Archive of Our Own

Somewhere, along the way, they crossed a line. Breached contamination. Went from two people to one body without even realising. 

It happened early on, too. The first stop on the endless road ahead, where the coach let off passengers at a dingy gas station sandwich shop combo. Naim wanted to use the bathroom, and Ryan supposed he also should go. A short, simple, “Gotta piss,” from Naim. A nod from Ryan. And off they went. Not hand in hand, because they're still close enough to home to hear the church bells chime on the hour, and because maybe that is just a bit too gay. But their hands do brush together, dangling at their sides. 

At the urinal, they're stood shoulder to shoulder, which, if Ryan saw in public, he would think was gay. But, all things considered, they are gay. So. 

It's not unusual. From the moment they sat together on the bus, part of them has been touching. A head against a shoulder. A nose pressed to a pulse. Ankles twisted, little fingers knotted. All these tiny touches. Proof of existence, Ryan thinks. This is real. They're real. Right? 

Naim scrubbed his hands in the grungy sink, and when his breathing sped up and dripping hands began to shake, Ryan took over the job for him. Ran his fingernails beneath Naim's to scrape out the dried blood, soot and filth, until the noisy coach engine sprung to life outside and they made their way back to their seats. In the safety of a dusty, dank coach, their hands clasped together, cleaner than they'd been in days, and remained hidden away in Ryan's pocket. 

Coach after coach passes through podunk town after podunk town, each a reminder of the place they left behind. This goes on for days. A bus to a station, a night spent on the station floor waiting for the first bus to leave, and taking that as far as they can. 

The goal is a city. The first they reach, ideally. 

Though, Ryan's always liked the idea of somewhere quiet. Peaceful. Maybe a farm. A strip of land and a house to call his own, with untainted walls and strumming music to fill the place with when laughter isn't available. That was all some silly dream. 

He'd always expected to end up in the factory like every other kid without brains. Slaving away for hours under some hot machine pumping out hot, dirty air, and then going home to some shitty bungalow and a wife and kids and a life he can't fucking stand, until one day he takes a wrong step or tries to fix the wrong part of the machine's guts, and he'll get chewed up and spat out in some bloody, useless, lifeless heap of skin and bones and lies. Just another tragedy, another statistic. 

A city will do for now, he guesses. Better than the alternative. 

Melbourne is closest, but he's visited on a school trip once and it was alright, he supposed. But they could go…anywhere. 

They're unstoppable. Naim hasn't got anything to his name except the clothes he left in and lighter in his pocket, so a form of identification might come in use. If they can get passports they could go…anywhere! 

The bus station is empty. It is almost three am, they arrived at eleven pm and slept for three hours against each other in some seats at the back. Now their necks ache too much to try again. Ryan pokes the boy beside him. 

“Hmm?” Naim yawns. 

Ryan asks, “If you could go anywhere, where'd you go?” 

Again, Naim yawns. He thinks, for a long time. And then, “Tasmania.” 

“What the fuck?” Ryan finds himself laughing. “You could choose anywhere in the world and you choose Tasmania?” 

“I dunno. I'm fuckin tired-” 

Ryan laughs. “I wanna see the Dolomites.”

Naim adjusts how he's sat, pulling his knees down from his chest to sit properly in his seat. His dark eyes roam all over Ryan in a way he’s still not used to, and how naked it makes him feel. 

“We could do that,” he says, determined and promising. “I've always liked the idea of Portugal.” 

Ryan feels his face split in two as he smiles. “We'll need passports,” he says. His feelings for the promise of travel are too great, so his comment comes out snipped and sassy, a roll of his eyes on the end. To dwell, to show all that raw emotion, is not something he is good at. 

Boldly, Naim kisses him. 

They move against the cold, metal bench until it is close enough to a bed. Naim leans back against Ryan's chest for a little while, until it's simply too uncomfortable. 

“Here-” He says, then pulls out his hoodie from the backpack, rolling it up and placing it on the floor. He drags Ryan off the bench and onto the filthy linoleum under foot. Here, Ryan can see several dead animals hidden in dark corners, carcasses hard and rotten and stuck on their backs. 

“Is your mum gonna be looking for you?” Ryan asks, eyes on the only thing he can bear to look at. He just wishes it still didn't taste like betrayal to look at Naim. 

The only other person in the building with them is the night shift woman behind the counter, who must be seventy at the youngest. Ryan watched her switch off her hearing aid when the last bus pulled out of the station for the evening. Nobody to eavesdrop into this private conversation. 

Naim shifts uncomfortably.

Ryan picks the wrong time to make a joke. “I feel like I can perfectly see your little face on the side of a milk carton.” 

But Naim just shakes his head. “Honestly? She's probably packed up and moved on to the next town.” 

Which wasn't what Ryan had expected. He laughs nervously. “What?” 

“It'd be too embarrassing if people knew it happened to her again.” Naim picks at his fingernails. The pair of them are in desperate need of a proper shower, forced to wash themselves with hand soap in whatever bathroom they find themselves in when they catch a whiff of themselves. Meaning, his fingernails are caked in dirt again. This time not with blood, earning no Lady Macbeth impersonation. Just a nervous tick. 

“What're you talking about?” Ryan asks. 

“My, uh. Dad was…like us,” he admits after a long, contemplative silence. “I think. I dunno. Just stuff I overheard my mum saying on the phone to people.”

“I thought your dad was dead?” 

“He is,” Naim confirms. “Hung himself while we were at church one morning. He said he wasn't feeling well, and we came home and there he was. Next thing I know we're packing up our whole lives, except for him, into boxes and moving.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. Helpfully. “Shit.” 

Ryan knows full well there was a failed search party for him, because Naim had told him so. His parents weren't the best at keeping an eye on him anyway, he was bound to wander too far one of these days. They'll assume he's ran away and not care, because he was only bringing pain and drama to their family. Or they'll think he's met the same fate as his perverted lover Hunter. 

He's used to this neglect. To think nobody would miss Naim, though? That hurts. That stings in his sternum like a stab wound. 

“Fuck, are you alright?” Ryan asks, also unhelpful because of course he fucking isn't. He's sleeping on the floor of a bus station while talking about his father's suicide! 

“Dunno. I've not really felt anything in a while…heh…” And then he turns, burying his face into Ryan's shoulder, and starts to cry. 

Ryan counts their coins and Naim folds their shared wardrobe up into the backpack. It is a warm, sunny morning, the kind that makes you grateful to be alive under regular circumstances let alone running away from demons and hateful towns circumstances. 

“How much have we got?” Naim asks. 

“Not a lot. I, uh. I wanted to get a room for us somewhere but that'll be, like, all our cash gone.” Call him romantic, he just wanted a proper shower. 

Naim smiles in that way that creases his eyes into nothing and makes red apples of his cheeks. “That's alright,” he says, sheepish and cute. “Save it, I can slum it a bit longer.”

“A bit?”

“Or however long it takes, I guess.” 

They arrive in Melbourne with nothing to their names. 

The penultimate stop was an emergency, a blow in the coach's engine. They had some hours to spare and a sign for a public pool called their names. 

The place was empty, closed until summer. Hopped the tall fence and broke into the showers, stripping down and reveling in a stream of water, not a handful of water thrown into armpits and junk. Before the fun would be over, they blew each other against the tiled walls, and Ryan's knee slipped into a chipped bit of ceramic floor and they left behind a crime scene, blood everywhere. 

So they arrived in the city clean, but damp and bloody on Ryan's behalf, and unprepared for the bustling city life. It is loud. It is hectic. They haven't slept properly in weeks thanks to a certain possession that took place. They find themselves tucked closed together, hunched and tightly knit, wandering aimlessly through the city. 

This continued into the night until they found themselves in front of an eerily familiar face. Jesus Christ, or rather his name, stares at them from a banner. He loves all. All are welcome for a free cup of coffee twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. According to the light pink sheet of paper advertising good samaritanship. 

The boys shared a glance. The night is cold and dark despite all the lights of urban life.

Past Naim, the thing that looks like him lingers at a distance. 

The night Ryan decided he had to go was the night he accepted he'd never hate Naim. He'd packed his bags in silence, snuck into his parents room and into the safe, where he stole more money than he was worth. He crept out of the house he'd been born in, committing the notches on the doorframes and holes in the walls to memory. Feeling guilty about missing this place - this personal hell. 

He walked, long into the night, along any road with houses so he wasn't alone. When the residential area thinned out into a crumbling industrial wasteland, he drew his coat close and hoped he wouldn't be recognised. 

Until he was tackled to the ground, Naim atop him, whimpering and crying and fucking terrified. His heart pounded right against Ryan's chest, so alive and real. 

The problem with these things is that they're good. It got Naim's terror down to a T. It was the same expression he'd had watching Ryan writhe about on the floor in a pool of his own vomit in front of the entire church. Naim had looked so petrified, Ryan didn't think. 

A car pulled up. Asked if he needed any help. This was their escape, this was it. But Naim had said they couldn't trust anybody, and the driver sped off in a cloud of dust, swearing about a disrespectful kid. 

Ryan's heart stuttered, arrhythmic and drum-like. A death knoll calling from within. Why didn't he listen? He couldn't listen, is the thing. Because Naim's apology had been so sincere and heartfelt. His tears, his gut-wrenching, voice cracking sobs. God above, who was Ryan to listen to if not this boy atop him? 

And then, Naim's hands, which had been on his face, gentle and trembling and tender, snapped to his throat. His tears switched off like a faucet. His thumbprints branded Ryan's trachea, and the only thing that got him off was a car's blinding headlights confusing him for long enough that Ryan got away. 

A pattern occurred that night, one he should've recognised. Loneliness draws the thing out. And he fell for it like an idiot every single fucking time. 

