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If he's being honest with himself, he really hadn't planned on ever going home to Bandee. That had always been the plan, anyway — get out of that shitty town and never come back, find greener pastures and forget what it's like to kneel on the wooden floor of a tiny church, clammy hands pressed together with another Hail Mary falling shakily from his lips. Forget what it's like to be the focus of his peer's ire, to constantly feel expectant eyes on his back, to feel the burning hatred of his pastor for not only him but every person like him.
And he's successful in that regard, at least for awhile. When he leaves town, he packs up what he needs; clothes, toiletries, money, a sketchbook and pencils. The first couple months are the worst but he manages. Funnily enough, it turns out the cousin his mother had always dissuaded him from speaking to is gay like him, and is willing to take him in.
So for the next couple years, he puts his nose to the grind stone and tries to stay busy, working any shitty dead-end job that will take him and drawing in his free time, trying to be as normal as he physically can be.
He doesn't tell anyone where he's from or what happened to him there, nor does he let himself linger on the thought for more than a couple minutes. He makes friends. He gets by.
It makes him feel awful, of course, but he can't help it. He continues writing letters to send home to his mother. Letting her know he's okay, to please not worry, that he doesn't hate her. For every three letters he sends her, she sends a single one back — it seems like all she ever wants to talk about is church, though she sometimes takes a break to mention how much he's ruined her life, which (for his sanity he has to assume) is her way of saying she misses him.
It's tense and uncomfortable, but he keeps every letter he gets from her in a shoebox in his closet. He rereads them sometimes when he's angry at himself and misses home so much he cries, feeling the familiar gnawing, aching loneliness that chases him, reaching him any time he isn't actively running away from it.
He manages. And he doesn't think about Ryan.
At least not for too long. At least not when he's distracted. Not when he's surrounded by people, which he always tries to be, even when it's exhausting. He takes art classes, he works his shitty jobs, he takes the bus everywhere, he becomes a more social person than he ever wanted to be and he hates it.
He goes to work, he goes to class, he comes home. He goes to work, he goes to class, he comes home. When he one day checks his mail and finds the invitation to his mother's funeral, he's shocked so far out of his own consciousness that he can feel a deep, subconscious part of him that's pleased at the deviation from the normal monotonous schedule that's taken over his life.
The days between then and the date of the funeral are a blur. So many questions asked of him that he doesn't even remember what he's answering anymore, the responses come out automatic and not of his control. So many "how are you holding up?"s that he almost says "doin' alright" to the barista that asks for his name to put on his coffee cup. Because he is doing alright. He's managing like he always does.
The moment before he steps onto the long bus ride home is uniquely awful. With how far he's felt from his own thoughts and emotions, he expects it to be no different— but he's not so lucky. He stands there, shoes glued to the pavement and thinks about home so much it makes his head hurt.
He thought maybe one day his mother would twist his arm into coming home, even when he desperately didn't want to. In a way he was right.
It's a small mercy, but his cousin gets him a motel room so he doesn't have to stay at home. Naim doesn't know what he'd do if he had to be back in that house. Is it better or worse that Mom wouldn't be there?
He never knows what to do at a funeral. Especially not one where you're, in a way, the focus of the whole thing. The son who abandoned his home, the boy who threw the town into chaos and then ran away from it. Naim knows everyone here hates him — can see it in the way they stare at him as he walks into the church, the whispers and glances that go between them as he passes by. If anything, it's comfortably familiar.
He keeps his speech brief. Nobody wants to hear him, and Mom isn't listening anyway, and if she is then he'll talk to her later and apologize. By her logic his karmic debt is in the red regardless. Should be fine.
It's been a couple months since he smoked last, but he caves. The garden outside has gotten a lot nicer than it was when he was last there, so he goes out and ruins the ambiance by lighting a cigarette and making the whole place smell like hell. It eases his nerves, somewhat, and he feels himself settle back into his own body a bit. It's calming, meditative, the cycle of the smoke past his lips, in his lungs, out again. He's halfway through his second cig, sat out on the yellowing grass of a shielded-from-view hill when he's interrupted.
