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Ryan was sick. A bad case of the flu or something—Naim wasn’t entirely sure and they didn't have the money or the balls to risk an appearance at the doctors and get a proper diagnosis at the moment.
It started as a simple cold; the usual symptoms of coughing, sneezing, fatigue, and fevers. But when a week went by and Ryan didn’t improve and he had to call out of work for a few days—not that either of them were happy about that—both started to think something worse was going on. And then, more symptoms came in: non-stop chills that seemed more like the convulsions during the deliverance healing; higher fevers that left Ryan soaked within minutes; and above all, the heavy tiredness in his body resulting in the teenaged boy unable to get out of bed or stay awake for more than ten minutes at a time.
“Im scared,” Ryan had whispered once to Naim, voice frail with labored breaths.
Truth was, so was Naim. He was terrified and didn’t know what to do. Every day it seemed Ryan got worse, and every day Naim felt more out of depth.
He wondered what his Mother would do. He wondered if Ryan wanted his Mom, or his Sister or Father instead of Naim—not that they really had a choice in the matter.
When he realized Ryan was still waiting for a response, Naim quickly shook the thoughts away and reached to move a piece of soaking wet hair off Ryan’s forehead. He even whispered out, “it's okay,” in hopes it seemed convincing enough to make the sick boy feel better. Whether it actually did or not he couldn’t tell.
The tough conversation came a few days later.
The two boys were laying in bed, the sun long set hours ago outside. It was day three of Ryan calling out sick at work and he hadn’t improved a single bit within that time.
“I need a will.” Ryan had blurted it randomly, bluntly and all too seriously.
It had caused Naim to whip his head around from where he was counting the money they had for the rest of the month—his attempt at budgeting during this tough time. “What?”
“I said I need a will, Naim.”
“I heard you the first time, cunt. The fuck do you need a will for? You’re seventeen, Ryan.” He placed the money down on the bedside table, the number he was at long forgotten.
Ryan did his best shrug, wincing as the air brushed harshly at his frail skin. “What if I don’t get better?”
Naim shook his head, “You have the flu. You’re not on your death bed.”
“It feels like it.”
When Naim spoke again it felt wet, his voice shaking ever so slightly. “Don’t say that.” He meant it. He couldn’t live without Ryan, and god forbid the universe heard him or the entities still following them heard, he didn’t want to imagine what would happen. He shudders himself at the thought. “You’re fine. You’ll get better soon.”
“Will I?”
When Naim turns to look at the boy, he sees Ryan already staring intensely at him. And admittedly, he did look awful: pale sweaty skin, dark circles under his eyes. “You’re scaring me, Ryan.” He was the stronger one of the two—Naim’s caretaker, protector, whatever was needed at the time. And now, here he is futilely begging Naim for a will before he dies.
Ryan just sighs, breaking eye contact to lull his head back against the pillow. He keeps his vision on the cracked and peeling ceiling above them. “Naim, if I die, what will you do?”
“What do you mean? You’re not dying, Ryan. Don’t even think about that.”
“You can’t unrun the entity yourself, Naim. What the fuck are you going to do if I’m gone? I can barely protect you right now as it is. What If I die? Tell me, Naim. Please.”
And what was Naim supposed to say? Or do? Admit that he didn't know, that he hoped selfishly he died first so he would never have to figure that out himself? Say out loud he’d run back to his Mother’s horrible arms and cry and be taken care of again, and pretend to the best of his ability that he was reformed and regretted everything? Or that he wouldn’t fight back if the entity found him immediately, that he’d be happy to see ‘Ryan’ one last time before he too passed away.
So, instead of saying any of that outloud, he began to sob. “Ryan, you fucking cunt.”
The sound of his lover crying hurt Ryan to his very core. It made him start to shake, to start crying himself as he winced and tried his hardest to roll himself over to wrap his weak arms around the love of his life. “The entity will rip you to shreds the moment I’m gone. You won’t be able to resist it.” Ryan dryly laughed to the best of his ability, coughing halfway through harshly. “I know I wouldn’t be able to resist it.”
It was the truth. Both boys knew it.
“Ryan…” Naim cries. He buries his head in Ryan’s chest, pretending not to hear the heaving and stuttering of the boy's heart with every labored, whistling breath. “You can’t leave me.”
Ignoring the boy, Ryan continues their conversation from earlier. “I need a will, Naim.”
“How can I get you a will? We’re runaways, Ryan.”
“How can I go without knowing that you’ll have some of my money? You need to get back to Bandee somehow, if you even make it that far, love.” Of course he implied Naim was a coward, that he’d run back to his Mother the first chance he got.
“You’re not leaving me. I won’t need to figure that out anytime soon.” Naim wipes his eyes, moving to sit back up. “We need a doctor.”
“With what money? I can’t spend the small amount we have left on a doctor's visit, much less pay for the treatment.”
“Yes we are. We’ll figure something out, just let me get you to a doctor, Ryan.”
When Ryan fails to respond, Naim looks at the boy beside him and sees he’s fallen back asleep. It’s to be expected, Naim thinks, this is the longest Ryan was able to stay awake in a long time, much less use his energy to speak.
“I love you,” Naim whispers. He’ll figure something out, he thinks. But for now, he settles back beside the sick boy and closes his own eyes.
They’ll figure something out.