Status: ♂♂
Vacant
and frozen
It’s Ryan’s last thirteen dollars and he spends it on Ramen and boxed wine. The store is overpriced and dirty and they don’t have his brand of cigarettes (as if he didn’t have enough reason to hate this fucking neighbourhood).
He hums along with the tinny music system, standing in line, counting and recounting the thirteen dollars in case he missed something on the bus.
He hasn’t.
"Ten fifty-three, honey.” The cashier smiles at him, cautious; sad. He passes the cash over with shaking hands (they never stop).
“Thanks,” he mumbles, pocketing the change. He packs the food into a plastic bag slowly, wine box heavy.
He walks slowly out of the store, pushing past the influx of shoppers at the entrance. The bus stop is deserted when he sits down on the bench, pulling a crumpled cigarette from the box in his jacket pocket. He flicks the lighter, then does it again. It won’t ignite.
“Got one to spare?”
Ryan looks up, squinting. The boy doesn’t look much older than eighteen. He’s all long legs and glossy hair and Ryan wants to touch it.
He hands him the cigarette that he'd just managed to get lit instead, even though, no, he doesn’t really have one to spare. He never does.
“Thanks,” the boy says, relief in his posture. He sits down next to Ryan and exhales noisily. Ryan thinks, you should be grateful. You should be.
“Brendon,” the boy says casually.
Ryan doesn’t reply.
Somehow, they still end up fucking that night.
--
Brendon leaves in the morning.
Ryan looks away when Brendon leaves his number on the fridge. Ryan barely returns the kiss Brendon gives him in the hallway. Ryan promises to call.
He doesn’t.
--
Brendon comes back two weeks later, a rap on the door, a whispered I know you’re in there through the keyhole.
He opens the door slowly; deliberately slowly. He pretends that he isn’t drunk. Brendon pretends that Ryan can’t see the mottling bruise over his right eye. It’s a fairly solid trade off.
They don’t speak once. Brendon pushes him down until he's lying on the sofa, cigarette pock marks in the fabric jagged against the bare skin of his back. His breath is too warm on Ryan’s neck. It makes him jerk wildly, shivering.
Brendon’s hand is around Ryan when Ryan finally manages to breathe out, “You don’t have to let me fuck you just so you can stay.”
He stops, his hand stilling. “How’d you know?”
“Just do.”
We’re all running from something, he thinks numbly.
“Would you, anyway?”
Ryan laughs low and pulls him in.
--
“Boyfriend?” Ryan asks in the end, ring finger circling the bruise over and over and over. He glances at sleepy brown eyes for just a moment, bright in the early morning sun bleeding through the gaps in the curtains. He’s curious. Just curious.
Brendon shakes his head, sighing softly. He pulls Ryan closer, closer than should be possible without destroying him. “Parents. You know.”
Ryan doesn’t. Not really. But he squeezes back and nods, nudging Brendon’s chin up and kissing the pinking skin.
“I know.”
--
Brendon keeps coming back. Ryan never knows when, but he always shows up eventually, with a fresh bruise, a fresh excuse.
Ryan realizes he doesn’t even know his last name. Wonders if he wants to.
--
Brendon stops kissing Ryan on the mouth. Ryan knows out almost immediately that he’s testing him.
Ryan doesn’t do tests.
“I’m not going to beg, you know,” Ryan says, voice muffled in the skin of Brendon’s neck.
He rolls his hips once, and Brendon gasps.
"I want you to want to,” Brendon whispers nonsensically. Ryan isn’t sure he is even meant to hear it, but he nips Brendon's ear and hisses, “I don’t.”
--
If one night months down the line Brendon whispers a quiet, Jon, in Ryan’s ear when he comes, Ryan can pretend he doesn’t hear, can fuck Brendon even harder to prove it.
--
One morning, Ryan wakes up alone.
The sheets are all kicked off the bed and all he can think is, We’ll never fit right, will we?
His feet freeze on the tiles. He shudders once. Brendon forgot his belt on the floor. Ryan picks it up, puts it in his underwear drawer and shuts it tightly.
He feels dirty.
The kitchen is empty. He knows it is. He still checks.
There’s no milk, just a note on the refrigerator that Ryan almost walks straight past.
I need you so much closer.
