Lights

The house was just merry, that was the only way to describe it. Even with Kayla and Brendon bickering, it held some sort of majesty, with decorations making it seem so elaborate yet homely at the same time, with bits of tinsel falling on the floor. Kayla had to vacuum them up while groaning about it as Brendon mocked her over the loud yelling of the vacuum cleaner. She repaid him each time by trying to suck his nose off, which he didn't appreciate too much.

So, Ryan was in a mighty good mood as he and Spencer strolled out into the hallway with the sounds of Kayla and Brendon yelling incessantly at each other. They went to work and complained about a few customers who seemed to think that because it was Christmas, tipping was completely unnecessary. And then the pair of them turned in their aprons and cleaning rags so they could walk home again, bundling up against the cold winter air that pinched and nipped at their bumpy, pale skin.

So, while in this laughing mood, Ryan didn't expect anything bad to happen. He expected to go home the same as normal, wandering into the apartment to find Kayla and Brendon still playfully bickering, then to find Brendon insisting that they needed to make a fabulous, tasty dinner straight away to satisfy his growing need for real food. Ryan had to wonder how he had ever lived on the streets with his constant cravings for some sort of well-to-do meat and vegetables that he doubted he would have gotten. He sometimes wondered about Brendon and his past life. How would Brendon have cooked things? Did they steal that sort of thing, too? How would life even work? How did Brendon possibly survive? How cold did it get in winter? Were all the gang members as frightening as Gabe and the other five that had taken them hostage in Ryan's apartment that night, not too long ago – just long enough that it seemed like a hazy dream. It made him wonder if it even really happened, or if he was just imagining the entire thing.

Ryan pushed open the apartment door that night, expecting all he had ever expected. He didn't think anything would go wrong – that was definitely not in the list of things he foresaw.
But that's what happened, regardless.

When he did indeed walk into the apartment with a grin etched on his features, laughing at Spencer, he wasn't met with a bopping, excited Brendon. He was met with Kayla, sitting forlornly on the couch, glancing up as they entered.

“Ryan!” she gasped when she looked up and saw him, much to his confusion.

“Hey,” he greeted, glancing back at Spencer with his brow furrowed in worry. When he turned back, Kayla was on her feet and nearing them. He noticed that her cheeks were red and blotchy, and her eyes were swollen.

“What happened?” he asked.

Spencer looked concerned and led Kayla back over to the couch before she could reply. They both sat down, and this time, Ryan opted to sit in the chair that Kayla had usually claimed by the time he came home.

“I'm sorry, Ryan,” Kayla mumbled, forcing her arms around Spencer's waist. In surprise, Spencer quickly wrapped his own arms around her shoulders and pulled her in close as she buried her head into his shoulder.

“Where's Brendon?” Ryan asked quietly, not quite sure if he even wanted to know.

He heard a slight sob from Kayla's direction. “I don't know,” Kayla mumbled. “I'm really sorry, Ryan. This is all my fault, really. I know I shouldn't have.”

“What happened?” Ryan repeated, as gently as possible, despite the panic that was erupting violently in his stomach.

“I took Brendon to work with me,” she said quietly, her face still leaning up against Spencer's chest as he slowly rubbed his hand over her shoulders. “Because he wanted to buy you a present – something small. So I decided that it would be fair, even though you didn't want him to go out. I thought he was recovered enough, you know?”

Ryan nodded slowly, still not quite sure what to make of all this.

“So, I let him go and wander the mall while I was working, so he could find something he wanted to buy you for Christmas,” Kayla went on. She sniffed, and then rubbed at her nose. “And when I finished my shift, I waited. He knew what time I was going to finish, and I told him to be back by then. But, I waited fifteen minutes and he wasn't back, so I started searching the mall, and I couldn't find him. I just came home so I could catch you two.”

Ryan's head lowered as he started to contemplate what was going on. His mind was in a flurry and his entire chest and insides seemed to be working against him, panicking, making him want to throw up.

“I didn't mean to lose him,” Kayla said. “I don't want you to be mad at me. We'll find him, okay. I'm sure he'll come home soon.”

Ryan just shook his head, leaning his face on his fists, turning his head so he could rub at his eyes with his knuckles so hard they just watered more.

“Ryan?” she murmured.

“I don't think he's going to come back,” Ryan said, trying to keep his voice even. Even he could hear the note of rabid worry that was piercing the words, he couldn't keep them neutral. He wanted to break down. This wasn't supposed to happen – not yet, not ever. His heart was going off in his chest, wanting to sprint up his throat and right away from him at a mile a minute. He couldn't breathe out, only in. He could only expand his chest and stomach even further. He wanted to explode. He wanted this to not be a problem – he needed Brendon, he couldn't go.

“Why not?” Kayla questioned in her quiet voice – the one she very rarely used, as she spent most of her time screaming at Brendon.

“I don't think I can tell you,” Ryan sighed. He climbed to his feet and started for the door, but Spencer was in front of him before he had managed to reach for the handle.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm going to go and look for Brendon,” Ryan replied. “It's a long shot, but it's all I can think of.”

“You've been at work for nine hours. Have some food, then go and look for him.”