He's perfect for church. Blind faith in something he can't tell if it's real or not. Fits right in with the rest of the sheep. 

When Naim - his Naim, real Naim - found him at the bus stop, he was, probably, by his estimation, one interaction away from giving up and giving in. He is beyond grateful that he was the real thing. 

Still, he’s embarrassed that all it took was a little fear and a half assed apology to reel him back in. 

And yet, he can feel himself being pulled toward the church doors, like there's an anchor buried deep within his internal organs, dragging him closer and closer. 

“We shouldn't,” Naim says, scratching his arm. “It feels wrong.”

Ryan nods his head. His eyes shift from Naim's sinister lookalike to the illuminated cross hanging above. Behind his ribcage, his heart thud thud thuds, loud as a war drum. Blood rushes in his ears. 

Naim takes his hand. Squeezes. 

They're not even alone. There are voices inside the church, and in the buildings down the street and behind them there are open windows and lights on. People would hear their cries for help, some could even see their attacks. 

Ryan guesses that doesn't affect how alone he feels. Seventeen, just, and by himself in a brand new city, no place to live or eat or sleep, nothing but the clothes in his bag on his back and his lover in his hand. He's good at independence, but this is something else entirely. 

He's supposed to be the strong one. He's supposed to keep it all together because he is strong. Has a broader physique, in the literal sense. Has always had to be the man, and has always known how to assert dominance how a man should. Wants to be there, in every single way, for this boy he loves so much it scares him. He wants to be the strength for them both, wants to keep them afloat in all this shit and be the breadwinner and keep everything together. 

And here he is, at the foot of a church, two symbols, one of trust and one of betrayal, blurring together. His knees begin to buckle- 

“Are you boys looking for a cuppa?” A shrill, bird-like voice calls. 

Naim hooks his fingers behind Ryan's elbows. “Uh, no thanks!” He calls for the both of them as Ryan waits for his breath to come back to him. As he blinks, he notices only one Naim in his sight. 

“Are you sure? You seem like you could do with one?” 

Ryan looks up the steps of the church to find a woman in a grey cardigan and culottes, matching grey streaks in her otherwise dark hair. Her glasses are small on her face, making it look pinched. She pulls her cardigan close, squinting at the boys. “Come on, all are welcome!”

“I, uh,” Ryan calls back, clearing his throat. “I dunno if you want us.” 

“Nonsense!” She scurries down the steps toward them. “Oh, you poor things, you look exhausted! Where are your parents-”

“Look, lady,” Ryan snaps. Naim looks at him the way he does still, confused as to the many versions of Ryan he is still discovering. He ignores it. “I'm not God's biggest fan right now and I don't need His or Jesus’ help or love or fuckin’ anything, okay? I want-” He stops himself, groans. He wants so much. Mostly, he'd like a roof over his head and a place to sleep and wash. 

“Well, I'm offering the cuppa, and I'm the one who brewed it.” Her stick-on, hand-written  name tag reads Agnes. 

Ryan looks away from her admittedly kind face to Naim's anxious visage. He shrugs his shoulders, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. 

What is obvious is this: Neither of them want to go inside of a fucking Christian church ever again if they can help it. And, simultaneously, they're fucking starving and haven't had a drink in forever. Which outweighs the other is difficult to tell. 

“Have you, uh, got any biscuits to go with the coffee?” Ryan decides to ask. 

They sit on the seats closest to the exit and facing away from the statue of crucified Christ, stuffing their faces with biscuits and taking quick gulps of the piping hot coffee. They've been left alone by Agnes, but this place feels like it's all eyes and ears. Like maybe someone here will report back to Bandee and expose their location. So they're not touching, save for a bump of knees or brush of hands when they reach for the same biscuit. 

The biscuits go, as does their hot drink. Though not a lot of food, they're full up for now and sleepy with nowhere to rest. A bus station, probably, for old times sake, will be their hotel for the night. 

Without anything to busy their hands with, Ryan's itch for Naim. He glances at the other boy's hands, spots his own ring sitting nicely, purposefully on his third finger, and spins the band of metal he's wearing around his digit This one once sat on a chain around Naim's neck. 

When they stepped off of the bus back from visiting Jessica, Naim still riding the high of a public orgasm, Ryan still giddy over their first time, they walked away in the same direction and exchanged jewellery. Naim's idea. Just pulled the signet from under his shirt and said he was giving it to Ryan. Took it off, put it on his finger of choice. Before he could take his hands back, Ryan held on tight, under the disguise of the moonlight, and slid on the snake shaped ring to one of his barren fingers. 

That was that. An intimate gesture they never spoke about again. 

When Agnes comes over to them, taking Ryan's attention from the rings, she provides them with fresh bottles of water they hadn't asked for and a second cup of coffee each. From her back pocket, she pulls out several pamphlets, handing half the pile to Naim and the other to Ryan.

“I don't know what sort of trouble you boys have found yourselves in the middle of,” Agnes says, picking up the empty plate. “But there are good people out there, and people who want to help you.”

Flipping through the selection of papers, Ryan sees the word shelter over and over. He pockets the leaflets, thanking her after Naim says the words first. 

“If you have no other place to go this evening, you can finish those here for however long you need,” Agnes offers with a wink. “I won't even catch you if you happen to fall asleep.”

Sleeping in the same house as the Lord is a step too far, they telepathically agree. So they bid their farewell and say their thanks once again before heading out. Nowhere to go, no plans to follow. 

In a deserted parking lot in front of a shopping center recently closed for the evening, Naim goes through their bag. As for Ryan, he counts their money, glad to see how much is left. They've been stealing recently, which maybe he isn't particularly proud of but it means they're spending less. And it's just little things, like snacks from gas stations. And a sleeping bag from one store. And someone's bike that was just abandoned without a lock or anything. Whatever. 

They're already labelled sinners, might as well really earn the title. 

Hearing a smooth swishing noise, Ryan pockets his wallet and looks over at Naim, finding him with a razor in hand, trying to operate the blade like a butterfly knife. Tutting, like he's dealing with a toddler, Ryan leans over and snatches the blade by the handle away from him. 

“You're gonna lose a finger,” he says. 

“Nah,” Naim snorts, defiant and childlike. He beams at Ryan like he always does, like a lighthouse. “Why'd'you even have it?” 

Ryan shrugs. “Dunno. In case I needed to, like, cut my hair or shave or something. Dunno,” he repeats. 

This time when Naim snorts, he cackles afterwards. “You? Shaving? Fat chance. You haven't got a hair on your chest let alone your chin!” To make his point, he hooks his fingers in the collar of Ryan's t-shirt and pulls down. 

“Piss off! Like you're any hairier!” Ryan retorts, knocking away his hand. 

Naim lifts his leg to stomp his foot down closer to Ryan, rolling up his jeans to show off his calf. “My legs are hairier than yours.”

Swatting at his leg, Ryan says, “Your hair's just darker. I have leg hair, it's just blonde.” His hand remains wrapped around his ankle, thumb running a short track back and forth against his warm skin.

“Pfft, alright.” 

“Whatever. I didn't know what was gonna happen, thought I might be gone long enough to start needing to shave.” It was one of the first things he threw in his bag. He'd been in the bathroom, examining his red, puffy eyes and the cuts and bruises left over from his beating. Once he'd made the decision to leave, he picked up his toothbrush and the razor and threw them into his empty rucksack. 

“Plus,” Ryan says, after a moment, “I thought I might have to defend myself.” 

Naim hums. 

Above them, the street lights flicker on. Soon, a security guard will find them and they'll be asked to leave the premises. 

“You know what's funny?” Ryan chuckles to himself. 

“What?”

“I've never used it. The razor.” 

He looks at the sleek, metal blade in his hand. He'd thought about it, about drawing his own blood with it, or having to cut somebody with it. The thought never made him feel good. 

“I have,” Naim says.

“What?”

“My grandad taught me,” he says. “When I was, like, five. Got me to shave his beard for him. Then he died when I was eleven, but I got six years of practice, so.” He shrugs his shoulders, picking at a loose thread on the strap of the bag. His eyes remain on the thread when he says, “So if you do, like, need to shave or whatever. I can do it. For you.” 

What Ryan should have said was Thank you for the offer, that is very generous of you to do that for me if the chance ever arises. Instead, what happens, is his throat dries up and his eyes burn and he is speaking before he can stop to think and-

“I love you, Naim.” 

Naim's head bounces up, eyes wild like a deer about to become roadkill. He looks into Ryan's eyes, searching and panicked, then drops his gaze down before dragging it back up. He licks his lips, swallows hard. “Really?” He asks, his voice cracking with insecurity. “I- I mean, how can you?” It's punched out and breathless and so fucking open Ryan feels like he's holding a knife into his stomach. 

He is helpless to his response. “I don't know any other way.” 

“You- You don't see some scrawny, skittish kid who ripped your ear off with his teeth?” Naim argues, tears in his eyes. “Or the thing that tricked you and choked you in that photobooth? You-”

“Do you see the monster that-” Ryan's eyes burn. “That shoved his hand down your throat?” Does he feel his hands around his throat still? Does he feel his flesh under his fingernails? Does he feel the icy touch of the other version of his hands and mouth? 

Naim throws his head from side to side, fast and urgent, desperate to say, “Of course I don't!” 

Cupping his face, Ryan sighs dreamily. “You're the best thing to ever happen to me,” he says before he can think twice about it. “Of course I fucking love you.” 

He isn't expecting it back, not really. So when Naim's face finally splits into that all illuminating smile, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and he utters the words, “Same. I love you, too.” Well. The fucking world explodes. 