Ryan shakes his head once, crumpling the note in his fist. His hands never stop trembling.
Not that it matters, anyway. He’s always been good at pretending he understands the end.
He hums along with the tinny music system, standing in line, counting and recounting the thirteen dollars in case he missed something on the bus.
He hasn’t.
"Ten fifty-three, honey.” The cashier smiles at him, cautious; sad. He passes the cash over with shaking hands (they never stop).
“Thanks,” he mumbles, pocketing the change. He packs the food into a plastic bag slowly, wine box heavy.
He walks slowly out of the store, pushing past the influx of shoppers at the entrance. The bus stop is deserted when he sits down on the bench, pulling a crumpled cigarette from the box in his jacket pocket. He flicks the lighter, then does it again. It won’t ignite.
“Got one to spare?”
Ryan looks up, squinting. The boy doesn’t look much older than eighteen. He’s all long legs and glossy hair and Ryan wants to touch it.
He hands him the cigarette that he'd just managed to get lit instead, even though, no, he doesn’t really have one to spare. He never does.
“Thanks,” the boy says, relief in his posture. He sits down next to Ryan and exhales noisily. Ryan thinks, you should be grateful. You should be.
“Brendon,” the boy says casually.
Ryan doesn’t reply.
Somehow, they still end up fucking that night.
--
Brendon leaves in the morning.
Ryan looks away when Brendon leaves his number on the fridge. Ryan barely returns the kiss Brendon gives him in the hallway. Ryan promises to call.
He doesn’t.
--
Brendon comes back two weeks later, a rap on the door, a whispered I know you’re in there through the keyhole.
He opens the door slowly; deliberately slowly. He pretends that he isn’t drunk. Brendon pretends that Ryan can’t see the mottling bruise over his right eye. It’s a fairly solid trade off.
They don’t speak once. Brendon pushes him down until he's lying on the sofa, cigarette pock marks in the fabric jagged against the bare skin of his back. His breath is too warm on Ryan’s neck. It makes him jerk wildly, shivering.
Brendon’s hand is around Ryan when Ryan finally manages to breathe out, “You don’t have to let me fuck you just so you can stay.”
He stops, his hand stilling. “How’d you know?”
“Just do.”
We’re all running from something, he thinks numbly.
“Would you, anyway?”
Ryan laughs low and pulls him in.
--
“Boyfriend?” Ryan asks in the end, ring finger circling the bruise over and over and over. He glances at sleepy brown eyes for just a moment, bright in the early morning sun bleeding through the gaps in the curtains. He’s curious. Just curious.
Brendon shakes his head, sighing softly. He pulls Ryan closer, closer than should be possible without destroying him. “Parents. You know.”
Ryan doesn’t. Not really. But he squeezes back and nods, nudging Brendon’s chin up and kissing the pinking skin.
“I know.”
--
Brendon keeps coming back. Ryan never knows when, but he always shows up eventually, with a fresh bruise, a fresh excuse.
Ryan realizes he doesn’t even know his last name. Wonders if he wants to.
--
Brendon stops kissing Ryan on the mouth. Ryan knows out almost immediately that he’s testing him.
Ryan doesn’t do tests.
“I’m not going to beg, you know,” Ryan says, voice muffled in the skin of Brendon’s neck.
He rolls his hips once, and Brendon gasps.
"I want you to want to,” Brendon whispers nonsensically. Ryan isn’t sure he is even meant to hear it, but he nips Brendon's ear and hisses, “I don’t.”
--
If one night months down the line Brendon whispers a quiet, Jon, in Ryan’s ear when he comes, Ryan can pretend he doesn’t hear, can fuck Brendon even harder to prove it.
--
One morning, Ryan wakes up alone.
The sheets are all kicked off the bed and all he can think is, We’ll never fit right, will we?
His feet freeze on the tiles. He shudders once. Brendon forgot his belt on the floor. Ryan picks it up, puts it in his underwear drawer and shuts it tightly.
He feels dirty.
The kitchen is empty. He knows it is. He still checks.
There’s no milk, just a note on the refrigerator that Ryan almost walks straight past.
I need you so much closer.
Ryan shakes his head once, crumpling the note in his fist. His hands never stop trembling.
Not that it matters, anyway. He’s always been good at pretending he understands the end.