Chapter Text
Ryan ran. Sprinting through desolate streets, amber light flickering from intersection corners. His chest ached from lack of breath, but he couldn’t stop to catch it. One second too long and it would be the last he took. He was sure of it. So he ran. Passed his house, past the football pitch, past the church. He’d have to stop eventually, his vision threatening to go, darkness creeping in from the corners. The fire poker in his hand couldn’t have been more than a kilo, but it felt like 10 in his leaden grip. Copper hit the back of his tongue, coming up from his esophagus.
He tore through high dead grass, scrambling up clanging metal and through the busted window of the mill. Swinging his foot for a familiar pipe to climb down from, the blood filling his mouth became undeniable, Ryan gagged as his throat convulsed around it. He was choking on it, hands gripped tight around the brick ledge of the windowsill, worn edges of long broken glass threatening to slice off his pinky if he moved wrong. The toe of his boot struck the pipe and he put his weight on it. It was sturdy, so he kicked his let leg down, removing a hand from the sill to pick up the poker again. Just a little further down, so it wouldn’t hurt. Normally he’d take more time getting down, but he was in a bit of a hurry at the moment. He inched his remaining hand closer to the edge of the bricks, holding himself by his fingertips—swung his body a little bit downward, a little closer—lessening the drop to the shelving unit where he’d land and climb down to the floor. It should’ve been a little ways beneath him now, landable without too much complication. He let go.
Ryan’d made this climb a hundred times growing up. On his own first, and then with his sister, and of course with Naim. He knew every spot his fingers needed to latch, knew how high he could jump down from before his knees ached, knew where he was going to land when he let go of the sill and let himself fall. Granted, he’d never done the climb while fleeing for his life. Reaching a hand down to ease the fall, he’d expected to feel cold metal under his fingertips, but he hadn’t had time to readjust the angle of his body. His ankle hit the steel frame instead, sending him flying from the air and onto the hard concrete floor, kicking up dirt as he slid against the ground.
The blood he’d been keeping in his mouth now covered his face, the collar of his shirt, a scattered trail from the shelf to where he laid now, maybe six metres away, head resting on some kind of tarp. Fuck, his head hurt. And his ribs, and his fucking ankle. Shit. There was something leaking onto his forehead. When he saw nothing above him he reached up and his fingers came back caked in something dark and sticky. If he’d had a torch he was sure it would be red. A thick gash over his brow.
“Ryan?” The voice called, somewhere from behind him, to his left maybe.
Ryan pushed himself up on the heels of his hands, scuffed up and red. His wrists ached and he wrung one in his fingers in a quick apology to his joints his eyes flitted frantically around the ground, searching patches of moonlight for the glint of metal, for the poker. It lay three metres away next to a toppled storage container. Ryan rushed to it, as fast as the gashes on his calves would allow. The metal handle was slick with something chemical-smelling. He didn’t feel great about holding it against the open wounds of his palm, but it would have to do.
“Ryan!” The Thing rounded the corner around the shelf Ryan had fallen into, stepped over the tarp sticky with Ryan’s blood. “Fuck, are you okay?”
It walked towards him, Naim’s eyes wide and teary. He looked roughed up, not in the way that Ryan had left the Thing. When Ryan had ran, the Thing in his bedroom was pierced to the carpet through the wrist with his hunting knife, wearing a Bandee school jacket and slacks. The boy, or semblance of a boy, that stood before him now had a scratch down his cheek, bruises at his neck and lip, dark hair in disarray. His oversized hoodie hung off one shoulder, zipper busted. He looked like a frightened deer on the freeway, or a cat with it’s ears pinned back and it’s tail puffed up. Like he could sprint off at any moment.
“Ryan?” Naim took a step back, looking around the warehouse “It’s me.” Naim’s eyes were glassy and wet, sending a bolt of pain to Ryan’s heart. He clenched his hand tighter around the poker, let the sear of whatever chemical reaction was happening in his palm ground him to the moment. It wasn’t Naim. What if? It would kill him. Naim wouldn’t do that. Why would Naim be here in the middle of the night alone? For the same reason you are. Bullshit. Bullshit.