He launches himself off of the tarmac floor and onto Naim in a display of athleticism he could never quite find in PE. Kisses him deep and rushed, hot and heavy. Revels in the hand that finds its way into his hair, at Naim's other hand on the front of his shirt, pulling and pulling as if he could pull their bodies so close to merge them into one. 

A security guard finds them minutes later, shooing them off with very unkind words about their lifestyle choices, but none of that matters because they're giddy, giggling messes and riding a high unmatched by drugs. 

The first time they have sex, it's on the beach. 

Deciding to take the train to the closest coastline to get away from the noisy city. They set off early in the afternoon, racked a couple pairs of swim shorts off of somebody's clothes line, and made their way to the beach. There, they use a towel they'd taken from a public pool in Melbourne to leave their things on and make a dash for the ocean. 

The beach is fairly small, not one for the masses of surfers or army of tourists. Quaint, populated enough. No life guard operating the small hut during off season, and no huge houses around with private roads leading onto the sand. Meaning they were most likely in the all clear to remain on the beach all night. 

Which is what they did. Set up their makeshift bed for the evening and got as comfortable as possible against the sharp sea breeze. 

It was a good sleep, though a short one. 

They woke just before the sun, turned to one another in a tangle of limbs. An unravelling later and they were kissing, which turned to more, which led to Ryan holding himself over Naim and asking, “You wanna?” as the sun painted the sky. 

They didn't use protection, because they had none and because they'd never been with anybody else. The furthest he'd got with Hunter was a handjob after a swim meet last year. And that came with Chinese burns and split eyebrows, Hunter even chipped a tooth. That wasn't this. This was uncharted territory. 

Neither of them knew what they were doing, so it had all been clumsy and messy and done so in fits of giggles turned breathy moans. It didn't last very long either, which was probably for the better since people would be starting to wake up shortly. 

Everything with Naim is so damn tender. All gentle touches and lingering glances, nothing that feels like holding a shard of broken glass to his own throat. He's fucking addicted to his kindness, to his innate tendency to do no harm and to be sweet and mindful and gentle. It blows Ryan's mind.

He's kissed two boys. The first he had to throw rocks at to play a game of whoever bleeds first has to kiss the other. And the second showed him how a world so awful doesn't always need to be violent. 

Arguably, they need to come up with a plan for what's next. 

Instead, they find themselves at the once boarded up entrance to a dilapidated warehouse. A sun-bleached sign explains the building once had plans to be turned into apartments. Now it belongs to squatters like themselves.

And they're arguing.

Not shouting and physically fighting over a disagreement. Just festering and rotting in the knowledge that they want different things. 

Ryan's bloody nose is not helping matters. It hurts, for one. Got his head thrown into the edge of a sink basin, breaking his nose, and now that it's been reset it keeps bleeding every seven or so hours. 

All ‘cause someone looked at him and Naim funny and Ryan decided to pick a fight. Or whatever. Some preppy thugs in their twenties caught sight of them exiting a stall and zipping up their jeans together and got vulgar. Naim had told them to piss off as he passed and one of them shoulder checked him into the sinks, so Ryan retaliated and got his shit rocked. They fled the mall bathroom as fast as they could on foot, abandoning their stolen bike wherever they'd left it. 

After the runners high wore off and the pain and fear really started to kick in, Ryan had swallowed down gulps of air and sent up a stupid prayer for things to stop being so shit all the time. 

The taste of a prayer in his mouth made him throw up on the side of the road, leaving a sour coating all over his tongue and teeth.  

Really, the broken and bloody nose is more of an annoying addition to the situation, making him light-headed and irritable. 

Naim's worrying over a potential brain bleed and inevitable death is more than Ryan can take at the moment. 

“This'll do,” Ryan states, entering the abandoned building. 

“For now,” Naim mutters. Ryan does not dignify him with a response. 

They head up to the second floor, so if anybody joins them they won't be discovered immediately. Upstairs is breezier, colder. Ryan gestures for the bag Naim's been carrying, taking it to the floor to pull out its contents. There he takes out a sweater and a hoodie, throwing the thicker piece of clothing toward Naim and keeping the threadbare sweater for himself. 

Tutting, Naim, who's already wearing his own hoodie, swaps their items of clothing, unzipping his hoodie and putting the sweater on underneath before Ryan could protest. He sits in unimpressed triumph. 

Nothing is said. Ryan pulls the hoodie over his head and pulls his coat back on over the top. His hair's getting long, unruly and matted where he's neglected to treat or even brush his curly hair. Naim's is longer now, too. Shaggy and unstylish, covering his eyes more than Ryan is happy with. They're both in need of a trim. 

Next to be unpacked are their beds. Two sleeping bags that they usually share, one underneath as padding and one as a duvet for them both. They get unravelled but not unzipped. Naim takes one, picks at the plastic tag still poking through the zip. 

“You know,” Naim starts, drifting off either in dramatic pause or consideration. He resumes when Ryan hums. “I like how we share clothes now. It feels…dunno. I like that everything is ours.” It is said with undeniable sincerity, and yet there is a detectable hint of insecurity in there. An unspoken But is waiting to happen. 

Still, Ryan hums again. “Yeah. Nice.” 

“But…” 

Here we go.

As he sits, Ryan's back straightens up like somebody shoved a long metal rod through his skull and down his spine. He clears his throat, as if that'll clear his mind. All the worst things Naim could say rush through his head. That he wants his own things now, that he wants his life back. That he doesn't love Ryan and he regrets ever running away with the psychopath. That-

“What's up?” Naim asks, voice soft. 

“Nothin’.”

“It's something. Is it your nose?” 

“For fuck's sake,” he can’t stops himself from muttering under his breath. With a strong, held-back sigh, he asks, “What the fuck do you want from me, Naim?! Huh? I can't fuckin’- Fuck-”

Naim blinks, startled and taken aback. “What?

Earlier, when Ryan's eyes dried up from the knee-jerk reaction of crying after resetting his broken nose, and he'd rung all the blood and water from his shirt he'd tried to wash in another public bathroom from the one he'd been called a faggot in and had his face smashed in in, Naim had raised a shaking hand with a tissue in it to Ryan's bloody face and said, “I think we need more than this. Something better.” 

That's where the argument started. Maybe he'd overreacted, maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Correctly or incorrectly, Ryan interpreted that as more than each other. More than the pitiful excuse of a life Ryan can provide for him. More than the tainted, ugly version of affection and love Ryan only knows how to offer. More than Ryan. 

He, of course, did not voice these concerns or insecurities. Just fought that they had enough - Why was what little they had not enough for him? 

Now, Naim blinks rapidly, looking for the words. His lip is split and purple in the corner. Eventually he says, “I don't need anything from you except you-” 

“Bullshit!” Ryan snaps. “You said you wanted more! I can't give you more!” 

Naim looks at him, hurt and unsurprised, and sighs. “I'm going to sleep. We can talk in the morning, unless your fucking brain bleeds out of your ears in the night.” Right where he sits, he lies down and rolls so his back faces Ryan. His arm is his pillow for the night. “Don't fuckin’ wake me up if you get another nose bleed. You're not a little kid.” 

His whole life, Ryan has woken with the sun. He'd been born to disappointed parents at seven o'clock on a brutally harsh winter's morning. Mum and dad had been expecting their baby girl, and instead they got Ryan. This small, winging, crying thing who'd come early but still took fourteen hours to deliver. 

Ha. That's ironic. Fourteen years later he'd kiss a boy for the first time. 

This morning is no exception. The spot his eyes open to and focus on is barren save for the open backpack and Naim's empty sleeping bag. 

He sits up fast, heart racing, catching up to being awake and alone all at the same time. Maybe he just went for a piss, his brain ties to reason. Or maybe he left you, caught the first train back to Bandee and left you here alone. Or maybe he's dead! Maybe he-

An echoing slicing noise cuts through his thoughts. Ryan looks over, relieved to find Naim sitting at the top of the staircase with the razor in hand, still flipping the protesting thing like a butterfly knife. 

Ryan rubs sleep from his eyes and laughs to himself. “Thought I told you to knock that off - Unless you wanna lose a finger?” His sentence turns into a yawn. 

All his clothes make him feel clammy and claustrophobic, so he pulls off his coat and hoodie as he stands out of his sleeping bag. A cold rush to the day makes him feel more awake. While he's always been an early riser, he's also never been able to go to sleep before midnight. Something has to wake him up in the mornings whether it's a cold plunge in the shower or a mostly naked stroll around the garden. This will do for now. 

With no response from Naim, Ryan calls, “Did you hear me, or are you still asleep?” He begins to walk towards Naim, slow but long steps. When Naim still neglects to respond, Ryan stops. “Are you still mad at me?” 

The blade in his hands stops and he looks up at Ryan. “Hm? Oh, no. Sorry. I was just… In my own world. Miles away.”

Something steadies within Ryan. He sits down opposite Naim. The glassless windows let in all the rising sunlight and cool morning air. 

“That's alright.” Knocking together their knees, Ryan nods his head toward the razor. “You know, you really should be careful with that thing. I don't wanna see you hurt.”

“I don't wanna see you hurt, either,” Naim chimes in. He puts down the razor. “Shit, look. I'm sorry about what I said. I don't need more, I was just angry at those guys for hurting you.” 

Ryan nods his head. “I get that,” he says. He puts his hand on Naim's leg. “It doesn't hurt so bad,” he lies. “Plus, not everyone's gonna be like that. It'll get better.” He echoes Naim's words from yesterday, though he's not sure he believes that. 

Now Naim nods his head in return, in that way that makes him look all mystical fawn like. He leans his body forward until his forehead is leaning against the back of Ryan's hand where it sits on his knee. He releases this long, remorseful sigh, nuzzling against his hand, and then lifting his head just enough to kiss his knuckles. 

