Archive of Our Own

The call came in the late afternoon. 

Ryan had been fixing the latch on the back of his ute, both hands needed to grind the rusted mechanism into place. Prick of a job when he was already aching from a long day of hauling planks of radiata pine over the lot’s uneven ground. His phone—buried deep in the left pocket of his grimy ripstop shorts—was on silent. It didn’t matter either way. His ringtone would’ve been swallowed by whining electric handsaws and the roar of main road traffic that whizzed past behind tall chainlink construction fencing. But at that moment, Ryan was so focused on the task at hand he was deaf to that too.

His hands burned as the metal latch dug deeper into the meat of his palm, dirt and dust mixing with sweat to make a paste that caused his hold to slip. The seller had mentioned it, before Ryan had handed over the thick wad of cash in the empty lot where they’d agreed to meet. Gearbox is janky, needs a new radiator, and that latch at the back is stuffed, just so you know. Ryan had nodded thoughtfully as if the information were something that might impact the sale. The truth was that four years into his apprenticeship, bumming a ride off his coworkers was starting to strain. He learned quick, worked hard, and only complained to the right people so they’d feel he was one of them. But if he was to stay a man they wanted to keep on, Ryan needed a vehicle. The ute could’ve been missing the driver’s side door and he still would’ve handed over the cash. A piece of shit was all he could afford. 

He gave the latch one final shove with all his body weight, startled when it suddenly snapped closed with a screech and a muted clang of steel. Only then, heartbeat thudding in his ears as he wiped flakes of rust from his mercifully still ten-fingered hands, did he notice his phone vibrating in his pocket.

Fingertips coated in wood-dust, Ryan's thumbs slid uselessly across the glass. He squinted against the burst of pain behind his eyes from the sun's reflective glare, swiping his thumb along the bottom of the screen in the general area his muscle memory dictated would give him what he wished. It took a few tries until the call accepted.

"Hello?"

A single ragged sob echoed over the line. 

Ryan’s hand tightened around the lip of the ute’s tray as his stomach lurched, metal cutting into his palm hard enough to hurt. 

"Naim?” He didn’t need to pull the phone away from his ear to check. He knew. “Naim, where are you? What's goin' on?"

All he got in reply was a few more frantic breaths. Ryan’s throat closed up, mind racing with the possibilities. Have it be something small, he prayed. He saw a dog get hit by a car. Someone was a cunt on the train. But no, "Thought it was you," is what Naim said when he finally found his voice, shaky and distorted. "Fuck, Ryan. It looked so much like you."

"Calm down," Ryan said, cold dread trickling into his gut. He'd already pushed away from the tray and marched to the driver's side door, boots crunching in the gravel. "Are you safe? Are you with someone?"

All he could hear over the line was distortion, the phone mic rubbing against cloth or skin. Or maybe clattering to the ground, knocked out of Naim's hand by a thing that wore Ryan’s face. "Naim? Naim! You there?"

"Park," Naim said, voice just above a whisper, incredibly close. Mouth pressed up against the mic. "The one on the corner. There's— There's a dad here with his kid. They're eyeing me. They saw…I think I scared them. Fuck, Ryan, what do I do if they leave—"

"Just stay there." Ryan's engine popped and wheezed as he twisted his key in the ignition. It mercifully roared to life after a few turns, Ryan sinking his foot into the clutch and wrenching into gear before Naim could get another word in. "I'm on my way, alright? Just stay where you are. And stay on the phone." He still had a half hour before he knocked off, but no way in hell was he wasting time searching for the boss to request an early finish. A glance in his rearview showed a couple guys waving him down, arms out wide in a universal what the fuck are you doing? gesture. Ryan ignored them, pulling out onto the road without checking his right. He could call up to apologise later.

"Ryan, I'm—" Naim's voice crackled over the shitty speaker. "My phone— are you there?"

