Chapter Text
Naim was a quiet kid, and an even quieter teen. He grew up in the suburbs of Adelaide, in a small, colorless home. A square house, with a grey roof, white walls, and grey floors. A house that had wooden crosses hung on every wall, and small, bronze statues of biblical figures on every shelf.
It was a quiet home, and it birthed a quiet child.
All his life, there was only one escape for Naim, one thing that allowed him to be heard: his art.
It was a limitless canvas of feeling. A speech without the words, a thought without the explanation, a tear without the cry. Naim was quiet, so he wasn't good with words. But he was good with this feeling, and the beauty of its creation.
So, when Naim turned eighteen, he left his quiet, colorless home, and never looked back.
Early October brought a windy evening to Melbourne, the breeze settling goosebumps over Naim's neck, making him pull the collar of his jacket closer. The cup in his hands helps a little; the coffee burnt, but fresh. It's much too late for caffeine, but as Naim brings the cup to his mouth the steam warms his nose, and he lets out a sigh.
He had promised to help Hunter at seven o’clock. A quick look at this phone reveals it's currently 7:38. And that he has seventeen missed calls. Shit.
Naim quickens his steps.
Hunter's working on his final piece for uni, some contemporary short film that Naim vaguely registered the theme of while listening to Hunter rant about it for forty minutes. He's pretty sure it's about flowers, or zombies, or romance. A zombie romance.
Something like that.
Hunter had asked Naim to paint a backdrop for the film. And by “asked,” he had texted Naim up to thirty times an hour for three days straight, detailing how much he hates him, and how he'd “dump all of his clothes into a landfill” if Naim didn't help him out. Then he got Ryan to ask, once Naim blocked his number. So Naim reluctantly agreed, despite having his own things to do for uni.
He had asked Naim to create a “splotched, concrete looking thing.” Whatever the fuck that means.
As if on cue, his phone starts ringing again. The squeaky noise of an off tune saxophone blares loudly on the sparse street, and Naim rolls his eyes.
Ryan had set that ringtone for Hunter, as well as the few other contacts Naim had in his phone, and he hadn't gotten around to changing it yet.
It had been after a long night, and one too many glasses of wine. Ryan stole his phone, leaving nearly forty pictures in his wake, and Naim passed out before he got it back. When he woke up the next day— his head splitting open with a killer headache, and the earsplitting squealing coming from his phone— he had nearly had a heart attack.
He was going to change it back. Eventually.
Naim lets the call go to voicemail for the eighteenth time as he finally reaches Hunter's apartment. It's a small, cramped place on the ground level, which he shares with two other guys Naim couldn't remember the names of. There's the low hum of a bass coming from the other side of the door; the rumble nearly drowning out Naim's knocking, and making the door handle shake on its loose bolts. Naim was pretty sure Hunter's neighbors had filed multiple noise complaints on them at this point, but one of Hunter's roommates (Brad? Bry? Brooke?) clearly didn't care much.
When the door opens to reveal Hunter, Naim has to suppress his laugh. He looks like an elderly woman about to scold a child— his hands on his hips, and a look on his face that can only be described as a cross between a grimace and a scowl.
And he's tapping his foot on the ground in anger.
Naim coughs.
“You're late.” Yeah. No shit.
“I got held up at the library. Some lady needed help finding, like, twenty books.”
“I don't care. You're late.”
Naim holds up the cardboard tray in his hands, as if revealing a consolation prize. “I brought coffee, though.” Hunter's face clears ever so slightly.
He moves to the side, letting Naim squeeze into the small entryway, and lifts the tray from his hands as he passes. Naim goes to unzip his jacket— only for the sleeve to get caught in the teeth. He curses under his breath, and starts yanking his arm against the old zipper until it gives. The brief snag slows him down, so before he has time to hang his jacket in the small coat cupboard, and bolt further into the apartment, Hunter turns to face him.
“I called you. Eighteen times, actually.” His tone is accusing, and Naim avoids his gaze as he slips off his old sneakers, kicking them until they rest up against the wall.
“My phone died.” Hunter stares at him for a few seconds, very clearly suspicious. Naim has no reason to lie— he and Hunter do not like each other, a fact they've settled between themselves. But, Naim has promised Ryan he'd play nice, so he was going to at least try.
Hunter gives in and starts to hum an answer, only to be cut off by the dinging of an incoming text from said “dead phone.” His face instantly sours again.
Naim hears a giggle from further in the apartment.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, Naim ignores Hunter grumbling under his breath. He pushes his way past Naim— making sure to slam his shoulder into Naim's collarbone— and stomps down the hall into the apartment. He can hear the low grumble of a familiar voice hidden somewhere around the corner, the words too low to understand. He pulls up the text, trying to read around the crack in his screen, and listens to the loud cackle that echoes down the small hallway.
If he smiles to himself, there's no one there to see it.
The text is from Jessica; a coworker of Naim's from the local library. She's a year ahead of him at uni, studying visual art just like him, and they had quickly bonded during the slow, quiet days of working behind a counter.
