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Naim isn't used to seeing this expression on Ryan's face. He's seen the anger before, of course, something playful and teasing and largely without real bite. He's seen fear before, too. The wide, pearly whites of his eyes had danced with it as he thrashed on the floor of the church, and it had been pain and fear and anger mixed together at the skating rink. But this? The hate and betrayal? Naim had never seen it. Had never seen those endless sky-blue irises roil with real anger, real hate that Naim can feel under his skin like it's boiling his blood, or maybe ripping out his heart from the inside. Then Macca shows up, and Naim can't really think about whether or not Ryan hates him.
Ryan is pushed to the ground and fuck, Macca is trying to hit him in the fucking head with a piece of wood and that's gonna split his ear back open and hurt him and Naim can't let that happen. He's hurt Ryan enough, tonight. He lunges at Macca, ignoring the way disgruntled noises rise up from behind him and hands claw at his jacket. He might not be as strong as Ryan, or Macca, but he knows how to throw a punch. He gets one good one in — a solid hit to Macca's nose that sends a loud crack into the air and rends a sound of pain from his throat — before there are hands surrounding him, pulling at his jacket and hair and arms, pulling him back, shoving him towards the ground.
He sees Ryan try to get up, watches as he pushes himself up on one shaking arm, and then watches as Macca (cradling his nose and dripping blood all over his face and shirt) kicks the arm out from under him and then delivers a wicked shot to his chest that makes Ryan yelp in pain and curl into himself. He tries to get up, tries to pull against the group of boys hauling him around, but they shove him to the ground before he can get very far. Someone hands Macca a piece of wood (Naim isn't sure where the other one went, but this one looks sturdier and solid, and oh fuck, this is going to hurt) and he converges on Naim with the rest of the group.
Naim tries to scramble back and escape, but runs into the hard wire of a cage. The clattering of it smashing into the wire cages behind it is almost deafening over the rushing of blood in his ears. He can see Ryan's body, still and unmoving between the legs of the boys surrounding him. His chest is rising and falling, and Naim thinks he can maybe see his eyelashes fluttering. He's alive, and he's going to wake up, and he can get away. Pointedly, Naim doesn't think about how he's not getting away.
The first hit takes his breath away, a solid fist to his chest that knocks the breath out of him. He curls in on himself on instinct, and another fist connects with the side of his face, snapping his head to the right. He feels as his teeth clamp down on his tongue, cutting into the flesh and sending metallic blood spurting into his mouth. He groans, stars bursting across his vision. The outline of a figure, probably Macca, if the wooden bat is any indication, comes to stand in front of him. Naim thinks he sees a mouth moving, knows he should be hearing words (but almost is glad he's not, glad that he doesn't have to hear the awful, undoubtedly hateful shit spewing from Macca's mouth), but can't discern anything over the ringing in his head and the blood rushing in his ears.
The bat to his chest takes him by surprise. He yells, swears he hears a crack, and curls in on himself. There's a sudden, stabbing pain in his chest and he groans, feeling almost frozen. The left side of his chest twinges with discomfort when he breathes, and it only takes a moment for his chest to feel tight, like his skin is shrinking taut to his body, ready to split with the smallest movement. He swears the pounding in his head speeds up, a rapid pulse of blood in his ears, muffling any outside noise. Naim forces his head up, tries to inhale and exhale. It happens almost in slow-motion. The figure still standing above him raises the bat, and swings again, and-
And there's a sharp, blooming pain, and Naim sees stars as he blinks back into consciousness. The right side of his head burns, and an agonized scream of pain rips its way from his throat. The area near his temple is warm, too warm, disgustingly warm as the feeling snakes down his head and onto his jaw. One shaking hand reaches up to the side of his head, tentatively feeling out the damage. He can hear laugher and sharp, cruel sounding words being exchanged above his head but the only thing he can focus on is the blood pouring like waterfall from the ruptured flesh at his temple, dripping down in a sticky-hot wave. The scent of iron is heavy and cloying in the air. It engulfs his senses, sharp and metallic on his tongue, tacky and hot on his cheek and ear.