"Fuck," A familiar voice cautiously breaks through the silence, "Naim?"
Naim jumps so bad the cigarette flies out from between his fingers, hissing as it hits the dirt. He whips around, and—
He's taller now, is the first thought Naim has. The second is that he's filled out more now too, with broader shoulders and fuller arms, a little less lanky than he used to be. His third thought is that the scar on the right side of his nose must be new.
It is, of course, Ryan.
He keeps a good distance, one hand raised— whether it's intended to be a wave or a defensive gesture, Naim's not sure— and the other one stuffed in the pocket of his slacks. His eyes are wide, hiding behind the perfect messy golden curls that spill from his head, reaching a bit past his shoulders now. Is it wishful thinking, or are the corners of his mouth turned up in a cautious smile?
Naim glances towards the church, seeing a couple of the attendees mulling about outside, a couple still casting their gazes in his direction, nosy as ever.
Naim's mouth gapes open, at a loss for words. He stands, brushing at his pants with shaking hands, staring down at his hand-me-down dress shoes. "Sorry, I— I didn't think you'd be here. Not that I—Not that I didn't want you to be— or, that I didn't- that you aren't— um, I…"
Mercifully, Ryan interrupts him, pouncing and enveloping him in a hug, pinning his arms to his sides and squeezing him tight. Naim's whole body tenses for a couple moments before he relents, hands raising slowly to wrap around Ryan in turn, fingers gripping into the back of his suit jacket. He hates that he notices it, but Ryan still smells the same, like cedar wood and something burning.
Ryan steps back, hands on Naim's shoulders as he looks over him, and Naim can feel himself flushing.
"Probably shouldn't be here," Ryan laughs, glancing towards the church, "I know it's kind of… I just wanted to bring some flowers."
"Oh."
"… 'M really sorry to hear about your mom."
"Yeah, it's— I mean, y'know." Naim shrugs uncomfortably.
"Yeah, I know."
"You don't."
He cringes at himself for snapping, expecting Ryan to withdraw but he smiles instead, a soft look of concern on his features. "Yeah. Guess I don't."
"Sorry. Kind of been a long week." Naim messes with the buttons on the cuff of his sleeves and can see Ryan staring at it. He suddenly feels self conscious about a habit he's had for years.
"I fuckin' bet." Ryan steps closer, pressing the toe of his shoe to Naim's still-lit cigarette left on the ground, stubbing it out. Naim can see him biting at his lower lip and it makes him feel a bit better about still having his years-old habits. At least he's not the only one. "If you.. erh, I'm sure you're busy 'n all."
He can't help the smile that breaks out on his face. "Too busy to…?"
"Was going to go get coffee. If you want to— if you're not too busy."
The giddy feeling that bubbles up in his chest is so embarassing he has to bite his tongue not to laugh.
"Nah. I'm not too busy."
The walk is a bit long, and he feels kind of weird passing all these buildings he hasn't seen in years, noting new murals or bits of construction with mild surprise as if he'd expected everything to be exactly the same. It's kind of eerie, maybe a bit humbling. He catches his and Ryan's reflection in the dark window of a shop as they pass by and is so stunned by it he stands still for a moment to look at them in their funeral attire, familiar and alien at the same time.
The coffee shop is one he's never been to before, one Ryan explains had popped up about two years ago. It's small, kind of hole-in-the-wall in a charming way, and the barista greets Ryan by name and offers him 'his usual'. They strike up a conversation so quickly that Naim feels a little out of place.
It's good, really, that Ryan seems to be doing better here. He does seem happy. And that's a good thing. But it's weird, too. Maybe because Naim had always figured he'd make Ryan happy eventually. If he kept trying.
"Flat white?" Ryan's suddenly leaning into his space, trying to catch his eyes.
Naim blinks. "What?"
"Flat white," He repeats, "S'at still how you like yours?"
"Yes. Yeah. That sounds good. With the two—"
"Flat white with two splenda for him." Ryan says to the barista, who snickers as she walks away.
Naim rolls his eyes.
Ryan smiles lopsidedly at him. "What?"
"Nothing."
