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Naim knew the move was coming.
The day after he got back from his father’s funeral, his mother was sitting at the old kitchen table, nimble fingers wrapped around the handle of a tea mug as she stared blankly at the fireplace. In her other hand, which was laid open on the table, a silver necklace with a cross pendant rested on her palm, glinting under the dim ceiling lights.
“There’s something about the silence, Naim,” she whispered, eyes not leaving the fireplace. “It didn’t speak to me before. I thought it would just have to be like this…but then He taught me there’s beauty in this, too.”
“Maybe,” Naim whispered after a few moments, swallowing thickly. Or maybe he didn’t understand what his mom was saying at all, or what the hell she meant by the silence being beautiful. Or maybe, just maybe, he just wanted his family to be okay again. To not have silence be the loudest thing between him and his mom anymore, to the point where a conversation about silence was better.
But their suburban town wasn’t quiet at all. It was a flowering community with loud teenagers and newlywed couples moving in at every corner, with kids flitting around the streets and the sounds of shrieking adolescent laughter as common as birds chirping.
His mom wanted a change. She wanted a new start. She wanted silence.
“Where are we going?” Naim asked his mom three weeks later, dragging his suitcase toward the now-empty living room.
“Somewhere silent,” she said in a faraway voice, eyes locked on their closed front door. “Somewhere beautiful. Where everyone knows each other.”
They drove through dry grass fields laden with factories, puffing out tufts of gray smoke into the pale blue air. Four hours later, they arrived in a small rural town with tiny homes, run-down roads, and only two public high schools. A place where everyone knows each other, his mother had said.
“You’ll love it here, Naim,” she said when they lugged their boxes into their new home, and flashed him a brilliant smile: one he hadn’t seen in weeks. “We’ll love it here.”
“Maybe,” Naim replied quietly, looking at the worn-down walls of what would be his new home.
But Naim saw the cross now glued to his mother's neck, the Christian texts that had started to take up space on their bookshelves before the move. He saw the churches on the way to the town, the billboards preaching the gospel increasing in frequency as they approached their new home.
And he knew then: the move was not for them. It was for his mother.
—
Naim hated introducing himself.
A new kid in a town like this may have been rare, but even just by looking at him, he knew other kids could tell there was nothing significant about him. Just another teenage boy—the reserved kind that swaddles themselves in oversized hoodies, the kind that the teachers have to tell to make friends. The kind that nobody really cares about.
So when he was introducing himself in front of what would be his new class, he wasn’t really all that surprised when nobody was paying attention. Well, save for some curly-haired blonde boy in the back of the class, who’d taken one look at Naim, smirked to himself, then looked away (which wasn’t really any better).
Aside from introductions, school was…okay. He didn’t talk to anyone, but he didn’t really mind it all that much. His grades were fine. He interacted with others in classes just enough to scrape by as socially acceptable. He would’ve been perfectly fine with this routine continuing—but his mother had taken note of his reserved behavior.
“You know, there’s a church gathering coming up soon,” she said one day as the two shared dinner after Naim came back from school. “I think we should go.”
Naim shifted uncomfortably, mindlessly twirling spaghetti around his fork. “Sounds interesting,” he lied. “Maybe you can go.”
His mother put down her fork, her lips curling into a frown as she looked at Niam. “Naim, you haven’t made any friends yet,” she said, shaking her head and sighing. “Nor have you really joined me in my faith. I understand we’re in a new place, but I need you to also put in some effort here.”
Naim swallowed thickly, his leg bouncing under the table as he averted his eyes from his mother’s frowning face. He didn’t know what to think of it all: his mother’s new fascination with religion, her sudden insistence that he become well-acquainted with the community.
Making new friends wouldn’t hurt, I guess, Naim thought as he chewed his lip in thought, reasoning with himself. He turned back to his mother, trying to conceal his doubt about…well, everything.
“I’ll come with you,” he said. His mother beamed in response, and Naim thought —for a moment—that it would all be okay. That this was better.
The next day, they went to the gathering.
—
Twenty minutes in, Naim realized that religion was a bigger thing in the community than he thought it was. By a lot.
