When Day is Night Alone 1

[turps]

Brendon's life goes to hell one sunny September afternoon. Exhausted, his hands and knees throbbing, he slumps into the back seat of a Greyhound bus and leans his head against the window, closing his eyes as the bus pulls away, leaving the last of his old life behind.

No, strike that. Reverse.

Brendon's life goes to hell on the last Sunday in June, when his mom unexpectedly walks into his bedroom. She's carrying a basket of freshly ironed clothes and drops it on the floor, jeans and t-shirts falling around her feet as she catches him with his hand down his pants, jerking-off to a stolen magazine. Not that she knows it's stolen, but that doesn't matter, there's nothing Brendon can say to explain. The sticky centerfold of the naked guy says it all.

Seven days of painful silences, tense phone calls and increasingly frantic explanations, and a small bus pulls up outside Brendon's home. It's dark blue and the windows are tinted and when Brendon steps inside it seems like another world. One where the sun doesn't shine and the clouds are grey and you have to sit on uncomfortable seats that creak when you move.

It feels like a mobile prison. One where the door closes with a bang and Brendon is left alone, hands against the glass as he peers outside, hoping at least his parents will wave.

They don't.

~~~~

The Organization for Spiritual Enlightenment runs multiple programs. Brendon's sent to Shepard House, the centre for wayward teens.

He's got his own small room: one bed, one night stand, one set of drawers for his clothes. There's a bathroom at the end of the hall and he shares it with four other boys, but they're not allowed to talk. They shower for five minutes, pull on robes and brush their teeth and hair--always looking forward, never to the side. The rules say it's to stop the sharing of sinful words and behavior. Brendon thinks it's to drive him insane.

Another label to add to his list: angry, guilty, fearful, but mostly, ashamed.

Which is ridiculous, because Brendon's got nothing to be ashamed of. He knows that, logically, in the part of him that doesn't want to cut out what makes him different--the part that's so deviant that it made his parents send him away.

~~~~

"Your urges are a sin against God, an abomination," Alan yells.

Brendon is pressed back against the wall. Alan looking down at him, so close they're sharing the same air and Brendon keeps his eyes half-shut against the spittle that's landing on his face. He wants to close them completely but if he does he knows it'll be a struggle to open them again. Brendon's exhausted, homesick and wrung-out, and when he gets back to his room there's still a pile of books he's expected to read.

Usually he's good at that. It's what he does, because when you're lonely books make excellent friends. These books, though--it's hard to read when each word is designed for maximum shame. It doesn't help that Brendon is beginning to see elements of himself in each accusing paragraph. Someone without morals and who has urges that disgust the world.

"Man does not lie with man," Alan goes on. He leans in even closer, looming over Brendon so he feels small and caged in. "Would you go against God's will, Brendon? Would you land your parents with the shame of having a deviant son?"

It feels like every part of Brendon is exposed, thoughts and memories laid bare and he reminds himself it's okay to feel like he does, that it's fine, it's normal. Still, shame burns along his spine, radiating out to consume his whole body. He clenches his hands and rounds his shoulders, looks down at the floor. Alan's wearing polished leather shoes that are laced tight, the bows perfect, unlike Brendon's sneakers with the curly orange laces that spiral free.

"The bible states you shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination. Is that what you're doing, Brendon? Are you disagreeing with your God?"

"No. I..."

"Would you throw away your faith, Brendon? Abandon your God for sins of the flesh?"

The thing is, Brendon's thought about this. From those first terrifying weeks of finally admitting to himself he really did like guys, when at any moment he expected to be struck down, to now, over a year later. He's lurked on forums, always deleting his laptop's history each time, gathering strength and acceptance via a series of names. Anonymous strangers the world over, from his church or no church, his own unknowing network of online support. He relied upon them until he was ready to research the Bible's take on homosexuality, taking those first tentative steps until he discovered how easy it is to twist written words and how little Christ actually said on the matter. Of course knowing that in the safety of his own home is different than here, where the urge to fight back is blurred by exhaustion and the harsh reality of being alone.

"Answer me, Brendon."

Brendon tries, it's impolite not to, but the words won't come, and all he can do is blink hard and keep looking at the floor.

"It's nearly dinner," Alan says then, tone and volume changing suddenly, as if he hasn't been shouting for the last twenty minutes. He curls his fingers under Brendon's chin, tilting up his head. "This would be so much easier if you admitted to all your sins."

Alan's hand is warm and he moves his thumb so he can brush the corner of Brendon's mouth. Brendon swallows hard and remains motionless, painfully tense until finally, Alan steps away and leaves the room.

~*~*~*~

Spencer was taken away when Ryan was thirteen.

He's been gone for twelve placements, three group homes or, going by time, nearly four years. Sometimes Ryan misses him so much it's like a physical ache.

They keep in touch as best they can; with occasional visits and phone calls that are never enough, can’t be. Weeks worth of talk have to be compacted into mere minutes, and each time Ryan plans what to say, teasing the words in his head into order, but somehow it never works out how he expects. They talk about Spencer's new room mate, Mrs. Golden's dog, the fact of the people in Spencer's old house having put up a swing set, everyday stuff that lets them pretend things are fine. Ryan never says how he walks five minutes out of his way so he doesn't have to pass the intersection on South Street, or that every Sunday he goes to the cemetery, putting wildflowers on each grave, mourning Spencer's family as if it were his own.

He thinks Spencer knows that anyway, the same way Ryan knows that despite what Spencer tell him, he isn't fine. It's obvious in his non-answers and the careful way he's built up a façade--telling in itself, because Ryan's an expert at hiding behind walls. There’s no way he could miss Spencer doing the same.

~~~~

The secret to talking to his dad is picking the right time. Ryan waits until mid-morning, when he's tidied the house and made coffee and toast.

His dad walks into the kitchen and takes the mug of coffee, scratches at his stomach and sits at the table. His hands shake slightly and he keeps them curled around the mug as Ryan adds peanut butter to the toast before sliding the slices onto a plate. Sitting, he takes one and pushes the rest toward his dad.

Ryan takes a bite. The bread was just this side of stale and the toast breaks in his mouth as he chews. Methodically he eats the whole slice, waiting for the perfect time, when his dad has eaten his breakfast and gotten his coffee fix and is as happy as he tends to get.

"I need to go see Spencer," Ryan says.

"Where is he now?"

It's a good start, sometimes his dad forgets that Spencer has moved at all, sometimes he just doesn't care. Today he leans back in his chair and looks at Ryan, waiting for him to speak.

"It's a new placement, somewhere called The Manors," Ryan says, trying to gauge how far he can push. "I'll need bus fare, or a ride."

"Right." Lifting up his hips, back braced against the chair, his dad takes out his wallet and pulls out a twenty which he puts on the table and pushes across to Ryan with two fingers. "That should be enough, get yourself a soda, too."

"Thanks." Ryan takes the bill and folds it up, pushing it into his jeans pocket before his dad remembers they don't have money to spare. Standing, he puts the plate and mugs into the sink, giving them a quick rinse before setting them on the drainer to dry. When he's done, he wipes his hands on a towel, all too aware that his dad's watching, which is disconcerting, because Ryan's not used to being seen.

"I'm going now." Ryan pushes his hair out of his eyes and makes for the door, stopping when his dad touches his arm.

"Tell Spencer I'm asking about him."

"I will," Ryan says

"I always liked that boy, you always had fun together, all those hours playing in the back yard." Ryan watches as his dad goes to the window, looking outside at the too-long grass and cracked patio furniture. "I think I'll do some yard work today."

"Good idea," Ryan says, and he goes while they’re both pretending to believe the lie.

~~~~

Ryan doesn't tell Spencer he's coming. The home doesn't out and out say personal calls are banned, but each time Ryan's tried he's been told Spencer's unavailable, and he's in no mood to be denied.

It takes over an hour to get to The Manors. Ryan's sharing a bus seat with an old woman who clicks her teeth each time she talks and the baby in front keeps crying despite the way his mom murmurs and rocks him in her arms. It doesn't help that Ryan isn't really sure where he's going, he knows vaguely but he still has to look out for the right stop, and when they finally get there he's left alone on a deserted street.

Checking the address written on his hand, he begins to walk. The houses are set back from the sidewalk and Ryan looks at each one as he passes by. He takes in the ones with brightly colored toys scattered on the patchy lawns and those with the flamboyant native planting. His favourites are the ones with brightly painted doors and plastic windmills hidden in the flowers or wind chimes hanging from trees. He likes the way they spin and clink, frivolous things that mean nothing but look nice anyway.

He keeps walking and the houses keep getting bigger and further apart, until finally he's outside the group home. There are no flowers here, no toys or windmills, just a closed door and barred windows. Ryan crosses his arms across his chest as he thinks what to do. He could sneak around the back and look for Spencer, or wait and hope he comes outside. What Ryan does instead is march up to the front door. Spencer isn't a prisoner; they can't stop Ryan from seeing him.

He knocks, rapping his knuckles against wood, and steps back to wait. He's about to knock again when he hears the sound of footsteps and a key turning, the door opening and revealing a woman who's smiling until she sees Ryan, then her expression changes, as if she's smelling something bad.

"Can I help you?"

Ryan doesn't do smiling, but for Spencer he's prepared to try. He curls up the corners of his mouth and says, "I'm here to see Spencer. Spencer Smith."

"He’s studying at the moment, come back another time," she says, and Ryan steps forward, so she’s unable to shut the door.

Ryan refuses to look away from her hostile look. “I won’t stay long.”

“You won’t stay at all.”

“I’ll wait until he’s finished,” Ryan says, determined to stay until he sees Spencer, even if it’s only for a few minutes. “I’ve come a long way and haven’t seen him for months.”

There’s a long moment when she just looks at him, and then over her shoulder as if checking something inside, before thankfully, she finally nods sharply and says, "Very well. Wait here."

Ryan steps back then, letting her close the door, then sits on the stone steps, wrapping his arms around his bent knees. It's just past noon and he feels overheated, like his skin is too tight for his body, which is weird, because normally Ryan loves the sun. Today though, it feels wrong. It's too bright, throwing everything into too sharp relief and Ryan squints as he pushes up his sunglasses, rubbing at the sweat that's gathered under the rims.

"Ryan."

Ryan looks around when the door opens and Spencer walks outside. At first glance, he looks the same as always, and maybe with other people Ryan wouldn't look carefully enough to see the deliberate way of moving or manufactured smile, but this is Spencer. Ryan sees it all. Ryan stands, his anger rising, even as he pulls Spencer into a hug.

"It's good to see you," Spencer says, and he doesn't seem surprised that Ryan's there at all. They cling for a bit and then pull apart, Spencer looking behind him. "I've only got an hour. Let's walk."

Ryan's seen Spencer a handful of times since he went away, time and distance always an issue, but they fall into old routines easily, walking so close that their hands brush with each step. Spencer isn't talking yet, just looks deliberately forward when Ryan glances his way. It's frustrating because Ryan's all too aware of passing time, and now he's positive something is badly wrong.

"We could get a drink. There's a store around the corner, if you have money," Spencer says. "I'd buy, but you know."

Ryan doesn't know, not exactly. What he does know is Spencer is wearing clothes that are too small, the hems of his pants exposing his ankles and his t-shirt pulled tight over his ribs.

"I've money," Ryan says, and pats his pocket. "Enough to share a Slurpee."

"Feeling indulgent?" Spencer says, and for the first time his mouth curls into a smile.

"I haven't seen you in forever, I can choke one down."

"Even if I mix the flavors?"

Ryan considers. He hates when Slurpee flavours are mixed, they always go a funny color and never have an identifiable taste. He shrugs and says, "Sure."

When they get to the shop, Ryan does buy a Slurpee -- a cherry one complete with a red-striped straw. He picks it out especially, knowing the insistence on matching colors will make Spencer hide a laugh while rolling his eyes. It does, and Ryan would endure a thousand convenience store clerks thinking he's insane if it leads to Spencer's shoulders finally loosening as they pay and go outside.

They walk around the parking lot and the air is thick with heat and the scent of gasoline. When they pass an overflowing dumpster Ryan kicks at an empty soda can, sending it rolling across the asphalt, landing at the base of a wall. Ryan jumps up on the wall and wiggles in place, trying to get comfortable, which is a losing battle because the wall's hard and Ryan's got little in the way of padding. Eventually, resigning himself to being uncomfortable, he takes a drink, enjoying the feel of his mouth freezing as he swallows. When Spencer holds out his hand, Ryan passes over the cup, and starts kicking the heels of his sneakers against the wall, trying to think what to say.

It should be easy, because words are what Ryan knows. He studies and manipulates them until they're made his own. Except, what's so clear in his head never seems to sound the same on his tongue. Normally with Spencer that isn't an issue. They've got their own kind of short-hand that's survived despite the separation, but right now Ryan needs more.

"Spencer..."

"I just hate it there," Spencer says. He puts down the Slurpee and touches his foot to Ryan's. "That's what you wanted to ask, right?"

"Then you'll know I'm going to ask why."

"I don't want to tell you."

Ryan stays silent, though, waiting, because as much as Spencer doesn't want to, he wouldn't have gone this far if he were going to stop now. Spencer proves him right: "If I tell you, promise me you won't hit anyone."

Despite the heat, Ryan feels cold, but Spencer's not saying a word, and Ryan knows he won't until he gets that promise. "Fine. Fine. I promise, no hitting. Now tell me."

"It could be worse," Spencer says, as if he's cushioning what he's about to say. "Food’s always—like, there’s usually not enough for seconds, and the TV and games systems are locked away. We're mostly allowed in when there's inspections, otherwise it’s by request, and, y’know, they don’t have to say yes. They're strict, like, really strict. No talking after eight, stupid stuff really." Spencer rubs his palms, as if easing past hurts. "But that's not it, there's this long-termer, Colin. He rules the house, the little kids are terrified of him."

"And you?" Ryan asks, icy calm.