“I’m here. I’m on my way, alright? It’s gonna be okay.” Ryan pressed his foot deep into the accelerator, swerving into the next lane to avoid the slow car in front coming up to meet him. The driver he cut off honked at him angrily, flashing their lights for good measure. "What about your phone?”

"I forgot to charge it after I got home," Naim said, voice going distant. "Shit! I've only got six percent."

Ryan’s heart dropped. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror for far less time than it took to register whether it was clear before he jerked the wheel and changed lanes again. "Naim, why would you— You know we can't be that careless."

"You—"

"Just stay on the phone," Ryan cut him off. "Stay on the phone till I get there. Maybe it'll last."

"Alright." Naim said after a moment, a sound so small Ryan almost didn’t hear. He always sounded younger when he was frightened. "Okay."

Ryan pictured the park in his mind, trying to visualise where Naim would be when he got there. Inside the perimeter of the knee-high chain link, unharmed and untouched except for the flakes of dark green left on his clothes from cowering on the peeling bench. Naim hadn't said, but Ryan suspected it was still there watching him. It comes for you when you’re alone, they’d been told. But it could watch you at any time.

It was a well-timed glance away from Naim’s contact photo that saved Ryan from rear-ending an unsuspecting SUV. He slammed his foot on the brake. With no seatbelt on, the abrupt stop sent him barrelling forward into his wheel, his phone tumbling out of the cup holder where he'd placed it.

"Ryan?" Naim's voice crackled distantly from somewhere underneath his seat. "What was that? You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. 'M fine," Ryan said. The red brake lights of the car in front went out. He lifted his foot off the brake, reaching down with one hand to blindly pat around for his phone. "I'm coming, just— You need to stay with people, alright? If the guy leaves, knock on someone's door. Anyone. Make up some shit about how you were attacked and you're scared they're gonna come back. You can't be alone, Naim, alright? You can't be alone."

The panicked tempo of his own breathing filled the space and he fought to get it under control, blood roaring in his ears. His knuckles stood out white where he gripped the wheel.

"Naim?" Ryan tried. He sped up, switching lanes. On the highway now, finally in the farmost right. "You there?"

He waited with bated breath, but Naim didn’t answer. 

On a good run, Ryan could make it from work to home in a little over twenty eight minutes depending on how many other drivers decided to knock off the same time as him. That number could get well into the fifties on bad days. Over an hour if some stupid cunt decided they'd prefer to scroll rather than keep their eyes on the road while going 100. But if he got his work done early and smoothtalked his way into a pre-five-o’clock finish, half an hour. Give or take. 

It took Ryan forty six minutes before he was pulling into their street, ribs aching from the relentless battering of his heart. When he hit the curb beside the small lot of yellowed grass housing a single rusted swingset and a patchily-painted dark green bench, Naim was nowhere to be seen. He slammed his door behind him, boots thumping against the footpath as he jogged the perimeter.

"Naim!" He called every few steps, hands cupped around his mouth. "Naim! I'm here. It's me."

Was he hiding? If he'd stayed there alone, seeing Ryan appear might not be a comfort. The thing could’ve appeared to Naim in his work gear, anticipating the psychological trick. Ryan had been fooled by that before, thinking it was safe because it’d changed Naim’s clothes between sightings. It still scared him every time, how close to the real thing it was. Though he wished for some romantic truth that he could always tell when it was his Naim, Ryan wasn’t in the habit of lying. When it appeared to them, there was no way to know it wasn’t the real thing until its touch turned from tender to violent.

Ryan patted his shorts frantically, pulling out the plastic lighter he always kept in his pocket. Hands trembling, it took a few tries for the spark to catch, but eventually he’d ignited a small flame. He held it up to his face, close enough to singe the baby hairs on his cheek.

"It's me, look. It's me!” he called out, throat raw. A breeze swept through the street, gutting the flame. Ryan swore, dragging his thumb hard against the striker again until his finger reddened and stung. But the light stubbornly refused to catch. He had another in the ute, and lighter fluid in the glovebox, but part of him knew the reason Naim didn’t appear wasn't because he didn't believe it was him. 

