(no subject)

[turps]

Title: The Keys to Unlock You
Author: turps
Fandom: Bandom MCR and pre-split Panic.
Pairing: Mikey/Ryan
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 32,000
Summary: AU. People are going missing and the police aren't looking. When Mikey and Ryan disappear, can the others find them?
Warnings Torture, kidnapping, scenes of non-sexual violence. For more detailed warnings please go here
Author's note: Thank you to sperrywink and themoononastick for beta reading, any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

For arsenicjade. Happy birthday.




There's no actual evidence that Ryan's been taken, but Spencer knows -- he knows.

It's there in the way Ryan's bedroom is the same as always, books still stacked on his bedside table and an ironed uniform shirt hanging on the closet door. The sheets are still crumpled and the pillow indented and if Spencer looks over his shoulder he can almost believe he'll see Ryan sitting propped up against the blue-padded headboard, knees sharp points under the blanket as he leans forward, squinting slightly as he reads.

Spencer leaves the room and goes downstairs, he doesn’t need a reminder Ryan’s not there.

"They need to do something, look for him," Brendon says, his words tight. He's standing at the kitchen table, chopping the carrots he'd bought the day before. The knife thuds against the marble chopping board, the blade perilously close to Brendon's fingertips. Spencer tenses with every cut.

"They said they...."

"They think he's out getting drunk somewhere, fucking around, I know," Brendon says bitterly. He pushes the carrot slices aside and picks up an onion; the skin is dry and wrinkled, obviously past its best. "So what, we do nothing?"

"No," Spencer says. "We do what they say and file an official report if he's not back in forty-eight hours." He keeps his back to the stairs, needing the emotional distance as he picks up a book. It's one of Ryan's and most of the pages are covered in tightly-packed sentences, some scribbled out under messy clouds of black ink. On the back page are Spencer's words, a short list of names and dates, the jagged column evidence of hours of talk. He sits opposite Brendon and opens the book. "Last night, I couldn't sleep and you know there's been rumors about people going missing."

"Yeah," Brendon sets down the knife but he clenches his hand, fingernails digging in; the room is filled with the sharp scent of onion. "So what? You snuck out of the house so you could ask questions? When Ryan's already missing."

"I did," Spencer says simply. He reads through the list of names. "When Ryan didn't come home, I needed to know, so I talked to some people. The ones who've lost people, too."

"You should have told me."

Spencer remembers the sickening realization that Ryan was late; far too late, and how he wasn't answering his phone. The futile phone call to the police and the hours Brendon had stood at the window, holding back the curtain so he could look outside as Jon tried repeatedly to not look at his watch and all Spencer could do was pace. "I could have been wrong."

"So you went alone?" Brendon's mouth is a thin line and he deliberately sets down the onion. It rolls, coming to rest against the knife. "At night, when you knew people are vanishing."

"I had to do something, I couldn't stay here and just wait."

"Fuck, Spencer." Brendon shakes his head, anger bleeding into exhaustion he's trying to keep hidden. He wipes his hands on his thighs and reaches for the book, turning it so he can read. "So what, all these people are missing?"

"They're the ones people remembered." Spencer had spent hours talking. To the people that gathered outside the clubs and the all night cafes, listening to stories of friends and acquaintances who didn't come home. In quantity they're not that many, but there's enough to make Spencer worry.

Brendon's folded forward, his hair falling into his eyes as he reads. When he suddenly looks up he brushes it back impatiently. "Mikey really is missing, I saw the posters, but didn't want to believe."

Spencer's seen the posters too, they're plastered all over town and he looks at the list, reads down two weeks worth of dates before he sees Mikey's name and remembers arriving at one of the underground clubs, talking to some kid with wild hair and black ink swirling around her forearm. She'd chewed on her bottom lip, sharp teeth against glossy red, and scuffed the pointed toes of her shoes in the dirt as she told him how Mikey had vanished, at the club one moment and gone the next. "You know him?"

"Ryan does," Brendon says. "He's a friend of Pete's, remember, we saw him that time, at the party for Joe."

"Hmm, maybe." They go out clubbing most weekends, more often on the weeks they get paid, and the nights tend to blend together in a whir of lights and noise. "Pete knows everyone."

"Yeah," Brendon acknowledges. "He tends to keep Mikey close, skinny, blond hair and glasses. He talked to Ryan that one time and Ryan had to hide a smile for hours."

Spencer nods. "Right." He looks at the list again, linking the name with the memory of Mikey sitting with Pete, holding court at a table close to the dance floor and the way Ryan tried to act cool when they told him to sit down. Ryan had worn glitter that day, a stripe along each cheekbone and when they'd finally left glitter had sparkled in Mikey's hair. "He was nice."

"Was?" Brendon frowns. "You think he's dead, because if he is..."

"No!" Spencer cuts in before Brendon can finish his thought. "I think he's missing and the police aren't helping."

"We need to find Ryan."

Spencer says, "Yeah."

~*~*~*~

Consciousness returns in an abrupt start, and Ryan snaps opens his eyes. He's being tightly held, hands gripping his upper arm and he's feeling so drained that he's unable to keep himself upright, his feet scraping along the floor as he's dragged forward, looking down at the pine-needle covered ground. Nausea rolls in his stomach, making him swallow hard as he's hauled up two wooden steps and into some kind of cabin. Ryan starts to look up, but the grip on his arm tightens and all he can see is a black mask and the glint of eyes.

Letting his head drop he looks at his hands, his palms are covered in dried blood and he flexes his fingers, blinking slowly at the disconnection between the movement and the ability to feel. Panic surging, Ryan moves his fingers again, but again there's nothing, like the hands belong to somebody else. Ryan pulls in a series of shallow breaths, feeling light-headed. "Where..." Ryan swallows again, trying to get moisture into his mouth. "Why..."

There's no reply. All there is is the sound of footsteps, the slither of Ryan's feet against the floor until they stop, standing close to a door. There's a horseshoe nailed near the top and Ryan wants to laugh, because there's no luck here, only helplessness, something he remembers well. It's an old sense memory, but powerful enough to make sweat break out at the back of Ryan's neck, hot and cold all at once as the man holding him unlocks the door.

As soon as there's enough room, Ryan's thrown inside. He collapses forward, his hands and knees striking the hard floor, his mouth is open as he gasps for air, the room swirling around him in dizzying circles as the door is slammed shut behind him.

"Oh, hell no, not you."

Ryan tries to focus on who's talking. It's impossible, all he can see are swirling brown walls and a dark shape toward the back of the room.

"Ryan, shit, just keep breathing, it's the drugs, they're a bitch but it'll pass."

Ryan wants it to pass now, he hates feeling so weak, unable to do anything but collapse fully to the floor. He presses his hands against the ground, but it's like every nerve ending is concentrated on his stomach and head, leaving none for his fingers at all. "My hands, I can't feel...."

"That'll come back too."

Slightly relieved, Ryan stops scrabbling at the floor and lies still. His heart is thundering painfully and when he cautiously opens his eyes everything tilts in dizzying waves. Still, he keeps them open because there's something in that voice, a familiarity that makes him look up. "Mikey?"

There's hesitancy, because while Ryan's sure it is Mikey, he doesn't want it to be. Mikey's meant for dark corners and late nights observing the world go by, not like this, curled on his side on a messy pile of dirty blankets, knees drawn up and his hair tangled around his face. He's not wearing his glasses and there are deep shadows under his eyes, and his cheek bones are sharp, the skin pulled tight. He's wearing pants pushed low on his hips, and Ryan draws in a sharp breath when he sees the bruises that blacken his stomach and chest, the deep cuts that crisscross and curve over his skin and one that follows the curve of his jaw. The way he's got his left hand cradled close.

Mikey pulls his lips into the slightest of smiles. "Not looking my best, yeah?"

Ryan swallows and shakes his head as he pushes himself back onto his knees. Mikey's a mess of bruising and inflamed tissue. It's one of the most horrifying things Ryan's ever seen, worse even than the time Jon managed to step on a broken bottle and nearly sever a toe.

"That bad?"

Ryan considers a lie, but Mikey's looking right at him, one eyebrow raised in query like he's not curled up looking half-dead. "It's kind of gross."

Mikey doesn't look surprised. "You should see my ankle."

Despite himself Ryan looks down, following the line of Mikey's legs until he sees his bare feet, and one ankle that's bruised and swollen.

"The bastard took a hammer to it when I tried to escape. I got as far as the front door when he caught me."

Instantly Ryan imagines a hammer crashing against bone and the dizziness of before is replaced by sheer overwhelming fear. The last thing he remembers is walking toward home and now he's here, and he doesn't understand why. Or how, or where here even is. Curling his hands into fists, Ryan fights against the urge to scream.

"Jesus, fuck, Ryan. Don't make me have to move," Mikey says, but he's already hauling himself up onto his knees, the movement makes him gasp and fresh blood trickles from one of the cuts, over his hip and under the waistband of his pants. He looks up and his bottom lip shows the imprints of his teeth and his eyes are damp.

Ryan takes a deep breath and concentrates on pushing back his fear. Normally he's better at control, but today it takes a while, enough that Mikey's managed to get close before lowering himself back to the ground. He reaches out and rests his fingers against Ryan's knee -- Mikey's hands are blood-stained, too.