Spencer looks at Ryan, then away. "He's got this gang and none of them fight fair. They cornered me in the laundry room last week. I fought back, but there were too many of them."

"They hurt you," Ryan says. It's not a question, because it's like looking in a mirror right now, and Ryan can easily read the signs. "How bad?"

"Bruises mainly, my ribs hurt but I didn't see a doctor so. And there's this." Spencer shrugs and then hooks his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt. He lifts one side, exposing an expanse of yellowing bruises, and to one side, a shallow cut that curves along the bottom of his ribs. It's scabbed over, on its way to being healed, but Ryan feels sick with the knowledge that someone hurt Spencer like that, cutting through flesh and skin.

"I fought back, so he pulled a knife." Spencer rubs at the skin that surrounds the cut then drops his t-shirt and looks at Ryan, his expression fierce. "He wouldn't have got me if he'd been alone. He only got in the hits because I was held down."

Ryan doesn't ask if Spencer told. The simple fact is, you don't, and even if you do it does no good. "You need to get out of there."

"And go where?"

"We've room, you could stay with us," Ryan says immediately.

Spencer smiles and taps Ryan's foot with his own. "We'll watch late night TV and sleep in blanket forts."

"With pillows and books and I was thinking--terriers can curl up small."

Lips pursed, as if he's considering, Spencer nods. "They can, as long as she doesn't eat our food supplies."

"She won't," Ryan promises. "The jelly beans and Cheetos are safe."

"Good," Spencer says. "The jelly beans are sacred."

And they are, they have been since they started this plan, back when Spencer first left and Ryan really thought he could change his dad's mind. Reaching out, he rests his hand gently on Spencer's side. "I could ask again."

Resting his own hand briefly over Ryan's, Spencer shakes his head. "Why go looking for trouble? I'll be fine." He slides off the wall then and brushes off the seat of his pants. "I need to get back."

Ryan jumps down, the cup of the Slurpee bending under his fingers as they start to walk back to the home.

~*~*~*~

Before, Brendon enjoyed movie nights. He'd curl up on the sofa with his family, his bare feet pushed into the cushions and a bowl of popcorn at his side. He hates them now.

There's no popcorn and no comfy sofa, just a hard plastic seat and a projector screen attached to a plain white wall. Brendon tries to get comfortable, but the edge of the seat digs into his thighs and he's all too aware of the wall-mounted camera that's pointed his way, recording his every move. He blinks hard, rubs his hands across his mouth and crosses his legs. Looks down so his hair falls in his face and twitches his foot to an internal beat of sound, one that gets faster as Alan loads the movie and then hits play.

The movie starts innocently enough, and Brendon can't help hoping that this time it'll be different, that's there's some kind of schedule that says sometimes he gets a break. Then a man walks into view on the screen, and Brendon knows he's out of luck. The man has dark hair, pale blue eyes, and is totally naked, already hard as he settles himself on a bed.

"Do you like that, Brendon?"

Alan has taken the seat next to Brendon's. He's wearing brown cords today, a shirt that clings damply under his arms and as always, his shoes are perfect, the laces in neat bows. Light flickers across his face as he looks at the movie, his mouth curling in disgust as he watches the man on screen run his hands over his own body, across his nipples and cock.

"Do you want his hands on your body? Would you like him to touch you like that?"

Brendon swallows hard and bites at the inside of his lip. The stupid thing is, until he was sent here he'd seen nothing like this. Porn movies were for other people, not Brendon with his music and his books and his imagination that never seemed to get beyond a kiss. Now he's seen it all, fucking and sucking and acts he never thought possible, and with each new thing he's forced to see, his reaction is watched and noted

On screen, another man sits on the bed, this one blond, his hair cut short, and he looks at the camera, his mouth open as he slides to the floor and onto his knees.

"Do you want to be sucked like that? Do you want his mouth down there?" Alan says, and he's so close Brendon can feel the warmth of Alan’s breath against his cheek. "His mouth on you, sucking. Would you find that pleasurable?"

Biting harder, enough that he can taste that first split of raw skin, Brendon tries not to react, but he can't help jumping when Alan suddenly reaches out and rests his hand on Brendon's crotch, his fingers digging in painfully.

"Answer me, Brendon. Would you find that pleasurable? Has it made you hard? Were you thinking of his lips? His body? Do you want to fuck him? Be fucked?"

Brendon pushes himself back in his seat, trying to pull away, but Alan isn't going anywhere. He's staring at Brendon, breathing hard and Brendon feels sick, shivering as Alan curls his lip, as if he can see something rotten.

"You disgust me with your filthy thoughts, your clear rejection of God. Are you a sinner, Brendon? Do you want to wallow with the filth of society? Do you want to be one of them?"

The screen fades, changes, and Brendon knows what's coming. He tries to look away, but Alan grabs hold of his jaw, his thumb over Brendon's lips, forcing him to still and watch scenes of bloody death, lesion-covered skin, needles in veins, children crying, crowds of people yelling, their faces twisted with hate. Quick-fire images designed to distress and Brendon's breathing hard as he takes them in, needing fresh air. All he can smell is Alan – the tang of old sweat. Alan’s fingers are almost wholly in Brendon's mouth. Alan grips harder, sliding his thumb over Brendon's bottom lip to his teeth, his other hand still against Brendon's crotch.

"Look at your future, Brendon, one of depravity, held in disgust by the righteous man," Alan says, his words cutting and laced with scorn. "No wonder your parents sent you away." He lets go then, stands and starts to leave the room. "You disgust me. Go do your chores, then pray. Pray that your God will forgive you."

Brendon presses his hands against his mouth, trying to stop them shaking as he looks away from the screen, his jaw aching almost as much as his stomach, where guilt lies, heavy and painful.

~*~*~*~

Pen gripped between his teeth, Ryan bites down as he stares at his notebook. The page is full of crossed out lines, the few words he’d managed to pry free almost immediately scribbled over and scored through. He's got multiple things he wants to say -- hopes and fears and closely-held dreams -- but when he writes them down they all sound wrong.

It's frustrating, especially when normally the words come so easily. Taking the pen out of his mouth, Ryan wipes the spit wet end against his arm and then places the pen in the middle of his notebook before closing the page. There'll be no writing tonight, there hasn't been for a while, because his words have been overwritten by thoughts of Spencer. The small bruises on his arm, the cut on his side, the look he tried to hide when Ryan left him alone. Ryan remembers it all.

All he wants to do is fix things, but after thinking of and dismissing a series of elaborate plans, all Ryan keeps coming back to is the cold fact that Spencer needs to run away. It's the only thing that will work, and if he does that, Ryan will have to go too, because there's no way he can be left behind. Which is a problem, because Ryan's scared. This is his home, his bedroom, these are his things, this is where his dad is. As drunk and as cruel as he can get sometimes, Ryan still loves him.

Except, he loves Spencer too, he has for a long time, and in the end, despite the decision being heartbreaking, Ryan can – and will -- choose.

~~~~~

Ryan talks to Spencer for five minutes on a Sunday afternoon. It takes him three minutes to explain his plan and Spencer two seconds to say yes. Ryan tries not to think what that means, just sits crouched over on the bottom stair, arm pressed against his stomach as they agree where to meet.

Five am at the bus station the next day. It's Spencer's way of giving Ryan time to change his mind. Ryan knows he won't.

~~~~~

Methodically, Ryan spoons tomato sauce into the small plastic bag. He'd made spaghetti for dinner, far too much for two, and now, hours later he's dividing up the leftovers -- drop in a tangle of spaghetti, add spoonfuls of sauce, press together the seal. He places each one on the counter, eight bags, four days for two -- more than a week for one.

Transferring the empty pan to the sink, Ryan fills it with hot water and liquid soap, picks up the sponge and starts to scrub at the crusted on sauce. He can hear his dad in the next room, he's snoring, a snort-grunt of sound that's Ryan's background music as he washes up and sets the dishes to dry on the rack. There's a bottle on the floor and he picks it up, rinsing it out before throwing it in the trash outside -- they don't recycle glass, not these bottles at least.

Finally, there's only the floor to clean and Ryan crouches down, using the small dustpan and brush to sweep up the mug that was broken when his dad came home. The pieces clatter against the bottle when Ryan throws them away, and he instinctively looks toward next door. There's no one there, the windows remain dark, no shadowy watching figures this time.

Relieved, Ryan shuts the door and locks it, putting the bags of spaghetti and sauce in the freezer before taking a last look around. Satisfied that everything is tidy, he clicks off the light before going into the den. His dad's lying on the couch, the blanket Ryan draped over him trailing on the floor. His head is tipped back and his mouth open, his hands twitching, as if even in sleep he's trapped in a fight.

Falling into familiar routine, Ryan eases him onto his side, using a pillow to keep him in place. His dad mutters as he's moved, waking enough that he looks at Ryan through half-closed eyes.

"You're a good son."

It's difficult to hear what he's saying, but Ryan drops to his knees and leans in close, wrinkling his nose at the smell of alcohol and sweat.

"I'm sorry," his dad says, words slurred almost beyond comprehension, but Ryan hears them, understands.

"Me too," Ryan says, and he briefly rests his hand on his dad's shoulder, relieved that he's saying goodbye to the man he loves, and not the one that more and more frequently takes his place. Ryan doesn't like that man at all.

~~~~


It takes Ryan twenty minutes to jam clothes in a small bag. He adds his toothbrush and a selection of photographs, two of his favourite books, his notebook and a handful of pens. He takes the money he's been saving -- almost $100 dollars stuffed in an old tin -- and hides it at the bottom of the bag, then finally, picks up his guitar.

It's a last minute decision to take it, but Ryan rationalizes to himself that it's security of sorts, if they need to busk or have something to pawn. Mainly though, it's a comfort thing, and Ryan grips the handle as he takes a last look at his room. The bed is made, his school books stacked neatly, and in the middle of his desk, there’s a note to his dad.

He won't find it until much later today, maybe not even then, but he’ll find it eventually, and that's important, because the note contains vague explanations, and Ryan's final goodbye scrawled over one torn-out page.

Bag on his back and guitar case in his hand, Ryan clicks off the light and leaves the room. Carefully, he goes downstairs, avoiding the step that always squeaks and deliberately not looking into the den. It's cool outside, it won’t be for long, but the cold of the desert night hasn’t yet fled. Locking the front door, Ryan hesitates a moment then shoves the key in his pocket before looking at his watch. It'll be a good hour walk to get to Spencer, but it's the only way. The buses don't run this early, not here anyway, and taking a cab isn't an option.

Not that Ryan minds walking, he concentrates on the thump of his feet against the sidewalk and ignores the shadows that make the houses seem so unfamiliar, distorted with dark shapes. Head down, he plunges through the patches of shadow and listens to the distant barking of dogs, and from one house where a window suddenly spills light across the lawn, the wail of a baby. Ryan hurries past that one and increases his pace, his bag thumping against his back as he begins to run. Away from home or towards Spencer, Ryan couldn't say. All he knows is it feels good to sprint along the road, leg muscles burning as he leaves the suburbs, houses giving way to shops and offices and finally, when Ryan is panting for breath, the street that leads to the bus station.

Ryan slows and presses his hand against his side. Setting his guitar case down, he rubs his hand against his thigh and flexes his fingers, then picks up the case again. He begins to walk, past the 24-hour gas station and the café filled with workers coming off the late shift, coffee mugs close at hand as they eat dinner and pretend that night is really day. There's no sign of Spencer, but Ryan's not worried, not yet. The closer he gets, though, he can see that Spencer's not there, and all he can think is: what if Ryan's too late? What if Spencer couldn't get away?

Ryan looks around, double checking that Spencer isn't hiding beside the group of tourists that are sitting against the wall, laughing as they hold onto their tacky plastic casino cups, surrounded by bags. He's not there, or in the bathroom, or next to the woman who's tapping her fingers against the barrier, ear buds firmly in place.

He pushes panic back, because Spencer is fine. Ryan moves to the information board that's attached to one wall. He looks at each destination, far away places he's read about but never seen. When Spencer arrives they'll decide where to go together, pick a place and just go.

Ryan just needs to wait, because Spencer will come. He will.

~*~*~*~

Brendon runs away early on a Tuesday morning, as the sun rises and the first birdsongs fill the air.

At least he thinks that’s when it is. He knows he's taken twenty-nine showers, tried to sleep for thirty nights and seems to have spent days on his knees being forced to pray. So yeah, Tuesday, when the house is quiet, Brendon forces open his window and clambers down, feet slipping as he clings to the drain pipe and slides. He only falls once, that last jump from porch roof to ground where he lands awkwardly in the gravel and sprawls backward.

Biting back a gasp, Brendon looks toward the main door, but no one appears, and he scrambles to his feet, fear making him run despite the ache in his ankle and the torn skin of his palms.

He runs from the property, over the long drive and past the main gate, keeps running across roads, past grass and hard-packed dirt, sheer panic-fueled adrenalin keeping him going until he reaches town. It's a small place, one row of shops, each one deserted, the windows dark expanses of glass. It feels weird walking down the street, as if he's interrupting an area that's still asleep, but Brendon shakes off that feeling and keeps looking, needing a phone -- needing to call home.

It takes almost five minutes to find one. It's next to a small boutique and Brendon keeps his back to the display of dresses and hats as he picks up the receiver and puts in a collect call. When the operator comes on the line Brendon starts at the sound of her voice -- calm, level, professional, no scorn in it at all.

She repeats the number he tells her and Brendon crouches down, phone line pulled taut, his legs so shaky he can't stay standing up straight. Crouching, his ankle complains as it takes his weight, and the area he fell on reminds him loudly that it’s bruised—most likely bone deep.

"Brendon?"

Brendon closes his eyes. His mom sounds like always and all he wants to do is go home, smile sheepishly as he jumps onto the bathroom counter and hear her tut about his hands. She would clean them before applying Band-aids and a kiss to his forehead. It's what she’s always done -- patched up every hurt. Brendon misses her so much it's hard to breathe.

"Mom." It's all Brendon can say, anything else is trapped by how much he needs to go home.

"Honey, where are you? It's so early."

Brendon looks around and says, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" She sounds surprised and then there's a moment of muffled sound, and Brendon can imagine her motioning for his dad, telling him to pick up the other phone. "Brendon, sweetheart, aren't you at Shepard House?"

"I hate it there. They show me stuff, and say things, and...."

"It's all for your benefit." There's a dull thud, the sound of a door opening and closing and Brendon knows his mom will be in the kitchen now, leaning against the counter and looking outside, the way she always does when she's on the phone. "You have to understand that. We're doing it for you."

"I want to come home, please."

"I..." There's a hesitation, then his mom speaks again, her voice firmer this time. "You can come home with the program is complete, dad's going to phone Shepard House, they'll come get you."

"Please," Brendon says. "I'll be good."

"When you're cured, you can come home then. I need to go now, honey. I love you."

She hangs up and Brendon lets himself fall, sitting on the ground, the receiver hanging in front of his face. He wraps his arms around his bent knees and mumbles, "I love you too."

~*~*~*~

Spencer finally arrives when Ryan's been waiting almost an hour.

He's got a backpack on his back -- small and blue, like the one he used to use for school. Despite the way he walks into view, shoulders back and head held high, when Ryan greets him with a hug, Spencer feels tense, like he's holding himself together by force of will alone. This close it's also easy to see that he's got the remains of a black eye -- yellow and green bruises smeared over his skin -- and a split lip, the raw edges starting to scab. Along with fury Ryan feels at the sight, there’s relief. If they're being so careless now, striking where the results can be seen, Ryan knows running was the right decision for sure.

"Sorry I'm late," Spencer says, his face pressed against Ryan's neck. "Some of the others were awake, I had to sneak out."

"It's okay," Ryan says. "You're here now." He listens to the frantic beating of Spencer's heart, squeezes him one last time, then turns to the board, pointing at the list of names. "Any preferences?"

Spencer looks too, taking his time as he studies the list. "What about Chicago? It's a long way from here and you said the music scene was good."

"It is," Ryan says. At least, he's read that it is, and momentarily he imagines himself playing at a club, sharing his music with the world. Of course, it won't be that easy, nothing ever is, but Ryan feels better now they've a destination in mind, like things are starting to fall into place. "Chicago it is, we should get in line for tickets."

Ten minutes later the ticket office opens for business, the shutters rattling up with a crash of sound.

Seventeen minutes later and Ryan's standing at the counter, Spencer pressed close to his side as the gum-clicking clerk turns a terminal so they can look at the screen with its list of fares.

Twenty minutes later and Ryan realises no way they can afford tickets to Chicago, in fact, with the money he has they'll be lucky to get anywhere at all.

Twenty-one minutes later and Ryan looks at Spencer, neither saying a word as they turn and go.