Naim wasn't here.

Ryan lit up his phone, a deep scratch standing out pink across his hand where he'd dragged it along something sharp when digging around underneath his chair for his phone. He paced back and forth on the overgrown footpath.

"The person you have called is not available, if you would like to—"

He went to their chat, checking if any of his desperate texts had been read. Nothing.

"The person you have called is not available, if you would like to leave a message—"

"Fuck!" Ryan screamed, swinging a punch at the door of his ute. His hand exploded with pain, a sickening jolt of heat that traveled up his arm to his shoulder. Metal creaked as he collapsed backwards onto the low chainlink fence that guarded the tiny park. His hand pulsed with sharp stabs of pain. He clenched his fist tighter, letting the pain build until he he couldn't bear it, releasing his fist with a gasp.

Across the street, an elderly woman and her dog regarded him warily.

"Hey," he called out to her, hope surging within him. Her shoulders jumped, head twisting to avoid his gaze. "No, no, I'm sorry, I won't hurt you!"

He had to jog to catch up to her, the woman’s aged legs working overtime in her desperate attempt to hobble away from him. He almost seized her shoulder to try and stop her, but thought better of it. Instead he gained enough speed until he cut in front of her path, palms-out. Her brown and white Jack Russell terrier growled at him, yanking on its thin red leash.

"Please,” he said, sucking in ragged breaths. “I just wanna ask if you've seen someone." 

The woman’s eyes darted around, mouth set. For a moment Ryan feared she would give her tiny dog a command and he'd be mauled to death right here on the street. The terrier's jaws were small, but Ryan knew the sort of damage a dog's teeth could do, no matter the size. And this one looked like it was itching to be given the chance. 

"Please," he said again, backing up a step. The woman peered at him, until suddenly something in her face changed.

"You're that young man who lives down the street," she said. Her voice was surprisingly clear for such an old woman, strong and high-pitched. “The one always saying good morning on Saturdays when you're out mowing your strip."

Ryan stared, realising he recognised her. He didn't know her by name, but faintly recalled seeing her shuffle through a neatly pruned garden to a small white hatchback parked a mile off the curb.

"That's me," he said quickly. "I’m number 8. Just next to the big bluegum. Ryan, my name’s Ryan."

"Yes, yes," the woman said, waving a hand. The dog by her feet stopped its relentless barking and sat down on its hind legs, ears drooping as it realised it wouldn’t be receiving its coveted attack command. "I know you. What are you doing punching cars and scaring old ladies? Are you alright?"

Ryan could almost cry. "I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to scare you. I'm just looking for someone.” Ryan fought to keep his voice level, not wanting to betray how desperately he needed to find this someone. “Naim, my— the friend I live with. He called me, said he was waiting for me here. By the park.”

The woman nodded slowly, then stilled. Her filmy eyes widened. "The police!" She said, jolting on her terrier's leash and eliciting an indignant yip. "Oh sorry, Pip. Yes, yes, the police. They were just here. I could see from my window. Just one car, no siren or dramatic red and blue lightshow," she laughed in a delicate old-lady tenor. Ryan tried to match it but his hands flexed impatiently. "I assumed whatever they were here for wasn't serious enough to stop me taking sweet Pip out for a walk, so here I am. I did wonder why they were there, though. Saw an officer talking to a young man holding his little daughter in one arm. Poor girl looked so frightened."

Ryan's stomach lurched.

"How long ago did they leave?" He pressed. Pip growled, hackles raising.

"Shush now, Pip. Ryan here is a nice young man." She tugged on the leash. "Not too long ago. Might’ve been… hm. Yes I think only just left. Right before you came."

Ryan nodded, already twisting away to run back to his ute.

"Thank you!" He called out to her, suddenly regretting that he hadn’t asked her name. He remembered her garden though, and the white hatchback with wheels never even touching the grey. When he had Naim back, safe and sound, they would pop round to her place for a visit. Maybe she’d like her lawn mowed or a gutter clean. Yes, Ryan thought, engine sputtering as he turned the ignition. When he had Naim back, he would show her that the both of them were nice young men. 