“I can't get better than you,” he whispers, kissing his wrist. 

Yes you can. You deserve more.

Naim tugs at Ryan's arm, pulling himself up so he can crawl into Ryan's lap and over his body. He suctions their mouths together in a particularly filthy way that drives Ryan crazy, like the rest of the catalogue of sinfully dirty things Naim is capable of. Quick hands and wet tongues and hands in hair. This morning escalated faster than he'd been expecting. 

After their first time, it wasn't like they couldn't not keep their hands off of each other, or anything like couples on television who hook up once and then start fucking like rabbits. There was a need for a repeat, perhaps somewhere with a bit more privacy would be nice. But there hadn't exactly been a rush. And then they smiled at each other in a public restroom and tried for round two in a bathroom stall and got hate-crimed and argued and found themselves right here. 

Ryan hadn't expected their second time to be on the dirty, dusty floor of an abandoned building on the outskirts of Melbourne, but here he is. 

As Naim's hands move south, one of Ryan's reaches out for something to hold onto and instead finds the staircase less than a foot from them, with absolutely no rails or guards to keep them from falling. His other anchors into the long strands of Naim's hair. 

Mouth free, Naim sitting up slightly to tackle their belts, Ryan smiles and pushes Naim's hair back for him. “You need a haircut,” he says, breathless. 

Naim laughs. “Shut up. So do you.” 

“You need one more.” Probably not true. Ryan's been avoiding mirrors to keep from humbling himself. 

Naim's hands leaves Ryan's belt, undone but with his jeans still buttoned up. He says, “Wanna cut it now?” while reaching for the razor. 

Laughing, because surely that's a joke, Ryan says, “I think we're a little busy, don't you?” 

“Nah.” He provides the razor for Ryan, holding it in his open hand like an item on a tray. “Just a trim, yeah?” 

His fucking hard-on is making it hard to think straight. “Are you serious?”

Naim rolls his eyes. “Fine, we'll start with you.” 

And then he takes a rough fistful of Ryan's hair, pulling him up and taking the blade to his scalp. With no hesitation, Naim draws a line in Ryan's skin, from the tuft of hair in his hand down to his cheek. 

Shouting in pain, Ryan throws Naim off of him, shuffling back and holding a hand to his bleeding face. 

“What the fuck?” 

Unharmed, unfazed, Naim gets to his feet without difficulty, stalking toward a clumsily backing away Ryan and standing over him. It is in this moment that Ryan looks into Naim's eyes and does not recognise what is looking back at him. 

He's suddenly back in his bedroom when he first met the thing and hands are around his throat and face pushed into his pillows. He's in an empty photobooth, strangled and off his feet. He's by himself on a never ending road. 

He is scared and he is alone. 

Where's Naim? 

His Naim is somewhere, also probably by himself and defenseless to this entity haunting them.

Fuck. He needs to do something.  

With nothing to defend himself, Ryan kicks Naim's ankles until he hits the floor, and he races to his feet, stumbling away from the thing on the floor. It's no use. As soon as he’s on unsteady feet, so is the thing that looks like Naim. 

As he reaches the stairs, a harsh, claw-like hand is in his hair again. Yanking him backwards hard enough to rip out some hair, Ryan cries out. Calls for help, for Naim. 

“I'm right here,” the thing hisses down the ear it almost ripped off Ryan's head with its teeth all those months back.

Then the razor is at his throat, slicing into his skin in a slow, methodical drag. It isn't deep, so this is not meant to be a quick death. It burns and he cries out again, thrashing his body around until he gets just enough leverage to wrestle out of wrong-Naim's hold on him.

Body dropping to the floor, Ryan doesn't even have a chance to slither away before Naim's weight drops on top of him. His knees bracket Ryan's hips, tight and locked, and he uses a strength his Naim would never be capable of to hold Ryan down with one hand on his chest. The thing grins, sinister and shadowed by backlight. 

Heart in his throat, breathing haggard and rapid, Ryan utters, “Please-” Broken and breathless and fucking hopeless. 

Naim raises the razor and-

And hesitates. 

He says, “I'm sorry.” 

The air leaves the room. Time freezes. 

And then he brings the razor down and through Ryan's chest. Like a pirate ship ride at the fair, swinging and slicing. The remainders of his shirt grow wet and hot and sticky. 

If these are his last moments, he is not going to ruin his memories with Naim by watching him kill him. He turns his head, closes his eyes. Imagines he's back on the beach with him. Remembers their first kiss in that desolate mill, how shocked Naim had looked at first. The terror Ryan felt at first, when he expected to be rejected or worse. And then Naim had grabbed his head, pulled him back down, kissed him like he was something to worship and dedicate his life to. 

The world has been unkind to Ryan, taught him hate and fear and aggression. Expected too much and too little of him, wanted this paradoxical boy that could not exist. Violence begets violence. And then there was Naim. His lighthouse. His Naim. His heart. His love. 

Cracking his eyes open against the painful blows, Ryan's eyes fall to the staircase below and the lack of a banister. 

He can die here, or he can make an escape. Accept death, or die trying to get out. Why does this keep happening to him? 

It takes approximately one second to make his plan, and then he is throwing his and Naim's combined weight toward the stairs. The thing does not tumble off of him in a pile of lifeless limbs. It holds onto Ryan and drags him down too. 

By the time he hits the floor at the bottom, battered and bleeding, wrong Naim sits in a poorly folded heap of arms and legs. Heart pounding, Ryan jumps up and makes a break for it. 

However, all the blood in him rushes south as he stands. Catching himself on the stairs, Ryan looks down to find his torso a ruined, bloody piece of meat slashed open and seeping. He holds his stomach, feels like he's plugging his intestines from falling through a deep cut. 

Fuck. I'm going to die here.

A scream pierces through the bloodbath. Ryan's head snaps toward the sound, limping toward the source as fast as his unsupported, fragile body can take him. 

On what would be the paved back patio of the place if it had ever finished construction, Naim is lying on the ground, back arched all the way off the floor like he's in The Exorcist. He is writhing and screaming and scrambling at something Ryan can't see. Blood blooms across the front of his sweater. 

“Hey! Get off him!” Ryan's attempt at defending Naim isn't his best work, he'll admit it, but it receives a great shove from the unseen thing that throws him backwards and hard into a wall. 

Next thing he knows is Naim slapping his face lightly and begging him to get up. He fights against his protesting body to climb to his feet. Both boys support the other as best as they can, making their way away from the building. 

“There's a construction site up here,” Ryan says, though his voice betrays him and barely works. Words come out garbled and wet. He noticed the abandoned tools on the in-progress build yesterday as they passed, so if the workers haven't started their shift yet, they should soon. 

“What about our things?” Naim asks. His voice is equally as ruined, raw and cracking around the edges. He has tears streaming down his face and a runny nose.  

Ryan's eyesight is quickly turning into tunnel vision, blocking out around the edges. He says, “Fuck it. We need help.” 

And then it goes black. 

Ryan was named after a patron saint. Or, well. When his parents had found out their second baby would be a girl, immediately they planned to call her Catherine, middle name Anne after his dad's mum. And then out came Ryan. He'd almost been called Luke, but his cousin who'd been born two months before him had gotten the name first. So they landed on Ryan. 

Ryan Matthew Whelan. 

Son to Laura and Thomas Whelan. Younger brother to Mary. Older brother to Catherine. 

The only boy and the only unsaintly name.

And then, like some sick and twisted joke, Ryan turned out gay. As if everything was in place for him to be the perfect daughter, except God forgot to make him a daughter. 

His parents didn't hate him, not at the beginning. They just weren't expecting him. His sisters loved him, dressed him up and forced him to play with them until it got to an age where it was no longer funny for a boy to wear a dress, just inappropriate and queer. And eventually they grew tired of him. 

Being in the middle of his siblings, he found it easy to be forgotten. This was hurtful, to start with. Then it became useful. How else did he find so many opportunities to throw rocks at the preacher's son? 

He just sometimes wonders what on Heaven and Earth he could've done that was so wrong to have been dealt such a poor hand of cards? If God made everybody in his image, why had He made Ryan just to be unwanted and hated? 

Medical professionals, Ryan has found, ask too much.

Why was he so far from home? Why had he run away? Who did this to him? Is he in danger? Would he like them to contact his parents? 

They never asked his name, because thanks to his trip to the emergency department to reattach his ear, all his details and blood works are still fairly recent in whatever medical database the country uses. Ryan doesn't really understand. They know he's a minor, and that he is a long way from where he almost lost his ear, so why is he all the way out here? And who is his friend? And how on Earth did his friend get in such shape?

Naim, Ryan has learnt through the power of eavesdropping and information told to him, had had four ribs broken, but it had been as if somebody reached inside of his chest, took hold of one rib, and snapped it backwards. Broken from the inside. Like maybe his heart had just beaten too hard and cracked his ribcage, one nurse had queried quietly. More like someone grabbed his heart and tried to rip it out of him.

Fuck. 

Ryan had gotten it easy. He'd been sewn up, and his guts were never at risk of falling out even though it felt like it. He's had blood replaced into his system after having lost so much, though no bleed in his brain afterall, and advised he take it easy upon release. No heavy lifting, making sure he keeps his wounds clean.  

He'd laughed at that and said he'd do his best. Which spurred on around round of interrogation about his living status, where he was staying, was it with family or friends, et cetera. A bunch of things he couldn't, or simply wouldn't answer. 

He drifted off on whatever drugs they were still giving him, and wakes up an unclear amount of time later as he is put into a wheelchair and wheeled down a corridor. Behind a windowless door, Naim is waiting, twiddling his thumbs, in a wheelchair of his own. 