~~~~

"We need to vet the drivers first, no getting in if they give off bad vibes."

Ryan shrugs his bag further on his back then swaps his guitar to his other hand. They've been walking just over an hour and his t-shirt is damp, clinging to his back, as well as under the bag straps. Normally Ryan loves the heat, but today it's just another strike against them as they hurry along the streets, constantly looking out for anyone they know. "Most serial killers look perfectly normal."

Spencer gives Ryan a look. "Well, that's reassuring."

"I just meant, not all freaks show signs."

"Right," Spencer says. "And here I was expecting skinned bodies in the back seat, or gnawed bones hanging from the mirror."

"Too obvious, they always hide evidence of their despicable crimes in the trunk."

"Really?" Spencer says, sounding amused.

Ryan smiles. "Yeah, I've seen CSI. I'm telling you, always the trunk."

"Okay, fine. So we don't get into any cars with suspicious trunk leakage."

"Sounds good to me."

"Now that's settled, we should cut through here." Spencer indicates the parking lot of a McDonalds, and the scrubby bank behind it that leads to the highway. From where they're standing it's just possible to see the tops of trucks, their cabs flashing light from the sun and their trailers made hazy by rising heat.

"We'll be away from here soon," Ryan says, and while mostly it's relief, there's loss too, curled deep inside with his memories of home.

"You can still go back."

It's as if Spencer can read Ryan's every thought, but his wording is significant. You, not we, and Ryan changes direction, striding toward the parking lot. "Come on, the sooner we start the better."

Spencer grins. "Lead on CSI Ross."

~~~~

The side of the highway is littered with trash -- ragged scraps of plastic, cigarette butts, and drinks cans faded by the sun. They're walking on brittle grass, more grey than green, and the air is filled with the choking scent of fumes. Ryan keeps his chin tucked down, breathing as shallowly as possible and flinches slightly each time a truck speeds past, making the ground shake and the air tumble through his hair. Despite his eyes watering from the thrown-up dust, Ryan feels dried out, throat scratchy, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Licking his lips helps for all of a few seconds, but spit only goes so far, especially in the main heat of the day. Ryan licks his lips again and keeps on walking. His feet hurt and one of his socks feels wet at the heel, because even the most comfortable of shoes rub after walking for hours.

"The truck stop should be close," Spencer says. He's walking a few steps in front and Ryan watches the rhythmic flash of his ankles and feet, pale skin, tatty sneakers and white socks, one with a yellow band, the other blue. "We'll get a ride there for sure."

Ryan nods, hoping Spencer's right, because there's no way that they'll get one here, the traffic is going too fast for anyone to stop, even if they wanted to, they couldn't.

"One of the truckers will take us, we'll go to Chicago, see some shows."

"Get jobs and rent an apartment," Ryan says, verbalising the place he keeps safe in his head. "We'll put posters on the wall and find furniture, a sofa and book cases."

"And a small table, big enough for two."

"Yeah," Ryan says. "And beds, with beige covers and soft pillows."

"Or just one bed." Spencer looks over at Ryan, then away. "We could share. It'll be cheaper."

"Sensible," Ryan says and he reaches out, brushing his fingers over Spencer's arm. He stops walking when he realizes what the sign ahead actually says, shading his eyes with one hand he squints as he reads. "There's a sign, for the truck stop."

Spencer grins, relief obvious as he looks toward the sign then back at Ryan, a boost of energy making him bounce on his toes. "Come on, last one there buys water."

Which is no kind of incentive because it's not like Spencer has any money, still, Ryan's caught in the moment and starts to run, long legs propelling him forward and past Spencer as they follow the road off the highway. The truck stop is set back from the road, with its fast food restaurants, shops, and a service station. Best of all, there’s a long line of trucks and cars, their tickets away from this place.

~~~~

Sitting on the a picnic bench, his leg bent and twisted to the side, Ryan looks at his heel. It's been rubbed raw, the skin all ragged edges, flesh oozing clear liquid. Ryan can feel it throb in sync with his heart.

"You need a Band-aid on that." Spencer's holding his bottle of water and takes another drink before putting it down. "Toilet paper won't cut it."

Ryan looks at the wad of paper he's taken from the toilets, he's sure if it's folded it'll be fine, but Spence's not backing down, just keeps looking at Ryan until he finally gives in and reaches for some change.

"Here."

He doesn't say anything else, that Spencer is right or that they shouldn't be spending money they can't afford, because Spencer already knows, just takes the money and heads toward the shop without a backwards glance.

Left alone Ryan pokes at the reddened skin and wiggles his toes, making pain flair sharp and fierce. He pokes again then straightens, looking around at the parked cars. They're sitting in an outdoor eating area, the shops and fast food outlets at the back, picnic benches scattered over patchy grass. The garbage cans are full and a young family sits at a bench near some cactii, laughing and taking pictures of their children, two boys, dark haired and gap-toothed.

Ryan looks away before they see him watching, turning his attention to the old couple ambling along the sidewalk, holding hands, the winkles of their faces deepening as they smile. Ryan imagines their story: they're off to see their grandchildren, surprise them by arriving unannounced with arms full of gifts, and beaming smiles.

"I got the waterproof kind."

Ryan jumps when Spencer steps in front of him and holds up a box. Ryan takes it, looks at the front. "They've got Scooby Doo on them."

"They have," Spencer says. "They cost the same as the regular kind and I thought...."

"Good choice," Ryan says, knowing what Spencer had been thinking. He could remember Saturday mornings watching cartoons, lying on their stomachs, feet kicking in the air.

"Glad you approve." Spencer crouches down and untwists the lid of his water. "Stay still."

Ryan does, even though the cold water hitting his heel feels like daggers jabbing into his skin, but it doesn't last long, pain fading into an ache and Spencer is using the toilet paper to pat the surrounding skin dry, before carefully opening a Band-aid, stretching it across Ryan's heel.

"There." Spencer stands and puts the backing of the Band-aid and the paper into the trash, then sits down as Ryan pulls on his sock. The sock is all kinds of disgusting, completely soggy at the back, and Ryan grimaces as he tugs it up, then pulls on his sneaker, easing the back away from his heel as he pushes his foot inside.

"I was thinking," Spencer says. "If we stood on the on-ramp, people would have time to stop."

"We should have made a sign, but yeah." Ryan stands and picks up his bag, putting it on his back. It presses his t-shirt against his skin, cold and clammy, and Ryan shudders at the feel. His guitar is under the bench and he picks that up too, then follows Spencer as he heads for the road.

They pick a spot near the yield spot to the highway, far enough away people can stop. Not that anyone does, not for a long time.

Ryan stands just off the shoulder and sticks out his thumb, trying to look as non-threatening as he can. He doesn't smile, he leaves that to Spencer, who clutches his bag and holds out his thumb and always keeps smiling, even when it becomes increasingly strained. Ryan wants to tell him to stop, that it doesn't matter, the drivers will stop or they won't, it's got nothing to do with how wide Spencer can smile. He doesn't, because Spencer needs this. Needs to know that he's doing all he can.

An hour and forty minutes later a car finally slows then stops. Ryan feels excited, apprehensive, and thankful as the middle-aged driver stretches across the passenger seat, rolls down the window and looks outside.

"You boys haven't got a sign, where’re you wanting to go?"

"Chicago," Spencer says, and the man inclines his head toward the back seat.

"I'm going in that direction, jump in."

Spencer nods slightly and Ryan opens the back door. "Thank you."

The man closes the window, waiting until both Ryan and Spencer are settled. It's cramped, Ryan has to keep his guitar on his lap and his knees are jammed against the back of the passenger seat, his bag between his feet. The air is stuffy with old smoke and the artificial scent of roses from the palm tree-shaped air freshener that swings from the mirror.

Spencer sees where Ryan's looking and digs him in the ribs. "See, no bones."

"No bones," Ryan says, sharing a grin.

They pull into traffic then, and the man looks back briefly before pushing a CD in the player. "I hope you boys like Patsy Cline."

"Love her," Ryan says and settles against the seat, head back, watching the scenery as Patsy begins to sing.

~*~*~*~

It's Alan who picks Brendon up.

He arrives in a black estate car, the windows tinted dark, and when Brendon gets into the back, he notices the doors have no handles--no way to open the windows or get back outside. Not that Brendon cares; it's not like he has anywhere to go.

Sitting in the middle of the seat, he pulls up his knees and rests his forehead against the blood-spotted fabric of his jeans. He keeps his eyes open, but what he sees is another time, when he had a family, a home.

The car dips when Alan sits. He slams the door and presses a button, making all the locks click into place. He doesn't talk, hasn't since he arrived. He just hauled Brendon up by his arm--fingers digging in as he held Brendon upright--and steered him to the car. They set off, and a journey that took Brendon so long passes in minutes. They leave the just-waking town, its windows bright, a few early commuters wandering the streets. Turning onto country roads that wind and turn, they finally pass through the gate of Shepard House, wheels crunching across gravel as the car enters the drive.

They stop, and Alan steps outside, opens the door and then steps away, never once looking in Brendon's direction while ordering, "Go to your room and stay there."

Brendon gets out of the car, nods and goes inside. He walks fast, head down, feeling as though he's being watched all the time. Past the meeting rooms and kitchen, the counselling suit and up the stairs, past the bathroom until finally, he gets to his room. Brendon goes inside, and all he can do is stare, because it's been stripped bare. No covers on the bed, no pillows, no curtains, no clothes in the wardrobe, there're none of his things left at all.

There's hardly anything left of Brendon at all. He lies on the bare mattress and curls up on his side, cheek pressed against the surface, his hands tucked up against his chest.

~~~~~

He gets up again two hours later, stands and wobbles on his weak ankle . He examines his palms, bruises blooming under a raw criss-cross of cuts, still home to gravel and tinier, more insidious dirt. There's a piece of gravel stuck just under his thumb and Brendon hooks under it with his nail, prying the fragment free. It falls to the ground without a sound. He looks outside then, noticing the nails that have been hammered between window and frame. There's no one out there, just the usual expanse of grass and the long curving drive. It’s the road to freedom, except in Brendon's case.

It's enough to make Brendon angry, because this sort of thing happens to him all the time. He tries; he puts everything into making friends, works at being a good son, the best person he can be, It's never enough, though, and every time he only ends up back where he began.

So he always tries harder, smiles wider, finds better things to say, but still it's never enough. And now he's here, in this bare room and his body hurts and his hands hurt, but not nearly as much as he hurts inside, coming to the stark realization that there’s nowhere for him to go, nobody who will take him in. But that's okay, that's fine, because Brendon has the beginnings of a plan. He's spent his life fitting himself into places where he doesn't belong. He'll listen to Alan, pretend to take in what he says, act like the person they expect him to be. If he can be someone else, if he can change himself—at least the parts they see--maybe that way he'll get to go home.

Decision made, Brendon goes to the door, ready to find Alan and apologize, to vow it'll never happen again. Except the door is locked and no matter how long he knocks, how loud he shouts, no one responds. Eventually he accepts that all he can do is sit on his bed and wait, hands on his knees, feet on the floor, back straight as Alan’s shoelaces.