"Where are we?" Ryan manages to say.

Mikey shakes his head, says, "I don't know."

~*~*~*~

Spencer drains his coffee in one long gulp. It's overly sweet and too strong but it's exactly what he needs. Ryan's been missing two nights now and Spencer's managed maybe a few hours sleep, and even that was cramped in a corner of the sofa, laptop and lists of names on his knees, Brendon on the other side, so obviously wanting to move while needing to stay close. Last night Jon had sat on the floor, legs crossed and feet bare as he methodically phoned his network of friends yet again. Bar keepers and baristas. Guitar techs and kindergarten teachers. Jon called them all, no matter how unlikely they'd know anything that would help.

By the second hour his questions had merged into an intermittent stream. Ryan. Missing. Have you seen? Anything unusual? Do you know? Each reply carefully noted until Jon was surrounded by paper, words and numbers and jagged holes where his pen had ripped through the page. Spencer had hoped for some answers, that somewhere someone had seen something -- they hadn't.

"You should have woken me up." Jon's still sitting on the floor, arms on the coffee table and his cheek resting on an old newspaper. He's been drooling and when he sits up there's ink transfer on his face.

"I was about to," Spencer says. He refills his mug and perches himself on the edge of the sofa, careful not to sit on Brendon who finally fell asleep only hours before. "Here."

Jon takes the offered mug, screwing up his face when Spencer licks his thumb and then drags it over Jon's cheek. "Seriously, gross."

Spencer smiles, Jon's expected griping driving away fear for a few welcome seconds. "Suck it up, print face."

"Print face. Really?" Jon takes a long drink then puts down the mug, sliding it between the others on the table. He yawns and stretches, scratches at the stubble on his cheeks. "So, what now?"

It's a question Spencer hates, because he's got no real answer. Ryan's gone and no ones seen a thing. It's like he's just disappeared into thin air, which is ridiculous because Ryan wouldn't. He got his job and his friends and no matter what the police seem to believe, he always comes home. Stomach aching, Spencer looks at his watch. It's been thirty-six hours, countless phone calls and text messages. Ryan should be stumbling through the apartment, bitching about the early hour and eating the toast that he always steals from Spencer's plate.

"Spencer?" Jon pushes himself to his feet, looking uncertain. "If we go to the station in person they might take more notice. We can insist they take a report."

Spencer wishes he could believe that, he suspects if they do go in person they'll still get the same answer, but they have to do something. He turns and shakes Brendon's shoulder. "Brendon, hey. Hi, Brendon. We're going to the station."

"Hmm," Brendon says, and he opens his eyes, looking dazed until his mouth tightens as he looks past Spencer to the room behind. "He didn't come back when I was asleep."

"No," Spencer says. "I would have woken you if he did."

"I know." Brendon curls up, swinging his legs over Spencer's head as he sits. "You said we're going to the station?"

"We're going to make them listen," Jon says. "We'll stay until we do."

Brendon stands, says, "Good."

~*~*~*~

Ryan knows Mikey enough to know he unashamedly likes drinks that stain his tongue green and that his eyes light up when he hears a favorite song. He knows that his hands tend to be cold and he can make Ryan's name sound like a caress at the end of the night. Now he knows more. That Mikey's lips turn white with pain, and that he whimpers when he throws up, his hand pressed against his stomach as he fights against dry-heaves.

Mikey lowers his gaze, says, "sorry," as Ryan helps him settle himself on the pile of the blankets. The air is thick with the scent of vomit and Mikey rubs at his mouth, wiping off his chin.

"What for?" Ryan's still terrified but he's got years of practice at pushing aside the things that scare him. If he concentrates on getting Mikey comfortable he can ignore the way his stomach is clenched in knots and how his hands shake as he picks up a red plastic bucket that's half-full with water.

"I just puked on your shoes," Mikey says. "Most people would think that deserves a sorry."

"Most people aren't here." Ryan sticks his finger into the water, it's warm and there's stuff floating on top. Blades of grass and what looks like a dead fly. "Is this even fit to drink?"

"It hasn't killed me yet."

Ryan doesn't say that Mikey looks half-dead already, he knows it's a moot point. Kneeling on the blankets, he sets the bucket on the floor and takes off his work shirt, eyeing it before ripping at a seam with his teeth. The material tears easily and Ryan vows to never complain about the quality of his uniform again. Holding a large piece -- half of the front, Pets a and part of an embroidered dog at the side, he starts to dip it into the water, then stops, realizing he's about to engage in familiarity that's not his to take. "I never, I mean, do you even want..."

Mikey says, "Please."

Ryan nods and dips the material in the water, soaking it before wringing it out. "My shirt's clean, relatively anyway. After, we'll still be able to drink."

"Good," he doesn't change it often." Mikey closes his eyes, and there's a blob of liner clumped in his bottom lashes, a reminder of before that makes Ryan's stomach twist as he runs his shirt over Mikey's mouth, careful of the cracked skin. "When I first arrived I did this too."

"Yeah?" Ryan says, and concentrates on the way Mikey's shivering and how his skin feels hot and dry.

"There was this kid. I thought he was dead at first, but he wasn't. Not then."

There are multiple questions Ryan wants to ask, but he doesn't know where to start. The enormity of the situation too much. He settles for wiping the cloth over Mikey's forehead, hoping it'll cool him down. "The kid, he's...."

"Gone now," Mikey says, and for an instant fear breaks through his schooled expression. "I knew him, by sight anyway. When I got here he told me how things were, calmed me down when I was about falling apart. I guess it's my turn to be Yoda."

"So that makes me Luke." Ryan drops the cloth on the ground, not about to put it in the water, no matter how dirty it looks already. "Figures. I suck as a blond." He stands, looking around the small room, taking in the lack of windows and a pile of clothes throw into a corner. Ryan walks closer, gagging at the stench, piss, shit and blood and the wooden floor dark with stains. Breathing through his mouth he looks at the clothes, seeing the t-shirts and pants and multiple pairs of shoes. "There's, how many?"

"I counted seven pairs," Mikey says, with the slightest shrug of one shoulder. He watches as Ryan toes at the pile with his shoe. "He's got this sick fucking schedule. Keeps people a week with someone, a week alone, a week with someone new."

"You've been alone a week?"

Mikey pulls at one of the blankets, uncovering a floorboard scored with small lines of dried blood, dark against the battered floorboards, says, "Yeah."

Ryan counts each line, and he's never felt so scared.

"I had to bury him." Mikey flips back the blanket, and it sounds like he's reciting some kind of shopping list, his words measured as opposed to the tremor of his hands. "Outside, there's like, a line of disturbed earth and the bastard stood there with that fucking gun, watching as I dug."

Mikey hesitates, and Ryan's caught between wanting to know and hiding away. He moves a step closer to Mikey.

"It takes a long time to dig a grave," Mikey says, like he's conveying some perfectly normal tidbit. "No one ever shows that in movies, a few seconds and it's done, but it took me forever. I had blisters after." Mikey holds up his hands, and Ryan can just about see evidence of new skin under the patches of dried blood.

"I've never dug a grave, or anything really. Except in a sandbox." Ryan thinks about hot summer days and sand trickling through his fingers, memories that are helping him breathe. "Spencer always gave me the yellow bucket."

"Spencer's your friend, yeah? The one at the club."

Sandboxes turn to memories of a late night and Spencer's grin, wide and amused as he gave Ryan a thumbs up. It makes Ryan ache, needing Spencer while being fervently glad he's not here. "That's him, he'll be looking for me by now."

"Gerard will too."

Ryan thinks about the night they met and tries to remember names. "Gerard?"

"My brother," Mikey says, and the lines of his face soften the slightest amount. "He always makes me pancakes on a Sunday. He'll be frantic by now."

Ryan nods and walks to the door, desperation bone-deep as he hooks his fingernails between door and frame. "We need to get out."

Mikey keeps watching but doesn't reply.

~*~*~*~

The police station is an exercise in frustration. Poor planning means there are too many people crowded in too small a place, an old woman sitting primly on an orange plastic chair, a canvas bag clutched on her knee as she glances suspiciously at the man who's standing close to the door, bundled inside a black hoodie despite the heat of the day. A girl sitting cross-legged, headphones in, dark mascara lines tracking her cheeks while two men stand against the wall discussing some game, their voices rising as they rehash each play with accompanying waves of their hands. There's a plant in an orange-spotted pot on the counter, an apple core lying on the dry soil. When Spencer moves the leaves brush against his arm. He steps to the side slightly, pressing further against Jon.

The police-officer behind the counter is in uniform, his forehead is shiny, despite the small fan that's revolving on the desk. He taps some buttons on his computer, says, "I'm sorry, we're limited in what we can do. We'll circulate the report but unless Mr. Ross is a danger to himself or others he's not a priority. We're overstretched as it is."

"So, what? You're not going to look?" Brendon's got his hands braced against the counter and he's leaning in, obviously angry. There's a recent photo of Ryan next to his hand and a print out of information -- what Ryan was wearing, when and where he was last seen. Brendon snatches up the photo, holding it in the air. "This is Ryan, he always comes home and he hasn't. You need to start looking for him, something's wrong. People are going missing."