The Thing swallowed loudly, brushing its hair flat with the palm of Naim’s hand, snake ring glinting blue light from the window shine. Then it opened its mouth again, to say something maybe. It’s teeth were dark and dirty, like he’d ripped something’s throat out with his mouth, chewed up and swallowed someone whole.
Before it could say a word Ryan tore forward with an ugly screech, shoving the head of the poker through the soft tissue of its stomach. The force of it had them both on the floor, the Thing trapped under Ryan’s weight as he pulled the poker out and drove it in again, impaling it. It gasped, cold and sharp, hands flying to grasp the poker where it stuck from its core, bubbling blood darkening the white stripes of Naim’s shirt. Ragged breaths wracked Naim’s body, convulsing. Dark eyes shocked and pleading bore into Ryan’s, tears spilling down his face.
All the conviction Ryan had fell from him and scattered across the concrete like glass struck with stone.
Naim’s mouth hadn’t shut, dark liquid spilled in little lines from the corners of his lips which trembled as he tried to speak. A sob pushed its way from Ryan’s lungs into the air, hands releasing the poker.
“Don’t pull it out,” He pleaded, scooping Naim’s body into his arms, “It’ll make it worse I think.” Was that true? He’d seen it on some medical drama his sister watched, didn’t he?
“Ryan” Naim’s voice was barely a whimper, he groaned raising a hand to Ryan’s cheek, blood smearing over the hollow of it.
“Don’t try to speak, okay? Just breathe. I’m gonna call for help, okay?” Naim nodded, squeezing his eyes tight. “No, baby, keep those open for me, keep looking at me,” Ryan reached for his pocket for his phone, which of course he’d left on his bed in the struggle an hour or so ago. “Fuck!”
Thick hot tears streaked through the grime and gore on Ryan’s face and neck. The hand not smoothing Naim’s hair hand fell to the wound on his stomach, trying to catch the blood before it escaped his body. He needed that, it couldn’t go anywhere, it needed to be inside Naim’s chest, pumping through his heart, going to his fingers and his toes and his stupid fucking brain.
Naim’s fingers closed around the poker over Ryan’s hands. He smiled softly, sadly, as he looked into Ryan’s eyes, “It’s okay. You will be forgiven, Ryan.” And he yanked.
“No, Naim, I said don’t. Leave that where it is, you’ll bleed out.” His fingers in Naim’s hair shook so hard he feared he would tear it from his scalp.
Naim’s pretty face grimaced and coughed as he pulled, sharp metal dripping with indiscernible viscera as he tore it from his stomach, his shirt clinging to the prongs. Ryan’s scream was guttural and hoarse, like it was clawing up his throat for air.
The poker was out, clenched in Naim’s fist laying rigid at his side. There wasn’t a rush of blood that Ryan had expected, when he clutched his hand over the open wound, trying desperately to pull the tattered shirt together over it. The thin pale skin of Naim’s right hand ghosted passed Ryan’s vision before resting over the veins on the back of his hand, sliding over the black metal ring on his middle finger. Gently, he pried Ryan’s fingers off of his shirt, one by one, and sat up.
The dark eyes that bore into Ryan’s were cold and dead for a moment, before they creased up with a thin smile. Ryan had only just started to come back to his senses, realising how foolish he’d let himself be, when the Thing lunged at him, gripping his neck and slamming his head into the concrete one, two, three times. Disoriented, he swung his limbs wildly, resisting the instinct to grab the hands at his throat. The Thing was ten-fold stronger than him anyway. Instead, he grabbed around his body looking for something to attack with, to knock it off of him. His knee clattered against something thick and metal, sending it skirting up the smooth ground a few centimetres from his fingers, arm outstretched, a wrench. He grabbed it and swung, clocking the side of Naim’s head, at the temple. It only twitched, hands tightening, as if it didn’t notice the dent Ryan had left in its skull. He was losing air, like he had when he was running. Why had he stopped fucking running? Vision clouding with debris and tears and darkening familiarly, mind slowing down, Ryan’s body moved without his say-so.
He breathed deeply, a full breath of air hitting his lungs. Loud. Naim was screaming in his lap. He jerked backward, trying to make space, and found his hand slipping out from the hole in Naim’s stomach. Ryan’s fingers clenched tightly around red viscera, dark blue in the night. His eyes bulged at it, pulling as he scrambled backwards, unable to release his grip. He hadn’t had the drive to pay much attention during dissections in class this month. Was that the colon or the small intestine? Was this what Naim’s organs looked like? Was this tangled mess of soft wet wires truly the creation of God? Or of Asmodeus? Or of a healer?