~~~~~

The sun sets and still no one comes. Brendon watches as the walls turn gold, red, a dusky maroon. He picks at the threads of his jeans, letting fragments flutter to the floor. Sitting cross-legged, he acts out a scene from Beauty and the Beast, using different voices for both Beast and Belle. He sings: church songs, pop songs, songs from musicals; belting out the words, taking them in until he feels less alone. He lists the full names and birthdays of all his family, reminding himself that there was a place where he belonged at one time.

When he can’t sit still any longer, he clutches his stomach and paces the room. When everything falls into shadow, when he can't hold it a moment longer, he pees against the wall in the corner, then wiggles out of his hoodie and his t-shirt, dropping the undergarment on the puddle in an attempt to conceal the mess.

His stomach growling, Brendon lies down and tries to sleep. Exhaustion finally claims him just as the first flush of daylight lightens the room.

~~~~~

"Wake up! Wake up, now!"

Brendon wakes up to the shout, then gasps when he's doused with freezing water. Shivering, he jumps to his feet, his heart racing, his mind confused.

"You disgust me! Your lack of control disgusts me!" Alan stands over Brendon, yelling directly in his face, each word accompanied by a blast of sour breath. "Not that I'm surprised: a filthy mind breeds a filthy body. If you want to rut like an animal why not piss like one too?" Grabbing Brendon's arm, Alan marches him to the corner and forces him to his knees. "Shall I treat you like a dog, rub your nose in it? Are you a dog, Brendon? You want to get on your knees and be fucked from behind, so why not treat you like that at all time?"

"No," Brendon manages to say, bent almost double, Alan's hand pressing against his shoulder, keeping him in place. He looks down at his sodden t-shirt -- there's a dinosaur on the front, purple with a long tail, his sister bought it for him while on vacation and she had smiled when she passed it over, laughing as he hugged her in thanks. Her hair had smelled of sunshine and her hands were soft and Brendon had put on the t-shirt right then, stripping off the old one and....

"Are you listening to me?!" Alan brings back his hand and strikes Brendon's face, an open-handed slap accompanied by a sharp crack of sound. "Look what you made me do! You push me too far, Brendon. Always defying, is that what you're doing Brendon? Acting out. Defying me, your family, your God? Is that why you've cultivated these shameful urges, because you want to be a rebel? You want to be special? Because you're not special. You're nothing, you're less than nothing. You're scum, the lowest of the low." Alan steps away then, breathing hard. "There's a bucket outside. Clean up this mess, scrub away your filth from the whole floor."

He leaves but Brendon can't move. Not at first, when his cheek, hands and knees throb from being thrown to the floor, being held there. His eyes prickle with tears, but he won't cry, he won't. Eyes squeezed tight, Brendon breathes deeply, deliberately, slowly -- then stands. Just outside the door is a bucket. It's filled with hot water and smells strongly of bleach. Through the milky water, Brendon can see the outline of a brush. He sets the bucket down, steels himself and puts in his hand. Immediately the bleach seeps into each cut on his palm, and Brendon can't help mewling with pain as he grabs the brush and crouches down.

He starts scrubbing at small bloodstains, twin spots showing where he was forced to kneel, the wood cutting into his bare knees, splinters poking at the skin, the scabs on his palms opening right up under the pressure. They're diluted by the water, pulled out in faint tendrils that Brendon keeps scrubbing until they're faded, faded, gone. He moves his t-shirt then, picking it up and dropping it in the bucket, then scrubs at the damp patch left behind. He puts everything he has into each movement, forward and back, a steady two-point rhythm that he maintains as he cleans the whole floor. When he's finished, Brendon's arms ache, the muscles engulfed in fire. Dropping the brush in the bucket, he sits on his bed, lifts up his feet and waits. Again.

~~~~~

Alan returns when the sun is high in the sky. He doesn't look at the floor, or Brendon, just says, "Go to the bathroom, you've got ten minutes to clean up," then leaves.

There's no one in the bathroom today. In fact, Brendon sees no one at all. Each bedroom door he passes is shut tightly and the only voices he hears are distant, muted, the sounds of the others getting lunch. While he's not hungry anymore, Brendon is thirsty and he bends over the sink, placing his mouth under the stream of water and letting it run over his throbbing cheek as he drinks. When his thirst is quenched, he straightens and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are nothing more than dark shadowed, his skin pale. There’s a bruise spread along one cheekbone and his hair is wet, pushed back off his face.

It's something Brendon hates to see – he’s too exposed, too raw, the marks on him are too telling. He looks down, at the cracked white tiles and forces a smile, looks back up at his reflection and assesses the change, because the smile means everything. If he smiles no one can see how he really feels.

"What do you think you're doing!?"

Turning at Alan's shout, Brendon takes a step back, striking his hip against the edge of the sink.

"The bible says, remove far from me vanity and lies. Vanity and lies, Brendon. I come here to offer you forgiveness, to allow you time to explain your wicked ways and what do I find? I find you flaunting the word of our God. Vanity is a sin, a sin which you seem intent to indulge in the most shameless of ways. Do you like how you look? Do you wish others to look upon your face and body and feel lust?"

"I was checking I was clean," Brendon says, attempting to explain. He tries to smile again, but it fades when Alan comes completely into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"And now you attempt excuses and lies, like the serpent with its tongue of wickedness and untruth."

"No. I--"

Brendon doesn't get to finish, his words cut off when Alan strides across the room and grabs hold of Brendon's shoulders, violently turning him around so he's facing the mirror, trapped between the cold porcelain of the sink and Alan's body.

"Tell me, what do you see? Do you find your eyes pleasing? The slant of your nose compelling? Do you look at your lips and imagine them around another man's cock?"

"Please, don't." Brendon tries to turn away, but Alan grabs hold of his jaw and chin with one hand, tightening his grip so Brendon is unable to move.

"Tell me what you see!" Alan is yelling now, his voice echoing throughout the bathroom, and Brendon has no choice but to look at his own face.

"Do you know what I see?" Alan asks, his voice lowering as he moves his head so it's close to Brendon's, so close he can talk directly into his ear. "I see someone who made his mother cry. Did you know that Brendon? Did you know she phoned and cried over the loss of her son? I see someone riddled with disease, someone who disgusts me, someone who loves his own face. And for what? How could anyone love something so ugly, so riddled with sin? Are you looking? Look closer!"

Alan yells this last and pushes Brendon closer to the mirror. All Brendon can see is his own face, how ugly he really is: his flaws and imperfections are so clear, so close, and he begins to struggle, wanting to get away.

"Do not defy me, Brendon, you will not win," Alan says, but Brendon keeps struggling, trying to twist his head out of Alan's grip. When he does manage to move, though, his lips brush against Alan's and suddenly Alan rears back and shoves Brendon away, making him fall against the sinks, barely able to get his footing before Alan brings back his hand and slaps him full force across the face.

"You harlot! You slut! Do not attempt your disgusting practices on me! I will not respond! You will not tempt me onto the road of sin and evil!"

Alan is breathing hard, his face red and his hands bunched into fists. Bringing one hand up to his face, Brendon carefully touches his finger-tips to his swollen face and starts to back away.

"Running will get you nowhere, you have nowhere to go, no one to run to. All you have is me, Brendon. I'll drive the sin from you, burn out those disgusting urges."

Frantic, Brendon looks toward the door, waits until Alan goes over to the controls of the showers and then runs. He grabs hold of the door handle and pulls -- the door won't open, no matter how hard Brendon tries.

"I think you need this." Icy calm now, Alan holds up a key. "Self-locking doors, you'll leave when I allow you to do so, when I've washed away your sin, because this time you kissed me. But what about next time? What if it's an innocent? A child? No boy child is safe around you, you have to see that. Admit to your sins, Brendon, let me help you. Take the path of our Lord."

"I didn't kiss you," Brendon says, because that's one thing he is sure of. It was an accident, nothing more, and he stands with his back pressed against the door, watching as Alan turns up the heat on the shower. The water hits the tiled floor and creates steam that fills the room, misting the mirrors and Brendon swallows hard, fear prickling at his neck as Alan deliberately takes off his watch, his shirt, exposing the sweat-matted hair on his chest and the defined muscles of his arms.

"You force me to this Brendon, to punish you, to scour the sin from your body because you must learn. You came onto me Brendon, the person who's here to lead you to redemption."

"It was an accident, I didn't mean to," Brendon says frantically, and when Alan starts to walk across the room Brendon turns and starts yanking at the door, yelling "Help! Someone help me, please!"

No one comes, and Brendon ducks out of the way when Alan reaches for him, but there's nowhere to hide. Within seconds Alan grabs hold of Brendon's arms, grip brutal as he drags him toward the shower. Fighting back, Brendon digs in his heels, but his shoes slide across the slick tiles and there's nothing he can do to stop himself being thrust under the water. Alan is too tall, too strong, and Brendon screams as boiling water hits his body, soaking right through his clothes.

Terror and pain give him strength and he lurches, desperate to get out of the cubical. He twists away from Alan--the feeling of his arm being all-but wrenched out of its socket preferable to the burning. He keeps twisting. When he feels Alan's grip loosen slightly, he barges forward, hitting Alan's body full force with his own. Yelling, Alan falls backwards, pulling Brendon with him, and they both end up on the floor, Alan under Brendon's prone body.

"You dare attempt to defile me like this! You dare touch me like a lover! With this you've gone too far!"

Brendon doesn't have a chance to move before he's suddenly flipped, his head hitting the floor as he finds himself on his back. His skin is screaming, raw from the burns, the feel of the floor too much too much too much and for a second he thinks he’ll black out. When he can focus again, Alan is kneeling over Brendon’s legs. Pain shooting through his head, Brendon fights for air, scrabbling against the wet floor as he feels his shirt being pushed up, hands at the waistband of his jeans.

"No. Stop. Please." He keeps fighting, struggling to get away but Alan is beyond all reason as he rips off the button to Brendon's jeans and pulls down the zipper.

"You think you're a real man, Brendon? I'll show you a real man," Alan growls, obviously hard as he moves so he can grind against Brendon's body. "I'll show you that defying me is sinful. I am a man of God, I am your light in the darkness of sin and depravity. I'm doing this for you, Brendon, showing how painful, how disgusting the act of sodomy can be."

"No!" The feel of fingers pushing under his jeans fuels his terror and Brendon twists violently to one side. It gives him enough room to throw a punch--one lacking any force, but enough that Alan's distracted. It gives Brendon an opening to pull himself back.

"Oh no, Brendon, you stay here. You'll stay here and be educated, and then pray to your God for forgiveness, to forgive you for your disgusting sin." Re-situating himself, Alan sits up slightly and tugs at Brendon's jeans so they're bunched around his hips. It’s then that Brendon acts. He throws himself back, gaining enough space to reach for Alan's arm, pulling it to his mouth. He bites, hard, keeps biting as he feels blood well into his mouth and Alan shouts with pain.

"You really are a dog, a dog that pisses and bites and wants to be fucked. I can do that, I can fuck you like a dog." Enraged, Alan pulls his arm back, tearing his flesh from between Brendon's teeth. "You drove me to this, remember that when I'm thrusting into you. Remember you drove me to these acts of sodomy with your sinful ways."

Brendon doesn't reply, just spits blood on the floor and prepares to fight because he's not going to let this happen, he's not. Gasping for air he forces himself to wait, painful seconds while Alan kneels. As soon as there's space between their bodies Brendon pulls himself back and jumps to his feet pulling up his pants.

"Do not defy me!" Alan stands too, and he's taller than Brendon, stronger, but right now that doesn't matter. What matters is that Brendon has fear on his side. He attacks, jumping forward as he pushes Alan toward the wall. Alan staggers, but doesn't go down, not at first, just makes a fist and lashes out, catching Brendon in the mouth.

Blood flows down Brendon's chin, into his throat, and this new pain is almost his undoing, but panic is better at providing focus than any distracting pain, and Brendon finds the strength to attacks again. This time Alan goes down, his head cracking against the sink as he falls to the floor. Shaking, Brendon prepares to jump away, but Alan doesn't move. Just lies still as a pool of blood begins to spread from under his head.

"No no no no no," Brendon says, and his hands are shaking as he staggers away, vomiting next to the shower, bloody bile being washed away with the now-cooling water. He stays there a moment, bent over, his whole body hurting, gathering up the courage for what he has to do. Spitting up more blood, Brendon finally goes over to Alan, bends over and looks for the key. He finds it after twenty seconds of looking.

It takes a minute to open the door, as his hands shaking while he attempts to fit key into lock. It’s another five seconds to go back and take Alan's wallet, a last impulse before Brendon runs. He’s almost overwhelmed by fear as he takes a final look back and sees that Alan has opened his eyes; he's struggling to stand.

It's one fifteen on a warm afternoon when Brendon leaves Shepard House for the second time. He never looks back, just keeps running, panic-stricken, in pain, and all too aware that he's totally alone.

~*~*~*~

"Are you sure you want to stay here?" Robert asks, sounding dubious as he looks around.

Ryan doesn't blame him, this truck stop's nothing like the one before. There's only one small cafe -- the window plastered with neon-colored cardboard signs, a menu with prices scrawled onto the items with black pen -- and the parking lot is almost empty. There are a scant few trucks lined up, their windows dark. In some cases, the curtains are pulled across to conceal the insides of the cab.

Ryan stretches, cramped after sitting stuffed in the back seat for almost four hours. "Positive, we need to keep going east."

"Well, if you're sure."

"We are," Spencer says. He smiles then, projecting confidence. "Hope your grand-daughter has a good birthday party."

"I'm sure she will." Robert pulls out his wallet and opens it, looking at the picture of a golden-haired child inside, her chubby arms wrapped around the ruff of a glossy haired black lab. "She'll be spoilt rotten, same as always. But how can you help yourself with someone that cute?"

"Gorgeous," Ryan says and mouths, what? when Spencer turns away, grinning wide.

"Okay boys, I need to get going. Take care of yourselves."