He springs out of it upon seeing Ryan, throwing himself around his neck. They both wince and hiss in pain, but Naim doesn't let go. He smells clinical and clean but distinctly Naim. Ryan breathes him in. 

“I'm really fucking sorry,” Naim says into the crook of Ryan's neck. 

“Me too,” Ryan says to his hair, then kissing the spot he spoke to. 

They aren't alone in this room. The nurse who'd wheeled him in has lingered, and a woman dressed in comforting knitwear in the corner of the room is checking something over on a clipboard. 

She's a social worker, she explains when Naim gets off of Ryan. Their chairs are pushed closer together. She has come to speak to them about the circumstances of their being in Melbourne and not with their parents. Nobody has been contacted, that much is made clear. But they'd like to do so. 

Ryan shook his head first. “No. You can't.”

“How come?”

“I left for a reason, alright.” 

“I don't even know where my mum will have gone,” Naim chimes in. “I know her number, if she hasn't changed it. But I don't want her coming to get me. I don't even know if she will come get me, but I don't want to risk it.” He swallows hard. “She hurt me, okay?”

“She was abusive?” 

Naim shakes his head. “I dunno.” And he doesn't say much more. 

The social worker - her badge says her name is Sophie - explains their options to them. Contacting their families, putting them into care systems. Keeping them safe from danger is supposedly their main priority. Sophie explains things slowly without being patronising, doesn't treat them like dumb kids despite highlighting the fact that they are minors. It's actually nice. 

“What do you want?” She asks with the finality of a period. 

Ryan picks dirt from his fingernails and sighs. “A fucking cigarette?”

“What?” Ryan blows the smoke straight at Naim's face. They're side by side, but with a simple turn of his head, not even a full ninety-degrees, he finds himself face-to-face with Naim. 

He shuts his eyes against the smoke, just barely, and Ryan relishes in not being observed if only for a second. That's all Naim's been doing: Looking. Watching. Waiting for something, possibly. Inspecting the damage his demonic-self inflicted. Who knows. 

“Don't be a dick,” Naim tuts. “You know what.” 

‘What’ could be any number of things and they both know this. But Ryan sighs and asks, “What do you want to do?”

He bites the inside of his cheek waiting for a response, fearing words about going home or splitting up. When he remembers he's wasting the cigarette Sophie so graciously got him from another staff member's personal supply, he releases his cheek and takes a long drag. 

When he runs a hand over his head, he is reminded of the new haircut he had been provided by the emergency department staff. Half of his head has been shaved. Actually, probably not even half. As far as coverage goes probably a quarter of his hair has been shaved down to the scalp so they could access and clean his wound. Ear to forehead, a square of hair just gone. He's going to ask somebody if they can just shave off the rest while they're at it. 

Naim follows the hand in his hair. He is still getting used to Ryan's new look. He starts to scratch his fingernail against the small, red patch of rough skin running down the edge of his nail. Ryan swats at his hand doing the damage, and then holds it in his.  

“Come on,” Ryan urges him. “Look, you know I'd follow you to the end of the fuckin’ world if you asked. Tell me what you want and I'll do it. Whatever it is.” 

“When I, uh, said we needed more, I meant it.” Naim keeps his eyes to the floor. “But I meant that we deserve more than dirty floors and gross bathrooms for the rest of our lives. I don't wanna live in fear, but I don't wanna live like that either. I think we need help, or something.” 

He rubs his eye with his knuckle, looking soft as the day he first stepped foot in the same classroom as Ryan. Floppy hair windswept to the left in a comically bad style, flushed cheeks. The very image of tenderness. Ryan had been gone from day one. 

“I want us to have something good,” Naim says. “We're good. I mean, like…- Fuck, I dunno what I mean. I'm exhausted. Do you know what I'm saying? We shouldn't have to live like this. I think we can do better.” 

Ryan lets his cigarette burn down until it falls from his fingers. Then, he takes a deep breath and pulls Naim into his arms. Cocooning him, not being particularly careful of either of their injuries. 

Discharged, a social worker picks them up in modern, clean Audi and drives them to the abandoned site where they left their things behind in haste to survive the encounter. 

They're given fifteen minutes. 

Inside, a trail of blood awaits them. Adorning the staircase is a maroon carpet runner, distinctly the shade of Ryan's insides. A map drawn by the hand of a child showing the dotted red line to follow to find the pirate treasure is depicted across the downstairs floor. Ryan imagines upstairs is a scene from a Stephen King flick. 

He swallows acidic bile rising in his throat. His ear burns. 

“What were you even doing out there?” Ryan asks as Naim stares in horror at the burgundy droplets leading through the unfinished house toward the back patio. 

Eyes unmoving, Naim hesitates, licking his lips, before saying, “You were crying.” 

“What?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You were crying in your sleep, and, like, whimpering and shit. You sounded so fucking sad and scared and I didn't-” He shakes his head. “I was pissed at you and you were making it really hard to stay angry. I just needed some air.” Speaking of, it sounds like all the air has been knocked out of him. “Fuck-” 

Naim hisses, as if in pain. The way he isn't pawing at his broken ribs or touching any of his minor cuts and bruises would suggest he isn't in physical pain, though. Ryan's taking it upon himself to track both their healing, Naim's more so than his own, naturally. He tracks how he bends when he sits, how far he can reach with each arm. Nevermind the colour of his own stitches or whether his bruises worsen or not. Naim's his focus. 

Maybe just being back here is painful enough. 

Ryan steps toward him. Back to him, Naim steps away without seeing him, shaking his head. 

“How sure are you that you wanna be with me?” Naim asks, a croak in voice only detectable to somebody who listens to it like a favourite song - to Ryan. 

No response planned for such an impossible to answer question, Ryan finds himself stuck for what to say. Isn't it obvious? “Of course I do.” It doesn't seem enough. “What-”

Naim cuts in, glancing back over his shoulder but never meeting Ryan's eyes. “I fuckin’- I heard you were in pain and I left you. Even though I know full well neither of us can be alone without risking seeing those things. I-” His breath catches. He doesn't cry, but he shakes his head as he turns fully away from Ryan. “Fuck, I shouldn't be around you. This is all my fault. I did this - I fucked everything up, it's all my fault-” Again, his voice cracks, this one in anguish and making him seem so much younger than he has these days.

“Naim-” Ryan tries to put a hand on his shoulder but barely gets his fingertips against Naim's shoulder before he's pulling away.  

“No!-” 

“Naim!” 

This time, Ryan doesn't take no for an answer. He reaches his hand out to Naim's shoulder and roughly tugs his body around, using his strength to get the upper hand on him. Crushing their bodies together, Ryan hugs Naim until he gives in, stops fighting and trying to pull away. A sob cracks out of him, into the cut crook of Ryan's neck. 

Ryan hushes him, runs a hand up his back and through his hair. Says, “I don't blame you.” Not anymore. Not in any way that matters. 

It is his fault, in a way. He dared show Ryan tenderness and kindness, but Ryan wanted him before that. In ways they never were, in violent fits and cut up knees and wars without resolution or cause. In the only way he knew. It is by Naim's hand that Ryan is out of the darkness, but that is no reason to blame him. He simply sits on this untouchable pedestal in Ryan's mind. The greatest thing to ever happen to him. 

“I wanna be with you. Only you, you dickhead. I don't care about whatever you've done or however much of an asshole you might be, okay?” He kisses the top of Naim's head. “I want you,” he promises, swears like an oath, like a vow. “You still want me?” 

“Always.” Naim's voice is muffled by Ryan's neck, but his small laugh is clear as day when he adds, “Dickhead.” 

Following his trail of blood upstairs, they find, miraculously, all their belongings remain. 

They pack up their stuff into their bag. Swapping out his bloody jeans for his other pair, Ryan wishes he'd made more of an effort in keeping his clothes clean, since he's now changing from dirty to less dirty trousers. Naim pulls off his sweater with great difficulty, so Ryan helps him get a new one on. 

On the way out, something shines in the shadows. Ryan points it out, bending to pick it up, and finding his razor in his hand. Stained, unpolished, rusty-looking though he knows it's just blood. His hands shake until Naim takes the blade from him. Folding away the razor into the handle, properly, the way you're supposed to and not with any flair you'd apply to a butterfly knife, he secures it in the front pocket of their bag and takes Ryan's hand. 

They arrive at the group home like a pair of stray pups. Bonded together, inseparable. Anxious and untrusting. 

They are both prepared to leave if it's bad. To pack up their things and move again, spend the last of their money on a bus to take them as far away as possible and start over somewhere completely new. Ryan still kind of likes that idea. 

Instead, they get assigned rooms across from each other, forced to room with kids they've never met before and know nothing about. It's uncomfortable and feels impossible. But they're safe. There's always someone else around, and everyone has been super nice. And in the entryway of the home, there's a pride flag hanging up. 

When Ryan first saw the rainbow flag, he'd frozen in his step. He knew what it looked like, of course. He had access to the internet and knew about all the different flags for different labels. But this was the first time he'd ever been in the same room as a pride flag. 

There were other things on the walls. Posters for local gigs, job applications, helplines, flyers for recruitment. NA meeting dates, other groups and where they meet on which days. Clubs and activities looking for members. 

Ryan was unnerved by his own comfort. 

On one of their first nights, both awake and unable to relax enough to sleep without the other within their reach, they sit in the toilet downstairs, cool tiles nice against their hot skin as the nights begin to grow warmer. If anybody were to see them in here, they'd say they were smoking. This is where the other kids come to smoke, they've noticed. Instead, they just lie flat on the floor, shoulders melting together. 

“Was it ever nice to you?” Naim's whispered voice slices through the silent night. 