“I'll take food with me, but that's the best you're getting.” Ryan stared him down.

Spencer sighed and relented, and starting combing the cupboards for something that actually had some sort of benefit yet could be taken around easily. “Do you like muesli bars?” Spencer asked, hopefully.

“Sure, give me some,” Ryan said, quickly.

“Now, Ry,” Spencer said. “Get back here in the next few hours or else we're sending out a search party for both you and Brendon. Got it?”

“Got it. I'll see you guys later.”

And Ryan walked out the door.

He didn't particularly want to be out on the streets in the cold, but this was important. Admittedly, he wasn't entirely sure why he was bothering, and he wondered as he hurried down the steps of the building, his foot falls thundering off the thick walls on either side of him.

If Brendon was gone, he was gone. There was nothing else to it, despite how much Ryan wanted there to be. He could search high and low throughout New York, but he knew he could never find Brendon in a situation that didn't directly endanger both their lives. Why would he bother looking when it was certain that if he found Brendon, it would lead to his death? But, wasn't it even more likely that he wouldn't find Brendon at all?

Brendon would never leave of his own accord – he knew it. He didn't know quite how he knew it, but he was perfectly aware that Brendon needed him and was quite attached to his life with Spencer and Kayla as well, no matter how much playful fighting there was, and no matter how many half-sized Christmas trees they bought, no matter if Brendon wasn't earning any money at the moment and was forced to stay at home all on his own. He hated staying there, sure but that wouldn't mean he'd run away. Ryan wasn't sure how he knew, but it was just a feeling in a gut – a very wise, twenty two year old feeling, he assumed.

He rushed down the stairs and out into the city. The sky was dark from threatening rain, the clouds blossoming and surging across every space imaginable. Pinpricks of light shone around the city already as lamposts erupted into life, illuminating people's footsteps on the light pavement. People were all at home by now, away from the cold winter night that was starting to set in so early. They'd be putting up their Christmas lights, admiring them as they glistened around their fireplaces with their family watching.

Why couldn't both Brendon and Ryan be at home where it was safe?

It was fairly blatant practise to not walk through New York streets on your own when the sun was starting to set and the city was starting to be lost to shadow. That was typically the wrong thing to do, and people were perfectly aware of it. But Ryan continued down the street, glancing in alleyways and inspecting passers-by closely, as if their features would suddenly morph into those of Brendon's. A happy Brendon, perfectly ready to come home and enjoy the Christmas season. Though, he'd have to be aware that Ryan would never let him out of the house again. He couldn't let him out of his sight again. He couldn't have Brendon leave him, if he ever got him back. Why did he have to keep losing Brendon? What if this was the last time?

He could only lose Brendon so many times before it lasted forever.

He didn't know if his life would be quite as vivid and spectacular – even though it wasn't this at all to anyone else – if he couldn't see Brendon grinning at him from beside him, always enthusiastic, ever-present, always ready to bound right into a new opportunity with two feet.

He got further and further away from the apartment. He didn't know where to search, there were just so many places. The city was so huge. Why did Manhattan have to be gigantic? Why couldn't it just be nice and small, like a suburb, with only so many places to hide? This seemed useless. There was always a place he could miss, and he could never search the entire area in time. He wasn't even sure if it was possible to search all of New York full stop. It couldn't be, possibly. There were just so many spots one could hide without anyone seeing them – just in the shadows, just out of view, ready to run and never be spotted again.

So close and so far, and it made Ryan so afraid.

The cold was biting at him, insisting that he run back home to the warmth. There was a heater in Spencer's apartment, and it was a good one. There were blankets on a double bed that was just too big for Ryan to enjoy on his own. He was used to the single that he had back in his own apartment, where he belonged.

Ryan started making promises in his head.

If Brendon comes home, I promise I'll never yell at him again. If Brendon comes home, I promise to defend him when Kayla starts being a smart-ass. If Brendon comes home, I promise to go wherever he wants to go, whenever he wants to go, however he wants to go, with anyone he wants to go with.

It wasn't working. The sky just kept getting darker and darker until it was navy blue, clouded with rain and a lack of stars. No lights tonight.

“Brendon?” Ryan asked the night air, as if it would answer him. As if Brendon would step out from behind the lamppost in a particularly magical style with the familiar grin on his face, ready to be lead back home and allowed to do all the things Ryan had promised him just moments before.

But it just kept getting darker.

Ryan reluctantly turned back, telling himself that Brendon was probably between there and the apartment anyway, but he had just missed him in the darkness. He wasn't sure how he managed to convince himself of this, but he did. He kept searching, peering into the blackness, still convinced Brendon would appear. He had never lied to himself more in his life. He had never believed one of his own lies more.

When he came to the apartment door, he didn't want to give up. His chest swelled again, making more room for the disappointment to settle and eat away at his vital organs until he was a shell. That's what would happen, wasn't it? There couldn't be this much negativity inside him without something bad happen. It was impossible. He was going to be a wreck soon, and he didn't know how to salvage himself.

He started up the steps slowly, giving Brendon one last chance. He opened the door and glanced behind him, up and down the street, only to see nothing.

