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They’ve got less than four hundred bucks on them. Naim only had a creased twenty in his wallet when he got out of his mother’s car, the rest is Ryan’s, crumpled bills he’s been nicking from his parents for ages now. Meant for what, “I don’t even know,” he admitted sheepishly, exhaustion bleeding from his eyes, “Maybe for this.”
Ryan sits on the yellowing laminate floor of the bathroom while Naim showers, visible the entire time through the hard water build up clouding the shower curtain a milky white. He lends Naim a pair of clean underwear to wear, navy boxer briefs that match the bruises spotting Naim’s body, all the places that thing slammed into him, and held him down, and hurt him—
“I don’t have any clothes.” Naim says stupidly to the blurry outline of Ryan moving behind the shower curtain when it’s his turn.
[Or: Naim and Ryan, after]
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Sometimes he’s mad at his mum. Mostly he’s mad at himself.
“Why are you mad at yourself?” The counselor asks patiently.
Naim chews his cheek. There’s a ridge on the inside of his left cheek. He must have bitten himself the night it came into his house.
She waits for him to answer. He waits out the clock.
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Bookmark Notes:
They find an all night diner, share a steak and onion sandwich, pass a chilled bottle of Coke between them. It's the closest thing to a kiss they’ve shared since before Izzy set them up to get beaten—since before Ryan learned the truth in the worst way he could have learned because Naim was too much a coward to tell him when he should have from the start, should have been brave and asked him about Hunter instead of—