"Look, we can't go off looking for every kid who decides to take off. He's probably off having fun someplace and forgot the time. We see it all the time. If he's not back in a few days come back, we'll talk again." The officer makes it sound like he's granting them some kind of favor by allowing that much. Spencer wants to punch him in his face.

"Well, thanks for your time," Spencer says shortly, making the words an insult as he steps away from the counter. The headache that's been a mostly background ache has become a fully-formed thing, and Spencer rubs above his eyes as pushes his way outside.

“What are you doing? They're supposed to go look for him!" Brendon crowds close and grabs a handful of Spencer's t-shirt, crumpling it in his fist so they're both standing just outside of the door. "We can't just leave."

"They're not going to do anything," Spencer says. Pain throbs harder and he fights against the urge to push Brendon away. "You heard them, they think he's off fucking around somewhere."

Brendon shakes his head. "He wouldn't do that, not without telling us."

"I know that!" Spencer yells. "I know that," he repeats, quieter this time. "They don't know him like we do."

"So we go in and tell them." Brendon takes an abortive step back. "We'll tell them that Ryan loves his job and that he walks the dogs and cleans the bunny cages and he's got a home, he's got us."

"Brendon." Uncaring of anyone watching, Jon steps forward and pulls Brendon's into a hug, holding him close even as Brendon stands motionless, refusing to relax. "We'll find him."

"How? How are we supposed to find him?" Brendon says, and his voice is panicked, sharp with fear. "All of those people missing, and no one cares, no one's looking."

"We are."

Spencer looks over Brendon and Jon, at the man who's just spoken -- the man from inside, still bundled in his black hoodie. In the natural light he looks washed out, his face pale and eyes darkened with shadows, and while he doesn't know him, there's a hint of recognition that Spencer can't place.

Keeping his arm around Brendon, Jon steps to the side, watchful despite his passive expression. "Sorry, we'll get out of your way."

"No, you're not in the way. I was listening."

"Well, that was your first mistake, the second was admitting it." Temper made razor fine, Spencer deliberately turns away, addressing Brendon and Jon. "Come on, we'll go and talk somewhere private."

"No, wait." The man steps forward despite the way Spencer bristles. "I heard you talking, and you're right. There are people going missing, but they won't look. They never do, no matter how often we ask."

"You know something?" Brendon asks. There's hope in his tone and Spencer wants to warn him not to be fooled, but he doesn't. Despite himself Spencer needs this hope too. Brendon pulls out of Jon's hold. "You've seen Ryan?"

"Not recently," the man says, his whole attention on the photo that Brendon's holding out.

Furious at allowing himself a moment of false hope, Spencer starts to walk. "Come on."

"No, wait!" The man says, he moves so he's standing in front of them, his arm outstretched. "I haven't seen him recently, but someone will have. We've been looking on our own, trying to find people because the police don't care." He drops his arm, looking utterly dejected, then seems to push that aside. "My name's Gerard, two weeks ago someone took my brother. We've been looking for him ever since."

"And you think you can help us?" Jon says.

Gerard looks at them all, says, "We'll try."

It's enough.

~*~*~*~

Mikey's sitting up, his knee bent and foot pulled in toward him. He's carefully rubbing along the instep of his foot and Ryan stares at the concentration of colors, dark bruising spreading from Mikey's ankle, the dried blood under his nails. It's pretty in a way that makes Ryan feel sick. He looks away and lifts up his own hands, taking in his broken nails and reddened knuckles. He thinks maybe there should be more, that he should have fought harder when he was taken. Ryan makes a fist, his nails jagged against his palm. "When he took you, did you fight?"

"I tried." Mikey stops rubbing his foot and rests his hand loosely over his ankle. "I got in a couple of punches but I'd been drinking and I didn't expect to be jumped. One minute I was heading for home, the next I was being bundled into the back of a van with a fucking needle shoved in my arm."

"Right," Ryan says. He remembers the sting of a needle in his own arm, the confusion at suddenly being punched in the face and the pain of his knees impacting against the sidewalk. He'd tried desperately to defend himself, throwing punches as he was picked up and thrown in the back of the van, but it was all so sudden and unexpected. Ryan knows he couldn't have done more, but he can't help feeling that somehow he should have escaped.

"Sometimes I think, why me?" Mikey says, grimacing as he straightens his leg. "Did he see me and think I looked weak? That I wouldn't fight back. But it's not me, it's him. He's fucking psychotic."

Ryan crosses his arms, hugging his own chest. He can feel the thump of his heart and he concentrates on that, letting the beat wash over memories of cruel hands and dark eyes. He looks at Mikey, seeing the cuts that decorate his body, swirls and straight lines and if Ryan looks long enough, some kind of design that runs over Mikey's ribs.

"He thinks he's some kind of artist," Mikey says, interpreting Ryan's look. "He's got this whole spiel about blood on a skin canvas, and it could be cool, but he makes it into a fucking cliché."

"Cool?" Pointedly, Ryan looks around, there's nothing cool about being here.

"Well, not the whole kidnapping and torture disguised as art thing," Mikey says. "But the skin as a canvas, yeah. Just, some other medium besides knives."

"Glitter gel, maybe," Ryan says, trying to distract himself from thoughts of blades against skin. "It would sparkle, and wouldn't hurt."

"I'm not one for sparkles, but I'd go for less hurt." Mikey holds out his hand, showing the spiral that's been cut into his palm.

It looks nasty, the skin puffy and the cut oozing. Ryan swallows and steels himself to ask another question, something that's been on his mind since he saw Mikey's lack of clothes. "He doesn't, I mean, you're only wearing pants."

It takes Mikey a moment to catch on, then he shakes his head. "No, thank god. Nothing sexual. He cut off my t-shirt to see more skin."

Good," Ryan says, and then realizes what he's said. "I mean, it's not good, just...."

"I know what you mean," Mikey interrupts. "I guess it's our silver fucking lining."

Ryan will take that silver lining, even if it is small. He stands. "I'm going to try the door again."

"The best chance is when he takes you out." Mikey sounds sad, also, reluctant, like he's admitting something that he'd rather be kept hidden. Ryan looks at the heavy wooden door. There are scratches and gouges around the frame, some stained with blood, and Ryan's fingertips are throbbing. There's no way to get out that way, not without a key.

"You said you managed to escape before?"

"As far as the porch. Escape's pushing it," Mikey says.

"But you got out." That's a distinction that Ryan's not going to brush away. If Mikey got out once it means it can happen again, Ryan just needs to know how. "How?"

"He had me on the table then went for something in another room, there was some slack in the restraints and I managed to slip out of them." Mikey wraps his fingers around his wrist, over the bruising and raw skin. "It was the day of the grave, I was so freaked I'd have chopped off my hands to get out. I ran , got as far as the front door when he came back. I was lucky he didn't have his gun or I'd have been dead. Instead he stopped me running again." Mikey eases himself back down and turns his head so he can see Ryan. "A hammer to your ankle fucking hurts."

There isn't a thing Ryan can think to say, he sits back down, close to Mikey's side. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Mikey says, then turns his head, looking tense at the sound of a door being opened. "Look, Ryan, don't try anything when he comes in. He'll have a gun and he'll use it. This isn't the time. I mean it, no matter what he does, just stay back."

"What? I don't...."

There's the sound of heavy footsteps and Mikey looks stricken, the fear pouring from him in waves. "Promise me."

"Okay, fine, I promise," Ryan says, and he's taking shallow gulps of air when the door to the room is thrown open and the man steps inside. He's still dressed all in black, a gun held in one hand, but this time he's not wearing a mask -- Ryan knows that's not a good sign. About to reach out and grab Mikey's arm, Ryan stills when Mikey minutely shakes his head.

"Do you like your new friend?" The man steps into the room, a looming presence as he keeps the gun pointed at Ryan's head. One-handed, he grabs hold of Mikey's upper arm and pulls him to his feet. He's taller than Mikey, much broader and he holds onto him easily. "I thought you'd like him, he's like you, has so much usable skin."

"Fuck you," Mikey says bitterly, and Ryan wants to tell him to shut up, because how can he tell Ryan not to do anything and then stand there and retaliate himself?

The man laughs. "Look who's found his spirit? I'm going to enjoy our session this afternoon." Always looking at Ryan, he starts to drag Mikey toward the door, pulling at his arm and paying no heed to the way Mikey stumbles as he tries to keep the weight off his injured ankle. "I'll bring your little friend back soon, don't get too lonely." He steps outside and slams the door.

~*~*~*~

Gerard takes them to an apartment block on the outskirts of the city. It's an ugly building, squat with dingy grey walls, a rickety-looking fire-escape clinging to one side; Spencer hopes there's never an actual fire, because the thing will never hold weight. The main door is propped open with a brick, a man sitting on the sidewalk to the side. He's leaning heavily against the wall, head back and eyes closed, a lit cigarette held between two fingers, a cell phone in his other hand.

"Frank, anything?" Spencer recognizes the careful hope in Gerard's question; it's painfully obvious despite the way his expression hasn't changed at all.

"No calls, but we've tweets about seeing the van." Frank opens his eyes then, looking past Gerard to Spencer, Brendon and Jon. "More of Mikey's friends?"

Gerard shakes his head. "This is Brendon, Jon and Spencer, their friend's missing."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" In a split second exhaustion turns to anger and Frank slams his fist against the sidewalk. "How many more?"