Every person his age was either someone from his school or the only other one in the community, their entire families tagging along, talking with others with a familiar smile on their face. Everyone knew each other. The entire town was practically at the bloody church, talking about faith and Jesus and whatever else.
As a result, it was a big church. In fact, Naim doesn’t think he’s ever seen a church this big before. An old, almost crappy church, but a big one nonetheless.
He wasn’t really sure how to feel about it.
What does it all mean? Naim couldn’t help but wonder as he nodded through another introduction, this time to the pastor and his son, Hunter. Why do they all care about fuckin’ Jesus so much?
“I think I’m gonna get some fresh air outside,” Naim said to his mom when they were done. She whipped to face him, a small frown on her face, but before she could say anything, Naim slipped through the room. Mumbling apologies between his breath, he weaved his way through the crowd before he finally arrived at the exit, pushing it open with a sigh of relief.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he mumbled to himself once the door shut, letting out a yawn and stretching his arms. He sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, relieved to finally be away from the packed church room. It smelled like dry grass, oakwood, and—
Smoke?
Naim didn’t have to look around for long to find the source of it—another boy, probably his age, perched on the wall with a cigarette to his mouth a few feet away, staring at Naim with what looked like disinterest. He was wearing a loose, collared shirt and black trousers, with several silver rings lining his fingers. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows, exposing his visibly built forearms. His curly blonde hair and neutral expression looked oddly familiar, but Naim couldn’t place where he’d seen him before.
Even after Naim looked at the other boy, both of them now aware of each other’s presence, it was silent—the two just looking at each other, the eye contact feeling oddly like a competition.
Man, this is fuckin’ awkward, Naim thought, now wondering if he should say something or not. Or clear his throat. Or literally anything but this. So much for making acquaintances with people.
“New ‘round here?” The boy finally broke the silence after a few moments of eyeing Naim down—probably deciding he was nothing special. Naim nodded hesitantly.
“Yeah,” he replied, trying to school his voice to be somewhat detached. “Moved a couple weeks ago.”
The boy made a sound of acknowledgment, staring at Naim for a few more beats before holding out the cigarette. “Smoke?”
Naim eyed the cigarette, gray tufts of air still spilling out of the end, the ribbons of smoke almost mesmerizing. No, he’d never smoked before, but he now wondered—is that a thing here? Do boys here do that?
“Yeah,” Naim said, reaching for the cigarette before he could think better of it. He put it to his lips, sucking in a breath of air and—
Naim sputtered instantly—suddenly feeling weirdly out of breath—coughing wildly into his arm as the smoke invaded his lungs. Fuck, Naim thought through wheezes. How do people like this shit?
After a few moments of silence (save for Naim’s coughing fit), he turned back to the boy, face now flushed in embarrassment. He was still just staring, eyebrows now slightly raised in amusement at Naim’s coughing fit.
“Ya could’ve just said you don’t smoke, mate,” he remarked lightly with a smirk, reaching out to tug the cigarette back from Naim. Still not breaking eye contact, he lifted the same cigarette to his lips—where Naim’s lips had been just moments prior—taking a sip of smoke and blowing it out.
Naim bit his lip to prevent himself from scowling, suddenly feeling irritated. He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just continued to stare awkwardly, eyeing the other boy in what he hoped was a cool expression. The other boy’s smirk bloomed into a loose grin.
“See you ‘round, then,” he said, turning to tug at the door handle back into the church, the muscles in his forearm flexing the motion. He shot one last glance toward Naim, expression neutral. “Naim.”
And Naim was left staring—awkwardly, and probably looking like an idiot, as he thought one thing:
Who the fuck does this cunt think he is?
—
Naim’s mom was not amused.
“You know, the Whalen’s have a boy that’s your age,” she said as they drove back to their house, the sky now a deep black. “Even goes to the same school as you. If you’d just give some effort to interact with the other people, Naim…”
“I don’t know who anyone is,” Naim replied, huffing out a sigh, feeling stupidly like an angsty teenager. Maybe he is one.
“That’s because you’re not talking to anyone, Naim.”
“That’s not true,” Naim protested hotly. “I talked to someone when I went outside, some cun—er, boy with curly blonde hair—”
“Oh, Ryan? That’s the Whalen’s boy, Naim! You should’ve said something,” his mother replied, her tone completely shifting from mild disappointment to excitement. “Here I thought you were just going outside to avoid talking to people…are you two friends now? Oh Naim, this is wonderful!”