His brakes screeched as he pulled into their local police station’s carpark. It was an unassuming building for what it was, but maybe that was by design. A ugly box of tan brick that you wouldn't look twice at if you missed the small blue sign. Ryan jogged up the concrete ramp and pushed through the glass door.

"Evening," he said to the lady sat behind a wall of perspex. He was past the point of impatience, nervous system humming with the volatile sort of energy that had fingers twitching around triggers. It was an effort not to slam his hands on the clear-plastic and demand her attention. "Guy my age, brown hair. Naim Reid. Was he brought in around half an hour ago?"

The lady's chair wheels squeaked as she turned to him. She tilted her face down, the string of milky beads that hung from her glasses clacking as she eyed him over the rims. There was an affronted pinch between her penciled-on brows. 

"Excuse me?"

Ryan wanted to scream. After years now he’d adapted to city life, but country blood compelled him to greet every person he passed and thanked anyone who did him favours twice over. It was always him pestering Naim for not being more polite when the two of them reached staff locked away behind desks and shields of perspex after waiting in line for hours. But at that moment, he had no mind for manners. It’d been well over an hour since Naim had called, breathless and terrified. Every moment spent on empty pleasantries was time lost between this station and the next.

But as he took in the receptionist's appearance, he knew being short with her wouldn't slide. Her hair was so fried by blowdrying and bleach it had the look of dead grass, sitting atop her head in a layered bob. And her mouth, smeared with dark lipstick, wore a specific set of wrinkles a woman her age gained only from years of pursing her lips at audacious youth. If he wanted to get information, he’d have to summon patience.

"So sorry," he said, trying on his best smile that’d got him out of countless broken homewares and muddy foot prints tracked inside. "My neighbour told me police came round. My friend, he's… not well. No drugs or anything, swear to God. Just struggles a bit with his hold on reality sometimes, if you get my drift."

The lady leaned in, eyes glimmering with invasive curiosity. "Oh is that so? Something bad must've happened for our boys to be called in, hm?"

Ryan's stomach twisted with the implication. "There was a man and his daughter at the park on our corner. I think he might've given them a scare. He would've meant no harm though, honestly. Neighbour told me she saw police talking to him. The man I mean, with the daughter. Thought they might've brought him in?"

The woman leaned back in her chair, ABS plastic creaking underneath her considerable weight. Ryan leaned in closer, hands clasped. 

"Please," he said softly. "Sorry for being impatient. He’s— I really need to know if he's okay."

The woman nodded, mouth making a wet sound as if she were sucking on a lolly. Ryan prayed his misery tasted sweet enough to satisfy her. 

She turned to her computer, pink nails perched over the keys. "What was his name again?"

Naim was pale when they brought him out. Thin shoulders hunched and drawn into himself in a way Ryan hadn't seen since they were seventeen. The hair by his left ear was dark and matted, purple-red marks ringing his neck that had an ominous look about them that promised darkening with time. And bruises always took so long to fade from Naim’s delicate skin. It would be weeks before those marks disappeared.

His body curved away from the police officer leading him down the hall, a tall man with a moustache like a fuzzy caterpillar he’d plucked from the woodchips and set upon his upper lip. Ryan’s jaw clenched at the hand he had gripped on Naim’s shoulder, urging him to hurry along.

"Naim."

Ryan’s voice broke at the way Naim’s expression crumpled. He pulled free from the officer’s grip, staggering into Ryan’s arms. Ryan accepted him with a shaky sigh of relief that left him hollowed out and weak. Naim burrowed his face into the crook of Ryan's neck, winding his arms around him and squeezing tight. Ryan gave the police officer a quick glance, but decided he didn't give a fuck what he may or may not be thinking. He put a firm hand on Naim's back, the other coming up to thread through his hair.

"It's alright," he whispered, hopefully quiet enough he wouldn't be overheard. "I've got you, you're okay."