"I know, I know," Gerard says, he crouches down, gently uncurling Frank's hand so the cigarette falls to the ground, crumpled and surrounded by the droplets of blood from Frank's knuckles. "You need to stop doing that."

"When I find out who's doing this I'm going to fucking kill the bastard."

"Join the line," Gerard says, and while he's got none of the outward anger of Frank, there's a steel to his voice that suggests he's the most dangerous of all. A last searching look at Frank and Gerard stands. "This is Frank, he lives here with Mikey."

"Hi," Brendon says, polite despite the way he's staring at the blood trailing down Frank's fingers. Spencer steps closer, resting his hand on the small of Brendon's back.

"Hey." Frank stands slowly, looking worn, edges frayed and obviously exhausted. "Come in."

They go inside, Frank leading the way. It's stifling hot as they climb the stairs, four flights before they stop outside an apartment with a pale blue door, M. Way and F. Iero written on a sheet of neon green cardboard tacked to the middle. There's a bike to one side, the wheels deflated, a plushie monkey balanced on the seat. A giant plant pot containing a plastic cactus surrounded by tiny green dinosaurs, fun things that seem out of place in this strained atmosphere.

Frank opens the door and steps inside, leading the way along a narrow corridor that within a few steps leads into what had to have been a living room, but what's now some kind of make-shift control center. The edges of band posters are just visible behind large sheets of paper stuck to the walls, each one filled with names, times and locations. A table is in the middle of the room and on it are three laptops, surrounded by notebooks and empty mugs. There's a pile of pizza boxes in one corner and on the couch, someone is sprawled out asleep, a phone close at hand.

"Bob, you here?" Frank says. He walks further into the room, stepping over the takeout cartons that are heaped near the door. Most are still half-full, and Spencer wrinkles his nose at the smell.

There's the sound of someone moving and then a man appears in a doorway. He's holding a mug, cradling it close. He looks tired too, unshaven and rumpled in a dark hoodie and long shorts, one of his red striped socks crumpled around his ankle. "More friends of Mikey's?"

Gerard shakes his head. "They've lost someone, too."

"Fuck," Bob says, and Spencer's half-expecting another violent reaction, but all Bob does is move to sit at the table, holding onto the mug as he leans in and checks something on one of the laptops. He taps a button and then looks up. "Same bullshit at the station?"

"I didn't get to see anyone," Gerard says. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and then stands behind Bob, looking over his shoulder at the screen. "Frank says there's more van sightings."

"Over on twelfth, first at seven then..."

"Hold on," Spencer interrupts, because he's had enough. They've followed Gerard here, holding onto the faintest of hope, and no one's explaining anything. Spencer's head is still pounding, enough that all he wants to do is lie down and sleep, but he can't; not until he finds Ryan. "Tell us what's going on. Please."

"Sorry," Gerard says, looking apologetic. He straightens and looks around, Spencer suspects he's going to tell them to sit down, but there's nowhere to sit. Every seat is either in use or covered in papers and trash, and the man on the couch isn't moving at all. "Erm, right, sorry. You've met Frank, this is Bob, and that's Ray on the couch." Gerard turns and perches against the edge of the table, making Bob grab for a mug of cold something that's about to tip over. Gerard doesn't notice, just brings his hand to his face and bites at his thumbnail before he speaks. "I told you, two weeks ago Mikey, my brother, didn't come home. I tried to report it, but they gave some bullshit about him being an adult."

"Bastards," Brendon mutters.

Gerard shrugs a little. "I couldn't just sit and wait, so me and Frank started calling Mikey's friends. The fucker knows everyone, and the ones he doesn't, his friend Pete does. Next thing I know there's this phone tree going and I'm getting calls all the time. Then it just, grew."

Jon's walked further into the room and is looking at the names on the walls. "How're you even getting all these?"

"Social networking." A clatter of keys and Bob types something before looking back at Jon. "We started on Twitter, Mikey's friends started asking questions, then it spread to Facebook and the blogging sites. We know Mikey was last seen at one fifteen on the corner of Matlock Street and that a black van has been hanging around for weeks. It’s been seen at Catalpa Avenue, over on Depot Street and at Twelfth last night."

"That's near Ryan's pet-shop," Spencer says and the realization of his worst fears makes him stagger slightly, the enormity of the situation pressing close. "I thought, I thought that..."

"He'd lost track of time and would walk in the door any moment," Gerard finishes. "I still expect Mikey to walk through the door, even now."

"He will," Frank says fiercely. He pulls out a chair, moving a pile of papers before he sits down. On the top is a picture, Gerard with Mikey, and Spencer remembers, the club late at night, the way Ryan tried not to smile when Mikey waved goodbye.

"If you tell Bob Ryan's details he'll add him to the search." Gerard steps away from the table, making some room. "I'm going to..." He looks around, seemingly lost as Spencer stands next to Bob, watching as he refreshes Twitter, before bringing up a spreadsheet, one already full of names.

"How about we help you tidy up a bit while they do that?" Spencer looks over his shoulder when Jon speaks. He's poking at the pile of take-out cartons with the toe of his flip-flop, but also watching Brendon, who's almost vibrating with suppressed nervous energy. "Where are your garbage bags?"

"We'll tweet first, get the word out that Ryan's gone." Bob's typing fast, and Spencer looks away from Jon's quiet calming attempts and watches as Bob begins a tweet. "I need his second name, what he was wearing, what he looks like and where he could have been."

Bob's all business, and that helps as Spencer lays the picture of Ryan on the table. "Ryan Ross, he was wearing tan pants and his work uniform, a red polo-shirt with Pets at Home on the front. He's got light brown hair that's long right now. He's thin and got these freakishly long fingers, most times he doesn't smile, but..."

"That's enough," Bob interrupts, and Spencer leans in, checking the message. Ryan Ross Missing since ystrday pets at home unform thin brwn hr check blog for more.

"That'll work?" Spencer's dubious, it seems so little and he can't see how something like this will help find Ryan, but Bob just nods as he sends the tweet.

"It'll be seen and passed on. Just watch." Bob brings up a blog page and starts to fill in details but before he's even finished the title Twitter Fox displays a new tweet Think I saw him on Hudson checking blog now.

For the first time Spencer thinks this might work.

~*~*~*~

Ryan walks slowly around the room. He's methodically checking every wall, hoping for some hollow spot that he can break through. His knuckles ache from tapping and he concentrates on that throb instead of the fear that he's finally managed to push down -- enough that he can function at least. When he gets close to the door he slows. There's a weird sound from the other side and Ryan presses his head against the wall, ear directly on the wood. When he distinguishes Mikey's cries of pain Ryan jerks back, hands jammed over his ears and his eyes closed. He sinks to the ground, curled up small, and can't help feeling that he's betraying Mikey somehow, that Ryan should keep listening to those pained sounds. But he can't -- he can't.

Normally Ryan finds it easy to get lost in his own head, it's saved him before, when the outside world is too painful and all he needs is an escape. Today he can't get lost at all, he tries, frantically thinking of friends, books he's enjoyed, the words that usually buffer and keep him safe. None of it works, Ryan's too aware of where he is, the thumps and thuds from outside the room, the ticking of his watch, the sound of his own breathing. He's hyper-aware while being unable to move, curled forward, mouthing words, for Spencer, for Brendon, for Jon, anyone to come and help.

Of course they don't, and Ryan jerks upright, dizzy, his heart racing when the door is abruptly opened and Mikey thrown into the room. He hits the ground and crumples, a mess of fresh blood and bruises. At first Ryan's shocked frozen, barely able to comprehend that something like this could happen, then he's surging to his feet, so angry that all he can do is attack. He runs, yelling as he makes for the door and the man who's standing watching, blood coating his hands a smear on his cheek, seemingly unconcerned as he smiles before shutting the door in Ryan's face.

"Open the door! Open the fucking door!" Ryan screams, close to losing control. He keeps his hands fisted, forehead against the door as he takes gulping breaths of air.

"Ryan." Mikey's voice is hoarse, hardly audible over the roaring in Ryan's ears. "Ryan, you can't get out that way."

This close the door is rough, knots of wood and abstract patterns. If he keeps looking Ryan won't have to see Mikey or the room they're locked in, because he doesn't want to deal. He wants to be home eating in front of the TV. Telling Spencer about his day while Brendon gets ready to teach his class and Jon plays with Clover.

"Ryan," Mikey says again, softer this time. Ryan turns.

Mikey's still lying in the same place. Fresh cuts run along his ribs and there's one just below his right shoulder, deeper than the others and snaking in a pattern toward his neck. There's blood on Mikey's chin and tear tracks on both cheeks. Ryan kneels, feeling helpless as he rests his hand on Mikey's wrist, feeling sick and helpless.

"Ryan." Mikey turns his hand and wraps his fingers around Ryan's hand. "He'll be coming for you, if you get a chance, you need to run."

Mikey's hand is warm in Ryan's, his fingers dark with dried blood. "What about you?"

"Forget about me," Mikey says. "Just go."

Logically, Ryan knows he should agree, but the thought of leaving Mikey here is wrong, he shakes his head. "Mikey, I can't..."

