Cold Hands
SIXTEEN
Ryan doesn't look like he's in control anymore. His eyes are bloodshot, hungry and yearning, and he pulls weakly at the buckled restraints stopping him from ripping out the feeding tube. His paleness surpasses that of the sheets, the walls, and there's a violent, ugly way to his yellowing smile when he brandishes it.
He won't meet Patrick's eyes, won't look up at him as calories are pumped into his veins. The mints feel heavy in his pocket. He's ashamed, Patrick knows, not of being as he is, but for collapsing. Being found out before he reached his goal. Patrick wonders what goal weight he was on, how close he was to the next. The way his bones press through his skin sends a shiver through Patrick's hand, spikes a fear behind his eyes.
Does he want this?
"Where's Pete?" Brendon falters at his side, withdrawing his full, youthful hands from their outreaching position, subtracting his offer to Ryan. The hurt is distinguishable in the cliche of his eyes. He is hit with an urge to protect, to shelter.
The storm of Ryan stares on.
"He left. He's not coming back," Jon tells him, clear as day, from his slumped position on a plastic chair. Ryan's hand curls for nothing, wants for less, and he lets his gaze fall from grace. He doesn't seem surprised, though, he doesn't seem much of anything. Washed out before he hit twenty five, let alone thirty.
No one reaches out to touch Ryan and Ryan doesn't reach out to touch anyone. There's a silence that should be tense, should be aching with everything that's gone unsaid since shadows started to grow under cheekbones. But there's a tiredness, a aching, deep, settling fatigue that lays on the air like a great, dusty sheet. A museum in which Ryan is centre stage, propped up by pillows and deadening muscle, fragile bones. He is a display, stark lighting upon hair that thins, offish skin a shade of utterly inoffensive white - a waxy, almost unnatural look to it - jaunty bones that beckon, the angle of his collarbones welcoming all to the staircase rib cage below, the sharp collapse even further below that.
A statue to space, to the empty atom, to the lacking.
Patrick shouldn't find it so beautiful.
He won't meet Patrick's eyes, won't look up at him as calories are pumped into his veins. The mints feel heavy in his pocket. He's ashamed, Patrick knows, not of being as he is, but for collapsing. Being found out before he reached his goal. Patrick wonders what goal weight he was on, how close he was to the next. The way his bones press through his skin sends a shiver through Patrick's hand, spikes a fear behind his eyes.
Does he want this?
"Where's Pete?" Brendon falters at his side, withdrawing his full, youthful hands from their outreaching position, subtracting his offer to Ryan. The hurt is distinguishable in the cliche of his eyes. He is hit with an urge to protect, to shelter.
The storm of Ryan stares on.
"He left. He's not coming back," Jon tells him, clear as day, from his slumped position on a plastic chair. Ryan's hand curls for nothing, wants for less, and he lets his gaze fall from grace. He doesn't seem surprised, though, he doesn't seem much of anything. Washed out before he hit twenty five, let alone thirty.
No one reaches out to touch Ryan and Ryan doesn't reach out to touch anyone. There's a silence that should be tense, should be aching with everything that's gone unsaid since shadows started to grow under cheekbones. But there's a tiredness, a aching, deep, settling fatigue that lays on the air like a great, dusty sheet. A museum in which Ryan is centre stage, propped up by pillows and deadening muscle, fragile bones. He is a display, stark lighting upon hair that thins, offish skin a shade of utterly inoffensive white - a waxy, almost unnatural look to it - jaunty bones that beckon, the angle of his collarbones welcoming all to the staircase rib cage below, the sharp collapse even further below that.
A statue to space, to the empty atom, to the lacking.
Patrick shouldn't find it so beautiful.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm really sorry I take ages to update this, I won't drag my personal life into this but yeah. This is drawing to a close in a few chapters, thanks for sticking with