She's the only person Naim has allowed himself to think of as a friend.
Besides Ryan.
Jess🙈: you left you're sketch book in the back room btw, i think i got to it before anyone else👍 have fun dealing with lameo and pretty face
Jess🙈: also your portraits are amazing. sorry i’m a snoop but it's your fault for romantically drawing your roommate and leaving it somewhere for someone to find 🤷🏻♀️
Naim powers his phone off, and tosses it onto the small hall table.
Walking deeper into the apartment, Naim sees Ryan half laying on the couch, bent over his laptop and practically inhaling his coffee. There's this moment every time Naim sees the other boy— a moment where his breath hitches in a way that stings, and an odd feeling settles in his gut. He feels like he's looking at something that's not real, but simultaneously something too real. It's a feeling he can't put into words, his brain freezing up every time he tries, like it's a nonhuman thing. Something from another universe that he's not meant to be feeling, but somehow it snuck under his skin and into his bones, anyway.
But then blue eyes slide up to meet his— icy from the glow of the laptop screen— and he forces himself to walk the rest of the way to the couch.
Between the short distance, Naim takes in the details of him— the hood of his green sweater bunched up around the nape of his neck, pushing up his blond curls, leaving them unkept and sweeping against his forehead. His legs curled up under him, his white and blue plaid pajama pants rumpled and covering his bare feet. The silver band around his right ring finger. The chipped black polish on his nails, stark against the white foam cup where his nails dig into it, leaving crescents behind.
Naim takes a deep breath, throwing himself on the couch with a sigh. The furniture isn't the most comfortable, but it feels like a cloud compared to the old, wireframed chair behind the library desk. Closing his eyes and leaning his head back, Naim tries to rub out the knot in his neck. His shoulders have been killing him lately. Between work, uni, and his thin twin sized mattress, his body is in a constant state of aching.
Naim can hear Hunter around the corner, banging on a door and yelling to “turn that awful screeching shit down!”
This was nothing new. Hunter got on well with his other roommate; a guy with shoulder length black hair and almost unnaturally black eyes, who is studying medicine and spends more time at the library than at home. Naim sees him almost daily there. He thinks his name is Oliver. Or maybe Owen.
Hunter’s other roommate, however, he can argue with for hours.
The music abruptly cuts off, leaving a loud silence in the apartment. Naim opens his eyes, and sees Ryan looking at him.
Naim met Ryan at the start of the year, after applying for a shared unit two minutes from campus. He was already there the day Naim moved in, sitting on the kitchen counter shirtless, jamming a screwdriver into his broken radio button. He didn't notice Naim standing there, staring like a creep, for at least four minutes.
When he did notice him, he smiled so big Naim was sure he had to have pulled a muscle in face.
They didn't talk as Ryan helped carry in two of Naim's three suitcases, or when Naim unjammed the radio button. Or when they sat crisscrossed on the empty living room floor, eating takeout and listening to an electropop station.
Naim was scared to start the conversation— he was never good with words, never good with people. He couldn't screw this up. He couldn't be kicked out, forced to go crawling back to his mother, and that silent house. People have told him how odd he was, how awkward, so he just stayed quiet.
Oddly enough though, he didn't feel the need to talk. The silence was strangely nice. Naim didn't know this guy sitting across from him, but he felt like he somehow did. Like the space between them was natural, something that's always been there.
Ryan spoke first. They were standing in the kitchen, hip to hip in the small room, Ryan putting their dishes in the sink and Naim throwing the food boxes into the rubbish bin.
“Ryan.” The sudden noise spooked Naim, and he dropped the last box on the floor.
“What?”
The other boy laughed— a big thing that required all thirty two of his teeth, leaving his eyes crinkled and light. The low rumble echoed in his voice, even as he explained, “Ryan. My name's Ryan.”
“Oh. Naim.”
“Yes, my name.”
“No,” Naim said with a small chuckle. “I mean- my name's Naim.”
“Your name is Naim?”
“Yes,” Naim’s heard all the quips before, so he just went back to throwing the takeout box away.
But before he could turn around fully, he saw Ryan smiling. Not a teasing smile, but a light, honest one. He had looked Naim up and down, then. And it was such a quick thing, Naim convinced himself he imagined it. What he knows for sure he didn't imagine, though, is Ryan sticking his hand out— bent at the elbow to accommodate the small space between them— and lightly tapping his finger against Naim's pulse when he met him halfway.
“Well, it's very nice to meet you Naim.”
The bang of a door pulls Naim from his thoughts, and he realizes he's probably been staring at Ryan for five whole minutes. Hunter's roommate comes storming from his room: Brice, or whoever. He's a tall boy, with bright blue hair gelled into spikes, and various silver piercings on his face that stick out against his dark skin. He doesn't spare either Naim or Ryan a glance as he takes a jacket with patches on it, and stomps through the front door, slamming it on the way out.
Naim can see the loose doorknob rattle before settling.
When he turns back around, Ryan's still looking at him.
“Is your shoulder hurting again?” He asks, his voice soft but loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.