"You do what you have to. You need to stay alive, get out of here. You don't want to end like this." Mikey indicates his body, and the movement widens the cut on his shoulder, the skin and flesh pulling apart. "He's fucking sick, while you're still strong, run."

"No." Ryan sits back a little and doesn't look away from Mikey's stare. "I'm going to get out of here and I'm going to take you with me."

"Ryan..."

The door opens, and Mikey stops speaking, just squeezes Ryan's hand.

~*~*~*~

Spencer has got his own twitter, a My Space, a Face Book page. Occasionally he'll remember to log in and share what he's doing that day, throw a few sheep and post comments to the pictures Jon uploads. Today he's watching the sites be used for so much more.

For the last two hours Bob's sat hunched over his laptop, methodically writing down every reply they receive. When he's finished he'll nod slightly and Gerard will read the note, then transfer it to one of the sheets of paper on the wall. Ryan's got his own sheet now, Spencer keeps looking at it, Ryan's name, what he was wearing, where he was last seen. He's been sighted six times so far, always before seven, the sightings tracking his journey toward Twelfth Street; and maybe the black van.

Despite never seeing the van, it's all too easy to imagine Ryan being pulled inside, and the mental images run through Spencer's head like a horror movie with no end. Needing distraction he goes to the window, it's got a wide sill and someone's left a cushion propped against the smeared glass, stuffing poking out of a hole at the corner. Spencer pushes the cushion to one side and sits, looking outside. There's not much of a view, an expanse of roof littered with cigarette butts, rows of buildings and congested roads. The sun shines high overhead, and Spencer hopes that somewhere Ryan's seeing it too.

"Why won't they listen?" The front of Brendon's t-shirt is wet through, and bubbles cling to his hands. He's looking around, but he's already washed all the dirty cups and dishes. His fingers twitch as he looks away from the lists of names. "You've got all of these names and times."

"It's not enough for them," Bob says shortly. "The people going missing are all young, they think they're off partying or something."

"That shouldn't matter." Brendon's pacing now, his disillusionment with the police showing even stronger. Yet another institution that's let Brendon down.

"We took them all our data, they said they'd look into it." Ray's sitting in the corner of the couch, still looking half-asleep.

"So what now?" Brendon demands. "We wait?"

Gerard shakes his head, says, "No, we find them."

~*~*~*~

At first Ryan thinks about fighting, but seeing the gun is enough to change his mind. It's no good resisting, and the man jerks Ryan to his feet, making his hand slip out of Mikey's.

"No struggling," the man says, and he's holding on tight, fingers digging into the muscles of Ryan's arm. "If you struggle I'll kill you."

"Not struggling," Ryan says, because he's not, and has no intention of doing so, not now when the results would be so predictably bad. Looking over his shoulder, Ryan manages a look at Mikey, who's pushed himself up on one elbow, his expression blank as Ryan's taken away. Trying for reassuring, Ryan attempts to convey that he'll be fine, somehow managing to keep up the facade until the door slams closed. Taking a moment to turn the key, the man hauls Ryan toward another room -- the door to this one is open and inside there's nothing but a table and cart. The table is solid, dented and scarred wood, with leather straps at each end, the cart shining metal, an assortment of knives arranged in a careful size-sorted line.

Terrified, Ryan looks away, but all that means is he sees the pictures attached to the walls. Glossy photographs that make no sense at first, then Ryan sees a male chest, a gaping wound between the nipples, the side of a stomach complete with a circling cut, everywhere he looks there are more pictures and he's breathing fast, feeling faint.

"Get up and lie down."

The muzzle of the gun is jammed against Ryan's temple, and he swallows hard as he slides onto the table. It feels wrong under his hands, the grain of the wood coated and when Ryan lies down all he can smell is old blood, so strong he tries to breathe through his mouth, small pants for air, as leather straps are tied around his ankles and wrists, the leather nipping against skin as they're pulled tight.

"Don't fight it," the man says, and his voice is low, assessing as he circles the table. "This is my art, my designs and you're my canvas. It's an honor to have them etched into your skin. Your designs will grace walls, bring meaning to your pitiful life."

"I like my skin how it is." Ryan knows the protest won't help, and he clenches his hands when the man moves to the cart and picks up a knife. It's small, the blade curved slightly and Ryan can't look away, watching as the man slices into the hem of Ryan's t-shirt, then up, easily cutting through the fabric.

"I was thinking a spiral, right here." Ryan looks down his body and tries to pull back from where the man is sliding his finger in a spiral that extends over Ryan's ribs, the touch makes him shiver and Ryan starts to tug at his restraints, unable to remain still as he imagines the blade cut into his skin.

"A spiral?" Ryan swallows, needing to talk through his fear. "For an artist you're not very original."

"It doesn't have to be."

"For a psychotic murderer you're very conformist," Ryan says, and he's determined to conceal his fear, because even if he’s helpless right now, he's not giving up everything, his reactions are his own. Knowing he needs distance from the situation, Ryan focuses on memories of his morning walk with Bess, a dog from the shelter attached to the shop. She's got brown glossy fur and she'd jumped up at Ryan, paws against his shoulders as he laughed and pushed her down. They'd walked around the field and Bess had run from end to end, tail wagging and mouth open, but when he'd called she'd come straight back.

Ryan stiffens at the sensation of something sharp against his skin. Gasps as that sensation flairs into pain that elongates, trailing around -- Remembers how Bess sat at his feet, panting, her tongue lolling from her mouth -- The pain gets more, burning hot, something running down his side -- Bess looked up, at that moment Ryan her whole world -- pain flowing upwards, becoming more over Ryan's ribs -- a wet nose against his hand and Ryan's hanging onto that, desperate.

The knife digs in, clipping bone. Ryan screams.

~*~*~*~

Spencer's boss isn't exactly thrilled about him calling in sick, but she'll have to deal because even the thought of serving ice-cream makes Spencer feel nauseous. He sips at a glass of water before checking his phone. It's something they all do constantly, eyes going to displays even though they never ring with the news that they need.

It's only been hours but it feels like they've been holed up in this apartment for days. The window is pushed wide and the door open but still it's too hot, and people are constantly calling or arriving in person. Spencer's seen some of them before, kids from the scene that seem wrong in this environment. They're subdued as they talk and even when they do laugh it sounds forced, like they're masking fear rather than genuinely amused.

The latest visitors leave with reminders to be told of any news, Spencer watches them go then looks at his watch. It's nearly six and Spencer's about out of his mind, he doesn't know how Mikey's friends have made it to two weeks.

"I'm going to go put out more posters." Frank's standing at the doorway, rocking from foot to foot as he looks toward the landing. "I'll do the west side."

"Can I come?" Brendon asks, and Spencer hopes Frank says yes, because Brendon needs room to let off steam, already he's resorting to obsessively tidying things that are perfectly clean.

Frank takes his cigarettes out of his back pocket, pulling one from the packet. "You can handle a stapler?"

Brendon nods, says, "I'm a pro."

Frank says, "The posters are in Mikey's room."

"I'll show you." Gerard stands and indicates a door, it's decorated with an old Smiths poster, the corners curling and a splash of something brown across Morrisey's face. Gerard beckons Brendon to follow him inside.

"I'll walk with them to the corner of Burlington, I need to feed Clover, and Ryan might, might have... there may be a message." Jon stops talking for a moment. "You never know."

"You shouldn't go alone," Spencer says, and he knows that this is where he should say he'll go too, keep Jon company on the walk home. The problem is, Spencer wants to be here, he needs to be here, ready and waiting for a report about Ryan's whereabouts to come in, and it will. Spencer has to believe that. He stands, despite everything, he's not letting Jon walk alone.

"He should be safe," Bob says, never looking up from the screen. "People have only gone missing on Saturdays so far, and he doesn't meet the profile, he's not thin or tall enough."

"See, I'm short and fat, I'll be fine," Jon says, and Bob does look then, turning slightly in his chair.

"I didn't say that."

"I know." Jon smiles, and if Spencer didn't know him so well he'd miss the signs, that Jon needs to get out, that his shoulders are too tight and his smile too wide, nothing like his usual lazy smile.

"I'll go with you," Spencer says firmly.

"Or he can come with us, we can do the posters on the way, or after," Frank says. He steps back further, unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. "If you want posters of Ryan I'll take you to the print store, we get a discount."

"Please." Spencer pulls his wallet out of his pants and looks inside. He's got the money he set aside for rent and he hands it over without a second thought. "Get as many as I can afford."

"We can afford," Jon corrects. He tucks the money in his wallet, wedging it back in his pocket when Brendon comes out of the bedroom. He's cradling a stack of posters against his chest, the top one showing a picture of Mikey and the details that are unforgettable now, where and when Mikey was last seen, what he was wearing, phone numbers and URLs, Gerard's personal plea If you have Mikey, let him go. We miss him, I need my brother. Let him go, please .

"I'm coming with you," Jon says. He waits as Brendon crosses the room and they stand side by side, presenting a united front as Ray pushes himself up off the coach. He groans as he stretches and his t-shirt is stretched out and grubby. It makes Spencer wonder how much time they're taking for themselves -- but whatever the answer, it's clearly not enough.

"I need to go to the grocery store, we're about out of everything." Ray says. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Bob rolls his head around his neck and rotates his shoulders. "I'll try not to pine away in your absence."