Ryan draws a blank. Not many things in life have shown him niceness. 

Naim reiterates, “The, uh, thing that looks like me? Was it ever, like, nice?” 

Thinking back, Ryan sighs. It always started with that cautious, gentleness in Naim's hands. Sweet touches, soft tugs. And then those hands turned sharp and hard and drew blood as easy as a sword. 

“I guess it would start kinda nice, ya know? But it was always more of an asshole than you.” It was bolder than Naim, too, but that might not come across well if he says that, too. Of course he's not calling Naim a coward, but the thing had this unobstructed bravery that made Ryan a fool. Making out in a photobooth in an open, public arcade was so stupid. Had he not almost died, and then been on an adrenaline high from almost dying, he'd have probably dropped dead at the thought of how embarrassing it was to let his guard down so much in a town that hates him for existing. 

He looks at Naim, only needing to turn his head slightly to gaze upon his whole face. His green eyes are up at the ceiling, until he catches Ryan looking and then they're on him, creased from a smile he can't help. Even from this distance, Ryan can smell the soap and shampoo he's been using. A nice change from the sweaty teenage boy smell, he'll admit. Still innately Naim-smelling, which both makes sense and doesn't. Small wonders of the world Ryan has stopped bothering to really think about.  

“Why? Was it nice to you?” Ryan wonders. 

Naim shrugs. “Back in Bandee, I dunno. It had this huge pipe over me, like I think it was about to smash my head in and I- I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't fight it so I just- I reached out. And touched it.”

“Touched it how?” Is it embarrassing that Ryan's jealous?  

“Like-” Then he instructs Ryan to straddle him. “Like this.” His hand reaches up to cup Ryan's cheek, choosing the uninjured side to hold. 

Ryan forgets to breathe. Naim laughs at him, but when he moves to get off, Naim keeps him in place. 

“What did it do?”

Face splitting into a funny, thoughtful smile, Naim says, “That. It froze, exactly like you did.” He pinches Ryan's face between his finger and thumb, smiling at how docile he becomes in his hands. “Maybe not as cute as you. But it was weird. Made me feel really bad for it. Is that fucked up?” 

“A little.” Sitting back against Naim's thighs, Ryan sighs. 

Naim smiles and throws a hand over his eyes, his other hand supporting his weight as he leans back. “First person ever to feel bad for a demon,” he snorts.

“Yeah, but it's not a demon, is it?” 

“Sure felt evil-”

“Did you, like, ever read the bible?” Ryan laughs. 

Red-faced, Naim admits, “I just went to church my with mum, alright? We weren't, like, that serious about it until my dad died.” 

He'll let him off, he guesses, and he jokes as much aloud. 

“So you actually know the bible in and out?” 

Ryan shrugs. “Some of it.” He imagines he knows more than he can think of off the top of his head. Burned into his memory somewhere alongside the cracking whip of a leather belt. Faith and fear always blurred together like that. 

He shifts. Naim's hand finds his thigh, high-up and cheeky. 

“The deliverance healer would've been, like, striked-dead if he summoned a demon, you know? Like, he literally couldn't summon anything other than something Holy,” he says, remembering hours spent in Hunter's living room with the rest of their school year, studying Exodus and Leviticus, every bible they had at their disposal. He'd been more interested in the grain of the wooden floorboards than the books, but the stories and cautionary tales stuck. “And we were the offerings.” 

So they're disobeying God and He is hunting them down with personalised torment. Who cares? 

Ryan learnt to fear God in the same sentence he learnt of God's existence. But you shall fear your God: I am the Lord. 

Enough of his life has been spent in fear and loathing and hatred. If that wretched town, and the rest of the world for all he's concerned, want to live in fear of the body they serve and worship, fine. Who is Ryan to get in the way of that? But he is through with pretending his terror is anything more than that. 

On a hot, sweaty bus ride early on, filled with loud, angry commuters and one particularly vulgar loudmouth shouting about preaching and sin, Naim had gone very still and very quiet. Said, “Mum said we need fear to survive. I'm scared, and I'm trying to make sure my heart is still beating.” 

They'll survive by their own hand from now on. Control their own feelings and live life without fear. 

And so he kisses him, slow and tender, with no intention of doing anything more than kissing him on this bathroom floor. He feels revitalised. Fuck, when he's kissing his boy, he feels like a God. 

Naim's hands find their way into Ryan's hair, nails scratching ever so lightly over the buzzed side. When he pulls back, he says, “You've gotta do something about this hair. Looks shit.” 

Scoffing, offended, Ryan pushes Naim's shoulders back. He goes back dramatically, landing on his elbows, clutching non-existent pearls. 

“Hey, I thought you quite liked how I looked!” 

“I used to!” Naim laughs. “Now you've got this fucked up punk thing going on. It's really bad, dude.” 

Ryan snorts, unable to pretend to be offended any longer. He never got around to asking for the hospital to do something about it. 

Laughter dying down, Naim goes all soft as he brushes lopsided curls around on Ryan's crown. “Want me to cut it?” He asks, suddenly procuring the razor from his pocket. 

“You've had that on you this whole time?” They were patted down and searched for this sort of shit, how on Earth did Naim keep that thing? 

Naim shrugs. “What if I had to defend myself?” 

Ryan would be lying if he said his heart rate didn't pick up, the memory of the blade in wrong-Naim's hand still fresh. 

“I am serious, though. Do you want me to shave the rest of your head?” He asks. “If you really like this look, I guess I can get used to it, probably. I'm just saying-”

“You'll- Like, you'll be gentle?” Ryan asks, which is a stupid question. Is the sky blue? Is the Pope Catholic? Does Ryan love Naim? 

“‘Course I will. C'mere.”

Ryan has been subjected to many wondrous displays of gentle affection from Naim. Each one leaves him a little more breathless than the last. It will kill him one day, he thinks. Kill him with kindness, or whatever that saying is about. 

He's sat on the closed toilet seat lid while Naim snips away curls with nail scissors left in the bathroom cabinet. There is absolutely no trace of the monster that grabbed his hair hard enough to leave bald patches. Just Naim's lithe fingers running through his curls, and then over stubby hair. 

Against his will, Ryan flinches at the glint of the razor in the corner of his eye. He apologises, closes his eyes, flinches again when it grazes along his scalp, cutting down his hair to one short length all over. Every time, Naim reassures him he's alright, pressing a kiss to his shoulder or back or neck.

When his nervous system has caught up to the fact that there is no threat around, only his Naim, he melts into the hands all over him. Held breaths turn into long sighs. Eyes close in relaxation rather than fear. Tense, straight shoulders become lounging slopes worthy of the best skiers. 

Naim says he's finished, and Ryan lets his head fall back. Naim runs his hands over his hair, or lack thereof, admiring his work, and Ryan melts into a puddle in his hands. Even cranes his neck all the way back to pout his lips in request of a kiss to convey his grace. 

Hands coming down to the back of his head and neck, Naim's thumb traces the thin scar along the side of his throat, and his other hand touches the healed scar that once severed his ear. 

“Oh my God, you're hard? You're literally hard over getting your hair cut?” Naim laughs, endeared and genuinely amused. 

Admittedly, Ryan had noticed his growing arousal but neglected to do anything about it. “I'm hard over you, cunt.” 

“How romantic.” 

“Piss off,” Ryan laughs, cheeks red. “Gonna do anything about it?” 

“About your erection? Nah.”

He has the gall to begin walking towards the door. Before he reaches it, Ryan snatches him by the wrist, standing up and pulling their bodies flush.

“Hmm,” Ryan smiles. “Let's see. What gets you hard, huh? My hand in your mouth?” To which he pushes his thumb past Naim's lips, watching him accept the intrusion and, begrudgingly, begin to suck. “Hmm? Good? How about-” He pushes his hand up beneath Naim's t-shirt to touch the side of his ribs without any broken ones. “-This?” 

Pulling off of his thumb, Naim smiles wide. “Not that.” He shakes his head. When Ryan asks for clarification, Naim goes red and says, “Like- Well, when we were fucking and you were using my ribs as, like, fuckin’ handlebars. Fuck, I think I saw God.” 

“Don't bring him into this.” 

Naim laughs, boyish and boisterous and definitely loud enough to get them caught. Just at that moment, someone knocks loudly on the door and a female voice asks them to knock it off because some people are trying to sleep. Again, Naim laughs, this time tucking his face against Ryan's neck. 

Naim turns eighteen at the beginning of January, five months before Ryan. This was something Ryan had teased him about in the lead up to his birthday, calling him a cradle robber and other unsavoury things. And then Naim said he hated his birthday because it was so overlooked by Christmas, and people were usually on vacation or celebrating the holidays so his parties were never very well-attended as a kid. Just another terribly sad fact about this unfairly sorrowful boy. 

So Ryan had planned to give him the best birthday ever. Woke up, early as usual, and headed into the room across from him to wake him up, roommate be damned. 

He found Naim's half of the room stripped bare, and the boy himself, four minutes later, sat outside the house on the curb. 

The sun was already powerful at the early hour of the morning, and Naim's pink shoulders glistened with sweat as proof. His head hung low, hair floppy in his eyes. All of his things were bundled into an empty looking black bin bag that he fisted in one hand. The other clicked his lighter on and off. On and off. Ryan had forgotten about it. 

Now a legal adult, Naim was no longer welcome in a youth home, he explains in a soft, sullen voice making him sound the exact opposite of adult. 

“Where're we going, then?” Ryan asks. 

Naim looks up at Ryan, over his hot shoulders, squinting at the sun until Ryan moves to block it so he can look in his eyes. Something washes over Naim's face, inexplicable and miraculous, his mouth forming a small ‘o’ and his eyes creating the picture of acceptance. 

