim just shifts beneath the sheets, leaning in towards Ryan, "or hold my waist—"
Ryan cuts him off by surging his tongue into Naim's mouth, hands cupping his jaw like it's something precious as Naim groans. "You lick my ear." he whispers, and the way he says it — lips still brushing against Naim's and smiling at his supposed victory in whatever competition they've been playing — is confident and cocky enough for Naim to let out a small, breathy moan.
He immediately hides in Ryan's neck, refusing to see the glee in the blonde's eyes at his slip-up. Ryan let's him sit across from him, head resting in the crook of his shoulder, blanket falling off of his half-naked body, and he just wraps his arms around Naim and holds back his laughter.
They sit like this for a few moments, the clock on the wall ticking past midnight although it must be well past two in the morning at this point. The music that was shuffling on Ryan's phone has turned from his playlist to a random queue, and the last stragglers in the motel parking lot have abandoned their money that's been lost to the Coke vending machine and returned to their room. All is suddenly very silent.
"So the city?" Naim asks, pulling his head up from Ryan's shoulder and meeting his eyes.
He smiles his wide, crinkly closed-mouthed smile and nods serenely, "Melbourne. Then maybe France."
"France?" Naim laughs, but Ryan just nods.
"I'm a big fan of croissants."
"Sure. France it is."
It feels like a promise, and the snake ring that has sat on Naim's hand for the past few days suddenly feels weighted in it's significane. As they twist together on the bed, trading kisses and laughter, Naim feel's as if his words are vows and his kisses promises.
They fall asleep within the hour, legs all tangled up and arm's and necks destined to be sore in the morning. Somewhere inbetween sleep and waking, Naim dreams of a barely furnished apartment in the slums of the city and a snake ring tangled in blonde curls, and he wakes up only able to recall contentment settling deep within his gut.