At Night

Ryan was on his back, eyes wide open in shock, voice temporarily paralyzed by fear. Alex was hovering over him, inside him. It should have been like every other night before, but it wasn’t. Ryan wanted to scream in pain and terror. Alex’s eyes were flashing with some hazy emotion that looked like anger.

Ryan’s throat finally released and the boy screamed, mouth wide, eyes wide. And Alex raised a hand and slapped him across the face. “Shut up, Ross,” he snarled. “Shut up!”

The scream cut off, but the noise didn’t. Now it was deafening sobs. Ryan could scarcely breathe for crying. He was twisting, trying to somehow pull away. But it was feeble, barely an attempt. Almost as if he were trying to convince himself he was trying.

Alex hit him again. “Shut up. Dammit, Ryan.” Now he sounded almost annoyed rather than angry. “Can’t you fucking hold still?” And he angled deeper, turning his hips in, harsher movements.

Ryan kept sobbing and Alex kept thrusting, kept slapping the boy beneath him. Neither of them stopped, not even when the bedroom door open and a girl with brown hair came in. The tears that weren’t on her cheeks were evident in her voice.

“Alex?” she whispered. When there was no reply, she came right up to the bed.

The older man’s hand came down again and Ryan gave another cracked sob.

“Alex, Alex,” she whispered desperately. “Please stop. You’re hurting him.” And then her eyes turned to the boy on his back. “Ryan, please stop crying. Please stop crying, baby.”

“Get out,” Alex hissed through clenched teeth, finally sparing a look at the girl.

“’Lex, please.” Her eyes were shining slightly.

So he pushed her. Hard. And she stumbled, not quite falling to the floor. “I said get out.” His voice was icy. She gave Ryan one last fleeting look before she hurried out of the room.

Another twenty or so minutes of screams, sobbing, more slaps, and finally Alex came inside Ryan. And then he left. The younger boy curled up in a ball, sobbing quietly until he thought he would vomit, and not falling asleep until just after the sky started to lighten.

The next day, the three of them went about like nothing had happened. They ordered Tai for lunch. Alex looked over one of Ryan’s new songs. Alex chased Z around the house until he caught her in the den. Ryan could hear them, even with the TV turned up.

Maybe it was just the one night. Maybe it was just too much to drink. Weird pills maybe. Ryan was sure it was just the night. He could forgive one night. Accidents happen. Everyone makes mistakes.

Z and Alex were in their room. Ryan was in ‘his’ room, the spare bedroom. Alex came in. Usually it was normal, sex after the sun went down. Z knew, didn’t even mind. But tonight Ryan flinched when the door opened. And Alex struck him when he saw it. “Shut up,” he snapped. “Christ. Calm the fuck down.”

Ryan was already sobbing. “Please don’t hurt me.” His voice was tight, like there was an invisible hand squeezing his throat. He didn’t struggle when Alex pulled his boxers down, pressed in—hard. But he screamed. He started twisting again, the way he had the night before when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to escape or stay trapped under the weight of Alex’s arms, that painful grip, forever.

There would be bruises on Ryan’s hips, his wrists, his throat. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes from crying. The girl came in halfway through again. She begged Alex to stop, begged Ryan to stop crying.

The way she looked at Ryan, it was like she knew. She knew what would upset Alex, how to calm the situation somewhat. She kept begging Ryan to stop crying. He couldn’t and she got pushed again for her troubles.

“What did you do to her?” Ryan managed to ask after the girl had stumbled from the room. “You did something to her. You hurt her.”

“I don’t hurt anyone,” Alex snarled, his open palm meeting Ryan’s cheek again. “I’m just the personification of your self-loathing.”

“Sick fuck.” The boy choked on a sob.

Alex hit him again, fucked him harder. Ryan screamed, sobbed. Afterward he lay on his stomach to try and ease some of the pain. It didn’t work, but the Vicodin Z brought him knocked him out.

It continued. Days like normal, as if the sun kept the darkness inside Alex at bay. Or maybe it was the darkness within Ryan. The younger boy had been confused about that lately. If there wasn’t something in him getting off on this, something in him that allowed it . . .

But of course he allowed it. He was there, wasn’t he? He didn’t leave in the mornings. He didn’t lock the door at night. He barely struggled. What was wrong with him that he allowed himself to be hurt in such a way? What sickness was lurking under his skin?