He can't see anything, when he looks up. Just shadows, silhouettes, things shaped vaguely like humans. He blinks, swaying slightly. His hand drops down from his head, like it's too heavy for his body to hold up anymore. He can still feel the blood dripping from his head, is inwardly sure that he'd be able to feel his skull if he tried hard enough. He pitches forward, out of his control. A foot on his chest stops him, shoves him back painfully against the cages behind him. He whimpers a little at the shock of pain, not even sure he can make any louder sound. He can't move his arms, dizzy and disoriented as the world swims around him. He registers movement, and flinches a little, but no one moves closer to him.
He's breathless now, with spots dotting his vision. His head lolls back against the stacked cages behind him, one arm useless by his side and the other limp in his lap. His head is fuzzy, the lights of the streetlamps across from him buzzing in and out of focus, the silhouettes of Macca and his little squad of goons blurry and cutting off his vision. His eyes drop down to the pavement, where Ryan is. Or, where Ryan was. Because he's not there anymore, rather on the right side of the car, hand on the door. There's anguish on his face, and he's looking at Naim with so much remorse his heart hurts. He wants Ryan to go.
He wants Ryan to go, and he wants him to stay, wants to feel Ryan's hands on his body as he dies, wants to be held in his arms, wants to experience his touch one last time. Blood pulses sluggishly from his temple. It's made its way back to his neck, now, hot and wet. He wants Ryan to go. He needs Ryan to go, needs to let Naim's death actually mean something. If he dies now, if he dies letting Ryan get away, then it's penance. It's what he deserves. Really, it's all his fault anyways, isn't it? He deserves this, probably, definitely, after what he did to Ryan. After what he did to Hunter. He's just paying his dues. His chest hurts.
He tries to move, to gesture with his head, to do anything to tell Ryan to go. To tell him to drive off and not look back, to get the fuck out of this God-forsaken town and forget Naim ever existed. He makes his mouth move. Go. No sound comes out. Go. It's a creaking groan. Go. Nothing more than a whimper. The boys around him elbow each other and laugh. He thinks Izzie might look horrified, but he doesn't care, can't even think about wasting any focus on her face.
"Go!" It's louder, still quiet. Ryan's crying now, tears spilling down his cheeks as he shakes his head subtly. He can feel Izzie looking at him, really looking at him, following his gaze to Ryan. More black spots swim across his vision. His chest is tight, he's breathless, and Izzie just looks back at Macca and curls herself closer to him. Naim tries to say I love you, but his voice is gone. He thought he had time, thought he had so much time to say it. Selfishly, he'd hoped for it. Had wanted to make something big out of it, have it be a moment. He thinks Ryan has already said it, out behind a church as they both listened to the rain.
He'd wanted to take Ryan to the beach. It's silly, maybe, but he'd wanted to do it anyways. He likes the beach, likes the sand and the water and the often-unforgiving sun on his skin. His mum hadn't, but his dad had. He used to take Naim out when Arlene couldn't, or wouldn't, out to a small little beach where the beach was rocky and the waves were unpredictable and the seagulls were loud and unashamed. Then his dad died, and he hadn't gone back. Naim had wanted to tell Ryan he loved him with a backdrop of waves and sand and sun, to share a piece of himself with Ryan.
His eyelids fall closed, like they're too heavy for his body to hold up anymore. He can see it in his head, so vividly it feels like he's there. He can taste the salt in the air (his tears, coursing down his cheeks), smell the ocean in the air (his sweat, his fear, the heavy stink of hatred), feel the sun on his face (his blood, coppery and thick, tacky as it dries on his skin).
He can see Ryan's eyes, as blue as the sea they stand next to (wide and wet and filled with tears, pleading Naim not to make him leave), can see the strong lines of his face (marred with purpling bruises, scrapes and cuts and dirt), can see his hands (trembling as they reach for the car door).
He opens his eyes when he hears the roar of the engine starting, memorizes Ryan's determined face with spotty vision. He's beautiful like this, Naim thinks. Hurt and broken and despairing, but still strong enough to do what he should. Naim watches the car drive off, listens the disgruntled shouts and scrambling of the boys around him. He thinks about how he never told Ryan he loved him. He thinks Ryan probably knows.
He feels the squeezing grip on his chest, the dull pain radiating from his temple. He sees the car, he thinks of Ryan, and hopes he makes it.