“It's not too bad.” Ryan looks like he's about to reply, the crease in his brow saying he doesn't believe Naim for a second, but before he can, Hunter comes back around the corner. Rubbing his temple, he lets out a loud, dramatic sigh.
“I can't stand that fucker,” he says, throwing himself down next to Ryan. The couch is small, with little cushion room, and it's clear he makes an effort to not touch the other boy.
They've been dating for nearly five months now: Hunter and Ryan. Naim knew this. Everyone did, surprisingly. They had met in their film classes, and despite Ryan going on multiple rants about how annoying he is, they were dating within two weeks of meeting. Naim didn't understand their relationship, to say the least. They didn't kiss, they didn't hold hands. In fact, they made an effort to not touch each other.
It wasn't for the effort of hiding. They weren't open and loud about their relationship, but they never denied any rumors either. Instead, letting people quietly learn the truth. And despite everyone eventually figuring it out, they still acted distant with each other.
Naim's only sure they're actually dating because he shares an apartment with Ryan, and the wall between their rooms is very thin.
Naim never asked about it, but he was disgustingly curious.
“So- your art stuff,” Hunter says. “Did you finish it?”
Naim rolls his eyes. “No, I did not finish it. It's been a week, Hunter.”
“Yeah. Seven days isn't enough?”
“You want me to paint an eight foot backdrop in seven days, on top of uni and work?”
“Give it a rest, Hunter.” Ryan cuts in, never taking his eyes off his laptop screen. “You already knew it wasn't ready, quit trying to start shit.”
That makes Hunter pout. Yes, pout, and cross his arms. He leans further into the cushion behind him until he's basically folded in half. Naim really doesn't know what Ryan sees in him.
He clears his throat. “I’m not really sure what ‘splotched, concrete looking thing’ means, but I sketched out some ideas. It's just- I left my sketchbook at the library.” The look Hunter sends Naim has him picking at his nails.
It’s an ugly habit he got from his mother, leaving small scars around his cuticles. He's always been a fidgeter when nervous; which was to say all of the time.
“Of course you did.”
“We have time, Hunter.” Ryan says. “Lay off Naim, you're being a twat.”
“When you're old and ugly, you're going to look back thinking ‘wow, I should've cared more about that shit film I made. Now I’m a broke bum, and a loser.’”
“We're nineteen, mate.”
Naim snorts.
Hunter sends him an offensive look that very clearly translates to shut the hell up.
“Humph, fine!” Hunter hops up from the couch— arms still crossed— and drags his feet towards the small kitchenette.
“Where are you going?” Ryan asks.
“To get something better than coffee.” His voice is clipped and low, very clearly annoyed.
Ryan looks up from his laptop, rolling his eyes at Naim. Naim smirks back, trying to not laugh when Hunter's such a short distance away, and would surely hear him. He knows Hunter is sensitive about the way he and Ryan poke fun at him. And while he hates the guy, he's not cruel.
Hunter's loud as he bangs around the cabinet doors, the clanking of glass loud as he pulls cups out. Somewhere along the way, it had become a common thing for the three of them to end the night with a glass or two of cheap wine. Only, it typically happened around 2AM, after hours of working on uni work.
Ryan shuts his laptop with a quiet click, a shadow falling over his face under the dim ceiling light. “You going to the party tomorrow?” The question’s aimed towards Naim.
Hunter knows some rich guy with a rich house, who is known for his parties. Or, rather, Hunter’s roommate does, and therefore Hunter always gets the first invites. Because of this, Naim has known about this house party for nearly three weeks now.
Naim doesn’t like parties; something Ryan was aware of, after being the person to drag Naim to his very first one. Naim spent the night in a corner, watching Ryan as he drank, and danced, and took body shots off a tennis player.
Despite all the people, it was lonely. And loud. Something Naim was not used to, after years of silence.
After the first hour, he had a panic attack on the front lawn.
So, no, he was not going to this party.
“Eh-”
“You don’t have to,” Ryan says. “I’ve been meaning to watch that new space movie. The one with the rock. I can pick up some popcorn.”
Before Naim can reply, Hunter cuts in. “You’re going. But not wearing that.”
Naim looks down at himself; he’s wearing a beige shirt, the too big fabric hanging loose and low over his frame, showing his collarbones. There’s an emu on it, the print faded and rubbing off, making the bird have no eyes. The knees of his brown jeans are washed, his socks a mitch matched blue and pink on his feet.
He looks towards the kitchenette. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
Hunter scrunches up his nose, giving him a look that says really?
Ryan’s laughing at him.
“I’m not going, anyway.”
“You are. There’s someone I have to introduce you to.” That confuses him. They’re not friends, and Naim had no interest in meeting any of Hunter’s mates. He’s heard enough about the group Hunter hangs around, and he wants to stay far away from that.
Naim sends a questing look to Ryan, but he’s not looking at him anymore; too busy picking at the polish on his nails, the smile gone from his face.
“Introduce me to who?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hunter says, walking back towards the couch, cradling cups in the folds of his arms. “Now, who’s thirsty?”
Ryan’s hand shoots up.