“Uh-” Naim paused, swallowing awkwardly, not sure how to reply to his mom’s sudden enthusiasm. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess. We, uh, talked about…school. Uh, maths,” he lied.
“That’s great,” his mother replied, and even with her eyes on the road, Naim could see a smile bloom on her face. “Just keep doing that, Naim. If you could also make friends with Hunter, the pastor’s son, that would be wonderful—we all need a closer relationship with faith, after all…”
His mom continued talking—about the town, about faith, about this new start for them. But Naim’s mind had wandered—to the smell of oak wood, to loose collared white shirts, to curly blonde hair—and that dark, pungent smell of smoke.
—
The next day, Naim realized where he had recognized the boy, Ryan, from: his very first day at school.
He was the only boy who’d bothered to look at him while he was giving his introduction. But even then, the next days were uneventful. After their brief interaction at the church gathering, they didn’t speak to each other at all. Naim would sometimes feel eyes on the back of his head, but when he’d turn, he’d be met with the sight of the boy sitting loosely in his chair, his legs set apart as he fidgeted with his rings. He’d notice Naim before Naim could look away—and Naim would turn around feeling oddly embarrassed, like he’d been the one staring at the other boy for no reason.
Church became a weekly thing for Naim and his mother. He didn’t mind it too much. The sermons were boring, and Naim didn’t really know all that much about them, but his mom seemed happier since they became more religious. The community gatherings were a monthly thing as well, apparently, and his mom was enthusiastic when they’d gotten invited to the next one as they ticked into their second month of living in the area.
“This is wonderful, Naim,” she’d said as she brushed off dust from Naim’s collared shirt, beaming. Naim absentmindedly rubbed his neck, cringing as his collarbone brushed against the itchy shirt. His mom may have let him get away with wearing a black hoodie and cargo pants to the last gathering, but as they became more acquainted with the community, she was more focused on how they presented themselves.
What would those boys at your school think if they saw you dressed in those loose rags? She’d said when he’d emerged from his room dressed in a hoodie.
I don’t think they’d care, Naim had thought to himself bitterly, despite listening to his mom and tugging off his hoodie to replace it with a crisp collared shirt. At least based on the way that blonde cunt acts.
Now slightly ticked off and constantly itching at his collar, Naim drove to the monthly gathering with his mom in a less-than-content mood. He was able to tolerate making rounds glued to his mother’s side, despite her talking to the pastor about faith and the gospel for almost twenty minutes straight.
An hour into the gathering, when they were just about to leave, they were stopped by another family. Naim was ready to plaster on a fake smile, nodding through whatever conversation his mom was going to have, until he noticed him.
That boy.
They seemed to recognize each other at the very same moment—Ryan’s face went from boredom to mild amusement the second he locked eyes with Naim, no doubt remembering the smoking incident. Naim fought to keep his face neutral, hoping his hesitancy—and irritation—wasn’t showing. He could deal with this, surely. As long as his mom doesn’t bring up the fact that Naim lied about being friends with Ryan—
“I’m just so glad Ryan and Naim are friends now!”
Fuck.
“Oh, are they?” Ryan’s dad asked politely, glancing at his son with warm eyes. “Ryan didn’t mention it, but he’s always been rather quiet. You know teenagers—I’m sure you understand, Arlene.”
“Of course,” Naim’s mom replied with a smile. “They talked about school—right, Ryan? Maths, Naim said it was.”
Kill me, Naim thought desperately as he forced out a nod, feeling his cheeks go red, hoping it wasn’t too obvious on his pale skin. Ryan, all of a sudden, seemed ten times more engaged in the conversation—looking between Naim and his mom with his eyebrows slightly raised.
“Yeah,” Ryan replied, his stupid blue eyes practically glowing with amusement. He glanced at Naim, a small smirk plastered on his face. “Naim really doesn’t like polynomials.”
This fuckin’ dickhead, Naim thought, hoping the glare he was sending at Ryan was enough to convey his sheer annoyance.