He hung his head and walked back inside. He started up the staircase, the echoes reminding him how alone he was as he walked. He was so slow – then he thought, what if Brendon had come home while he was away? What if Brendon was in the apartment right now, telling Spencer he was all right and asking where Ryan was.

So he quickened his pace all of a sudden, eager to reach the room. He rushed up the steps, the clanging growing even louder. He threw open the door and raced up the hallway, skidding to a stop outside of Spencer's apartment, when the complete opposite thought suddenly seized him again.

What if Brendon wasn't in there? What if he had raced up there, all for absolutely nothing?

It seemed so unfair – he couldn't keep track of all the things that could happen. One option holding complete happiness, the other an even worse wave of disappointment. How could he decide if he wanted to experience that?

So he opened the door, and despite the fact he wanted Brendon back so bad, he wasn't in there. It was just Spencer and Kayla, sitting entwined on the couch with their fingers wrapped around each other. They glanced up at him expectantly, then saw the empty space all around Ryan, surrounding him and engulfing him, and hung their heads.

“I couldn't find him,” Ryan mumbled, feeling almost ashamed that he couldn't solve the problem. He shut the door behind him as quietly as possible, and crossed the room. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to sit down, that was giving up. That was slumping down into regret and failure. He couldn't, he needed to do something, but he had no idea what, so instead he stayed standing, lingering in the middle of the living room.

“I'm sorry, Ry,” Kayla said again, tears welling up in her eyes. One strayed down her cheek as she hurriedly brushed him away. “I didn't mean to. I didn't know this would happen. It was the last thing I expected – should we call the police?”

Ryan thought back to when Brendon had promised him not to call the police. He knew it was the most sane suggestion, and it was what he should do, but he couldn't bear to break the only hold he now had to Brendon. Either way, he reasoned, he would not have the young boy by his side. He wanted to hold the promise, he wanted to keep it. One last action for him.

So Ryan shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.

“Why not?” Spencer asked, one of his eyebrows raising, making Ryan feel slightly uncomfortable. “You're telling us we shouldn't tell the police he's missing?”

“He said I shouldn't,” Ryan mumbled, feeling his cheeks burn as he realised how stupid this sounded. “I-I just can't. He said not to.”

“But he could die out there,” Kayla said.

“I know,” Ryan replied. “And he will either way. If they don't get him now, they'll get him in jail. He did something wrong, and he can't escape it. Neither can they. He's screwed.”

Ryan just turned on his heel and started out of the room, not quite being able to believe the words had just exited his mouth. That was the truth, but he wished it wasn't. He couldn't bear to face reality. Horrible, disgusting reality.

“Ryan!” Kayla cried. “Don't!”

“I'm tired,” Ryan said, not bothering to look back over his shoulder as he started for the guest bedroom he and Brendon stayed in. “We'll call the police in the morning, okay? I promise.”

“But --”

“He wanted it like this.” And Ryan disappeared from their view.

He went and sat on his bed, tears streaming down his cheeks and warming his skin. They dripped down his neck and pooled in his collar. In a short time, the top of his t-shirt became soaked in wet salt. He couldn't see straight. His had started to hurt insanely, it felt like his brain was pulsating against the inside of his skull, trying to drive him crazy.

His body was shaking. He didn't even realise until he raised his hands to run his fingers through his hair and he almost missed his head completely. His arms were trembling despite the thick jacket he had donned early that morning to protect himself from the winter cold that Brendon was now shrouded in. Most likely in some cold, barren, alone place to be murdered.

Ryan choked, the word almost driving him mad. He wanted to bang his head against something. He wanted to destroy the room he was in. He wanted to rip and tear at everything in it until it didn't exist any more. Just like Brendon wouldn't. Wasn't that fair? All this stuff that had ties to Brendon's skin and breath and personality would be just as gone, gone, gone as him. They'd both go the same way.

And while Ryan wanted to live out his thoughts so much – unleash his rage on every last thing surrounding him – he couldn't. He was shaking and crying too much to even move. He was certain that if he shifted too much his head would explode into a million pieces, and no one would be able to salvage it among the bits and pieces of sadness that would be intermingled with the tissue.

This was impossible. How could he handle this? It was consuming him. He felt he'd never stop feeling this. He felt the tears – which just seemed to keep coming and coming with no sign of relenting at all – would never drain. He didn't even know he could cry this much. He didn't know he was capable. He didn't quite want to find out he was capable of this, ever, especially not this way. This was the last thing he had wanted.

And wasn't this just another example of how unfair life could be? How it kicked you while you were down, made the good die early, and just ruined every ounce of everything that gave someone happiness and pleasure. That was what it did.

Ryan lay down very slowly. He had to, and just as his head rested on the pillow, the pounding just got worse, like the gravity had increased, trying to press his body into the bed and smother him until he was so heavy that he would turn to stone. At least then he wouldn't be able to cry any more. At least then, the sobs would be gone, and the tears would have faded, and his throat would be cleared.

He tried to form words, he honestly did. He tried to tell the room how angry he was in a coherent fashion, but he came to the conclusion it was impossible. Each time he forced a word out, it was just washed over with a tide of tears. It was indistinguishable from all the other squeaks and cries that resounded in his vocal chords and around the room. The room surrounding him was so dark anyway, it didn't mind being filled with a few more not-words. He hadn't bothered turning on the light upon entry.