"We will, thanks for the ride," Ryan says, and watches as Robert gets into the car, waves once, then drives away. He turns to Spencer, then. "What's so funny?"

"You," Spencer says. "I know for a fact you were admiring the dog, not the kid."

"It's a beautiful dog." Ryan shrugs, completely unapologetic.

"It was," Spencer agrees, then takes a look around. "You think we should ask around? Or go stand at the roadside?"

Spencer sounds unsure, and Ryan can understand. All day they've been walking or traveling or planning. It’s only now that they're here, in a strange place and at a standstill, that the enormity of what they've done is hitting. It's an unsettling feeling, apprehension plus a little excitement, the realization that right now they could go anywhere, do anything--there's no one around to say no.

"I think we should go celebrate first," Ryan says, needing to mark this moment somehow. "We can splurge for milkshakes this once."

"Excellent plan." Spencer rubs at his stomach and looks toward the cafe. "We could share some fries."

"With lots of ketchup?"

"Of course," Spencer says, and he starts to walk before coming to a stop, looking serious as crosses his arms over his chest. "I just wanted to say, um, thanks. You…well, y’know, you didn't have to."

"Are we having a moment?" Ryan asks. "Because if we are I need to put down my guitar." He does so, and despite the way Spencer is frowning, the way he's standing with his posture closed. Ryan impulsively moves in for a hug. He wraps his arms around Spencer and holds on, not letting go until he feels Spencer relax. He says, softly, "You're right. I didn't have to. But I wanted to--don't forget that."

Ryan steps back then, picks up his guitar and heads for the entrance of the cafe, breaking into a run when Spencer tries to beat him to the door.

It's warm inside, a warmth that seems to come complete with a layer of grease. Ryan licks his lips as he heads for a table, picking one in the window and sliding onto the cracked vinyl of the bench seat. There's a plastic tomato on the table, sauce crusted around the top and miss-matched salt and pepper shakers, one blue, one inexplicably shaped like a glossy black duck.

Spencer and Ryan are the youngest diners by a long shot. Most of the other customers are much older men, sitting alone with newspapers folded on the table behind their food, or looking up at the small TV that's attached to the wall. It's showing some football game, Ryan doesn't recognize the team and he's not interested enough to find out. Instead he picks up the menu -- a sheet of laminated plastic -- and reads down the list. Fries and burgers, and, near the bottom, a baked potatoe. Ryan screws up his face and points at the offending word.

"Look."

Spencer shrugs and takes the menu. "It doesn't matter."

Which is true, but Ryan can't help being bothered by such a remedial mistake. Reaching over the table, he turns Spencer's hand so they can both read at the same time. "Vanilla milkshakes and a bowl of fries?"

"If they're up to your standard," Spencer says, so dry that Ryan knows Spencer's laughing at him on the inside.

He kicks out, aiming for Spencer's ankle. "That makes no sense, the quality of the food doesn't relate to spelling mistakes."

"You'd think." Spencer makes no effort to hide his grin this time, so Ryan kicks him again, because seriously, how's it so wrong to expect things to be done right?

Thankfully, before the kicking escalates to full out foot war, the waitress appears at their side. She's wearing a beige dress, her hair pulled back and she smiles as she takes her pen and notepad out of her pocket. "What can I get you boys?"

"Two vanilla milkshakes and an order of fries, please." Spencer says.

"Coming right up."

She walks away, and Ryan rests his elbows on the table, his chin on his linked hands. "I was thinking, yellow walls or turquoise?"

"How about neither," Spencer says. "We had yellow walls in the bedroom at the home, I think they were going for cheery, but it was more like living in an egg yolk."

"No yellow then." Ryan takes a mental note, because their house is going to be perfect, and that means no bad memories allowed. But Spencer mentioning the home brings up other questions, and Ryan has to ask. "Do you think they'll come after you?"

Spencer shakes his head. "I doubt it, not unless they report it, which means they get less money. I think they let kids disappear all the time and just…y’know.” He shrugs.

Ryan sits up and reaches out his hand, his fingers brushing gently over Spencer's lip. "Who did this?"

"It was no one," Spencer says. "No one worth bothering about now."

It's not the answer Ryan wants, but he knows it's all he's going to get. He sits back in his seat. "I think, once we've eaten we should clean up and then go hitch at the roadside, we've a few hours before dark."

"Sounds good to me."

"Good." Ryan stretches his leg, but not to kick this time, just enough so that their feet are touching, his own display of hidden comfort.

"Here you go, boys." Their waitress appears and sets a tray on the table. On it are two vanilla milkshakes in tall glasses, the tops covered in whipped cream, and also a large bowl of fries, so hot they're still steaming. Efficiently she passes them out, says, "That's eight dollars, please."

Unzipping his bag, Ryan takes out a ten, says, "Keep the change."

"Thank you." She tucks the money into her pocket, but doesn't move away, just stands, the tray held at her side. "I might be talking out of turn, but there's usually a rush in an hour, people eating dinner before traveling overnight. If you hang on, there'll be more chance of a ride."

"Thanks for letting us know," Ryan says, but doesn't ask how she knew they needed a ride. He waits until she walks away, then looks at Spencer, at his own reflection in the mirror, but to him they both look the same as before. Same faces, same clothes, same everything.

"The bags probably gave us away, that and your guitar." Spencer picks up the plastic tomato and squeezes ketchup all over the fries. Setting it down, he picks up a handful, chews then swallows. "They're good."

"Well don't eat them all." Ryan grabs his own handful, and then takes a long swallow of milkshake, sucking hard around the red-striped straw.

~~~~~

When all the fries are gone, Ryan runs his finger through a blob of ketchup and then sucks it into his mouth. While he's not full, at least he's not hungry, and he feels sleepy, the warmth of the diner a dangerous combination with how long he’s been awake. Yawning, he rubs at his eyes with the backs of his hands and then looks at his watch. They've been here for almost thirty minutes now, which means by the time they wash up, the evening rush should hopefully be underway.

Sliding out of his seat, he slings his bag over one shoulder and picks up his guitar. Spencer and he wave at their waitress and then go outside, to the bathroom block next to the cafe.

Stepping inside, Ryan wrinkles his nose at the smell - an unpleasant mix of old food and urine and backed up sewers. What he wants to do is turn around and go right back outside, but he also needs to pee and maybe brush his teeth. Ryan hasn't decided about that last yet. On the one hand, it may be his last chance today. On the other, he really doesn't want to use his toothbrush in here.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," Spencer says. He's standing next to one of the stalls, looking faintly nauseated after looking inside. Running his fingers through his hair, he looks at himself in the cracked mirror, then at the bank of urinals, all of which are mottled green and brown inside. "Maybe we could find a bush?"

"And get arrested for indecent exposure? No, we do it here and get out." Steeling himself, Ryan walks to the nearest urinal and unzips.

It's the first time Ryan's been to the bathroom all day, and he has time to read the graffiti that's scribbled on the wall: numbers to phone for a good time, obscene drawings, and a poem that really doesn't scan. Ryan reads the words, again and again, and is about to complain when Spencer steps back from the urinal he's been using and holds up his hand.

"I swear, if you say one word about the structure of a poem about sexual diseases I'll lock you in here."

"Wasn't going to say a word." Ryan finishes off and zips up his pants. He steps past Spencer to the sinks, making the pipes rattle when he turns the faucet. Surprisingly the water is hot, and Ryan carefully cleans his hands and splashes water on his face. He picks up his guitar and is about to go outside when he can't keep it in any more, exclaims, "But gonorrhoea and gonna see her don't even rhyme!"

Spencer just looks, says, "You're a freak."

Ryan grins. "But you love me anyway."

"Well." For a moment Spencer pretends to consider, then says, "Yeah."

Ryan tries to hide his pleased smile, but it's bleeding through anyway and they're having this ridiculous moment where they're standing outside scuzzy toilets and grinning at each other like loons. It has to be an effect of being so tired, because normally Ryan doesn't feel the need to be so outwardly happy. Then again, he's with Spencer, and that always makes a difference, like life is more tolerable when Spencer's around.

"I think I need some sleep soon," Ryan says, and for a moment thinks longingly of his bed.

"If we get a ride we should be able to sleep." Spencer looks at the row of trucks in the parking lot, empty apart from one man who's leaning against the cab of his truck, looking their way. He's wearing dark sunglasses, oil-streaked jeans and a plain grey t-shirt.. "Think we should ask if he's going our way?"

"It can't hurt," Ryan says.

They start to walk, off the sidewalk and onto the road, the asphalt warm and slightly soft-seeming under their feet. They approach the truck -- the cab shining red, a lion painted on the front and side. The trailer is painted with pictures of waffles, the sides tied down with black straps. All the while the driver watches them, never moving until they're close. He stands up straight then, one side of his mouth rising as he asks, "You boys wantin’ a ride?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "We're headed for Chicago."

The man nods and looks at them both. "And your parents know you're going?"

It feels like a trick question, like if they give the wrong answer they won't get their ride. The problem is, Ryan doesn't know what answer the man wants to hear. He settles on the truth -- mostly.

"We've no parents that would care."

"So you're traveling on your own, and no one knows?"

Unsure, Ryan says, "Something like that," half expecting to be hustled inside and told to wait as the man calls the authorities. That doesn't happen at all.

"Name's Si, I can take you part way." Si steps away from the door then, pulling it open. "Go round and climb in, throw your stuff in the back."

"Thank you, I'm Ryan, this is Spencer," Ryan says, and when he's around the front of the cab, where Si can't see, he shares a high-five with Spencer, because hitchhiking is surprisingly easy. At this rate they'll be in Chicago before they know it.

Spencer climbs into the cab first. He has to stretch up, exposing the skin between the hem of his t-shirt and jeans as he gets up to the first step to sits inside. He turns around and puts his bag behind him, and then reaches for Ryan's guitar and bag. After he's passed those up, Ryan climbs in too, and sits next to Spencer, trying to appear nonchalant as he looks around. There’s a huge steering wheel and controls, a sleeping area behind, magazines and a ragged plushie smurf lying on the dash.

It smells of dirty clothes and coffee, despite the air fresheners that hang from the ceiling at the mirror and doors. It's also hot, the seat warm against Ryan's legs and back. Still, he's comfortable and feeling accomplished as he reaches out and pulls shut the door, ready to set off once again.

"I'd say go to the bathroom, but I know you've already been," Si says as he climbs in and settles down. He pulls shut his door and starts the engine, but before he pulls away he reaches behind his seat and pulls out a book of CDs. Flipping through them he looks at each disc, seemingly torn between two. "What do you think, Michael Jackson or Oasis?"

Ryan looks at them both, considers, and says, "Michael."

"Michael Jackson it is." Si takes out the disc and slides it into the player, puts the truck into gear and pulls away.

~~~~~

It's comfortable in the truck. Ryan leans against the door, head against the window, eyes half closed as he listens to the music. Next to him, Spencer dozes, head against Ryan's shoulder. He's breathing deeply, evenly, and Ryan's tired, so tired. He knows falling asleep already is rude, but the more he struggles against it, the heavier his eyes seem to get. The sun lowers, lowers, sets. Ryan sleeps.

~~~~~

He wakes hours later, neck aching and head caught in that muddled zone between awareness and sleep. It's dark, the only illumination being the glowing lights in the console of the cab. Outside cars overtake them, tail lights moving into straight red lines, easier to look at than the too-bright shining eyes of the approaching headlights. Ryan yawns and Si looks at him briefly, at Spencer who's still sleeping, curled up as much as he can while still sitting upright.

"Want a drink, kid?" Si picks up a cup from the holder, and while Ryan's wary of sharing, he's thirsty. His throat is dry and his skin feels tight, like he hasn't drunk anything for days. He reaches past Spencer, takes the cup and drinks. It's soda, slightly warm and flat, but Ryan takes several sips before leaning over and putting the cup back in its place.

"Thanks," Si says. He's taken his sunglasses off now and when he looks forward, his eyes are dark with shadow, his face bleached white. They drive on, the radio playing now, a local station with country music and a presenter that talks too fast, too loud for the quiet of night.

Ryan rubs at his eyes, trying to stay awake. Spencer shifts slightly, his body heavy against Ryan's, and Ryan instinctively puts his arm around Spencer, holding him still.

"You been friends long?" Si asks suddenly, still looking forward, hands resting easily on the wheel.

"Since we were kids."

"And you've lived close all that time?"

"Sort of," Ryan says, and he can't help wish Spencer was awake to help deal with these questions, because Ryan doesn't want to share their story, what he wants is to pack it away and only share when he wants, if he wants. Trying to deflect attention, he looks out the side window, at the endless expanse of darkness, the ghostly blur of reflection that's his face.

"If you want, you can get in the back, I won't be sleeping for hours yet," Si says suddenly.

"Erm, yeah. Thanks," Ryan says, and he can't help feeling ungrateful for wanting to hide. He forces a smile as he shakes Spencer awake. "Spencer. Come on, wake up. Come sleep in the back with me."

Eventually, Spencer wakes. His hair is a mess at the back and his eyes are more closed than open, but when Si slows, they both climb around the seats and slip into the back, into the mess of a rumpled quilt and pillows and a soft mattress that feels good as Ryan lies down. When he does so the quilt smells musty, and a book digs into his back, but he sets it to one side and straightens the pillows. When Spencer lies down too it feels like second nature to curl close, their bodies pressed together. Ryan whispers, 'goodnight' as he pulls up the quilt. He’s asleep within seconds.

~~~~~

"Si?"

Ryan opens his eyes when he hears Spencer. He turns his head and sees Si at the side of the sleeping area, his knees against Spencer's exposed back. Si holds up his hands, says, "Sorry, I needed my stuff." He leans over them both and picks up a pack of cigarettes, then stands. "Come on, I'll buy breakfast."

Ryan nods, and when Si goes back to the front, he looks at Spencer and asks quietly, "What's up?"

"I woke up and he was just there, watching me." Spencer moves so his face is close to Ryan's. "I thought. Back at the home I learnt to sleep light, and I thought I felt him touch me, but I guess it was an accident."