Still, he shakes his head and says, “I can't ask you to do that.”

“Good thing you're not asking then,” Ryan says. 

Pained, Naim says, “You have a bed, and breakfast every morning and a shower and- and I could probably visit so it'll be fine and-” His words lack soul and heart, like he doesn't believe it himself. He drops his head with a sigh. 

“Shut up. I go where you go.” 

Naim says nothing. 

Worried something's wrong, Ryan pleads, “Look at me?” 

Naim shakes his head. “You look like an angel,” he whispers, clicking his lighter frantically like it'll save him from something. 

Ryan chuckles, “What?” 

Frustrated and adolescent, Naim huffs. “I said you look like an angel, okay? The fucking sun behind you and shit, it's making you, like, glow. I dunno.” He's worse at giving compliments than he is at taking them. Still, Ryan beams down at him and Naim rolls his eyes. “Fuck. You're so fucking pretty. Who the fuck let you look like that?” 

Pretty. Ryan's been called a lot of things in his life, always considered charming in his looks or mannerisms. Well behaved, well groomed. Until he wasn't, and then he was a handsome heartbreaker. But nobody's ever called him pretty. 

He finds it hard to believe. Him? Pretty? With his shitty, scraggy haircut too short to style and just regaining a curl? With his scarred face and worse off body? His worn, torn clothes? His wretched, tainted soul? Yeah right. Nothing pretty about that. 

Naim's violently fluorescent blush says otherwise. 

“Oh my God, you don't even know it, do you?” Naim mutters in disbelief.

“Fuck off.” His cheeks burn. “We're not talking about me. We're talking about us. What are we going to do?”

Rolling his eyes some more, Naim pockets his lighter and pulls out a handful of folded pieces of paper. A small selection of pamphlets about local schemes to aid the homeless, shelters and communities with numbers to call to check availability of beds. “They're what the lady at the church gave us, remember? I realised I kept them when I packed up my things an hour ago. I just… I don't know what other options we have.” 

Ryan remembers flicking through the leaflets early on because none of them were overly Christian-affiliated, which stuck out to him. Odd, since they got them from a Christian lady inside of a church, and Christians usually love to use good deeds as evidence of purity and innocence and superiority. At the time, he was still put off by the idea. Untrusting. Now…

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. We can do that.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ryan squats down to the floor until they're at face height with each other. “Like you said, what other options do we have?” 

Naim looks like he wants to point out the fact that Ryan does have other options, but he says nothing like that. Just, “Okay. I can call around to shelters, if you want? While you pack up your stuff?” 

Ryan nods, kissing him quickly. He pulls away to stand, but Naim's hand had snaked around to the back of his neck and pulls him back in for a second, hotter kiss. Deeper, needier. Like uttering a desperate prayer before bed, like saying grace and meaning it. 

Shelters offer them a place to rest their weary heads and small portions of food where available. But there is a community there as well. One Ryan wasn't expecting. 

He finds those like him, desperately clutching worm rosary beads or golden crosses around their necks, muttering prayer. Some like him in other ways, talking of long lost lovers to sicknesses and sin. And then complete strangers, with addictions refused to be recognised as illnesses by people who can help, ex-convicts nobody was willing to give a second chance to. Deeply unfortunate people who find themselves surrounded by similarly misfortune crowds.

Sometimes, Ryan will get lost in his head and sit and stare at a blank wall for hours, considering how he had been so fooled by the preaching and ceremonials that he'd believed for a few years. He thinks about his horrid religion and the pain it has caused. All the dead kids who loved wrong. All the kids who'll never be free. How did a belief built on the bloody back of a man's self-sacrificial kindness become a monstrous thing that feeds off of fear and blood? 

Because Ryan can be kind. He can help others and he can love thy neighbour. He can help the poor and the sick, he can share and be generous and kind and good. He can be good. Am I good? 

Those who have trusted in God may be careful to devote themselves to doing what is good.

Ryan has an emptiness within him that devotion feeds off of. A need for love. Little did he know, that vacuum was perfectly Naim shaped. A place for his devotion to go towards, somebody to believe in and worship. Something Holy. 

They have been showering at a local free gym. Heading inside, swimming in the indoor pool in the mornings, and showing like they're at a spa resort. This is their morning routine.

After, Naim heads out to work, because he actually had a job before he turned eighteen and has somehow managed to maintain his employment status despite being homeless. Ryan is yet to find a job. 

He's unemployed and homeless and he's still a kid and his scars will never fade completely. And he's supposed to believe that God has a plan? Is his plan torture? Is God John Kramer? Is life just one big Saw trap and God is a stupid fucking puppet on a tricycle? 

Fucking laughable. Pathetic. 

Regardless, Naim can only earn so much. He makes minimum wage, but he gets good tips as a waiter at a seafood restaurant and cocktail bar. He's taking up double shifts wherever possible and working himself to the bone working nine days a week or something ridiculous. Most of the money he earns gets spent on his bus fare to and from (if no one can drop him off after) his shift because the walk is unbearably far after a long shift on his feet. Plus, he's buying them both food, and slipping the suspicious desk workers at the gym a bit of hush money to continue to let them use the showers, and sending Ryan down to the laundromat with a small wad of cash to get their clothes clean. Because one of them has a job and the other is actively looking for one they both need to dress respectfully as well, so they're in thrift stores purchasing smart shirts and trousers without rips in them, shoes with mostly intact soles. Living hand to mouth and they don't even have a home yet. 

Good thing, Ryan reminds himself, that his home resides within the cathedral of Naim's ribcage. 

The job market doesn't want a scrawny kid with scars and a bad haircut and a worse attitude, so the job hunt is rarely successful. He's even asked the receptionist at the gym if they're in need of a lifeguard, or another receptionist, or a cafe worker or a janitor or anything. The receptionist at the time, a young lady with piercings and tattoos, apologetically relayed the news that they were not hiring, but she would let him know as soon as something came up. He couldn't wait that long. 

They need a place to stay. The homeless shelters cannot be a forever thing. He can't keep moving from center to center, he can't hope his and Naim's spots in the shelter have been taken up by someone else. It is torture to want a future and to only be able to see a cardboard box on the side of the road as a feasible option. 

They deserve a flat, or a little house somewhere in the suburbs, or a ranch on a big piece of land where nobody can bother them. They deserve enough clothes to fit in a wardrobe, they deserve meals they can make with food from their kitchen and eat at their table. They deserve a bed to consecrate and rest in, a bathroom that only they have used, a front door with keys they own, windows with glass to polish regularly, surfaces to dust floors to vacuum. 

More. Better. A life. 

Call him greedy, he's already a cardinal sinner. 

One morning, Ryan waits with Naim at the bus stop and asks if he can get him a job. Naim makes a face, scrunching his nose and brows like a bunny. 

“What?” Ryan scoffs. “Don't you wanna work with me?” 

“No no, I can ask.” 

“No, what is it?” Ryan insists. 

Naim rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Urgh. Nothing. It's just, like, it's my job. I wanna be professional,” he says. There's a lobster and a catfish waltzing on the back of his work uniform t-shirt and he's blabbering on about professionalism. Pfft. Okay. “Plus,” he sings, “the brunch ladies tip way better when they're served by a dashing young bachelor. They love me.” 

Ryan blinks. Hard. “They think you're single?” Jealousy burns inside of him. Whoops, there goes another cardinal sin. Three out of seven now. 

Naim shrugs, nonplussed. 

“No no, sorry. They think you're single? What else, do they think you're straight, too?” Ryan pushes. 

“They think whatever they want to think, I don't know.” His smile is endearing. “What, are you jealous? Would you rather I introduce myself like, ‘Hi, my name is Naim and I'll be your server today. I am in a very serious relationship with a guy and we are homeless right now so please still tip me like you have a chance with me. Can I interest you in any of our specials today?’” He laughs wildly. 

“You think you're funny.”

“I know I'm funny-” 

Ryan pushes his shoulders. “Fuck off.”

“Bus is here,” Naim points toward the approaching vehicle. Ryan pouts his lips. “I'll ask my manager, okay? I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” 

They kiss goodbye and Ryan takes himself on a walk to distract himself from his quiet, empty day.  

“You're Naim's friend?” 

Ryan looks up at the voice, checking over his shoulder to make sure it is him being addressed and not someone who is friends with Naim. Nope, nobody behind him. Just Ryan. 

He cocks his head to the side, smirking. Naim had warned him he'd told his boss his friend was looking for work. Ryan takes a second to compose himself, remembering how he and his friend Naim had hooked up at the back of the bus on their way to their shifts today. Then, cheeks hot, he says, “Oh, yeah. That's me.” 

He's elbow deep in dishwater with stacks of plates and bowls of forks he should be cleaning until they sparkle. Naim got him a job, but not front of house like him. Back of house. The furthest back he could get while still being inside the building. Potwasher. 

The person speaking to him is a girl probably a few years older than him. She's got blonde hair pulled back with a flower shaped clip holding her hair in a ponytail flowing down her shoulders. She is who Ryan has been led to believe is the floor manager, despite still looking too young to have any sort of management role. 

Arms crossed, the girl (Megan, maybe? It's only his third shift, he hasn't memorised people's names yet) rakes her eyes up and down Ryan, inspecting every detail of him. 

Apparantly earning her approval, she nods her head and says, “Alright. Lunch rush is almost over so you'll be able to breathe soon. Find me on your break? I have questions.”

Ryan gulps, agreeing. Since when was he intimidated by people his age? He used to shove kids into lockers! He's the one who's supposed to be doing the intimidating! Haven't you seen his scars? His edgy demeanor?

Who has he become? 