Naim sucked in a shuddering breath, pulling away. His eyes were swollen and rimmed with red, dark shadows carved beneath the puffiness. He said nothing, clearly too exhausted to speak.

"Are we good to go?" Ryan said, eyes flicking to the police officer still hovering. He tried not to let his anger bleed into his voice, throat tight. The police officer's eyes lingered on the hand Ryan had on Naim's waist. For a second Ryan thought he was going to say something about it, fingers tightening in Naim’s jacket as he cycled through the countless reasons it was not in his best interest to punch a police officer in the face. 

The police officer’s gaze finally flicked up to meet his. “Sure kid,” he said. “You two get outta here.”

Neither of them spoke, intently watching the red arrow that glowed atop the slender stoplight. They'd been stuck there forever. An empty road, and their ten minute drive home was put on hold for the one red light that wouldn't fucking change. Ryan’s hands flexed, massaging the flaking leather of his steering wheel. The damn light was probably broken.

"What are you doing?" Naim said, as Ryan lifted his foot off the brake, leaning over the wheel as he scanned the road, imperceptibly inching forward. "Stop."

"There's no one here," Ryan protested, but when Naim tugged harshly against his arm he pressed his foot against the brake on instinct. "Jesus, relax,” he said. Naim let him go. "I thought you'd be dying to get home."

"I am," Naim said. "Doesn't mean I want you to get another demerit for no fucking reason."

Ryan looked away, dropping his hands from the wheel with a sigh. Low blow, but moderately deserved. He couldn't afford to lose his licence with work two hours away by their area’s useless public transport. He didn’t tell Naim he might’ve already gotten another speeding fine with the way he raced home after his call. That was a problem for if they received a letter stamped with the ornate crest of the Victoria police.

But still, he itched to talk about something, unnerved by the silence that had suffocated them since climbing into his ute at the station.

"Hey," Ryan said. "What even happened?"

Naim's fingers stilled where they'd been relentlessly twisting in his lap. "What?"

"I mean," Ryan began, trying to be delicate. But it had been bothering him since he’d first picked up Naim’s call. He’d put it out of his mind, focused only on getting to him and making sure he was okay. But now they were on their way home, the question burned. "It's been years since it got either of us, Naim. Forget close calls, we haven’t even caught a glimpse since last Christmas. What the fuck happened?"

"Nothing," Naim snapped, oddly harsh, turning away from him to look out the side window. 

“Did it knock? We both know to check before you open—”

“It didn’t knock. I went out.”

Ryan blinked. “You went out? What the fuck Naim.”

"We were out of milk, alright?” Naim said, throwing his hands up. “I was walking to the shops to get some. It’s not even ten minutes. But then I turned a corner and it was…” He trailed off. “It's been so long it didn't… it didn't immediately click."

"You—" Ryan coughed out a disbelieving laugh. "Are you fucking serious?"

"I ran, obviously," Naim snapped, volume rising. "I tried to get away but it—"

"Not that," Ryan cut him off, waving a hand. "You left the house alone for milk? Fucking milk. How careless can you be? Dunno why you were even home alone in the first place."

He did, though. It came back to him as soon as he'd said it. Naim's class schedule had changed with the new semester. An early finish on Thursdays now, and rather than wait several hours for Ryan to get off work and another hour to pick him up, they'd both decided it’d be fine for Naim to take the bus and be home alone for a short stretch. 

"You weren't going to do it," Naim said, ignoring his slip up. "You get home from work and do fuck all."

Ryan bit his tongue at the hot spike of anger that ran through him. It was a fight to keep his voice level, but he refused to yell. "Fuck you, Naim. I'm working outside hauling shit back and forth while you sit comfortably in air-conditioned lecture halls. I think I deserve a bit of fuck all."

"Yeah," Naim spat, "you do. Which is why I thought, 'he'll be tired when he gets home and won't want to come with, I should just go now'. My fucking bad for thinking I'd make the ten minute walk without it coming for me."