There was a droning repetitive sound in the distance that barely registered as Ryan watched the dripping from his fist. Then his hand was empty, still warm from blood. It was sirens, he realised. So loud now that they must be coming from just outside the building. His hand stung from the fucking chemicals. Yes. Sirens. Outside. The blue and red lights filtered through shattered glass. Someone was here. His fucking hand oh God, fuck. What would they find? Some blood? None of the Thing’s remained, having disappeared with it. Was it a chemical burn? Had he bled? Yes, on the tarp, on the poker. He shot up, grabbed the plasticy fabric and the poker from its place a metre away. A car door slammed shut. Ryan ran.
He got to his house in record speed, took the fastest shower he’d ever had, and emptied the contents of his drawers and stash from under the bed into his mother’s gym duffle. His knife was still stuck to the floor where he’d pinned the Thing to the ground, he took it too along with his phone from the bed and two different chargers. He dug through his parents closet quietly as he could, trying to keep from waking them and found the cash. He thought about calling Naim, but the thought of his voice made him feel sick.
There was some good food in the pantry, shelf stable shit, and energy drinks with zero sugar in the fridge. His book bag from school was on the counter, it had some notebooks and a pencil case as well as his wallet. Inside that was his learners permit and the strip of paper he’d written his TFN on when he’d had his summer job last year. It would be nice if he had a passport, but he’d barely even left Bandee, so no luck there.
He walked to his sister’s door, the room they’d shared before Ryan took over the attic, held his hand up to knock and found that he couldn’t. She would tell his parents. She would try and talk him out of it. She wouldn’t understand. She never had. He loved her anyway.
Ryan locked the front door behind him and left his keys in the mailbox. There was a bus stop on the other side of town which could take him a few more towns away, maybe he could get far enough out by the morning.
. . .
“Okay, Ryan. Start her up.”
The car sputtered and groaned when Ryan turned the key, pressing on the brakes. In the rear view, he saw a plume of putrid blue smoke come up from the exhaust.
“Off!”
Jack rounded came around to the driver’s side, wiping his hands on a rag as he leaned over the window.
“Diagnosis?”
Ryan wracked his brain for a second, “There’s an engine issue. Oil’s burning up too fast.”
Jack nodded slowly, grey streaked blond hair slick with sweat, “Okay, what should we check?”
“Valve seals?”
“What else?”
Ryan drummed his fingers over the steering wheel, “I guess the piston rings?”
“Why?” God, everything was a fucking exam.
“If they’re worn out the combustion gases creep in the crankcase and oil gets around ‘em?”
“Is that a question?”
“No.”
“Good.” Jack smiled, slapping the fabric interior through the open window and opening the door from the inside, “Let’s take a look.”
Both the valve seals and the piston rings needed replacing. Though blue exhaust wasn’t the most of the project’s concerns. They’d been working on it after hours for a few weeks now, and whenever there was a gap in the work day. It didn’t belong to a client, as far as Ryan could tell anyway; more of a passion project. Maybe it was Jack’s way of fighting off a mid-life crisis or something. Because it wasn’t a cool car either, it was a beat up 2007 Subaru Outback. Whatever, Ryan got paid time and a half for sticking around as an extra pair of hands, so he was more than willing to help out with it. And he had to admit that she was growing on him, a charming clunky bucket of problems they had taken to calling Blinky, because no matter how many times they changed the bulbs her headlights would flicker. Eventually they’ll get to the wiring and stop that, but it was part of her charm, and Ryan would be a little sad to see it go.
“What are you gonna do with her when she’s done?”
Jack pulled the ring, blackened and cracked, from the hefted engine and set it on the cart, “I was planning on giving her to Hannah for her to learn in.” He grunted as he fiddled with the plastic package of the new rings, trying to pry it open with slick fingers, Ryan grabbed the scissors, “But she hates her.” Jack gave him a nod in thanks and took the new rings out, “Thinks she’s too good for Blinks. Spoiled brat.”
