Work Text:
“The blood isn't the worst part; it’s the smell of the steam,” Ricky gasps, though the words are barely a whisper, drowned out by the violent, rhythmic heaving of his own chest.
He is sprinting, his boots skidding through the damp October mulch of the Pine Barrens, the air tasting of salt and decaying cedar. Behind him, the memory of the deer—the sudden, sickening *thwack* of the bullet and the way the animal’s legs had buckled in a frantic, jarring spasm—is a physical weight pressing against his diaphragm. He can still feel the recoil vibrating in his shoulder, a ghost-shudder that makes his stomach flip.
He doesn't stop until he sees it: a skeletal structure of grey timber and sagging porches, an abandoned house that looks like it’s being slowly swallowed by the encroaching brush. Ricky doesn't think; he just lunges. He hits the back door with the full weight of his shoulder, the wood groaning and giving way with a wet, splintering crack that echoes through the silent woods.
“Ricky! Stop!” Alfonso’s voice is a jagged streak through the air.
He and Freddy are breathless, their faces flushed a deep, frantic red as they burst through the treeline. They scramble inside the threshold just as the heavy door slams shut behind them, the rusted latch clicking into place with a finality that feels like a trap. The interior is a tomb of dust and mildew. Ricky collapses against the wall, his knees hitting the floorboards with a dull thud. The world is tilting; the adrenaline that fueled his flight is evaporating, leaving behind a cold, shaking nausea. He curls inward, his fingers clutching his stomach, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.
“We’re locked in,” Alfonso says, his voice tight. He reaches out, his palm landing heavy and warm on Ricky’s shoulder. He can feel Ricky trembling—a fine, high-frequency vibration that speaks of true panic. “The handle’s gone. It’s just a spindle.”
Alfonso steps closer, his body a solid, grounding heat. He wraps an arm around Ricky’s torso, hauling him upward, tucking Ricky’s head against his chest to keep him from sliding back into the dust. The physical contact is visceral; Alfonso’s heartbeat is a steady thrum against Ricky’s temple, a contrast to the chaotic churning in Ricky's gut.
“And you guys always make fun of me for carrying around a spare doorknob kit!” Freddy announces, his voice cracking with a mixture of pride and anxiety.
Freddy drops his bag with a heavy clatter. He doesn't just have a tool; he has a portable workshop. With a focused, nerdy intensity, he spreads out a mini-drill, a set of precision screwdrivers, and a gleaming, replacement brass knob. Ricky lets out a low, shuddering moan, his forehead pressing into Alfonso’s shirt. He feels the heat of Alfonso's breath on his neck, the grip on his waist tightening, holding him upright as the world continues to spin. He is anchored by the scent of Alfonso—soap and sweat—while Freddy begins the methodical, metallic scratching of the drill against the old wood.