"Are you sure?" Ryan asks, already bristling, but Spencer doesn't seem concerned, just thoughtful as he keeps looking at Ryan. He nods. "Yeah, it'll have been an accident. He was reaching for something and slipped."

”We could leave now, go somewhere else,” Ryan says, refusing to allow Spencer the lie. “He’s not the only trucker around.”

“No, but he’s the one giving us a ride, and the less walking you do the better"

“It’s only a skinned heel,” Ryan protests.

“Which could be become infected.” Spencer sits then, the quilt bunching around his knees. "I’ll keep an eye on him, things will be fine."

"Right," Ryan says. "But anything else weird and we go."

Spencer nods, says, "Sure."

~~~~~

Si takes them for breakfast, plying them with refills of orange juice and giant plates of bacon and eggs, syrup-drenched pancakes and greasy links of sausage. Ryan can't remember the last time he ate so much or so well. When he's finished his pants feel tight, and he has to cover his mouth and belch. Which prompts Spencer to do the same, louder and longer and they're both laughing as Si looks on with tolerant amusement. He refuses Ryan's offer of money, just tells them to amuse themselves for a few hours as he catches some sleep.

They do, people-watching and sitting in the shade of a tree, well-fed and comfortable. When Si finally wakes, he waves from the cab of the truck, and Ryan stands, hurrying to get inside. He’s eager to be on his way.

~~~~~

Three hours later, things start to go wrong. They're still on the highway, but Si's been twitchy for the last hour. He's silent, no questions or singing along to his CDs, and Ryan feels tense, because something's up and he doesn't know what.

"Si? The hell!?" Spencer jerks back, and Ryan sees Si has his hand on Spencer's thigh, gripping it tight.

"Come on, Spencer. You didn't think you were riding for free did you?"

Spencer grabs Si's hand, trying to push it away, but Si doesn't move, just keeps driving one-handed.

Ryan leans over, grabs hold too and starts to pull. "Let go of him."

"This is none of your business. It's Spencer here that's going to settle your debt. One nights sleep, two breakfasts, sodas, I'm going to park up soon, and I figure one roll in the back will pay for it." He looks at Ryan, smiles a cold smile. "Maybe two, you did eat a lot."

"Let go!" Ryan yells.

"Or what?” The question is calculated. “You'll phone the police?” He lets the reality sink in before hitting again. “Your parents? No one cares that you're here. No one knows. I could do anything to you, you're lucky I'm an honourable man and all I wanna do is fuck."

"I don't think so." Spencer starts to struggle, wincing as he pulls Si's hand from his leg. "Let us out, now."

"I'll let you out when I'm ready, and not a moment before." Previously calm, Si begins to get angry, and he grabs for Spencer's hair, holding a handful and pulls so he's forced sideways. "You're mine. I'm going to take what you owe, and then I'll think about letting you go."

"You'll let us go now." Furious, Ryan stands as much as he can, anger making him reckless as he hits at Si's face. It's a stupid move because they're still thundering along, but Si begins to slow as Ryan keeps hitting, putting everything into each blow. "Let go of him!"

Finally, Si does, bringing his hand up to protect his face. Sensing this is their chance, Ryan reaches behind him, groping frantically for their stuff. He manages to find his guitar, the strap of a bag, and clings onto them as he tries to open the door.

At first it won't open, pushed back by the wind, but Si keeps slowing as Spencer claws at his face, and finally Ryan has enough space. He looks at the ground, so far away and feels sick, because even if they have slowed, they're still going too fast to even think about jumping. But they're going to, better that than staying here.

"Spencer!"

"Go! I’m right behind you!" Spencer yells.

Holding onto his guitar, the bag, Ryan jumps, hits the ground with a sickening thump. The world turns, his body impacting painfully against the ground. He rolls. Again and again and again. Stops.

~*~*~*~

Brendon runs. He keeps running until he's gasping for breath and his chest burns with the need to stop. Still, he keeps going.

Finally, minutes, miles, two turns, one field, a curved road later, he drops to his knees, collapsing down without thought of prior hurts. Shaking, he steadies himself with his hands, palms flat against the damp grass, back bowed and head down. He thinks of blood spreading, red against white. He whimpers deep in his throat and pushes himself upright before he collapses completely to the ground.

Brendon's pants are still loose, the fabric wet through. It takes four tries before he can thread the button. When they're closed, the zip secure, he looks around, listens. There's a row of trees behind him, tiny blue flowers growing within the grass. The sun shines and the birds sing and the world keeps turning, which is wrong, because things should have changed, because Brendon nearly killed someone, got close to taking a life with his own hands: more sin to add to his shame.

He wants to scream and cry. He wants to call his mom. Panic pressing close, he fights for focus, pushes back bad memories to deal with later, because one thing Brendon is good at is pretending. He knows how to pretend that he fits in, that he's fine, that everything is okay. And it is. It will be.

Repeating that thought: I'm okay, I'm okay, everything's fine, Brendon opens Alan’s wallet looks inside. There are credit cards, library card, a picture of Alan and someone who has to be his wife -- everything is fine, is okay -- pulls out the money and folds the bills, shoving them deep in his pocket. Brendon throws the wallet away then, sending it sailing into the trees.

He starts walking, but this time he goes in a different direction, unwilling to risk the same town. The road he's following is quiet, and when Brendon hears a car approach he hides at the roadside, body pressed against the rough bark of a tree, waits and watches until he's alone once more. Not that he sees anyone looking. He hasn’t seen any police, anyone from Shepard House, but it can only be a matter of time. It's why Brendon doesn't stop walking even when he's exhausted, when everything hurts and all he wants to do is lie down. If he does that, he'll never get up again.

It's late afternoon when he sees a town. Relieved, Brendon pushes his pace, ignoring the burning in his knees, his hands, his heels, the way his skin still scrapes against the inside of his hoodie with every step, and his ankle has the constant desire to turn under him. When he turns a corner and sees the McDonalds, the golden M eye-catching against the surrounding green, Brendon takes a chance and moves close, checking for police before he goes inside.

There's a girl waiting at the counter, a man shaking fries in the kitchen area. An older couple and a family with a baby in a high chair are in two of the booths that line one wall. They all glance at Brendon as he walks inside, but then quickly look away, going back to their own lives and conversations and Brendon smiles at the girl before heading for the bathroom.

It's small, only two stalls and a row of sinks -- metal, not porcelain, clean, no blood -- and Brendon is fine. He turns on the water and blinks away tears when he puts his hands under the stream. He pulls out handfuls of paper towels and carefully dabs at his knees, cleaning away dried blood that cracks and falls to the ground like tiny red flakes of snow. Brendon doesn't check his feet. He'd only have to put back on his socks and shoes.

Finally he splashes cold water on his face – just the idea of warm water makes him nauseated -- head down so he can't see in the mirror. When he’s done, he goes back into the restaurant, not feeling better, but looking better, at least.

"You ready to order?" The girl behind the counter smiles, and Brendon smiles right back.

"Sure, a large coke, two cheeseburgers and a large fry to go, please."

"Coming up."

Hip cocked against the counter, Brendon looks between the girl and outside, ready to run at the first sign of the police. No one comes, in fact, hardly anyone passes at all. Which is reassuring, but Brendon still keeps a lookout while paying for his food and walking outside.

Brendon drinks as he walks. He's drank half the Coke and had two bites of burger when he has to stop and puke it all up again. Nauseated, he spits bile and throws away the bag of food, keeping the cup so that he can rest it against his face. It doesn’t help, not really, but it’s just enough to take off the edge of the throbbing that stretches from ear to nose.

The further into town Brendon goes, the more people surround him. He sees how they look at him, taking in his bruised face and blood-stained knees, the way he's limping badly and keeps his hands curled protectively at his sides. There's pity in some glances, contempt in others, and Brendon hates feeling so exposed, like if they look closely enough they'll see how rotten he is, his dirty secrets there for all to see.

Brendon hasn't acted so well in his life. He keeps his head up, manages to smile sometimes, looks into shop windows as he searches for the nearest bus station, the fastest escape. When he finally gets there, his mouth is dry and his chest tight, but Brendon stays calm as he stands in line, pulling out the money from his pocket and counting.

When he gets to the front he asks, "What's the next bus out of here?"

The man behind the counter types and then turns the monitor, pointing at the screen. "There's a bus to Chicago. It leaves in ten minutes."

"One for there, please," Brendon says, and he counts out the money, taking his ticket before going back outside. The bus is already there, the driver standing at the front, checking luggage and tickets. Brendon hands his over and then climbs on-board. There's an empty seat at the very back, and he slumps down, hands curled and jammed under his thighs in an attempt to stop them shaking. It doesn't help. Brendon can feel them trembling, no matter what he tries, what he tells himself. He's okay. Things will be fine. He rests his head against the window, closes his eyes, and tries to believe.

~*~*~*~

Ryan wakes and all he can think is, hurts.

There's not a part of him that doesn't hurt, and he tries not to move, not to breathe, because even the simple act of taking in air is almost too much. Then he thinks, Spencer.

Frantic, Ryan tries to roll onto his side. It's not a good move. He feels something crack inside his chest, a sickening sensation of bone made suddenly unstable. Ryan flops flat onto his back, eyes closed and head spinning.

"Spencer," Ryan says, his voice weak. There's no reply and panic gives Ryan the strength he needs to push past the pain. He opens his eyes and counts: one, two, three. He carefully pushes himself upright, then, keeping his hands braced against the ground as darkness pushes against his vision, wanting to pull him back down. Ryan fights back, counting each shallow breath and leaning forward slightly to spit out the blood coating his tongue and the inside of his mouth. He spits again -- dark blood mixed with saliva. His tongue feels swollen, his bottom lip torn. Ryan runs his tongue over his lip, feeling the small flap of skin that hangs down. He brings up one hand and sees the cuts marring his arm, how his palm is blood-stained and his nails jagged, embedded with soil. He remembers jumping, hitting the ground and rolling. He remembers Spencer being just behind him. Ryan looks around, calling, "Spencer!" His voice cracks over the word.

Spencer is lying in a flattened patch of grass. His hair covers his face and he's got his arms tucked under his body, his knees bent. His t-shirt is torn at the side, and the ground under his body is stained red.

"Spencer," Ryan says, and his own pain is forgotten as he gets onto his knees, crawling forward through the grass, pleading, "Spencer, answer me, please."

Spencer doesn't reply, he doesn't move at all.

"Spencer, oh God, Spencer. Wake up, talk to me. Please." Ryan falls down at Spencer's side and pushes the hair back from Spencer's face and then holds his hand over Spencer's mouth, willing himself to stop shaking until, finally he feels a faint brush of breath. "Good, good. You're in there, I knew it."

Ryan eases himself down and rests his hand on Spencer's chest, trying to think what to do. If he climbs up the bank and flags someone down, they'll end up back where they began -- that's a given. If he stays here with Spencer obviously hurt, it could make things worse. He's no doctor. He knows how to bandage up cut hands, how to deal with bruises and burns, but nothing like this.

"You need to wake up and tell me what to do," Ryan says, looking at Spencer and taking note of each visible graze and bruise. Spencer doesn't move. Ryan says, "Okay, you don't want to wake up yet, I guess that's okay. Sleep, I'll watch over you." Ryan looks up the steep bank, and knows that just out of sight vehicles thunder past, but right now, right here, Ryan feels like he's cut off from the world. It’s only himself and Spencer and seemingly never-ending expanse of grass. Ryan's never felt so alone, so afraid.

"I guess we can stay here, rest a while," Ryan says, and he keeps his hand on Spencer's chest, settling in to wait.

"Ryan?"

Ryan hasn't been sleeping, not really, but even so, he's taken by surprise when Spencer speaks, his voice so low, rough, that at first Ryan thinks he hasn't heard it at all. "Spencer!"

Ryan starts to smile, but stops when he feels the sharp pain in his lip -- evidence of ragged edges pulling apart. Putting his hand to his mouth, Ryan wipes away the fresh spot of blood and shifts so he can see Spencer, who's alternatively blinking and screwing shut his eyes.

"What are we doing here?" Spencer asks, and Ryan's stomach clenches and he thinks, brain damage, amnesia. He should have gone for help, consequences be damned.

"What can you remember?" Ryan asks, steeling himself for the reply.

Spencer looks at Ryan and rolls his eyes, his intent still obvious despite the mask of dirt and bruises. "I know we ran away, that we hitched and had to jump, but why are we lying here? You should have woken me up."

Ryan sits up straight, breathing painfully as he resists the urge to just grab hold of Spencer and shake him, because Spencer doesn't know how Ryan had to sit and wait and hope, miles beyond scared, numb at imagining Spencer never waking at all. "I thought you were dead, you didn't move."

Spencer's becoming more aware by the minute, lying still and watching as Ryan speaks. Suddenly, he reaches out and grabs hold of Ryan's hand. "I'm not dead, Ryan."

“Obviously, you wouldn't be talking if you were."

Linking their fingers together, Spencer repeats, "I'm not dead, I'm fine."

"You could have internal bleeding, or swelling of the brain, or...."

Spencer squeezes Ryan's hand. "I don't. I'm not leaving you. Not now, not ever."

"You can't make promises like that."

"I can do anything I want," Spencer says, with so much conviction that Ryan can't help but believe, that Spencer believes what he says anyway; it's the rest of the world Ryan is unable to trust.

"Right, so you're fine."

"A bit bashed up, but I'll live." Spencer looks at Ryan then, from head to toe. "How about you?"

Ryan shrugs. "I've been better."

"Not good enough. Details, Ryan."

The thing is, Ryan knows Spencer. He knows that when he asks in that tone of voice that answers are inevitable, which means Ryan will tell. Not that he wants to -- he hates exposing his weaknesses, even to Spencer, whom he knows would never take advantage. "I think I've bust a rib, the rest are cuts and bruises, I was lucky."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "We were."