Ryan tried to think of a way to ask for Blinky for himself without sounding like a mooch and came up empty. If he was good enough hands maybe Jack would sell her to him without him having to beg. He gave her an affectionate pat on the scraped blue paint of her popped bonnet, the dent where Jack had pried a fallen branch from, “Nobody’s too good for her, she’s too good for them.”
“Nah, she’s a piece of shit.”
He grinned and knelt down to look around the engine. She really was a piece of shit. She wasn’t a sexy car by any means. But she had good bones for an SUV, surprisingly good mileage, and great space for a 2000s hatchback. He could imagine flattening the seats and laying in the back with Naim, drinking shit beer and sharing a joint before sleeping tangled together off the freeway. Driving just the two of them and Blinky, a bag of snacks in the backseat that Naim has to keep fetching from at Ryan’s request, plugging in their phones to an old school aux, hearing the music through the tinny speaker system and singing along off key. They could go wherever they wanted whenever it pleased them, not confined to bus schedules or motel rates. It could be freedom. Ryan wanted it bad.
About a third of each of his paychecks had been going straight into an inner pocket of their duffle. They’d decided it would be smart to be saving as much as they could here, the goal wasn’t to stay after all. Now that Naim had an income too, they more than covered their room, food, and bus fares. Over the month or so they’d been working they’d racked up a good sum. Gas for a two or three months at least, depending on how far they were going, and what car they’d be driving in. Assuming the car was free. Assuming they could get a car at all. Whatever, logistics spoiled all the fun.
. . .
When he was 12, Ryan got suspended from school. It was for something stupid, he couldn’t remember what. Maybe he’d been caught cheating on an exam, maybe he’d pulled a girl’s hair. His father had taken him for a long drive with nothing but a flask of water and a hunting knife strapped to his belt and a pocket bible. That week, he’d learned that when faced with a threat, people respond with either fight or flight. His father thought he’d be flight. He was wrong.
Ryan has been fighting almost his entire life. There were a few good years, at the beginning. Before he’d understood that he was built wrong, before his father’s ire turned from his mother and onto him. There’s something instinctual inside him that makes him do things first, face them head on before they have a chance to hurt him. It’s why he poked fun at the weird girl in grade school. It’s why when his dad hit him he hit him back. If his dad knocked him out cold, he could hurt his mother, his sister. So he fought hard until he won, until his dad had gained more bruises than he’d caused, until he never tried to hit him again. Ryan had never run when something frightened him, only when he’d frightened himself.
Naim scared him to death. Not in the way that his parents and the church and his sister and god might have hoped. In some ways Naim made him feel safer than he’d ever been. It was everything else. The situation they were in—he was terrified of that. Just the two of them, alone, answering to themselves. Responsibility loomed over his head. He had to keep them both alive. He had to keep them fed, and warm, and happy. It wasn’t that he thought Naim was incompetent. He wasn’t. Naim could survive on his own. Ryan tried to believe it. really really tried. What really scared him when it came to Naim though was the prospect of losing him. Of not getting there quick enough if he needed him. Naim could survive on his own, probably. But Ryan couldn’t. Definitely.
He took stock of everything Naim did, tried to burn it all into the backs of his eyes like a busted TV screen. If something happened, if he failed him, he needed to be able to close his eyes and see everything good. Needed to be able to recall the way Naim ate hot chips with a fork and chose out Hello Kitty bandaids at the store. If he tried hard enough he could memorise every page in Naim’s sketchbook and the lines on his palms. He could fix everything if he couldn’t stop it from happening, put on burn cream and wrap wounds and change dressings, let Naim fall asleep listening to his heartbeat, reaffirmed that he was there, that he was listening, that he cared. Made sure the socks were folded twice so you could see the right side, because that was something he cared about for some reason. For a some reason that he wasn’t willing to dissect, he liked giving Naim stuff. His ring that he’d got for his birthday, coiled around Naim’s middle finger. Chips he’d steal from the supermarket, whatever Naim liked most that week. A sketchbook, pens, a kneaded eraser—whatever the fuck that was. And orgasms. Fuck, he loved giving Naim orgasms.