They find a small table at the corner, Naim picking the chair that has its back to a wall so he can see the entrance, pleased at the opportunity to people-watch. Ryan's quiet, sitting across from him and picking at his nails, presumably just as unsure how to handle this conversation as Naim is.
On the walk over, he'd asked how've you been?, which was a good a place to start as any, and Naim had bored him out of his mind with stories about his life, his art, the classes he'd been taking, that sort of thing. And Ryan had smiled the entire time, nodding along and laughing at every sardonic self-jab he'd made, even when they weren't very funny.
Now, he figures "What about you?" is probably the right thing to say, followed up by "What have you been up to?"
"Oh. Um," Ryan shifts, rubbing at his arm. "Nothing much. Working, mostly. My dad got me a mechanic job, so I've been doin' that. Pay's pretty good even if the people are dumb as rocks."
"Mechanic," Naim echoes, the image of Ryan in a tank top, leaned over the open hood of a car, skin covered in grime and dirt appears unbidden in his mind, and he has to return his gaze to the window to try and get it to go away. "Seems good. For you, I mean."
"I like it, actually. Didn't think I would." Ryan settles back in his chair, and Naim can feel their shoes bump together briefly under the table. "Other than that, been studying music. Kind of a hobby of mine."
"Yeah. Drumming?"
Ryan's ears are red, the way they always get when he's the topic of discussion. "Yeah. I'm getting pretty good at it. Mostly practice in my spare time, not that I'm— uh, gonna have a lot of that anymore."
"Why'sat? Getting promoted or something?"
"Um."
The barista chooses that moment to put their drinks on the table, the flat white in front of him, and a strawberry milkshake in front of Ryan. Naim takes a sip of his, pleasantly surprised at how good it tastes, while he lets Ryan deliberate on his words, getting a little more nervous for each second that passes.
"So, uhh," Ryan pokes at the red-and-white striped straw in his drink, refusing to meet Naim's eyes, "Last summer, I, ah.."
His words fizzle out into nothing and instead of trying to fight his way through them, he lifts his left hand, pointing at the silver band on his ring finger, ornate and much nicer than the chunkier bands he has resting on his other ones. Naim feels like his brain is lagging behind as he stares at it, cogs moving slowly in his head until it hits him like a train.
"You got married." Naim says.
"Yeah." Ryan nods, looking down at his lap as if he'd done something wrong.
"Fuck," His throat feels suddenly dry, "Wow. You- congratulations. Oh my god."
"Yeah."
"Jesus. Who's the lucky… um."
"Grace," Ryan rushes to supply, "Her name is Grace."
Naim isn't able to stop the cackle that bubbles out of his throat in time, and Ryan smacks at his hand.
"Fuck off, it's not funny."
"It's fucking hilarious. You're kidding me. Grace." He can't stop laughing, covering his mouth with his knuckles. "Such a good Christian boy, aren't you, Ryan?"
"Fuck off!" Ryan whisper-shouts, kicking at him under the table, his face red. "I know, alright?"
"Christ, why weren't you my mum's son instead? She'd've loved that."
"Eugh." He makes a face, leaning forward to sip at his milkshake. "She— it's not— my parents introduced us."
Naim thinks about that for a moment, looking at Ryan's wedding band where it sits on his hand, out of place. He speaks before he can stop himself, "So, you don't like her?"
"Naim."
"I'm—" Naim considers hitting himself. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I like her enough to marry her. And I—" Ryan sets his jaw. "I like her enough that— we're having a kid."
"Oh."
He feels his blood run cold, and he briefly wonders if the world has start spinning around him, or if it just feels that way. His hands begin to shake, so he hides them under the table, grabbing at the knees of his slacks.
"A girl," Ryan says, a fondness in his voice that makes Naim want to throw up.
"That's great."
"Yeah."
The silence between them stretches until it's awkward, and then stretches well past that. Naim stares down at his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he keeps seeing Ryan look at him, a tense frown on his face.
"I'm really happy for you." Naim starts, voice coming out rougher than he'd like. "That's— I mean, seems like you have it all figured out. That's good. I guess I'm just… wow."