He wasn't sure how long it went on. It seemed like hours – it probably was. By the end of it, his eyes ached so much he could barely keep them open. The air burned them and made him blink repeatedly. He couldn't force any more tears out, just dry sobs, consisting of nothing but sadness. No tears.

So he sat up, still not wanting to sleep. It seemed like the option that would make the most sense, but he just couldn't make himself. Even though that was what his tired eyes needed more than anything.

He gazed around the room blearily, and everything stayed out of focus. He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, but it just felt like his skin was grating against his eyelids, so he put his hand down and climbed to his feet. He stood uselessly for a few moments, looking at a loss for what to do, then wandered across the room and flicked on the light switch. He hid his eyes underneath his wrist and squeezed his them shut, before slowly opening them, trying to adjust to the brightness that had suddenly appeared.

The room looked exactly like it had when he left. That wasn't fair. Shouldn't something be off, or different? Shouldn't it know that there was something missing there that night?

So Ryan stood by the light switch, wondering what he was supposed to do now. He seemed to find a thread of an idea and lose it again as soon as he grasped the end. So he wandered back over to the bed, resting his hands on the covers, and looking around again.

He noticed Brendon's duffel bag on the floor, rather than in the closet as it usually was. He tilted his head curiously as an idea popped into his head. Something stupid, that was probably not a good idea. So he leaned over and pulled the duffel bag onto the bed and sat down beside it. It wasn't as full as Ryan's, because Brendon had less things. And while he didn't quite want to accept that Brendon was either dead at that moment, or going to be very soon, he couldn't help justifying what he was about to do with this. Somehow, it would help. Surely, this would make things better. He had no clue how, but it was the only thing he had right now.

So he started rifling through the items within the bag. Most of them were just clothes. Ryan's clothes. His own pair of too-short jeans that had been pinned up so they'd fit Brendon's legs.

He continued going through Brendon's things. It was completely ignoring his privacy, sure, but was that okay? Did a dead man have privacy?

Ryan hiccuped.

He pulled all the clothes out and lay them across the bed. They stayed folded, though some of them were just bunched up, as they had been unceremoniously tossed into the bag after being washed. Once all the clothes were out, he began to look deeper in the bag.

At the bottom was a video. There were other things, like Brendon's toothbrush in a bag, but the most important was the video. Because Ryan had thought all the videos were in his own bag. He guessed he didn't notice because he wasn't overly consumed with the video beside the running joke they held between them, and the time they'd spent watching them.

It was Dumbo, and for some reason, this made Ryan smile.

He picked up the video and inspected the cover, staring at the elephant with his head tilted. He wasn't sure why, but he hooked his thumb around the side of the video and cracked it open. It wasn't quite like looking at a DVD, as they had pictures and elaborate designs on the disk. Videos had nothing, so Ryan wasn't sure what he wanted to look at. Maybe where the reel was, how much Brendon had watched if he had watched any.

But he was met with something more amazing.

Stuck fast to the top of the jet black video was a post-it. It was bright green, glowing against the dark background, and was a little beaten in one of the corners, maybe where the video case had been snapped shut over it some time before. Some time back when Brendon had opened and closed it.

Ryan stared at it in awe. He couldn't take his eyes off it. The top of it was peeling off slightly, not made to stick to this type of surface, but what did that matter? It had stayed where it was supposed to, inside this video case, waiting to be discovered when Ryan went through Brendon's things. Ryan wasn't sure what the likelihood of this happening was. He didn't usually go through people's stuff, but he guessed Brendon had to take some chance on it. And he had never been more relieved. He had never been so glad that he had invaded someone's privacy, and that probably wasn't a good thing, but it made Ryan's heart flutter with hope. It stole his breath and made his chest seize as it had so many times that day. But this time, it was good. This time, the threat that he was going to throw up was out of happiness. He had a chance, there was a chance for Brendon to live.

Scrawled on the post-it note in some strange-coloured pen – Ryan guess the colour had distorted on the neon colouring of the paper – was an address. It included numbers, and a street name. His heart skipped a few beats again. It was there. This was the place he needed to look for Brendon, he knew it. This was it. This was what he had been looking for all night. Why did he think it would be out on the city streets? Did he expect it to be stuck to a lamppost, or scrawled on someone's window? Did he expect it to be glowing in the non-existent stars?

He ripped the post-it note from its home and leapt to his feet, bounding into the living room. It was dark, and there was no one in there. He tried not to call out in happiness. He knew where he needed to be, and he realised that telling Kayla and Spencer wouldn't be a good idea anyway. They'd make him call the police, tell him to let them deal with it. That was at the worst. At best, they'd make him stay put all night and go searching for Brendon in the morning. There wasn't enough time, he knew Brendon would be dead by morning. Hell, Brendon may have even been dead at that very moment, he had no idea. Which was why he needed to go – now – with no time to waste.

He ran for the door, and for the second time that day, rushed down the staircase and out into the night.