So the days continued and, with them, the nights. Alex’s body like a weight on Ryan’s, crushing him, pinning him. Ryan’s tears like small, salty clocks trying to awaken him from his masochistic state. Z screaming for both of them to stop, never giving Ryan sympathy, never giving Alex any anger or animosity. She chose no side except her own, brought Ryan pills after, and slept curled up against her boyfriend when he came back to their room.

Nothing was monotonous. Nothing was boring. Everything was routine.

One day Brendon called. Z answered the phone because Ryan was in the bathroom. “Hello? Uh, yeah. Hang on one sec, okay?” She looked up as the boy came back into the living room. She held the phone out. “Brendon.” Her voice, her eyes, it was as if she were accusing Ryan of something. As if he were betraying them all by taking the phone call.

“Hello?” Ryan asked. He walked toward the balcony. Before he opened the door he saw Alex sit down next to Z and saw her whisper something to him. He tried to ignore the churning feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Hey, Ry,” Brendon said. He sounded upbeat or maybe like he was forcing himself to sound upbeat. It was hard to tell over the phone. “How are you?”

“Fine, I guess.” Ryan’s breath hitched in his throat. “How are you? How’s Spence?”

“We’re okay. Tour’s good. Blink’s amazing, dude. Like, you have no idea.” Brendon was either legitimately excited or he just wanted to make Ryan feel like shit that he wasn’t on tour with the reason he’d started playing music.

“How are Ian and Dallon doing? They working out?” Ryan lit one of Z’s cigarettes from the pack on a deck chair and inhaled.

“They’re fine. How’s the guy you left me for? How’s his girlfriend?”

“Fuck you, Bren!” Ryan snapped. He disconnected the call and put the phone back in his pocket. He kept smoking the nasty menthol cigarette until his throat burned. When he went back inside Alex was gone.

“How’s he?” Z asked.

“Peachy,” Ryan said dryly. “Where’s Alex?”

“Picking up pizza.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Avoiding me because of you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he snapped. “And why does he care what I do anyway?”

“Why was he calling you? You left him, remember?” She was crying now. Not hard, but still crying nonetheless. “You left him for Alex. Of course he’s upset.”

Suddenly Ryan sounded a lot braver than he felt. “You tell your psychopath boyfriend—“

“Tell me what?” The front door had opened without either of them noticing. Alex had pizza boxes in his hands and a cold expression on his face.

Ryan’s nerve evaporated. “N-Nothing. I . . .” He swallowed. “Never mind.” He walked back to ‘his’ bedroom, heard Alex set the boxes down, heard the pair of them in the living room.

He and Brendon sounded like that once, a lifetime ago. Things were so different then. He still wasn’t sure what had changed. He could try to convince himself that the arguments over music had driven them apart. He could try and convince himself and probably even succeed, but he didn’t want to. A lie was simpler, but the truth was what he was after.

Alex came in. “You made her cry.” His voice wasn't even angry. It was calm, but not conversational. Ryan flinched, avoided the older boy’s eyes. “What did Brendon want?”

“He wanted to rub the tour in my face.” Ryan sat up, turned toward the window, blinked back the tears. “Fucking prick.”

“Thought you guys were done fighting,” Alex said. He picked up one of the notebooks on Ryan’s bookshelf and flipped through it.

“Me, too.” The younger’s nose stung. “I guess it’s normal for him to be pissed. Whatever. I’m over it.”

“Obviously.” Alex’s voice was dry. “None of your new songs are about him or anything.” There wasn’t even sarcasm, but Ryan could hear the accusation.

He wanted to snap. ‘What’s it to you? What do you care, you abusive freak? This is all your fault anyway.’ But he said nothing. And Alex left.

That night the three of them went out. Some club about twenty-five minutes away. Z and Alex danced. Ryan drank rather steadily, occasionally slipping outside for a smoke. On one of these smoke breaks he bumped into a rather Eric Bana looking boy. Alex caught them making out pretty hot and heavy against the brick wall of the alley.

“Time to go, Ry.” His hand closed tightly on the boy’s tattooed wrist. Ryan whimpered in pain and Z silently followed them to the curb, where they flagged a taxi.

Alex kept an arm around Z on the uncomfortable ride him. Ryan was partly terrified, partly annoyed, and partly horny. The latter was not helped by Alex deciding to place his hand on the crotch of his jeans five minutes into the drive.