"Right," Ray says, but he's still not leaving, none of them are, until Frank suddenly whirls around and stalks away, the others following his lead.

They leave the door open and Spencer listens to them walk downstairs, the thump of feet and the faint sound of the main door slamming shut. He looks out of the window, fingers curled around the frame and watches as they walk along the street, Frank taking the lead, Ray hanging back a little so he's close to Brendon and Jon. Spencer keeps watching until they turn a corner and he second-guesses himself all the time. Whether he should be going home, because what if Ryan's back there? What if he's called the landline and there's nobody home? Needing reassurances, Spencer looks at the lists and the laptops and the way Bob's scowling intently as he watches the screen.

As if he's aware of being watched, Bob looks up, says, "There's coffee in the kitchen."

Spencer's been drinking water, but he's not about to turn down a distraction. He goes into the kitchen and it smells strongly of bleach. The counters are sparkling and mugs are lined up on the drainer, Star Wars and My Little Pony and one mug that's three times the size of the others. There's about half a jug of warming coffee, looking black and thick and Spencer thinks about making more but he can hear Bob yawning and for all he knows they drink it this way. Selecting two mugs, Spencer fills them and takes one out to Bob.

Unsure, Spencer keeps hold of the other and looks toward Mikey's room, because Gerard still hasn't come out and it's not Spencer's place to just walk in. "Should I leave Gerard's here?"

Bob takes a drink of his own coffee, grimacing a little and Spencer glances at the bedroom and then back at Bob, and Bob looks right back, unashamedly staring, as if he's somehow measuring Spencer's worth. Eventually he nods slightly, says, "Take it in, he won't mind."

"Okay." Spencer doesn't know what he expected when he walks into the bedroom. Some kind of shrine or Gerard weeping on the floor. What he finds is a room that looks like controlled chaos, CDs stacked into piles, a computer in one corner and clothes in messy heaps. The bed is unmade, duvet, sheets and pillows strewn around and there's an open book on the bedside table, crowded with a pair of glasses and a clock that flashes zeros.

"I caught the wire with my foot the day after he went missing, I was looking for something. I don't even know what." Gerard's sitting on the bed, a hoodie on his lap. He's twisting the hood string around his fingers, binding them until his fingertips go white, then loosening it, over and over again. "I come in here when I need to feel him, it's fucking stupid because he's not dead, I'd know if he was. I'd know." He looks up then, looking fierce. "You believe me, right?"

Spencer thinks about Ryan, how he can tell if he's had a bad day or know how he's feeling by the minutest gesture invisible to other eyes. It's not mind-reading, it's nothing that easily explained. It's being Ryan's best friend, and Spencer knows he'd feel it if Ryan was dead. It's why he says, "I believe you."

"Right. Right," Gerard says. He holds out his hand. "Is that for me?"

Spencer hands over the coffee and Gerard drinks over half in one long swallow and then cradles the mugs in his hands, says miserably, "I just want him to come home."

Spencer says, "I know."

~*~*~*~

Ryan wakes with his head on Mikey's lap. The last thing he remembers is the knife cutting deep, and his body throbs along with those memories, pain burning along his stomach and side. His mouth feels dry and his eyes gritty and when he tries to move he can't help but groan.

"Ryan?"

"We're still here." It's not a question, Ryan's knows he's in the same room, the stench is unmistakable, so strong it seems to stick in the back of his throat. It makes him gag as Mikey's shifts a little, reaching out for the bucket which he drags forward. There's a splash, then Mikey puts his hand close to Ryan's mouth, water cupped in his palm.

"It's the best I can do, sorry."

Ryan opens his mouth and Mikey tilts his hand, letting the water trickle into Ryan's mouth. It makes Ryan feel helpless, so weak that he can't even drink on his own, and the water tastes wrong; warm and gritty. He keeps swallowing anyway, until finally, after the third time he says, "Enough. Thank you."

The temptation to lie still is immense. Mikey's hardly moving, and the room is warm, making Ryan feel drowsy, like his body and thoughts are weighed down. It would be easy to lie still and just sleep, but Ryan pushes himself up, one hand over his side. He can feel that his skin is wet, but he deliberately doesn't look as he tries to get comfortable, sitting hunched over slightly, his free hand braced against the ground.

"Will he come back today?" Ryan asks. Mikey's turned fully on his back, so pale and still that only his shallow breathing shows he's alive. Ryan knows if they're going to escape it'll have to be soon.

"Probably not, it's usually one session a day."

Ryan looks around the room, at the solid door and walls, all scarred with the evidence of attempts at escape. Frantically he tries to pull his thoughts in order all too aware that each day is bringing them closer to death. In the end he can only think of one way out, that they have to go on the offensive and be ready the next time the man opens the door. "Tomorrow, I'm going to jump him."

"He could shoot you," Mikey says, and Ryan shrugs his shoulders, because it's not something he doesn't know.

"Seems to me I'm going to die in a few weeks anyway." Ryan keeps his words even, in comparison to the way he twists up inside as he imagines the hit of a bullet and his body rotting in an unmarked grave.

"All or nothing." Mikey sounds serious and he holds up his hand. Puzzled, Ryan looks at him for a long moment before slapping it with his own, almost topping over when he removes his support. Mikey sighs. "Talk about a miss-matched fight."

Ryan thinks about Spencer, Brendon and Jon. The animals at the pet store and the life he's not ready to leave. "I've a lot to fight for."

Mikey nods, says, "Me too."

~*~*~*~

Frank, Jon and Brendon come back, and Spencer moves back to his place on the window ledge. He sits, one knee bent on the sill, keeping out of the way as Frank throws himself in front of a laptop and lists to the side until he's resting against Bob. Spencer expects Bob to throw him off but he doesn't move, just keeps typing, Frank watching the forming words.

"We got posters." Jon sidles over to Spencer and unrolls a poster. It's got a picture of Ryan dressed for work, one Jon took on his phone not a week before. Ryan's not smiling, but he's amused, it's there in the way his eyes are shining and the tilt of his head. Spencer misses him so badly it hurts. "We papered the city with them. Brendon got a staple in his finger."

"Tattletale," Brendon says, and tucks his hand behind his back, as if Spencer won't have already noticed the bandage wrapped around his middle finger. "It was an easy mistake to make."

"Because everyone puts their hand where they're about to staple," Jon shoots back easily. He's grinning as Brendon bristles, about to snark back. It's something they do always, behavior so familiar that Spencer could lay bets on the timing of the first 'your mom' reply, except this time it doesn't get that far. Reality hitting them both at the same time, Jon's smile fading and Brendon shrinking in on himself, as if they can't believe they're both able to forget Ryan for even an instant.

"I'm going to get more smokes," Bob says, breaking the awkward silence. When he stands the back of his shirt is damp and he pushes back his hair with one hand. "Who's taking over here?"

Spencer expects Frank to reply, but all he does is sit up, looking at his own laptop as Brendon takes Bob's seat. "I just watch?"

Bob leans over Brendon's shoulder. "If a tweet comes through note it down and get someone to add it to the relevant wall. Watch out for new comments at the blogs and Facebook. You'll be notified for them all."

"Right," Brendon says, and his glasses are reflecting bright light as he looks intently at the screen.

Bob watches for a moment, then steps into the kitchen. Ray and Gerard are in there, doing something that involves a lot of noise and the smell of garlic and Spencer's stomach is rumbling despite the lingering nausea. When Bob reappears he's holding Gerard's arm, looking stern as he steers them toward the open door, Gerard protesting all the while.

"You're coming," Bob says. "You're going to walk with me to the store, then you're going to come back, get something to eat, then sleep."

"I went out this morning," Gerard protests. He rubs at his stomach and tucks his hands in his hoodie pocket, looking peevish as Bob keeps going. "I told you, I'm staying here."

"And I told you, you're not."

It's a battle of wills, and it looks like Gerard's going to win, until he suddenly gives in and allows himself to be pulled forward. "If there's news..."

"I'll call you myself," Frank promises. He waits until Bob and Gerard leave, then collapses back in his chair, head hanging back as he looks at Spencer upside down. "He needed a break."

Spencer doesn't know what to say, agreeing seems like he's noticed that Gerard's visibly falling apart, staying silent seems rude. "It has to be hard."

"You've no fucking idea," Frank says, and Spencer's about to protest when Frank sits up straight. "Sorry, you've some idea, it's just. Fuck. It's been over two weeks now, Gee's about out of his fucking mind, we all are." Frank stands, looking at Brendon who's studiously watching the screen. "I'm going out on the roof, if you need anything, yell. I'll hear, Ray too." Brendon nods, and Frank walks over to the window and climbs outside. "You coming out?"

Frank's already got a cigarette in his mouth and he's lighting a match against the wall. Spencer studies the roof, noting how there's no barriers around the edge and how part seems to sink inwards. He climbs out, and sits next to Frank, their backs against the wall.

For a long time neither talk. It's getting late now, and lights are appearing all over the city, ribbons of them stretching into the dark. Spencer's hair blows in his face and Frank's cigarette is a glowing orange, smoke curling through the air. It's nice out here, peaceful -- all it does is strip everything back so Spencer can more acutely feel his fear.