It was even colder than it had been earlier. It was like running into a wall of ice, it stole the breath from his lungs and tossed it to the sky. He took in a deep breath and breathed it out again, trying to contain himself. It burst into the sky in a cloud, waiting to condense on whatever surface it came across.

And Ryan ran. He only had a fair idea of what direction the street was. He had never been down it before, never bothered with it before, but in that moment, it contained his entire world. It was like everone knew it as they stepped out of his way to let him run past them.

It was hard to run with all the layers he had on. His hood got hooked around his ears as he tried to up his speed even further. It was hard to breathe, like his chest was trying to compress itself. He hadn't run anywhere in a long time. Not this fast, not this hard. He'd never needed to be anywhere like this before. He'd never been late to work, he'd never had anywhere to be so bad. He had never had some sort of conditional place in his life. Was Brendon alive, was he not?

And he tried not to think about it. Brendon is alive, he told himself. He's alive, he's alive, he's waiting for me to save him. All the stupidity of the matter didn't even bother to enter his mind. He was running toward a gang. Police would be the smartest option, but they'd arrest Gabe, and they'd arrest Brendon, and they'd be together in prison. And Gabe would kill Brendon either way. Either way, it would all be lost and pointless. So Ryan ran. Because that was all he could do. Even if he died, he would have attempted to save Brendon. Even if Gabe strapped his fingers around his throat and crushed his trachea, it would be better than sitting at home, waiting for Brendon to die behind bars or on his own in a warehouse.

He turned a corner, almost crashing into a wall, and kept running. He was so close. The street numbers were getting closer and closer to the one he was looking for, until a street sign read the same as the one on the post-it note that he clung tightly to, now a ball of wrinkled paper in his fingers, but what did that matter?

He ran down the street. His legs couldn't move any faster. Was this even possible? He felt like he was floating, but at the same time he felt every step resounding through his body. He could feel his feet pounding against the pavement. He could feel how close he was getting.

And so he started scanning the houses for numbers. He was off in a slightly more derelict part of town, the buildings a little more spaced out, a little more room between them. And then he saw it. The giant warehouse that Brendon had described so vaguely, and seeing it made Ryan gasp despite how totally bland it looked. It was just the fact that this had been Brendon's whole life once upon a time. He was looking at Brendon's whole life. It was cold and sterile, and Brendon would have made it glow.

He rushed up to the doors and found them open. He had never been more relieved in his life. He would have been stuck if they weren't, he was aware. He would have had nowhere to turn, and he would have needed to rush away to the police like he didn't want to at all.

Now that he was here, he was breathing so hard. It was ragged and cold and made his skin bumpy. His brain was fogged with the freezing air he kept inhaling incessantly. He needed more of it, but it made his brain want to shut down.

Still gasping, he pushed the door open and walked inside slowly. His steps were more hesitant now.

He knew that if he wanted to stay alive for as long as humanly possible and have even the slightest chance of saving Brendon from the gang's clutches, then he desperately needed to stay quiet. But even as he entered the large, echoing room in front of him, he felt the fear set in. He wasn't about to go back – oh no, that was definitely not an option – but there was a flight response going off in his head. Telling him to run, run, run for his life or else he was going to die. Both his mind and his body knew it, but he needed to keep going.

So despite his slow walk, which he told himself was so his foot falls would be as silent as he could make them, he continued forward. His pace was consistent, despite the lack of speed. He did not falter. He just kept going, his head turning to take in the room around him. It was huge, and the walls were made of giant concrete slabs that he assumed were extremely thick. He knew if he stepped too loud, it would echo everywhere, rebound into everyone's waiting ears, wherever these people were. But he continued on, conscious of the noise of his shoes.

No one was on this level. After peering all around the area, he could tell. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, but he knew it wasn't over yet, not even half over. This just prolonged his alive status for a little bit longer. He only had a little more time to keep his spirit wound up in his skin, to keep his eyes blinking and absorbing these bland images around him, to keep himself listening and alert. And as he came to realise this, he came to appreciate each sense as soon as he felt it.

The rotten, cold air. He didn't know why, but the entire place just felt stale. Like the air, though equally as cold as it was outside, was thicker and harder to keep himself stepping through. No matter how much he hated the consistency as it entered his nostrils and flowed down inside him, he appreciated it anyway. Just because he could feel it. Like the hardness beneath his feet, or the comfortable way his shoes sat. The looseness of his jeans on his hips and his clinging jacket, stuck tight to his arms and torso. The grey walls, like a clean slate. He could see graffiti in some areas, messy tagged names, nothing tidy and respectable. Just lines of spray paint on a waiting grey wall, which almost no one would see anyway. Only those who wanted to see it and those who were just waiting to die. Maybe this is what Judgement Day would look like.

And he couldn't hear a thing. Just his own coarse breathing as he tried to inhale the thick air around him. Just as he tried to keep his lungs filled and himself breathing and alive until the last possible moment. He needed every minute he could get. His mind was racing and wasn't providing him with any particular plan. He couldn't seem to get anything constructive from it. Just panicking words, reminding him he was walking into his doom, that he and Brendon would never see the sky again, that Spencer and Kayla would never know where they were because Ryan and taken the one sign that lead to this place.