"I know." Ryan sips at his milkshake from the top of the glass, tongue swiping at the foam mustache it gives him. It's so innocuous and cute that it makes Naim want to strangle him. "Work, wife, kid. What my parents wanted from me, right?"
The way he says it doesn't make it sound all that figured out, and Naim wants nothing more than to pry, and pry, and pry until he gets to the bottom of why Ryan keeps looking at him like that. But for once in his life he restrains himself.
"Right," He hums, taking a long sip of his coffee before he leaves it on the table, standing. The chair makes an unpleasant noise as it scrapes against the floor. "It was really nice to catch up with you. I think, um, we've got some arrangements and stuff to make, so I should really get back to our motel and…"
As he steps out from the table, Ryan rises to catch his wrist between his fingers, holding him in place.
"Can I walk you back?" He looks up at Naim, blue eyes pleading and apologetic. Puppy dog.
He's never been good at saying no to Ryan— much less when he's making that face.
"I hate you." Naim wriggles his wrist in Ryan's hold, trying to no avail to break away, as Ryan only holds him tighter. The fact that it makes him smile is the worst part. "Finish your drink. Hurry up."
"Yep," Ryan grins, knocking the last of his milkshake back and following him out the door, leaving a five on the counter for the barista.
The walk home is as awkward as he expects it to be. They chatter as they walk, and Naim is painfully aware of the fact they're both avoiding the extremely evident elephant in the room, talking about anything but the ring on Ryan's finger and what it means for him. They talk about college, about work, about family, he even catches Ryan making a non sequitur about the weather, if it wasn't bad enough already.
They're a couple blocks from the motel passing through a remote alley, pretty far out of the heart of town when Ryan side eyes him, looking him over. "Got any more ciggies on you?"
He relents, because he has no self control, and offers Ryan his last cigarette, fishing in his pocket for his lighter. It's the same one he's had for years, always on his person since that day his mother had left him at home alone and he'd been in his bathroom, scrabbling and terrified and desperate to survive. Ryan holds the cigarette between his lips and leans down, one hand shielding it from the wind. Naim in turn flicks at the spark wheel until the flame catches, lifting it to the end of the cig.
He watches Ryan inhale, the end beginning to simmer orange and yellow. Ryan meets his eyes and smiles, cigarette resting between his pointer and middle finger as he exhales, the smoke billowing towards Naim and stinging his eyes. Ryan holds it out so Naim can take it from him.
"I missed you, you know." Ryan says, voice low in a way that makes Naim's stomach turn.
"I thought you'd be mad at me." He takes a long drag from the cig. "You were mad at me."
"Yeah. I was."
"Are you still mad at me?"
Ryan thinks on the question for a long while, gingerly taking the cigarette back from Naim when it's offered. "No. Don't think so. I mean, this town, it… You know. It kills you one way or another." He lifts the filter to his lips, and in the dim, blueish lighting of the night, Naim thinks he looks kind of sad. "I don't reckon it's… your fault, so much."
He's never going to get another opportunity to ask, he doesn't think. "Do you still see it?"
Ryan stares at him, smoke licking from his lips.
It's not very often. And now, having moved away, the uncertainty of whether or not it's really him isn't much of a concern, but—
Sometimes, he still sees it. In the rare moments where he's alone, usually at night, far enough away to not be a threat so much as a constant reminder. The entity— Ryan, standing out of the corner of his eye, wearing the same clothes it always had but looking a bit older with every passing year.
In his time away, he'd been with other people. Kissed other guys. But despite his best efforts, it still appeared the same. The same blue eyes, toned arms, and golden hair. He couldn't escape it. He still can't now.
To some degree, Ryan's silence is answer enough that he knows exactly what Naim's talking about.
"Yeah." Ryan nods slowly, studying Naim's face. "I do. I still see it."
He doesn't know whether to be relieved or mortified, sighing. "Fuck. 'M sorry."
"Not your fault. It's that old fuckin' cunt's fault, isn't it?"
"Mh." Naim relents, eyes glued on the scar by Ryan's nose, and he feels the strange urge to reach out and touch it. That must've been it.