Ryan agrees, because this could be so much worse. Still, it's bad enough and he knows they can't stay here. Arm pressed against his chest, Ryan stands, biting back a cry of pain. Shakily, he reaches out with his free hand, and immediately Spencer reaches up, providing support. Ryan holds on, using him as an anchor until he can blink away the spots that float in his vision. He looks down then, asks, "Want a hand up?"

"Please," Spencer says, and he starts to stand, then falls back when he puts weight on his right ankle, all color in his face draining away.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Spencer lies back, hands over his eyes. "Okay, so I'm more than a little bashed up."

"You're an idiot," Ryan says. "What were you going to do, hop and hope I didn't notice?" He kneels and pulls at the leg of Spencer's pants, exposing an ankle that's visibly swollen, the elastic of the sock digging into the flesh. Bruises are already climbing up Spencer's leg. Gently, Ryan runs his fingers over the joint, more for comfort than anything, because even if Spencer has broken his ankle, it's not like Ryan will know.

"I think it's just sprained." Spencer leans forward and starts to loosen the laces of his sneaker, easing it open. He's still pale, his eyes filmed with tears and all Ryan can do is stay close, lending his support by way of a hand on Spencer's knee.

"You're leaving your shoe on?"

"It'll act as a sort of splint," Spencer says. "And anyway, I can't walk barefoot."

"You're not going to be walking at all," Ryan responds immediately. "Not yet, anyway."

"We can't stay here." Spencer indicates the area around them. The grass, patchy the closer it gets to the bank, the litter that covers the ground near the edge of the highway. "We need to get hitchhiking again."

"No, what you're going to do is sit there and rest up. I'm going to go find our stuff." Ryan looks around, then at Spencer, hoping against hope. "Did you manage to grab the other bag?"

"I tried, but I couldn't reach before I jumped." There's guilt in Spencer's reply and despite his own dismay -- they needed that stuff -- Ryan shakes his head.

"It's okay, it doesn't matter."

Of course it does, and Ryan can see that knowledge in the look Spencer gives him, the way he's so still. It’s as if one wrong move will crack his carefully maintained facade. Ryan hates seeing him look like that, and he pulls Spencer into a quick one-armed hug. "It's okay, really."

Brushing a kiss against Spencer's forehead, Ryan steels himself to stand again. He does so, his movements careful, each one measured for the minimum of effort. He looks to the left and right, before starting to walk in the direction they've traveled from, hoping to find the stuff he was able to grab.

Ryan's panting for breath when he finds his guitar, the case battered but still closed. It’s lying against a large rock. He finds Spencer's bag close by, the straps looped and tangled. Ryan's bag has to be miles away by now, his books, his clothes, his money. All gone.

~~~~~

Spencer's bag contains: one pair of jeans, three pairs of socks, three pairs of boxer shorts, two t-shirts, a hoodie, a comb, half a bottle of water, a box of Scooby Doo Band-aids and two photographs. One is of a much younger Spencer with his family, arms around each other and grinning at the camera. The other is of him and Ryan -- both of them laughing, before they each forgot how to smile for real.

Ryan carefully folds the clothes and places the photographs safely in the pocket of the bag. He eyes the Band-aids before putting them in, too. There's not a Band-aid big enough to tend all their hurts, and he suspects it would do more harm than good by sealing in the dirt.

Zipping shut the bag, he makes his way slowly back to put it on the ground next to Spencer's foot. He says, "Put your foot on here; you need to elevate it."

Spencer nods and lifts his leg, holding it still while Ryan makes sure the bag's in the right place. When he's sure Spencer's as comfortable as he's going to get, Ryan starts to stand, but stops when Spencer shakes his head. "You can't go anywhere tonight. It'll be dark soon."

Ryan doesn't deny he was thinking of going to explore. What he does do is look up at the darkening sky. "I could find some help, get us out of here."

"Like what?" Spencer asks. "A sled made from grass and plastic bags so you can pull me out of here? You're not McGuyver."

"I know that," Ryan says, and he does. He's not McGuyver; he's not able to fix things or make complicated contraptions out of nothing. He's only Ryan Ross, and right now he’s just plain scared. "I could carry you out."

"Right." Pointedly, Spencer looks at Ryan, because even if Spencer is skinnier than he used to be, he's still bigger than Ryan. Not that such a thing would keep Ryan from trying -- he's willing to carry Spencer forever if he has to.

"Or I could stay here." Giving in, Ryan lowers himself to the ground, lying so he's half propped against Spencer. It's not a comfortable position at all -- the ground hard. Now that he's stopped moving, every part of Ryan's body hurts, all pulses of pain, none of which throb to the same beat. Cheek against Spencer's shoulder, Ryan says, "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

Ryan thinks that's obvious, but Spencer sounds confused. "I said we should do this, and look at us now."

Spencer reaches across his own body and rests his hand against Ryan's arm. "It's not your fault. It was my choice to run. Anyway, right now I feel safer than I have in months."

"It was that bad?"

"Worse."

Lying still, Ryan listens to the beat of Spencer's heart, feels him swallow hard before speaking again. "This sucks, but at least you're here. I wouldn't trade that for anything."

"Me too," Ryan says and he tilts back his head so he can see Spencer's face. "I missed you."

"I would’ve come back if I could’ve." Spencer leans in and brushes a kiss against Ryan's cheek. "I'm not letting you go off alone."

"I'll come back," Ryan says, because he knows in the morning he'll have to leave Spencer behind. But Ryan will come back; that's one promise he'll always keep.

~~~~~

When Ryan wakes the next day it takes all his willpower to move. His muscles have stiffened and his chest is burning. Despite his aching lip, he pushes his mouth against the back of his hand, muffling his groans as he forces himself upright. He pants, sweat breaking out along his hairline and neck as he sits.

Spencer's still asleep, the shadows under his eyes dark and his lips starting to crack. Ryan thinks of the half bottle of water that's in the bag, and knows they'll have to move. The problem is, where? Getting back up the bank will be almost impossible, but even if they do, no one would be able to stop. All they'll do is get in touch with the police, and that's the last thing Ryan and Spencer want. Still, they have to go somewhere, because Ryan has no intention of sitting here and waiting to die.

"Spencer. Spencer." Carefully, Ryan shakes Spencer's shoulder until he opens his eyes. "I'm going to go for a look around, don't go anywhere."

"I think I can manage that." Slowly, Spencer sits and moves his foot off the bag. "Take the water, you'll need it."

"I'll be fine."

"You'll be walking, I'll be here sitting on my ass." Opening the bag, Spencer takes the bottle of water and hands it to Ryan with a fierce scowl. "Take it."

"Only if you have a drink first." It's something Ryan’s not going to budge on, and he waits until Spencer takes a tiny drink, then keeps looking until he takes another. After that he takes the bottle, taking a sip of the warm water before standing. The motion sucks, more than Ryan ever imagined it would. He can't breathe right and he's so dizzy it feels like he'll fall right back down. If not for Spencer's hand against Ryan's thigh, he probably would.

Finally, when the world has stopped spinning, Ryan inclines his head toward the right. "I'm going that way, I think I remember a rest stop, remember, that Walmart truck was parked up there?"

"That's miles back," Spencer says.

Ryan starts to walk, saying, "I know."

Leaving Spencer behind is more painful than standing, but Ryan knows he's got no choice. Spencer can't even walk right now, and Ryan needs to find them some place that's safe, and he will, even if he has to keep walking all day and night. He probably will, because the best pace he can manage is hardly faster than a crawl. It doesn't help that the way is treacherous, the grass long and hard to navigate.

Ryan keeps going. At some point he passes the mangled remains of some animal -- when he sees those he picks up his pace, thoughts of coyotes an unwelcome addition to his list of fears. He often thinks about stopping, taking a moment to catch his breath, but he knows if he does he'll never get going again. Already it's taking every bit of willpower he possesses -- along with thoughts of Spencer, alone and hurt -- to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

It's after three hours, four agonizing coughing fits, and five times he's been close to breaking down, that Ryan realizes that the slope to his side has gotten lower. He can see the tops of trucks now, and this new realization urges him forward, until finally, he arrives at a place where the slope has leveled out to a gentle incline. When Ryan warily approaches the top he sees that, finally, he's arrived at the rest stop he remembered from the day before.

There's no trucks there now, just the long patch of dirt ground set back from the highway and hidden by bushes and a few sparse trees, two metal trashcans, and a sign set between them, warning people to dispose of their trash. There's a small brick toilet block, two vending machines chained to its wall. Hoping that the toilets are unlocked, Ryan goes to the door, pulling it open. It's cool inside, two stalls and one sink and suddenly, the thirst that's been a constant the last few hours becomes impossible to ignore, and Ryan's hurrying forward, wincing as he bends over the sink and turns on the faucet.

Unable to wait the brief amount of time it would take to open and fill his water bottle, he cups his hands, letting them fill with water that he shovels into his mouth. He drinks, again and again, water dripping down his neck and chin, dampening the front of his t-shirt. Finally satisfied, he straightens and looks at himself in the mirror. It's one made of metal, and Ryan's reflection is blurred, but it's easy to see how tired he looks and how he's got grass tangled in his hair. Tugging it out, he drops it in the trash. He fills his bottle of water, drinking it all and filling it again before going outside.

It's still quiet, the road empty, and Ryan considers waiting a while. He could get lucky, someone could park up and help him go back for Spencer, bring him back here and then drive on. Except Ryan knows the world doesn't work that way, the only people he can rely on are Spencer and himself.

Ryan makes himself think. He needs to see about getting something to eat. If he had money he'd raid the vending machines, but he doesn't, and he knows there's only one thing he can do. Mind made up, he approaches the first trash can, already hating what he's about to do. Looking inside, he rummages through the crumpled papers and empty cups. He finds old newspapers, empty cigarettes boxes, used tissues and finally, a half-eaten sandwich.

Ryan picks it up and checks the sandwich for mold or maggots. It seems clean, so despite the way his stomach rolls, Ryan takes a bite, chewing fast in order not to think too long about what he's doing. He doesn't feel hungry, but he knows he has to eat. There's a bag of apples in the other can, bruised and soft and while normally Ryan would be the one throwing them out, today he picks them up and looks around for a place to hide them. Eventually, he pushes them under a bush. He'll take the sandwich back to Spencer, let him eat before they come back here, where they can rest up and eat and hopefully get a ride from someone who stops. That is, if Ryan can make himself get into another truck; right now he's not sure.

Getting back to Spencer seems to take twice as long as leaving. Ryan's so tired that he has to keep rubbing at his eyes to keep them open and by now his chest hurts so much that he imagines there has to be a sharp bone poking at his skin, ready to work its way out. He even checks once, running his fingers over the area where the pain is the worst, but he can't feel any suspicious lumps. He's sure all he's got is a cracked rib, but knowing that doesn't stop it hurting. Ryan wishes it did.

He drinks a little under a quarter of the water, swallowing slowly. He can't seem to stop poking his tongue against the raw skin of his lip, worrying at the flap that still hangs loose. When he thinks he's close to Spencer, Ryan tries to shout, but he can't take in enough air and all he does is say, "Spencer. Spencer, it's me."

At first there's no reply, and Ryan imagines the worst: that Si came back or rabid dogs or even the police, hauling Spencer away before Ryan had the chance to get back. He moves faster, arm pressed against his chest as he weaves through the grass, and finally, sees Spencer's bag. It’s abandoned, no sight of Spencer at all.

"Spencer," Ryan says, and then stumbles back when someone screams, and a stick whistles past his head.

"Ryan, fuck, Ryan. Are you okay?" Spencer drops the stick he's still holding and hops over to Ryan. "I heard footsteps and I wasn't sure who it was. You should have shouted."

Ryan tries to say that he did, but all his time is taken with remembering how to breathe, how to get enough air into his lungs and he's bent forward, on the verge of passing out as Spencer rubs at his back.

"I'm sorry," Spencer says. "Breathe, Ryan. Come on."

Spencer keeps talking and keeps rubbing and eventually, Ryan's world starts to come back into focus and he takes shallow breaths, enough to say," I'm fine. Promise."

"If you're sure," Spencer says, but he still looks worried as he sits, patting the ground next to him. "Come sit down, tell me what you saw."

Ryan does so slowly. He sinks to his knees, then further, easing himself down until he's sitting. It's only then that he hands over the sandwich and sets the bottle of water on the floor. "I brought you some take-out."

Dubious, Spencer takes the sandwich, looking at the bites taken from both sides and the curling crust. "You got this out of the trash didn't you?"

Ryan debates lying, but it's not like he's got any lies that could even resemble the truth. He nods. "Yeah."

"Just checking," Spencer says, and takes a bite. He chews slowly, stopping when half is gone and hands it over to Ryan. "Not bad, it tastes better than that banana and beet sandwich you once made."

"That was a culinary triumph," Ryan says, because it was, the banana took on the color of the beets and the combination of flavors was just right.

"Banana aren't supposed to be red."

"Your point?" Ryan takes a bite of sandwich, the memory of making sandwiches in Spencer's kitchen helping it go down more easily.

"My point is, they were gross."

"And yet you ate them."

"Because you did, and we had to match." Spencer smiles then, looking at Ryan. "Mom thought it was cute."

"Even when she was going through pounds of bananas a day?"

"Even then," Spencer says. He picks up the bottle of water and takes a sip, screws back on the top and then looks at his watch. "We should get moving, or it'll be dark before we get there."

Ryan really doesn't want to get up again, but he knows Spencer's right, walking in the dark wouldn't be a good thing at all. Except, right now, he doesn't think he can move. "I think I need a few more minutes, then we'll go."

"Sure." Spencer leans back against the tree and puts his foot back on the bag, then holds up one arm. "Here, come lie on me, rest a while."

Ryan's already moving close, tucking himself in safely against Spencer's side. "Don't let me fall asleep, we need to walk soon."

"I know," Spencer says.