Ryan realised he should have left the post-it note at home, but decided that wasn't all that important anyway. He wanted to satisfy Spencer and Kayla's need to know what happened once he failed to return home, but he couldn't, because his need to find Brendon was stronger. It was a matter of priority. Brendon won. And while Ryan had known Spencer for longer, he wasn't surprised at all.

So he kept going. He started up a set of steps he found. Each step felt like agony as he pulled his thighs up ever higher. On the next floor, there was a wide room that spread across the whole building, and nothing was in there either. Nothing in sight. Just grey, like he expected Antarctica would look spread out in front of him with dirtied snow. There was nothing there except for graffiti.
So he kept going up. He went up and up and up the stairs, looking out onto each landing with a disappointed face when he didn't see anything. Was this normal? Did normal people want to find the group of people that were set to kill him if he stepped foot into their territory?

But he didn't care. He was never particularly normal anyway, and typical social norm didn't appeal to him at that moment. This was more important. This was so important.

He kept climbing the stairs, and started to feel as if he couldn't get any higher. Surely that roof, though it had been towering off the ground outside, had to be so close now. And so it was. Because he soon reached the final floor, the floor he had been waiting for all along, though it didn't hold what he expected, let alone what he wanted so badly. He wanted his death. He wanted to find Brendon, only just about to be killed rather than too late. He wanted a pit of gang members surrounding both of them. He wanted them to engulf him and let him die with his friend, if it was so impossible to escape with both their lives still grasped safe inside their bodies for another minute, another hour, another day, another lifetime.

But that's just not how things work. It's horrible to get the option you never even entertained in the desperate hope that it would never happen. But that's exactly what Ryan got.

The entire floor was empty again. There were no gang members awaiting his arrival with Brendon in their tight grip, their hands around his throat or their legs beating against his stomach.

His heart was in his throat – how could this happen? Frantic, he thrust himself forward onto the floor, running into the area, the grey beneath his feet and above his head and spreading out on all sides before raising up into the box that surrounded him. There was no one here, no threatening voices or jeering laughs, ready to sneak up behind Ryan, drag him into the air by his collar and force him into submission. And as much as he hated the memories of that night, no matter how much they made the fear constrict his breathing so much he was afraid he'd never taste air again, he would have faced it all again to see Brendon.

Then he realised, he wasn't the only one in the room.

In the opposite corner, crumpled to the floor, was a body. Ryan tried to force himself to think. He tried to make his head keep on taking in facts, figures, the words he was trying to form. He tried to keep everything inside him working as he gazed at the corner across the large room. He tried to concentrate – he tried to estimate the amount of time he could cross the building. He tried to guess whether he'd be able to run it, or if he'd trip and fall and not want to get up anyway. He wondered if he would have to take this at the slow pace he had taken with his entire entry to this warehouse. If he'd have to take gentle steps so he didn't disrupt anything more.

So he did. They were just as slow, and while he didn't want to keep his gaze focused on that corner, he had to. He made himself continue. He kept thinking one step after the other, just like everyone had always told him. That was what you needed when you had to make yourself walk, wasn't it? Whether you were traversing a desert with barely a drop of water, or the snow with not quite enough layers to protect your sensitive skin? Wasn't that what you needed to keep yourself going? Just another step in front of the one you just made, continuing progress, constantly moving on, getting closer to your goal – or in Ryan's case, this thing he didn't want to look at.

He had to, he couldn't not.

It took too long. It took so much time, and he wasn't even halfway across yet. It wasn't getting any clearer, and after staring at it for so damn long, he was starting to wonder if it was even a body. Perhaps someone had just discarded their clothes in the corner before they all left, a large pile. Perhaps Brendon had got the address wrong. Maybe there was another post-it note in that pile of clothes.

He knew he wasn't thinking straight. He knew his brain was getting desperate for any other explanation it could provide. And this – this was unbelievable, but he believed it regardless, because he knew he needed to. Because if he didn't, he would never make it across the grey expanse below him, and he would crumple to the ground. And he'd never get there. He'd call the cops and be told by them instead of finding out himself. Did he want to see it with his own eyes? Didn't he have to?

It was hours later, it must have been. Hundreds of minutes had passed. He finally averted his gaze as he drew nearer, focusing on a patch of graffiti just above the clothes. It wasn't elaborate, just a spray paint scribble, and he couldn't make out what it said. He wondered if it meant anything, anything important. Was it made before or after this happened? Was it completely separate to the situation at hand? Ryan wanted to relate everything to this – this was the most important thing he'd ever come across in his life. This was bigger than his mother back home in Las Vegas he had wanted to visit for Christmas, this was bigger than Lights, waiting for him to do his shift the next day, this was bigger than Spencer and Kayla, sleeping in their beds, unaware where he was and why.

He very slowly dragged his gaze down the wall. It almost physically hurt, as if the wall had come up to meet his eyes. Like the grey was just pain, and if that was what he could see, that was what he would feel.

His eyes finally settled on the clothes.

They weren't clothes – well, they weren't only clothes.