A loud honk startled the both of them. Ryan’s eyes flicked up to see a glowing green arrow moments before it flashed to orange. They both remained silent as Ryan hurriedly released the brake, engine humming when he swung the wheel into a two lane road. The car behind roared past with another honk, Ryan raising an apologetic hand. 

He waited until they rolled to stop behind another red light before he spoke.

"All I'm saying is you should be more careful."

Naim laughed, a sharp exhale of air like he’d pulled a knife from a car tyre. He turned in his seat, face bathed in a deep red glow. "I should be more careful? Are you fucking serious? How many times a week do you go off on your own without me saying anything? Last night you dropped me off at Elsie's because you wanted to go kick a stupid ball around with your footy mates."

Ryan's jaw ticked, eyes back on the empty road. "Not alone there, am I?"

"Oh fuck off. You always pick me up later than you say you will, and I doubt everyone sticks around that long after practice. What if it came for you when you're enjoying your sweet alone time in the locker room, huh? No one around to hear you scream when it cracks your head against the tile. And where does that leave me? Praying all night that you’re okay until I get the call telling me you’re not. You weren’t careful enough, and now I have to live my miserable fucking life without the one person who made it okay.”

Naim's words sucked all of the warmth from the air. The space between them emptied like a vacuum, suffocatingly quiet. 

That could've happened today, Ryan considered, swallowing his rising nausea. If things had gone differently, he would’ve wandered all night until the police came knocking, hats in their hands and faces grim. Saying his life would be ruined was a laughably inadequate description. It haunted his nightmares, that knock on the door. Because even with the insurmountable grief Ryan’s not sure he could ever overcome, the real curse was that losing Naim wouldn’t even be the end. He’d live a life haunted by it, seeing Naim’s face through every window, around every corner. And he’d be unable to resist it, seeing him and knowing it could touch the way he did, hold him and kiss him with Naim’s gentle hands and Naim’s tender mouth. Even if feeling him again would mean joining Naim in death, Ryan knew he would be unable to resist it forever. 

"That won't happen, Naim," Ryan said quietly. “I won’t let that happen.”

"I'd be the only one who even knew what happened. You ever think about that?" Naim said, as if he hadn’t heard him. Ryan ached to look over, but couldn't risk it as he pulled onto their narrow street. This late there were cars parked on either side, making a difficult squeeze downright surgical. He slowed to a snail's pace.

“Naim, I don’t—”

"I never bring it up because you're always on me about how much I nag,” Naim cut him off. "But it's what I think about, every time. I watch you drive off and think, he's going to get himself killed. It'll come for him and he's going to die, and his funeral will be just like Hunter's. Me surrounded by people who won’t believe me when I tell them what killed him." Naim paused to suck in a shuddering breath. “And I would blame myself. Because it is my fault, isn’t it? I’m the one who snitched and made them call the healer because I was jealous and selfish and scared, and now for the rest of your life there’ll always be this thing haunting you. It looks like me and it talks like me and touches like me and it’ll look and touch and talk like me the day it finally kills you. My fucking face the last thing you see before you die.” 

Ryan snuck a glance out the corner of his eye. Naim's face shone with tears, streetlights reflecting in the wetness. He stopped abruptly, foot leaden on the brake.

"Naim—" He reached out to put a hand on Naim's thigh, but Naim angrily shoved him off.

"Fuck off," he said sharply. "Keep driving."

Ryan pulled his hand back. Two hands on the wheel. His mind was spinning, guilt hot and heavy in his chest. He was almost bursting with the need to make things right, to nail the perfect thing to say that would have Naim folding into his arms and forgetting this day ever happened. But Ryan had never been good with words. No matter how much he pushed on the mental latch, the rusted mechanism wouldn’t budge. 

"You have no right to tell me to be careful," Naim said finally, as they made it through the narrow stretch. Ryan glanced over to see him wiping his face on his jacket sleeve. When Naim spoke again, the words were muttered into his damp sleeve, almost too muffled for Ryan to hear. 