~*~*~*~

Normally Brendon hates being stuck in one place. He likes to jump and run, to meet the world at full speed. Since he got on the bus, he's hardly moved at all. They've stopped at rest stations and Brendon's followed the other passengers outside. He’s gone to the bathroom and once he bought water and a bag of Cheetos that he tucked between his thigh and the wall of the bus -- then promptly ignored until the chips were little more than bright orange dust.

Each time he comes back to his seat, curls up small, cheek against the window, eyes open as he watches outside. When it gets dark, Brendon half closes his eyes and lets the world become a blur, which is better than having to see his own reflection.

He opens them fully when the sun begins to rise, soft light illuminating a new day. Normally Brendon would take delight in the things that he sees. The way the people seem different somehow, walking by wrapped in coats and scarves that flap in the wind, but all Brendon feels is guilty, grimy, disgusting, all the things he told himself he wasn't. It turns out Brendon didn't know himself at all.

When the bus pulls up at the final stop, conversations become louder, people who've spent hours traveling stretch and gather their bags. Listlessly, Brendon stands and follows them outside, bypassing the older woman who runs forward, her arms outstretched toward a young girl. Brendon watches them embrace and has a surge of missing his own family so great it manifests as physical pain, a dense ball of misery lodged in the middle of his chest.

He shoves his hand into his pocket then, feeling for the coins he dropped in there two stops before. It’s only a handful of quarters, and without thinking the action through he heads for the nearest phone booth, stepping inside. Pushing coins into the slot, he leans heavily against the wall and tucks the receiver against his ear as he calls home.

He doesn’t know what he wants to say, just, he needs something, someone to hold him and say things will be okay. If he can't have that, his mom's voice will do. At first there's empty noise, then the call connects and Brendon tightens his hand, hoping desperately that someone will be home. Finally, ten rings later, someone picks up. "Hello?"

"Mom," Brendon says, and his head is swimming, words jammed in his throat. I'm sorry. I love you. Come get me. Please. She doesn't reply, and Brendon swallows hard. "Mom, it's me. Brendon."

"I'm sorry, you've got the wrong number. I don't know anyone by that name." Her voice wavers, and for a second Brendon thinks he might have a chance, one chance, but she hangs up before Brendon can say another word.

Deliberately, each movement measured, Brendon puts the receiver on the hook, then steps outside the booth. The ground of the bus station is tiled, the air filled with fumes, and people push past Brendon, jostling him, talking, laughing, humanity pressing close. All Brendon feels is alone.

There's no place for him here, with these people who smile and hug and talk. There's no room for Brendon anywhere. He begins to walk.

~~~~~~

It's late at night when he stops. Brendon's left the bus station far behind, turning corners at random, and now, hours later, when he finally looks up he sees that he's ended up close to a club, one where a line of people stretch from the glittering red doors and the sound of music pours out, only slightly muted. The bass line catches Brendon's attention: loud, thumping and deep despite the walls that strive to contain it. It leaks out, becoming louder each time the bouncer opens the doors, letting people inside.

Despite the cold and his hunger, how much he's aching from walking all day, he stands still and listens. He takes in the music and concentrates on the way it feels, melody and beat and for the first time in days – weeks -- Brendon smiles for real.

"Hey, retard, get out of the way."

Brendon stumbles, shoved forward by a hand against his back. He turns and is faced by two couples, the men wearing tight t-shirts and the girls hanging onto their arms, their hair long and glossy, their lips shining red. It's one of the girls who's pushed Brendon and she laughs, mean and loud as she shoves him again.

"I said move."

"Sorry," Brendon says, and he smiles as he starts to step out of the way.

"I think he likes you, Jess," the other girl says. She steps forward, staggering in her heels and smelling of alcohol and smoke as she looks at Brendon. "Look at him, he wants you."

"No, I don't," Brendon protests, and he begins to back away.

"You don't want me?" Jess steps close and tugs at the neckline of her dress. "You seem to like looking at my tits."

"I...no." Brendon looks away from the girl who's so close, just there.

"You're looking at my girl's tits?" The man shakes his head and laughs as he looks at his friend. "You want my girl you'll have to fight me for her."

He makes a fist then, laughing meanly, clearly in the market for trouble. It’s unfair, because all Brendon was doing was listening to the music, and now he's going to have to run again. He can’t fight. Even if he’d ever learned. His mind conjures up images of blood and water, pain and the sound of groaning, the thud of flesh and blood against tile. All four laugh as Brendon turns and runs.

~~~~~~

It's twelve twenty-seven in the morning when Brendon checks into the hotel, the cheapest one he can find. He's carrying a paper bag -- a saran-wrapped sandwich inside, egg salad, the last one in the shop at the corner of the street -- and a bottle of water. The clerk checking him in never looks up as she passes him a key, just keeps watching the small TV behind the counter. Brendon smiles at her anyway, says, "Thank you," before going to his room.

It takes almost ten minutes before Brendon finds number twelve. The lights in the corridor are dim, half of them missing bulbs. Brendon flushes when a woman walks past, her skirt short, her top low-cut. She gives him a wink as she opens a door and urges a man to go inside. Brendon's own room is at the end of the hall, and he steps into it, turning on the light.

There's a bed inside, the cover pale blue, a stain at one corner. A tiny bathroom with a tub that has rust streaked at one end sits to the side. The TV is attached to the wall by a chain and static fills the screen when Brendon turns it on. At this point he's too tired to care and he flops down on the bed, dropping the bag and bottle, both of them falling to the floor.

Hands fisted, Brendon pushes them against his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He's inside, he's safe. He's got enough money to stay here for two days. He's fine. Uncurling his hands, Brendon reaches down and picks up his sandwich and water. Grimacing, he untwists the top of the bottle.

He looks at his palms, at the scratches, some of which are puffy and inflamed. It feels like a lifetime ago when he hurt them, and Brendon pokes at the side of one of the red lines, watching as puss oozes free. It’s all kinds of disgusting, and he feels sick as he takes a long drink, then eats the sandwich, hoping it'll ease the empty ache in his belly.

When he's finished it all, Brendon lies down, squirming under the covers. He doesn't turn off the light, or the TV, just listens to white noise until he finally sleeps.

~~~~~

It's hours later when Brendon wakes. He blinks against the sun that streams through the thin curtains, then winces as his stomach cramps hard. Throwing himself out of bed, Brendon runs and falls to his knees in front of the toilet, throwing up the sandwich and water. He keeps dry heaving until his eyes are streaming and his entire torso aches. Cheek against the seat of the toilet, Brendon reaches up blindly and flushes. He feels water hitting his face, water and no doubt more, but moving isn't an option -- not yet.

Breathing shallowly, Brendon swallows hard and tries to ignore the cramps in his belly, how he feels cold and clammy. Shivering, he debates the wisdom of going back to bed.

When he does move, his hand pressed against his stomach, head swimming, Brendon only gets half way back to his bed before abruptly changing direction, fumbling with his pants and pushing them down before rushing to the toilet. Sitting, he starts to heave once more and reaches for the small trash can, holding onto it as he throws up stomach acid and bile. Throat sore, stomach aching and miserable, all Brendon wants is his mom -- anyone. No one comes.

~*~*~*~

"I was thinking," Ryan says. "Beanbags would be awesome, they've got that retro feel, plus, they're cheap."

"I hate beanbags." Spencer stops walking and leans heavily against Ryan. "In fact, right now I hate everything."

"Beanbags are cost effective and comfortable, also, easy to match decor wise."

Spencer frowns. "They also burst and I'm not picking up a million tiny balls."

With a last scowl at Ryan, Spencer starts walking again, limping so badly that Ryan holds back on his lecture about beanbag care. For a minute anyway, when he can't hold it in anymore. "They don't burst, not if you don't flop down on them."

"It was ten years ago, Ryan. Let it go."

"I have," Ryan protests, because this isn't about Spencer doing a dive from the top of the bed and bursting Ryan's favourite ninja turtle beanbag, not at all.

"Doesn't sound like it." Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Spencer asks, "How far is it now?"

"Not far." Thankfully, this time it's the truth, which is good because Ryan's exhausted and he knows Spencer has to feel just as bad. It seems like they've been walking for days and if Ryan never sees grass again it'll be too soon. Still, there's nothing they can do but keep going, slowly, always so slowly, as Spencer's limp worsens and the burning in Ryan's chest becomes a constant, one that's made worse by having to carry his guitar.

Sometimes, when every part of him is hurting, Ryan thinks about leaving the instrument behind. It would be easier to go on without it, but he can never bring himself to actually set it on the ground and walk away, because Ryan's already lost so much. He can't lose this, too. Plus, they'll need it to make money, so Ryan can busk while they get jobs and their own place. That's part of the plan.

"Is the bank getting smaller?" Spencer asks suddenly, and relief rushes over Ryan, because yes, it is, and that means they'll be at the rest area soon. Able to sit and rest and drink. Knowing that is the boost Ryan needed. He increases his pace a little, enough that he's walking faster, but still remains close at Spencer's side.

"The rest area is just ahead," Ryan says. "Hopefully someone is parked up there, but if not, I left some stuff we can eat while we wait."

"More trash food?" Spencer asks, sounding resigned.

"Yeah." Ryan doesn't justify keeping it, Spencer's smart, he knows they have to do what they can to survive.

Neither of them speak then, reserving their strength for walking. Finally, Ryan sees the rest-area ahead. The toilet block with the vending machines, the trash cans and sign, the space where the trucks can park. The lot is still empty, but Ryan knows someone will come, it's just a case of when.

"I could kiss you right now."

Spencer's standing propped up against Ryan, his hair tangled. He pushes it back, exposing a dirt-streaked face, but all Ryan sees is his smile, how relieved Spencer looks as he pulls Ryan even closer, into something that’s more a hug than just support.

"Told you we'd get here."

"You did," Spencer agrees, and to Ryan's surprise, he presses a quick kiss against Ryan's mouth. It's not a good kiss as such; Spencer smells, and his lips are gritty with dirt. Ryan just blinks as Spencer asks, "Is that okay? I mean, I always assumed, but we never said anything...."

"The location could be better," Ryan says, but he kisses Spencer in return, a quick brush of lips. "It's fine, promise."

"Good," Spencer says, and he moves in again, his touch tentative at first as he hesitantly runs his tongue over one side of Ryan's lip, stopping just short of where the skin begins to split, then back toward the corner. Ryan's heart is beating fast, prickles of sensation running through his body because this is Spencer. They've been leading up to this for what feels like forever, and it's all kinds of frustrating that their first kiss is now, when Ryan can't even fully enjoy it.

"I can kiss much better than this usually," Ryan says, his words against Spencer's mouth.

"Yeah?" Spencer smiles and rests his forehead against Ryan's. "You've been practicing with your hand again?"

"Are you implying I've never been kissed?"

"Not by me," Spencer says.

Which is an important distinction, so Ryan says, "True."

One last smile, then Spencer pulls back to look around. "So we're sleeping in the toilets?"

"It'll be slightly warmer, I guess, but the floors are concrete and if anyone comes in when we're asleep--"

"Good point." Spencer indicates an area set back from the toilet blocks, planted with a series of bushes, a barrier between the grass behind. "We could sleep under those bushes."

"Bush sleeping, awesome," Ryan says. But it makes sense, the last thing they want to do is be trapped anywhere, and this time Ryan is determined to check any potential driver who offer them a ride. He's not going to put Spencer in danger again.

"Just pretend we're camping, you used to like it."

"Camping in your front room with your mom bringing us food and drinks was different," Ryan points out.

Spencer looks away, his smile fading. "Yeah."

Ryan feels a sting of guilt at bringing up memories that only remind Spencer of what he's lost. Wanting to make amends, he looks around until he sees the bush where he hid the apples, and goes to pull out the bag, holding it up. "Want a picnic?"

"You know it," Spencer says, and while his smile is obviously forced, it's there as they both walk toward the toilet block and sit on the ground. It takes a while to actually sit. Spencer has to lower himself down, his foot always outstretched, and Ryan watches to make sure Spencer’s safely down before heading inside to fill the water bottle. It takes a while, Ryan’s hands are shaking and the water flows over his hand, dripping into the sink, until finally the bottle is full. Taking a drink he refills the bottle, then makes his way back to Spencer. Bracing himself on the wall, Ryan sits, each movement making him gasp as he finally settles on the hard ground.

When he's as comfortable as possible, he sets the apples on the ground and opens the water bottle before handing it to Spencer and looking at the vending machines, the rows of candy bars and chips and cold drinks, just there. "I don't suppose you know how to get into those?"

"Not without a hammer." Spencer puts down the bottle and tilts his head as he looks at the flap at the bottom. "Maybe you could get your arm inside?"

"Maybe," Ryan says, dubiously, because while he's thin, he doesn't think his arms can bend enough to get at the stuff inside. Still, he can give it a try. He pushes himself to his knees and knee-walks to the machine, using one hand to push back the flap. It's heavy and rigid and Ryan can't help imagining getting stuck, but the temptation of real food is too much, and he's about to put in his hand when Spencer yells.

"Wait, stop. I just remembered. I've got the change from when I bought the Band-aids." Leaning to one side, Spencer digs in his pocket and finally pulls out a handful of coins. Holding out his hand he displays what they've got -- two quarters and a few dimes -- just enough for one thing from the machine.

Ryan looks at the choices. He hasn't been away from home long, but already the selection seems too much. Does he get candy or chips? M & Ms that could be doled out, or a bar that they can nibble at and put away? He turns to Spencer. "What do you want?"

"The chocolate will have more energy value I guess," Spencer says. "I think, M & Ms, get the peanut ones for the protein."

Ryan nods and feeds the money into the machine, pressing the number for the candy and watching as it travels forward, falling to the bottom. Picking up the packet, he crawls back over, and hands it to Spencer.

Sitting back down, he takes one M&M from the bag Spencer offers, and slowly, he sucks at the shell, then the chocolate inside before finally biting through the peanut, savoring it as long as he can. They sit in the early evening sunshine and prepare to wait.

Part 2