Brendon's face was almost unrecognisable. Every trait that Ryan had come to adore had been grated anyway and was covered in thick blood. It was on his cheek, layers of it. Some of it was dry but some of it was still wet. It stuck, Ryan could tell. It was clinging to Brendon's skin like glad wrap, coating the pores and making everything such an unnatural colour. It couldn't be.

It clung to his eyelashes. Maybe that was the worst. They clumped together, stained red.
But it wasn't just his face, it was everything. It had seeped down Brendon's neck and started eating away at the blue of his collar. It pooled around his collarbones. It was in his ears and on his lips. All places where blood just shouldn't be, it wasn't normal. This wasn't how a person should look, like they were out of a horror movie.

Brendon's eyes were mostly closed. They weren't clinging shut. They were just present, perhaps forced down by gravity. Perhaps he had been mercifully knocked out before he had to experience this.

Ryan let out a harsh sob, and it racked his frame so suddenly he didn't expect it. It brought him to his knees. He dropped, his jeans hitting blood that had made it onto the formerly clean grey surface. This wasn't how it was supposed to be marked, this wasn't how it was supposed to be.

He couldn't hold them back now, and he couldn't stop staring. It was a cycle. He knew he'd never be able to stop unless he tore his eyes away from the sight before him, but there was no way that was even slightly possible. Fascinated by the horror, was that what it was? Like he was making himself look, just because he had to. Just because forcing himself to would help in some way he never knew how, and probably never would know.

The sobs came fast. Before one had even been coughed from his throat, the next one built up behind it. His windpipe started to back up with them until he could almost feel them gathering in his stomach. He needed this to stop, he couldn't handle it. His head was so full. Brendon was lying there. Brendon had blood all over his face. There was blood on his tongue. If he was still aware, he would be able to taste the metallic tang on his taste buds as it sunk into them, never letting go. This would be the last thing he tasted. The comeuppance he didn't deserve.

Ryan could almost taste it himself. It was like despair, thick and turbid.

He tried to swallow away all his cries but they kept coming, until his another body was heaving, his stomach trying to push itself up his throat and out his mouth to the ground below. It was dry at first – he was gagging on nothing, but as his eyes still took in his bloodied Brendon, he felt bile claw its way up his throat, and he had to turn away to vomit.

When he had coughed the last of his food from his throat and spat anything left over from his tongue, he edged away and tried to look at Brendon again.

“Are you awake?” His voice sounded strange to him, about as stale as the air. It wasn't his voice. It didn't sound like his voice, at least. This must have belonged to someone else. Someone who had temporarily taken over his body and allowed him to form words, because even he was surprised when they tumbled from between his teeth.

“Brendon?” he continued. He leaned forward, his hand closing over one of Brendon's shoulders. “Come on, man, are you awake? Can you wake up?” He started shaking Brendon, his arm trembling slightly as he did so – his whole body trembling, he realised, as he leaned on his other elbow and his knees and tried not to topple to one side.

“Fuck, man, this isn't the time. Wake the fuck up!” He jostled Brendon further, until he rose up from his elbow just onto his knees, and grasped Brendon's other shoulder with his now free hand. He grabbed Brendon's collar, still damp with blood, so it smeared on his finger tips.

“Wake up!” he shouted, shaking Brendon hard.

Brendon's head fell forward first, them backwards limply, and Ryan suddenly screamed, dropping the boy who looked like a rag-doll in his hands and tossed himself backwards. He skittered away on his back, staring at Brendon, who had landed so awkwardly Ryan was surprised he couldn't hear Brendon screaming out in pain.

“Br-Bren!” Ryan shouted. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

His breathing wouldn't settle. It just kept screaming in his ears, like oxygen grating against sand paper.

It was all he could hear. In and out, it yelled and made him throw his fingers over his ears, trying to rid it from his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could still see Brendon burned on his retina, balled up on the ground with his jacket pulled to the right, all wrong on his body. He could still see all the blood, painting his face an eerie shade of crimson. It was in his mind and it wouldn't let go – it held on to him, grasping at his thoughts with sharp talons.

He let out an animal yelp as he shook his head, as if this would somehow make the claw lose its grip. He felt so close to delirium, like he was about to tip over the edge. Like he had shrunk like Alice and was about to tumble off the table. He wasn't Alice – he was human size, and he was breathing so loud, and Brendon was lying dead five feet away from him. Brendon wasn't breathing. Brendon wasn't alive.

His breathing just got louder. His stomach rose and fell so quickly, it was more like his entire body was in spasms. He turned onto his stomach and tried to stumble to his feet, but his legs gave out beneath him, his knees buckling.

“Brendon!” he yelled again, despite the fact that this time he was facing away from the dead man. He tried not to sob, but it broke out from him regardless. He coughed and then finally found his footing. He started running. His legs were wobbling beneath him, and he wasn't sure how long he'd last, but he was running.

He started down the steps and lasted almost all the way, but on the second to last step he tripped and fell to the hard ground with a grunt. He lay there, holding a bruised arm, before it seemed that everything caught up to him again.

He pulled himself into his hands and knees and crawled back over to the stairs so he could clamber to his feet using the stairs and the railing. His walk across the floor was awkward as he made his way for the door. It wasn't the even trudge he had established when he first entered. It was more like a limp, like one foot was merely dragging the other.