"No fucking right."

Naim opened the car door before Ryan had even put the gear in park, slamming it shut behind him with a crack that made Ryan flinch. He killed the ignition and the lights, unbuckling his seatbelt and lumbering out onto the road. When he made it into the house the entryway remained bathed in darkness. He was in time to hear Naim slam the bathroom door shut.

Ryan closed the front door behind him as he headed back out to grab his things from the backseat. Once inside, he dumped his shit by the door and bent down to unlace his boots. He gingerly tugged his feet free, wincing at how they ached underneath the sweat-damp press of wool. It’d been an exhausting day even before he'd received Naim's call, and now it hit him all at once.

He craved a hot shower, limping over to the kitchen. He wanted to strip the sweat and dirt from his skin and watch sawdust swirl down the drain through a haze of steam. He could feel curls of it caught in his hair, sharper fragments itching in his socks. He reached up to pat some off into the kitchen sink, wincing when the hand he'd attacked his ute with protested with a grouchy throb. He flicked the kitchen light on to inspect the damage. One knuckle split, caked with dirt and dried blood. The other four had darkened with reddish-brown bruises. His hand ached when he clenched his fist, but he could move it well enough. Not broken, then. A possible doctor's visit dismissed, his mind drifted to the pain gnawing at his stomach. He'd had nothing except a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch, untoasted since he’d never found the time to escape work and use onsite's rickety kitchenette. Out of danger, his body had decided now was the time to punish him for it.

He opened the fridge to do a quick scan, lamenting when the shelves revealed themselves to be miserably bare. He’d have to go to the shops if he wanted to eat tonight. As he stood back, about to close the door, his eyes caught on the blue-capped milk bottle tucked into the side. He pulled it out and gave it a shake. Barely a mouthful.

The soft ache in his chest cut above every other discomfort. Dinner could wait. 

Ryan knocked on the bathroom door with two of his unbruised knuckles.

He could hear the sound of running water through the wood, a soft rush of white noise. He'd lost count of how many times they'd asked their landlord to look at the pipes, concerned by a piercing whine that always accompanied a twist of their shower’s hot water faucet. Naturally, their landlord had done fuck all. Not wanting to risk pissing him off and having their dirt-cheap rent upped, they'd let it be. Ryan had insisted he could fix it himself, sick of the whine ruining the peace of his post-work shower. Naim had refused. Leave it. Doesn't matter, it works just fine, he'd said, steering Ryan away from his ute. His undertray tool-box was equipped for a builder’s apprentice, not a plumber’s. But he’d been convinced he could find something in the mess of tools that might work on a pipe. Naim had shoved him back inside, commenting that just because he wore hi-vis and industrial boots to his ‘big man’ job didn’t mean he was equipped to fix everything. 

“Naim?”

Ryan listened closely. No tinny whine. The sink then. As he listened, the rush of water abruptly cut off. The door opened when he tried the handle, swinging open with a creak. 

Naim's back faced him, shoulders curved over the sink. The water filling the off-white ceramic bowl had a pink cast, darker spots of ruddy brown dotting the edge. Ryan rushed forward without thinking, turning Naim's face towards him.

Naim didn't pull out of his hold, letting Ryan cup his chin and tilt his face into the light. Naim had pried away the patch of matted hair Ryan had noticed at the police station, revealing a tiny cut in his scalp the width of his thumb. 

No stitches, Ryan decided, shaking off the urge to find his keys and shove Naim back into the ute to head straight for the nearest ED. The cut was small, but had clearly bled like a bitch given the depth of colour in the water. 

“How'd you get this?" Ryan murmured. 

Naim pulled out of his grip. "It wore rings."

That was enough to make him go quiet and watch as Naim abandoned the wound to inspect the bruises encircling his neck. A sudden pressure swelled behind Ryan’s eyes. He blinked away stinging heat, talking through the growing lump in his throat. 

"Are you alright?"

Naim didn't answer, avoiding his eyes.