The day before Ryan turns eighteen, he and Naim head out to a close by beach town, reminiscing on their nomadic lives. It isn't warm, and they have the money to spend on a cheap hotel room now, so it isn't exactly like the good ol’ times. But it's close enough that a giddy adrenaline runs through the pair, making them feel romantically free.

On the beach, sand cool beneath the towel they're sitting on, a chill permeates their jeans and thick sweaters. The sun is just starting to set, the tide out far. 

The sea calls to Ryan in a voice from his childhood, reminiscent of summers spent at sandy resorts learning to surf and scuba dive. His older sister's a pro swimmer, going places if her uni career takes her there. Or at least she was the last he heard from her over a year ago.

Memories of his family make him feel small and lost sometimes, but far less often than it used to now Naim is glued to his side. 

“I think I'm gunna put a heart around it,” Ryan says, scribbling his name on Naim's skin with a blue ballpoint pen. 

Naim tuts. “Don't make it tacky.” 

“It's not tacky, it's romantic,” Ryan pouts, defensive. 

“It's fucking cringe.”

Pausing his penmanship, Ryan pulls back to blink at Naim. “We're tattooing our names on each other,” he says flatly, in case Naim had forgotten. “Duh, it's cringe.” And then he mutters, in false yet convincing offense, “Thought it was a nice romantic gesture.” Because whenever he acts all pouty and upset, Naim sees to it that he must kiss his frown upside down. 

“Hey, it's cute.” And like clockwork, Naim tilts Ryan's chin upward, and pulls him in for a chaste, sweet kiss. It's a short kiss, a quick one that leaves them both still smiling. When he speaks, their lips brush as he says, “Just don't make it ugly.” 

Instead of checking whether the design on his wrist is or isn't ugly, Ryan surges forward to kiss Naim again, harder and filthier than the last. The kiss doesn't go further than a bit of making out, although it would be so easy to take it further. A hand down the front of his jeans comes as naturally as breathing, and they've gotten good at being quiet. 

In the end, Naim agrees to a heart, only if Ryan also gets one. Still, he has his protests. “I feel like we shouldn't do this on a beach. What if sand gets in it?” He says, holding his arm away from Ryan. 

Rolling his eyes, Ryan says, “If you don't want this, fine. Just say.”

“No I do! I do. Just-” And he drifts off, clearly worried about something or other. 

“We've done worse on a beach, remember?” Ryan smirks at him, hand on his ankle, pinching his skin beneath his baggy jeans. 

Naim returns the smirk. “Yeah, I know. I don't wanna get an infection, that's all.” 

“Hey- I have clean hands thank you very much, you're not going to get an infection.” 

Their DIY tattoo kit is a small jar of Indian ink Ryan racked from some craft store for no reason other than the rush of committing a crime, a sharp sewing needle also stolen at some point from someone or other, hand sanitizer, Naim's lighter, a ballpoint pen stolen from the restaurant, and vodka. Speaking of, Ryan drinks some of the vodka straight from the bottle, and then takes a second mouthful, not swallowing it but leaning in and opens Naim's mouth with a tilt of his chin, spitting the vodka into his mouth. 

“Swallow that,” he says. “The drunker you are, the less it'll hurt.”

“Yeah, and the thinner my blood will be so the more likely I am to bleed out,” Naim protests, having already swallowed.

“You're not gonna bleed out.” 

With little protest left, Naim relents. He is stiff and worrisome as Ryan sanitizes everything to the best of his ability, but once Ryan gets to work he starts to relax. At first, he can't watch. By the end, he's hunched over and blocking the last of the light. 

The stick'n'poke is clearly amateur at best, rough around the edges and uneven. A sharp, angular heart that very clearly reads Ryan's name in a jagged version of his handwriting. 

Finished, admiring his work, Ryan swigs from the vodka. “Done. Your turn,” he declares. 

All of a sudden, Naim loves the idea. No more fears of infection or hesitancy. He is quick to grab the pen, helps hoist down Ryan's jeans to give him access to his thigh. Scribbles out his name and eagerly sets out to disinfect the needle and start on his work. 

Ryan leans back as he is repeatedly stabbed, watching Naim work. His focus is distracting from the pain - the furrow in his brow, how his tongue keeps darting out of the corner of his mouth. The rough grip he has on the soft flesh of Ryan's leg is intoxicating, how he manhandles his skin, how he's got his leg on top of Ryan's knee to keep him in place. 

This was such a good idea. 

“Is it weird that this is kinda turning me on?” Naim asks as he finishes the lettering. 

“Of course it does, freak,” Ryan lovingly fires. 

“Hey, only kinda!” 

“Kinda? Dude, aliens on the moon can see your dick right now,” Ryan laughs. 

“Don't call me dude and talk about my dick in the same sentence.” Still, he laughs anyway. 

“Hurry up,” Ryan says, ignoring his comment. “I wanna get to the fun stuff.” He sits up, looking up close at how much left Naim has to, mostly just to annoy him. 

It works and Naim pushes him back. “Don't mess it up. I'm almost done.”  

Impatient and ever the tease, Ryan slides a hand into past the elastic band of his boxers, stroking himself. 

“Fuck-” Naim chews his lip, eyes unsure where to look, Ryan's dick or at the tattoo he's supposed to be doing. Making the decision for him, Ryan lifts his hips to pull down his boxers, touching himself the whole  still. He is gracious for the mostly gone sun, because he's concealed but he can still make out the raging flush over Naim's cheeks as he squeals, “Fuck, don't move. Let me finish this-”

(He does not get to finish the tattoo. And, on Ryan's leg, the heart remains unfinished.)

“I think I wanna live somewhere like this,” Ryan says to the ceiling fan. 

A few beats later comes Naim's breathless, “Yeah?” 

“Hmm.” 

Chuckling, Naim parrots his Hmm. A habit he's picked up since they first started hanging out, just repeating this specific sound Ryan finds himself saying more often than he realised now someone says it back to him. It makes Ryan's chest feel like springtime. 

“It's quiet, though,” Naim says. Which translates to It's not busy enough to always feel surrounded by people. Just in case. 

“I like quiet.” 

The room is quiet. Neighbours sound asleep, karaoke night at the bar across the street long since finished. No constant traffic noise or people walking past. They can be quiet here, or loud. Or a middle ground, a goldilocks volume they're comfortable with. This place feels endlessly open. 

“That's not what I meant,” Naim says. 

At his side, Naim takes his hand into his all of a sudden, drawing it up to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. In bed together, sheet draped over their tangled legs, it is easy to see each other. The bedside lamp casts a warm, dim light over everything. Even then, Ryan finds no difficulty in seeing Naim next to him.

He puts his mouth where his hand is, kissing Naim. “I know.” 

Naim scratches Ryan's head, threading his fingers through his growing back hair. It's almost long enough now to cut down the sides like he used to style it. It's clear Naim prefers it with a bit of length, too. 

“But I'm not scared anymore.” 

Naim's eyes sparkle in the low light as he takes in Ryan's confession. After a moment, he agrees with a simple, “Same.” 

Fingers interlinked, Naim raises their hands via a bend in the elbow. In front of them, he opens his hand, Ryan's following without instruction, as if commanded by Naim's stream of thought. Palm to palm, they could be in joint prayer. 

The serpentine ring once belonging to Ryan shimmers on Naim's finger. Similarly, Naim's old jewellery is snug on Ryan's hand, where it sparkles in the light. 

He has been eighteen for sixteen minutes, and Ryan begins to consider marriage. 

Not in the way he should, but rather what qualifies as a marriage? A certificate of legality? Vows shared before a large crowd? A promise to one another and to God? Or is love enough? 

He and Naim swapped rings so long ago, does that count? Maybe not in the eyes of the Lord or the law. Maybe not by most. But to Ryan… Well, they skipped the whole boyfriends thing and went straight to husbands as far as he's concerned. 

“I've been saving money,” Naim says. “And I've been looking at bigger flats.” Currently, they make just enough between them to pay rent on a gross apartment no bigger than a closet. But it's theirs. “But I guess we could start looking at moving to the coast.” 

“Yeah?” Hope blooms all over Ryan like pins and needles. 

“Yeah. Why not?” Naim hums to himself. “I could see us out here. A place by the beach, jobs in some bar or diner or whatever. It could work.”

“We could open our own place,” Ryan thinks aloud. He can just see it. Worn, wooden decks filled with bustling tables full of full-up customers. A small dining area inside, a smaller kitchen to work in. Something family owned and ran. Some place full of love. 

“Maybe in a decade,” Naim snorts. “No way we could afford to now. But I like the idea.” 

“Hmm,” Ryan says fondly. 

“Hmm,” comes Naim's echo. 

“I'll pick up surfing again,” Ryan says. “I could teach you?” 

“I don't think I'd be very good.”

Which is nonsense, because he rides a skateboard like Tony Hawk but wasn't allowed one because it was too evil or a bad influence or whatever. He's obtained a board from somewhere and now doesn't need to take the bus for work, saving him so much money. 

“Shut up,” Ryan says. And in case he didn't get the idea, he rolls on top of him and kisses his mouth, sealing his lips for him. 

The kiss breaks with a wet pop and a strand of spit hanging from their lips like a cobweb. Naim grins, all cheesy and loving. Kisses him again and again, over his cheeks and nose. He beams, “I am so fucking happy we got out of that place.”

“Same.” Brushing his hair out of his eyes, Ryan thinks he could count his eyelashes. “Thank you. For getting me out.”

“Thanks for coming with.” 

“Anytime.” Anytime. Anywhere. Any place. Anything. “I'd do anything for you.”

Naim touches his cheek, “I know. I love you for it.” He pulls Ryan down for a kiss, not letting him say his love back but knowing it all the same.