“Right,” he gritted out, hoping his awkwardness wasn’t obvious to Ryan’s parents or his mom, who was now looking at him quizzically.
“Polynomials.”
—
Despite Naim’s growing irritation with Ryan, the next few days at school also proved to be uneventful. Even with their interactions, Ryan ignored Naim almost constantly while at school—other than a few glances here and there that Naim just couldn’t deduce the intent of.
It was odd, Naim had thought. By this point, he’d talked with almost everyone in his classes, even if it was just a few times—but in school, he hadn’t talked to Ryan a single time. Their interactions were purely from the monthly church gatherings, which, granted, weren’t much. It almost seemed purposeful, how Ryan just ignored Naim—not that Naim really cared.
Naturally, Naim expected it to be the same outside of school.
But of course it wasn’t.
The next time Ryan acknowledged him after the second church gathering was at a run-in at the local servo. Naim had left his mom to her own devices, not really interested in the type of blueberries she wanted to get, and wandered around the store—taking note of the types of brands and advertisements that lined the shelves.
Just as he was ready to find his mom again, his eye caught on a familiar head of curly, blonde hair. Before he could stop himself, Naim turned to the figure and found himself facing none other than Ryan—holding a bottle of frosty blue Gatorade and staring at Naim, expression neutral.
“Need help with maths?” Ryan asked after a few awkward moments of silence, raising a single blonde eyebrow. Naim felt a slight prick of irritation flare in his chest.
“Dunno what you’re on about,” Naim mumbled, scoffing. His eyes dropped to the Gatorade in Ryan’s hand. “Blue? Really?”
“What’s wrong with blue Gatorade?” Ryan asked, his mouth dipping into a frown.
“Everything,” Naim replied, feeling his mouth tick up into a smirk. “Tastes like piss, mate.”
Ryan turned back to the Gatorade in his palm, the condensation on the bottle now gathering into small drops of water running down the plastic. He opened his mouth, ready to say God knows what—
“There you are, Naim—oh, hello Ryan!” his mother interrupted, glancing between the two boys.
“Hello,” Ryan replied politely, far from the tone he’d used with Naim just a few moments prior. He glanced back toward Naim and nodded in acknowledgment. “Nice talk, mate,” he said. “Catch you later,” he continued with a smile before walking away, blue Gatorade in hand.
“I’m glad you’re making friends, Naim,” his mom said after they’d purchased their weekly groceries, walking from the servo with two plastic bags in hand. “I think we’re really part of the community now.”
“Yeah,” Naim replied absentmindedly, plucking at a loose string on his hoodie with his free hand. “I guess.”
But his mind was on Ryan—how he ignored Naim at school yet entertained him everywhere else. How he conducted himself with cool nonchalance. How he seemed to be everywhere all at once—at church gathering, in Naim’s classes, at the fucking servo.
This dickhead, Naim thought tiredly after he’d gotten home and collapsed on his bed, is fuckin’ annoying.
And yet, for some stupid, unknown reason, Naim couldn’t stop thinking about him.
—
Biking around the neighborhood became a part of Naim’s routine. It was an easy way to get a lay of the land in the new town and get away from his house for a few hours.
Biking was also, for the most part, blissfully uneventful. There wasn’t anything unpredictable that came with just meandering around the streets, other than the occasional teenager or wild animal slinking around. In other words, for Naim, he didn’t have to worry about running into families preaching the gospel for tens of minutes straight, or blonde dickheads with insufferable smirks.
Until today, of course.
His mom had pointed out the pastor's house to him on the way back from the south side of town. Naim hadn’t really been paying attention until he realized that he’d never actually explored the south of town. So the next time he decided to leave his house after school, tugging on a hoodie and slipping his phone into his pocket, he went southside.
It wasn’t long before he started to recognize a few areas he’d seen on the drive with his mother—a dilapidated telephone pole, a billboard with graffiti on it, and the pastor's house—boasting a large, stone driveway leading up to the surprisingly modern building.
He’d gotten off his bike for a few moments, examining the building, until the echo of a door closing and mumbling words emerged from the building. Not really in the mood to talk to the pastor, or even his son, Naim started to walk away—until the figure emerged in his line of sight, looking annoyingly, unfortunately, familiar.