"Naim, please look at me," Ryan said. It took a few moments, but Naim obediently raised his eyes, dark-green meeting blue. "I'm sorry, alright? For what I said in the car."

Naim's eyes dropped again. His teeth sank into his lower lip, finding familiar indents in the chapped skin. 

"Don’t be,” he said. "You were right."

Ryan blinked, taken aback. He placed a hand on Naim’s shoulder, waiting to see if he would push him away. When he didn’t, he gently massaged the muscle, pulling Naim closer. "No I wasn’t. I was just upset, you… don’t worry about it anymore, alright?"

"You were,” Naim insisted. His voice was firm, but he didn’t pull away from Ryan’s touch. “I was careless. Maybe not about leaving, but my phone, it…” He cut himself off, a haunted look in his eyes. “It went dead in the middle of the call. How did you even figure out where I was?"

"The lady who lives a couple doors down," Ryan answered. "She was out walking her dog and told me she saw the police outside the park. Honestly a miracle I got her to talk after I scared her half to death punching my ute like an idiot."

Naim’s brow creased into a deep frown. "You punched your ute?" His gaze dropped to Ryan's other hand, sucking in a sharp breath when he spotted the damage.

"Ryan, what the fuck?"

"'S fine. Not broken, I can move it." Ryan said, but he let Naim take his right hand in both of his to inspect the bruised and bloodied knuckles. His touch was so gentle, skin terribly soft in comparison to Ryan’s work-calloused hands. 

Naim sighed, keeping the aching hand in his grip as he swayed forward to rest his cheek on Ryan's shoulder. "It's not fair," he said. "That we have to put up with shit."

Ryan hummed."I know." He placed his palm over the back of Naim's neck, fingers slipping under the collar of his shirt. "But, you know. You're worth it, to me."

Naim groaned, his laugh tickling Ryan’s neck. “That was fucking gross.”

Ryan grinned. “Rude, what the fuck? Am I not allowed to say sweet things?”

“No,” Naim said, lifting his head. His nosed at the edge of Ryan’s jaw with a neediness that made his breath catch. Naim made it all torturously slow, as Naim loved to do, but when their mouths finally met, he sighed into Ryan’s mouth in a way that made his knees go weak. 

They kissed slowly, Ryan’s hand threading into Naim’s hair and tugging lightly to tilt his head back. Naim let him pull, releasing Ryan’s injured hand to skate his palms up his back. Even through his shirt, Naim’s touch made him shiver. Especially when his hands twisted in the fabric as he softly whimpered into Ryan’s mouth. 

Ryan’s hand worked up between them, finger hooking around Naim’s belt buckle. He tugged, trying to loosen the leather. 

"Nope," Naim grabbed his hand to stop him, pulling away. He patted at Ryan's filthy hi-vis jumper. "Not till you shower. You fucking stink."

"You kissed me,” Ryan said, even though really, they had kissed each other. Naim shoved him backwards, sending him stumbling into the sink. Ryan shook his head in mock dismay. "I work all day and speed halfway across the city to rescue you, and I don't even get a reward?"

"You didn't rescue shit," Naim said, but his voice was light. "And I never said you wouldn't."

Ryan grinned, leaning in. "Yeah?"

Naim let him inch closer until their mouths brushed, but swayed away at the last second so Ryan couldn’t quite close the gap. "Yeah," he whispered, hot breath ghosting his lips. "But not until you shower."

"Fine." Ryan pulled back, stripping off his orange jumper and the shirt underneath in one harsh tug. It landed on the floor with an airy thwump, and he kicked it off to the side as he snatched the zipper of Naim's jacket. "Wanna join?"

Naim bit back his smile, hand closing over Ryan's hold. They unzipped his jacket together, stumbling their way into the tiny shower and filling the bathroom with the screeching whine of their busted pipes. 

I love you, Ryan thought but didn’t say, kissing the thought into Naim’s open mouth and hoping he knew how much. You’re worth it to me. 

I hope I’m worth it to you.