He didn't even realise he was outside until the air slammed into his face and made him blink rapidly. He gulped and stepped out onto the pavement, and glanced both ways. The street was silent except for the lampposts buzzing with light. He clenched his jaw and turned to the left, and started toward the house next door. He started banging on the door mindlessly, his fist coming into the contact with the wood and jarring his arm.

He looked surprised when the door opened up before him and a man glared up at him angrily. His hand was still raised, prepared to continue his rampage.

They both looked at each other wordlessly before the man in front of him managed a small shriek.

“No,” Ryan said, quickly. “No, no.”

The man's eyes glanced at Ryan's bloody hands. “Sir --”

“I need you to call the police,” Ryan said. The voice wasn't his once again. Something had taken his place. “I need you to call the police right now. There's a dead man in the warehouse next door. Please – please call them. An ambulance, please get an ambulance.”

The man stared at him before rubbing a hand across his receding hairline, and nodded slowly. “Okay, boy,” he said, and Ryan saw his eyes widen as he tried to take this in. He disappeared from Ryan's sight, so Ryan took the opportunity to collapse onto the door step, leaning his head back. He tried closing his eyes again, but he could just see Brendon. He hoped the image would fade, but somehow he thought there would always be a trace of it there.

The man appeared again, looking down at Ryan. Ryan just pointed his chin up and looked back at him.

“I called the police,” the man answered.

“Thank you,” Ryan mumbled, tilting his head down again. “How long do you think they'll be?”

“I don't know.”

The man stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to say next. So he just stayed there, and Ryan couldn't help but appreciate it. He was so aware of the man's presence that he couldn't sink into his own thoughts – and he desperately didn't want to.

He rubbed at his eyes and nose, remembering he had been crying, but his eyes were already dry from the cold air.

He didn't have to wait too long for the police. He heard their sirens first, then a few moments later he saw the lights. The blearing wail of the sirens filled up his ears until there was no room for anything else. He used to hate those sirens, but now he realised why they existed. To block someone's head of what they had seen.

His fingers clung to the material of his jeans as an ambulance appeared next, swerving down the street and screeching to a stop just outside the warehouse. People stormed inside as Ryan watched.

He was soon spotted, both him and the man, and a policeman walked over to the pair of them.

“Hello, sirs,” he greeted. Ryan just nodded at him.

“Who reported this?”

“I did,” the man replied in a feeble tone. “But he told me.”

“You found him?” the officer asked Ryan, looking down at him. He was so tall and intimidating, and seemed to take up most of the sky.

“Yeah.” Ryan's voice was hollow.

“What's that on your hands, son?”

Ryan glanced down at his scarlet fingers. Some of the blood had rubbed off on his jeans now. “It's his blood. I touched him,” Ryan replied.

“That's not good.”

“No... No, I guess it isn't.” Ryan rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You're going to have to come down to the station,” the officer said. “We need to take your statement.”

“Okay,” Ryan agreed. “Are they going to bring him out soon?” He motioned to the warehouse with his head.

“Yessir.”

“Will they tell me if he's dead or not?” Ryan asked.

The policeman narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Why's that?”

“He's my friend,” Ryan replied. “I was hoping to get here before he died. I think he's dead, but I was thinking... maybe they could... I don't know.”

“They'll take him to the hospital,” the officer said. He kneeled down on the steps beside Ryan. Ryan kept his gaze focused on his own feet. “But he may be dead. What was his condition when you saw him?”

Ryan swallowed and shrugged. “He was lying on the floor. There was blood all over him. I-I kind of threw up next to him, you might want to make sure they watch out for that. I'm sorry.”

The police officer let out a slight chuckle. “Now don't you worry about that, son. That should be the least of our worries.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you're right.”

“I'm sorry,” the officer went on, “you probably need to sleep, but we're going to need to ask you some questions, then we'll take you home. How did you get here?”

“I walked,” Ryan replied. “Well. Ran. I guess.”

“Right, well you won't have to do that. We'll get you home soon.”

Ryan just nodded and tilted his head so he could stare at the warehouse. He noticed a few people exiting the building, so he perked up and tried to pull himself to his feet.

“I dunno if they'll let you near him,” the officer commented.

“Can I try?”

“You can try.”

Ryan pushed himself up and jogged over to the ambulance and the surrounding police cars.
“I'm sorry,” one police officer said, raising his hands. “You can't enter the premises.”

“That's my friend.” Ryan pointed over the man's shoulder. “I just want to know if he's really – really... you know.”

“I'm sorry,” the officer said. “I don't think we can let you through, but we'll direct you to the hospital later so you can find out.”

“How – how do hospitals work?” Ryan knew it was a stupid question. “Do I go after I've been questioned? Do I just ask at the desk?”

“I think you should calm down,” the police officer requested. “Don't worry, we'll sort everything out.”

Ryan nodded and stiffly walked back over to the man's door step. The first police officer was still there, and offered a thin smile that Ryan didn't react to.

“We'll take you to the station,” he said. “Then you have some sleep, all right? Then we'll take you to the hospital.”

“Can you sleep when you're like this?” Ryan questioned. “Is it possible?”

“You'll find a way.”