Yet out of anyone exiting the bloody pastor’s house, he definitely didn’t expect it to be Ryan.
Ryan stopped in his footsteps the moment his eyes landed on Naim. He was wearing a blue tank top lined with orange, exposing his arms, along with a pair of washed blue jeans. His face was slightly flushed, a rosy pink color painting his normally pale cheeks. He was absentmindedly rubbing his bare, bruised shoulder, his face slightly scrunched up in what looked like pain, his other hand resting on the seat of a bike he was walking.
“Didn’t know you were friends with the pastor’s son,” Naim said after a few moments of silence. Ryan’s face soured imperceptibly—but Naim noticed it.
“Yeah,” Ryan mumbled in response, his mouth twisting slightly as he rubbed more aggressively at his shoulder. “Friends.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed at Naim. “What’re you doing here anyway?” he asked. “Never seen you come to the pastor’s house. You friends with the pastor’s son?”
“Just wandering around, mate,” Naim replied dryly, pointedly tapping the handle of his bike. “Happened to pass by.”
“Right,” Ryan replied, dropping his free hand to his pocket, his stance still loose. He walked farther from the house, past Naim, and stopped at the crosswalk leading to the field across from the neighborhood. He turned to Naim, his blonde curls shifting on his head slightly, and raised an eyebrow. “You coming?”
Naim blinked in shock. “You inviting me?”
“What’s it look like?”
“...Alright,” Naim agreed before he could think of a smart retort. Ryan’s expression melted into a smile—something Naim hadn’t seen much on the rather unexpressive boy. He tugged out his phone from his pocket, tapping at it for a few moments before handing it to Naim with a new contact page open.
Naim blinked for a few moments at the phone in his palm before looking back up at Ryan. “You want my number?”
“Why else would I be giving you my phone?” Ryan countered dryly, visibly unamused. “Hurry up, dickhead.”
Once again unable to think of a response, Naim typed out his number and handed the phone back to Ryan, eyeing the blonde curiously as he looked down at the screen for a few moments before slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“C’mon,” Ryan mumbled, and Naim followed despite his racing thoughts. Why was Ryan inviting him to hang out? After practically ignoring him at school? And now he was smiling? At Naim?
Naim shook the questions out of his head and jogged forward, walking beside Ryan as they slowly approached the dry fields, telephone poles looming above them while the sun set into the horizon.
—
“Fuckin’ hell. Calm the fuck down.”
“Reckon I can get up there? …What? Snakes and heights?”
“Fuck…funnel web, on your shoulder.”
“The fuck was that? Do that one more time.”
“Anything you’re not afraid of? Huh?”
“Come on, what?”
“I don’t ignore you.”
“Give me a fuckin’ example of how I’m different.”
“Don’t tell anyone about it…the mill.”
Naim had barely said a word of greeting to his mom before instantly beelining to his room, collapsing onto his bed with a small huff. His mind was roaring with the memories of what had happened earlier that day.
Ryan. Ryan.
Naim dragged his fingers over his lips, swallowing thickly as the memories flooded his mind. Naim thought about Ryan—the small, almost awkward smile he’d given Naim as they were about to part ways—soft in the way Naim didn’t think Ryan could be. The scuffle they’d had after the mill, peals of laughter and playful shoves between them. Ryan’s arms pinning Naim to the ground, tendons flexing under pale skin. Ryan’s lips on his own. Ryan's mouth on his neck. Ryan.
For once, since the several weeks it’d been since they moved here, he felt a sense of belonging. A desire to be here, in this shitty rural town. It wouldn’t have been a reason his mom agreed with—or hell, even the whole town. But to Naim, it was just enough—despite the Bible at the corner of his desk and the weekly sermons that had him second-guessing his emotions.
Naim reached up to hold his hand against the pulse point of his throat—the very same place Ryan had kissed, now faintly bruised if he looked close enough. Naim felt his head roar at the memories, suddenly feeling lightheaded—
A ping from his phone startled Naim out of his thoughts, and he jerked his hand away from his throat. His phone on his desk lit up with a message notification from an unknown number. Naim’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and he leaned closer.
this is ryan, the notification read.
Naim felt his lips curl into a smile.
hi ryan, he typed back, heart racing. it’s naim.