"I should have been with him that night," Frank says suddenly, and Spencer keeps watching the lights appear, suspecting this is a something that needs to be heard and not seen. "We'd been to Chaplins and I'd met this girl, she was into me so I told Mikey I'd catch up. When he didn't come home I thought he'd got lucky, it was only when he didn't turn up at Gerard's for pancakes that I knew he'd gone. He always goes there on Sundays, they have this thing. Gerard makes animal pancakes, cats normally, they look more like blobs to me, but what the fuck do I know? It makes them happy."

"You couldn't have known," Spencer says, and he isn't surprised when he glances to the side and sees Frank shaking his head in denial, because even if it is the truth, Mikey's still missing.

"I should have known, he never replied to my text, getting laid wouldn't stop that." Frank takes a drag on his cigarette and lets the smoke drift from his mouth. "Hell, he's replied while having sex before."

"Really?” Spencer asks. "While doing the act?"

Frank smiles slightly and rests his arms on his bent knees. "He said he'd had better and his phone was just there."

"So he texted you," Spencer says. "That's just, wow."

"I know, right? He's a freak," Frank says fondly. "He kept sending details, by the time he was done, I needed a cigarette."

"He sounds interesting."

Perfectly still, Frank keeps looking out into the darkness, says, "He's my best friend."

Spencer doesn't reply, he can't, the loss of his own best friend makes the words catch in his throat. He swallows, taking a moment, then gestures at inside, because as much as Spencer needs hope, reality is always crowding close. "All this, the blogs and tweets, do you think it'll help?"

Frank takes another long drag on his cigarette then nips it off, throwing it to the ground. "We had to do something, Gerard was going crazy and that's not good for anyone. The posters and networking were distractions at first." Frank pulls up his knees further and crosses his arms, chin resting on them both. "Then people started replying, looking when the police wouldn't. I don't know if we'll find him, but I'm never going to stop trying."

More lights go on in the distance and Spencer watches, making a vow. That whatever it takes, he's going to find Ryan, too.

~*~*~*~

Ryan tries to sleep, but it's impossible. His side burns and his head is full of mixed up thoughts, enough that he feels like he's going insane. It's dark in the room and the only light is a thin strip that bleeds from under the door. Ryan imagines that every sound is approaching footsteps, he's jumpy and angry and mostly, plain scared. And not only for himself. Ryan finds himself watching the shallow movement of Mikey's chest, counting every breath.

In this light it's impossible to see the slashes carved into Mikey's body, but Ryan knows they're there, the memory of them is burned into his mind, beauty in the most savage of ways. Skin made into a canvas and Ryan pulls in a shuddering gasp.

"Ryan, come lie next to me."

"I thought you were asleep," Ryan says. Despite his distaste he lowers himself down on the sweat-damp and stinking blankets.

"I've been thinking." Mikey turns so he's looking at Ryan, and the effort's enough to make him bite back a cry of pain. "I need you tell Gerard I'm sorry. He always..."

"You can tell him yourself," Ryan interrupts abruptly, because he's not going to do this, he's not going to allow Mikey to dictate his goodbyes.

"No, Ryan." Mikey reaches out and rests his good hand against Ryan's cheek, stopping him looking away. "You need to listen. I'm not giving up, but you have to face facts, I'm no Wolverine, I'm not healing and if I don't make it. Tell Gerard I love him, I'm sorry, that I tried my best and didn't want to go."

Ryan's throat is tight and he pulls on old tricks, reciting the alphabet backwards and running through his times tables, anything so he won't cry. It's hard, it's been years since Ryan's felt so helpless and out-of-control. Eventually, when he's up to twelve times six he nods, says, "I don't even know what he looks like."

"He'll find you," Mikey says, sounding so certain that Ryan can't help but believe too. "When he does he'll ask questions, but, he's got a vivid imagination, so, if you can sort of gloss over the details."

"Sure, I'll tell him you left over the fucking rainbow bridge," Ryan snaps, and immediately feels guilty. Mikey hasn't asked him to do anything that bad but even the thought of lying to Mikey's brother makes him feel sick. "Sorry, it's just..."

"It's okay." Mikey lets his hand drop, resting it on Ryan's arm. "I shouldn't have asked you to lie, but the first thing, the message. That's important."

"I'll tell him. Promise," Ryan says, and he puts his hand over Mikey's,

"Thanks." Ryan can't see Mikey smile, but he can hear it in the relief of his voice. "You'll like him."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, he's intense but I think you'd like that." Mikey laughs a little and turns his hand so he can curl his fingers around Ryan's. "He gave me so much shit the morning after I saw you, I had glitter everywhere."

Ryan can't understand why anyone doesn't like glitter. It's been one of his favorite things for months now and he particularly likes the kind he can paint on his face, his own personal sparkling mask. "He's a glitter snob?"

"He's more into blood and black," Mikey says, and even if Ryan doesn't know Gerard he likes him, if only for the way he makes Mikey sound, like there's something warm within this dark room.

Ryan squeezes his hand. "When we get back I'll change his mind."

"Optimistic," Mikey says. "He's pretty set in his black ways."

"And I'm good at glitter," Ryan imagines his make-up case, the pots of color and carefully cleaned brushes, how he could sweep golden glitter along Mikey's cheek bones and up to his hair. "I'll paint it on you, he'll love it then."

"I'll hold you to that," Mikey warns.

Ryan says, "It's a date."

~*~*~*~

"Someone's reported a black van in the Victoria Town area, it matches the one we're watching for," Bob says suddenly. He's sitting on the very edge of his seat, hunched forward and the early morning sunlight is making his hair blaze gold. Without looking he gropes for a pen then scrawls down a name. Ray takes the pad of paper and brings up a page on his own laptop, and within seconds there's a map on screen, one with two red flags on a section of road. Ray looks from the paper to the screen, hand moving on the mouse, and suddenly there's a new red flag, almost touching the two others.

"They're all black van sightings?" Spencer slides from the window sill, his legs are cramped and he winces as he walks, his whole body stiff after a night sleeping on the floor. He'd meant to go home, they all had, but somehow that never happened. Sometimes, when Spencer can think of anything but RyanRyanRyan, he wonders what they're doing here, crowded into this too small space with people they don't even know. Then he remembers, they're the ones giving him hope.

"We got those reports two Sundays ago." Ray's still clicking buttons, and the map zooms in, showing a road snaking through tightly-packed trees. "One source was suspect, some kid falling asleep in his car. But now..."

"You think it's worth checking out?" Gerard asks. He's draped over Bob's shoulder, like it's too much effort to stand under his own steam. Despite that, for the first time since they met, there's a hint of something in Gerard's voice, not excitement, but getting there.

"It could be nothing." Ray's clicking through web pages and glances over at Gerard. "There's millions of black vans out there. If that's the right one, it's a million to one chance."

"But million to one chances happen," Brendon says. He's been up for hours and has already gone on a coffee run with Jon and washed all the dirty mugs and plates -- again. "You can't discount things because they shouldn't happen. Ryan shouldn't be missing, Mikey shouldn't, but they are."

"He's right," Gerard says, and Brendon looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting an agreement. "We can't ignore it, I'm going up there."

"Me too," Spencer says immediately, if there's a chance of finding Ryan he's going to take it, no matter how faint. Expecting opposition he stands up straight, ready to launch into an argument about why he is going, and how no one can stop him.

"Fine." Bob clicks the mouse and a printer starts whirring, paper dropping into the tray. "We'll be taking my car, Gee, go wake Frank, he'll want to come, Ray..."

"I know, I get to stay here." Ray doesn't look that happy at the idea, but he's not protesting, just slides into Bob's chair and picks up the print outs, straightening them up before handing them over. "You should take drinks, it's about a two hour drive and it's going to be hot."

"We'll stop on the way," Bob says and then looks up from the printouts he's reading. "There'll be room for one more in my car."

Spencer hadn't expected that, and he looks helplessly between Brendon and Jon, knowing they both want to go. It's like picking for teams for school, except a thousand times worse.

Unexpectedly, Brendon sits on the arm of the couch and starts to toe off his sneakers. "I'll stay, me and Ray'll man the bat cave." He picks up his sneakers and holds them out toward Jon. "Here."

"What?" Jon's staring at the sparkly pink sneakers as if they're about to blow-up in his face.

Brendon sighs and indicates Jon's feet. "You can't go on rescue missions wearing flip-flops."

"This could be a huge waste of time, you know," Ray points out.

Brendon shrugs and swaps his shoes for Jon's flip-flops which he drops to the floor and eases on his feet. "I know, or it could be the start of finding them."

"I've got Frank, are we ready to go?" Gerard asks. He's got a bag slung over one shoulder and Frank's standing close, looking half-asleep still and his sneakers untied. He scrubs at his eyes with his hand and picks up Ray's mug of coffee, draining it with one gulp.

"Let's go," Bob says, and heads for the door.

A last look at Brendon, and Spencer’s following, hoping that wherever he is, Ryan's holding on.

~*~*~*~

Ryan tends to over-think things at times. Writing helps ease that buzz in his head, taking pressure off the memories that crowd close. He's got countless notebooks at home, filled with poetry and songs, sometimes he reads through them, reliving his life through words. It's how Ryan remembers the times he's been afraid, the yelled insults and hospital rooms the sickening feelings that no matter how hard he tried it was never enough. Ryan's survived them all, but he doesn't know if he can survive this.