When they got home, Ryan was draped all over the other boy. The part terror had been replaced by an additional part arousal. Alex pushed him against the kitchen counter. Z left. And Alex fucked Ryan—hard—and Ryan moaned—loudly—and the night seemed okay for the first time in awhile.

They both went to their separate rooms after. Ryan heard Alex make Z come and then he fell asleep. But two hours later Alex shook Ryan awake before sliding his boxers off and pressing in. It burned. Ryan cried.

This time, however, Alex had a few things to say. “You’re pathetic. You don’t even care what happens to you. Why should anyone else?”

The door opened and the girl came in. She started her normal pleas. “Alex, please stop, baby. Ryan, don’t cry.” And suddenly the pressure and the stretch and the burn and the sting lessened. Ryan hardly dared to believe but Alex was sitting up. He looked angry though, and he was looking like . . . no, he was looking. He was looking around.

Then he lunged in and Ryan screamed so desperately his voice cracked and he wasn’t making any noise. It wasn’t Alex. It was something hard and cold and not quite smooth and impossibly heavy.

The girl’s face was white. “Alex, you’re really going to hurt him. Baby, please.” If Ryan had been able to process anything other than the pain, he would have noted the fear in her voice that hadn’t been there any other night. “Alex!” She was screaming now. Black dots swam in front of Ryan’s eyes. “Alex, he’s bleeding!”

The older boy stood and left the room as quickly as he had entered it. The pressure inside Ryan didn’t lessen. The girl sat down and spared him a gentle look. “Hold still,” she murmured. “I’m going to take it out.”

“Take what out?” Ryan’s voice was more of a breath than a whisper, but not substantial enough to be either.

The girl just bit her bottom lip as her hand disappeared from Ryan’s sight. He could feel it moving, slowly pulling out. He could see the worry in the girl’s eyes. And as the last inch slid from him and he felt himself close, he let out a silent sob.

It hurt to move. It hurt to stay still. She got up and left, came back with a dark blue towel. Ryan saw it sitting on the nightstand: a silver flashlight with a reddish-brown smear of half-dried liquid on the handle—his blood.

He felt the vomit leap into his throat, turned. He was screaming and sobbing and vomiting all at the same time. It felt like there was a knife twisting inside his body. He could just make out Z trying to shush him. She rolled him onto his back, tipped water down his throat, wiped at his mouth with the hem of her tee shirt. “Just try to breathe. Slow. In and out.”

Ryan stared at her. “Br-Brendon . . . would n-never hurt . . . me,” he managed to choke out between sobs.

She didn’t speak for a moment, just stared hard into his eyes. “You left him,” she said finally. “For Alex.” She balled up the towel and tossed it at the clothes hamper. It missed. If there was blood on it, Ryan couldn’t see it.

“You left him for Alex,” she repeated. “You loved him and you left him for someone else.” It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “Now you have no one. You’re alone. There’s nothing to save you from being just like the rest of us.”

Ryan barely flinched. “No one deserves this,” he whispered. “Not even me.”

Her eyes were sad. “Then why are you still here, Ryan? No one’s stopping you leaving.” She stood up, covered him with a sheet. “There’s the door. You could leave, but you won’t. You want to be punished for whatever it is you think you did wrong.”

She left again, came back with an orange prescription bottle. She helped Ryan take the pills with some water and adjusted the blinds on the windows.

“What did he punish you for?” Ryan asked.

She glanced at him before looking back out at the night sky between the slits in the blinds. “Nobody needs to punish me for anything. I do just fine on my own.”

For the first time that night Ryan noticed how tired she looked. “But the way you—“

“Fuck you,” she snapped, features instantly hard. Ryan flinched and winced at the pain. “I don’t need your pity. Save it for yourself.” And she left the room without another word or glance in his direction.

Ryan spent most of the next day in his room turning his phone over and over in his hands, trying to convince himself to call Brendon. But it ended up on his nightstand and he ended up not saying a word to anyone for that day or the next.

The next week he was at a party with Z. “I’m flying,” he said.

“No,” she told him gently, “you’re falling.”

He ended up in the hospital with a concussion.

All of Brendon’s calls to the crushed iPhone on the sidewalk went straight to voicemail. Ryan’s company changed his number for security purposes.

Ryan fell asleep in the spare bedroom in Alex’s apartment.

Brendon fell asleep in his and Ryan’s bed.

Nothing was ever going to be the same.