The question lodged in his throat is choking him. He wants to ask it so bad it's killing him— when you see it in the dark of the woods, in the night outside your window, when it was close enough to you to leave that mark on your face, what did you see? Were its hands delicate and dainty, or were they rough, nails bitten down, silver rings on its fingers and dark black sleeves reaching past its wrists? Was its hair brown, chopped short and hanging over its forehead, right above its dark, familiar eyes?
"Is—" Naim starts, and doesn't know where to stop. "Is it Grace?"
"No." Ryan answers quickly, holding the cigarette out.
Naim takes it and stares at it in his hand. He swallows.
"Who—"
"It didn't change." Ryan says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It hasn't changed."
He lifts the cigarette to his lips and inhales, lets it sit in his chest for a moment before he lets it out, eyes glued to Ryan, who's trying not to look at him.
"Mine hasn't either." Naim mutters, and then Ryan really looks at him.
The silence doesn't last long, because in the next moment Ryan's stepping forward, hands grabbing the lapels of Naim's suit jacket and pressing him against the brick wall at his back. The cigarette drops from Naim's fingers as he grabs at Ryan's wrists, trying to shove him off.
"Ry—" He begins to protest, but Ryans lips are pressing against his, insistent and intimate, and Naim can feel a familiar fire burning beneath his skin as Ryan's hands roam down his sides, lay at his waist to pull them closer together. Naim moans into the kiss involuntarily, knows he shouldn't, only has the wherewithal to tip his head away when Ryan's tongue swipes at his lips.
"Fuck, Ryan, we—" Half-heartedly, he shoves at Ryan's chest. "We can't, what about your—"
"Shut up." His voice is low.
It's a convincing argument.
He submits, whining as Ryan leans in to kiss him again, panting as his tongue slips into Naim's mouth, his hands hurriedly untucking Naim's button-up from his slacks so Ryan can slide his hands underneath, fingers running over the skin eagerly. Naim wraps his arms around his neck, pulling them closer together, his fingers curling into Ryan's hair and tugging, earning a groan that rumbles against his mouth.
God, it's familiar, like they're picking up right where they'd left off. Doing every little thing that drives the other crazy, knowing eachother's bodies like the backs of their own hands. Better maybe. It feels right in a way that Naim hasn't known since he was here last, learning everything he could about Ryan while they were sneaking around in the old mill, in empty bathrooms at school, and rarely even in their own rooms when the rest of their families were out. Ryan's hands on his body feel more like home than anything else today has.
He's so lost in the haze of it that he almost doesn't clock the moment when Ryan's hands sink lower, fussing with his belt.
"Ryan." Naim grabs at his wrists, pulling away from the kiss. "No. Not— we can't. Seriously."
"What?" Ryan frowns, concern evident on his face. "Not here? If I'm remembering right, you used to like doing this shit in publi—"
"That's not the— Ugh. You are fucking impossible."
"But you like me."
"Fuck you." Naim shoves his hands away and this time Ryan lets him. "It's— I just got home. I can't… this is too much. Okay? I'm—"
"Okay, okay. Sorry." Ryan steps back, giving him his space. "Sorry."
"You can't just— fucking— do this, show up and—" He presses his palms into his closed eyes, willing himself not to cry. He can feel it burning. "You can't do that."
"Sorry. I just…"
"I know. I'm— I need to go, Ryan." He crosses his arms, looking down at the cigarette stub still on the ground, and kicks at it. "I'm tired. We're not here long. I've got a lot to do."
Ryan hangs his head, looking up at Naim through the curls that hang past his forehead. "Okay. Yeah. Okay. 'M glad I got to see you."
Naim meets his gaze. "Me too."
If he doesn't leave now, he's really going to cry, so he turns and begins to walk, and tries to push down the disappointment when he can't hear Ryan's footsteps following after his. It doesn't last long, anyway, because behind him Ryan says,
"We're having the baby shower in a couple months." The words stop him in his tracks, and he turns back to look at Ryan despite himself. "It'd— can you… I'd like to see you again."
Naim stares for a long while, then says, "When is it?"