Those kinds of things were why he was sitting on grass in the park, watching Naim use a sharpie to sketch designs on two metal lighters he’d taken from a drawer at work. They probably belonged to Jack, but Ryan didn’t think he’d mind. And even if he did, Ryan would pay him back. Either way it was worth it for the chance to watch Naim work, his furrowed brow, the hunch in his shoulders. It couldn’t be good for his spine, but it was cute. He was so focused. Ryan flicked his wrist, ashing his cigarette on the pavement behind him. Like he always did, he turned his head to blow the smoke away from Naim’s direction. He always said he didn’t mind it, but who really liked getting hit in the face with the stuff? Nobody, that’s who.
“You decide what you’re gonna do on them?”
Naim shrugged, “I dunno really. I’ve been trying out cybersigilism at the parlour a bit. It looks cool. Maybe a bit impersonal though.” When Ryan hummed thoughtfully Naim added, “Any requests?”
“Nah.” He shook his head lightly, taking another drag, “Whatever you think’s best.”
Dark eyes rolled dramatically, “So fucking helpful thank you. My muse.”
The engraver that Naim’s boss gave him had to be plugged in, so he couldn’t do all of it outside like this, just the sketching. It was nice though, to sit with him in a public park, in the sun.
“Should we get some scissors? Or like, clippers, or something?”
“Why?”
“Our hair, mate. We look fucking homeless.”
That made Naim laugh, “Maybe you do. I look fine.”
If Naim hadn’t been actively using the sharpie, Ryan would have shoved him.
“What are you gonna put on mine? What’s something that represents me?”
He was fishing for a compliment, sue him. Ryan always wanted to hear pretty words from Naim’s lips. He loved to hear them, the proof that Naim wanted Ryan almost as badly as Ryan needed him. Something deep in his chest rolled over and sat and laid down like a dog gunning for a treat; and it always had.
Naim hummed sarcastically, “Maybe like,” he took a second to think, “A wolf in a party hat.”
“Excuse me?” No treat then.
“You know, like, you’re all tough and scary but you’re not really. You’re fucking silly.” Definitely no treat.
“I’m silly?” Ryan did shove him this time, pushing him down onto the grass with a laugh, “I’m not fucking silly. I’m so serious, mate.” It couldn’t have been something cool? Like chain link or, he didn’t know, like, a gun?
“Oh yeah,” Naim feigned seriousness, eyes shining as he nodded, “As serious as a big clumsy puppy. So scary.”
Ryan brushed some fluffed dark hair from Naim’s forehead, gently placed a kiss at the tip of his ear, and then bit. Not hard or anything, but enough to make the boy beneath him squeal and push at his bare shoulders.
“Down, boy!”
“I swear to god if you put a party wolf on my lighter, Reid.”
“Then what?”
“I—” he didn’t have anything good to say. He wasn’t going to do anything bad to Naim, wasn’t ever going to threaten it either.
“That’s what I thought.” Naim rested back on his elbows, squinting up in the face of the sunlight.
“I won’t touch your dick for a week.”
Naim’s jaw dropped, “You are such a dickhead, oh my God.”
Later that night, sitting against the wall while Naim engraved the other lighter at the desk, Ryan ran his thumb over the warm metal of his prize. Freshly made just for him by perfect hands. A snake coiled around the perimeter, jaw unlatched in a hiss, a decorative letter “N” in the middle, only a little off centre. His.
“Naim?”
The whirring of the little handheld machine stalled. His artist turned around from his spot at the desk, rubbing at his tired eyes with his off hand and fiddling with the tool in his right. A smile found itself on Ryan’s lips. Naim was in one of Ryan’s old long-sleeved shirts, blue, a little star over his heart. It was big on Ryan, way too big on Naim. His silly loose cotton shorts they’d bought in a pack of three from K-Mart a month ago. There was a little frown on his face, confusion or focus maybe, but he smiled a little when he locked eyes with Ryan. He was perfect. He wasn’t, not really. But right now, to Ryan, he was. Absolutely and completely perfect. Ryan wanted this forever. Even if Naim left tomorrow. Even if he died in his arms tonight. Ryan knew that Naim’s echo would be with him as long as his heart pumped blood through his veins, familiar, wanted, needed, perfect even as a hand around his throat.
“I love you.”
Naim blinked, stood up from his chair, “I need to call my mum.”
What?