He turns, looking at Mikey's who's curled on his side, his hand tucked close to his chin. "When were you most afraid?"

"Apart from now, you mean?" Ryan nods and he expects Mikey to think a while before giving his reply, but he doesn't, says, "Gerard nearly ODed once, I found him in his apartment, I walked in and he was lying on the floor. I thought he was dead."

"He's clean now?"

"Has been for a long time," Mikey says, sounding proud. "But that memory, seeing him like that, it never goes."

"Yeah." Ryan pushes back his own memories and moves so he's closer to Mikey, he has to be careful, aware of broken bones and sore skin, but Mikey uncurls a little, enough that Ryan can feel the warmth of Mikey's breath on his face. "I need to get out of here."

Mikey looks grave, says, "It'll have to be today, before he hurts you more."

"Yeah," Ryan says, and remembers silver knives smeared with blood, unwelcome memories that he pushes away for more practical planning. "Does he come at the same time every day?"

"Usually." Mikey lifts his hand, looking at his watch. The face is cracked and there's red droplets on the glass. "He mostly comes at midday, but we'll hear the van, it'll give us a few minutes."

"I'll wait for him at the door," Ryan says, and looks around the room, hoping to see something that can be used a weapon. "Think I can brain him with a shoe?"

Mikey looks thoughtful, as if he's seriously considering Ryan's question. "It depends what you use and how hard you swing, my boots are in that pile, they've got weight behind them."

"I'd need to be quick." Ryan pushes himself to his feet, gritting his teeth at the pain in his side. He approaches the pile of shoes and sees a pair of chunky boots lying on top. Picking one up, he swings it hard, imagining driving it into the man's face.

Mikey gives Ryan a thumbs up.

Ryan swings the boot again. They'll only get one chance, he needs to be ready.

~*~*~*~

Bob's car is big and comfortable. It's also stuffed full with what looks like miles of wires. The stuff is coiled in the trunk and there's a piece in the foot-well that keep wrapping around Spencer's foot. He kicks himself free and keeps looking out of the window, taking in the densely packed trees that crowd against the road. They're close to where the van was sighted and the mood is tense, everyone locked into their own thoughts.

Spencer knows they're not going to pull up and find Ryan, but he can't help hoping anyway. It's better that than the ever increasing gruesome images he imagines, Ryan's body lying half-covered with leaves. Ryan in a shallow grave. Ryan abandoned on the side of the road, his eyes open and lifeless. Needing the contact, Spencer leans slightly, so he's pressed against Jon.

Jon doesn't speak, just rests his hand on Spencer's knee and holds on.

"Ray says there's five minor roads close to the sightings," Bob says, he's driving with one hand while texting, his attention between his phone and the road. "If there's nothing at the site we should check them all for heavy use."

"You've been watching too much CSI," Frank says with a grin that's obviously forced. He's sitting on the other side of Jon, turned to the side slightly so he can rest his hand on the back of Gerard's chair, occasionally he touches Gerard's neck and Spencer understands that compulsion. It's why he's sitting so close to Jon, a reminder that someone he loves is still close.

"It's that or turn back," Bob says, and abruptly steers to the side of the road. "We're here." They're parked in a small lay-by, and apart from a garbage can there's nothing to see. Which Spencer expected, but he still feels a sense of anti-climax as he steps outside.

"There's nothing here." Gerard sound defeated as he looks around, turning in a circle. "I thought, I thought there'd be something."

"What, like a for kidnapped friends look here sign?" Spencer snaps, and glares when Frank takes a threatening step forward, because they knew this could be nothing. They all did.

"Frank." Bob steps forward and grabs Frank's arm, stopping him getting closer. "Stop."

Frank does stop, and looks away from them all, staring toward the trees and a forest so big that even if this is the right van, and even if they were taken here, Mikey and Ryan could be anywhere. "We should look in there."

It's a logical suggestion, but just the thought of stepping into the trees makes Spencer feel cold, and the images of Ryan's dead body become stronger, enough that he's glad of the distraction when Jon says, "We should start here." He's standing at the end of well-used dirt path. Shadows from the trees flicker over his body and he looks solemn as he looks into the forest.

"I agree." Facing his fears head on, Spencer walks toward Jon, and starts to follow the path. It's immediately cooler, the light defused, and he can hear the others behind. They're all walking slowly, looking to either side and within seconds Spencer knows searching in here will take forever. There's mounds of old leaves and broken branches, multiple places where bodies could be concealed, and it's that thought that makes Spencer freeze, because he's thinking bodies, not people, and that's wrong.

Ryan is fine. He's fine.

Hand against the small of Spencer's back, Jon urges him forward. They keep searching.

~*~*~*~

Ryan stands close to the door, thigh and shoulder pressed against the wall, and knows if it wasn't for the support he'd crumple to the floor. His fingers ache from clutching the boot so tight and he glances at Mikey who's lying on the ground, the blankets beside him arranged into a vaguely human shape. It's a deception that'll give them seconds at best, but it's all they've got and Ryan listens to the sound of footsteps, knowing this could be the last minutes of his life.

The man is in the next room now. Ryan can hear him moving, and abruptly all his nerves flow away. If he does die he's going down fighting.

More footsteps. Closer. Closer. Closer. Ryan can hardly breathe.

The door handle starts to move.

Ryan lifts the boot higher.

The door opens, and as soon as the man steps into view, Ryan strikes. He screams and slams the boot against the man's head, keeps screaming when the man staggers but doesn't go down.

"You fucking bitch!" The man yells and strikes Ryan across the face as he brings up his gun, ready to shoot. Ryan always thought time would slow if he were facing death, but as he looks at the gun barrel so close to his head he realizes it doesn't. Instead it seems to speed up and Ryan finds himself slammed against the door-frame as Mikey throws himself at the man's back, causing him to fall forward against Ryan.

Taking the momentary distraction, Ryan attacks. There's no room to use the boot so he uses what he can, he bites; hard, and claws at the man's face. Ryan's fighting for their lives and he'll do anything, no matter how desperate. There's blood in his mouth as he kicks and knees the man in his crotch, causing him to gasp in pain and lean forward. Ryan looks over him and sees Mikey, his teeth bared as he fights.

Even then it's a fight they're not winning, no matter what they do the man refuses to go down. Ryan's feeling increasingly frantic when he feels metal and realizes he's touching the end of the gun. He grabs hold and pulls, trying to wrestle it out of the man's grasp. It doesn't work, he's holding too tight and Ryan's arm is burning, but he gives it one last desperate try.

Ryan's ears ring as the man shoots.

"Ryan!"

Mikey's yelling, looking horrified, but Ryan's not going to die. Not like this. He pushes at the man, and as soon as there's room, Ryan swings the boot, he puts everything in the swing, every bit of anger and fear, and this time the man goes down. Instantly Ryan kicks, aiming for his head.

"That's for Mikey, and me, and everybody else, you sick fuck." Panting, Ryan looks at the blood pooling on the ground, then reaches for Mikey, touching his arm. "Let's go."

They step into the other room, hurrying through the living room with the chintzy sofa and books on a shelf, and out onto the porch. Which is where they momentarily stop, taking in the dirt road that heads into a dense forest, the ominous clouds overhead and the black van that's parked in a small clearing.

"Think he left the keys in the ignition?" Mikey's limping badly as he walks, but he shakes his head when Ryan starts to move close. "Go check the van."

"Right." Ryan runs forward, and hopes that this time they're get a break. Taking hold of the drivers door handle, he pulls. It doesn't move. "Fuck!"

"He must be carrying them." Mikey's reached the van now, and is leaning heavily against the bonnet, his eyes widening when he looks fully at Ryan. "You're bleeding, a lot."

Ryan looks down, expecting the knife wounds to be bleeding again, but they're not, instead they're cut through with a bloody gouge along his right side. "Guess I got clipped by the bullet," Ryan says, and he can distantly feel the pain, pushed down under the need to get away. "I'm going inside to get the keys."

"Be careful," Mikey says, and Ryan's thankful that he's not protesting, because they need the keys if they stand any chance of getting away.

Going back inside the cabin feels like the stupidest thing Ryan's ever done. He creeps toward the front door, peering inside, and meets the eyes of the man, who's just pushing himself to his feet. Ryan turns, screams. "Run!"

~*~*~*~

They search the forest for over an hour and only turn back when it begins to rain. Thunder rumbles overhead and Spencer's soaked through, so miserable that all he can think is how stupid this is, going off on a wild-goose-chase on the flimsiest of leads. It had all seemed too positive back in the apartment, but now, with the rain steadily falling and the vastness of the area apparent, it just feels idiotic. Using the stick that he's carrying, Spencer disturbs a pile of old leaves, says, "We need to tell the police everything you know."

Gerard's carrying a stick too, and the top part has been stripped back. His fingernails are filthy and his clothes are speckled with shredded bark. "They won't believe us. They never do."

"Maybe they will now," Jon says. "You've...."

"What?" Frank whirls around so he's facing Jon. "You think now Ryan's gone they'll take notice? Because he's so much better than Mikey? That they have to look because it's him? Fuck that."

Jon shakes his head, calm even in the face of Frank's anger. "All I meant was you have more info now, and they can search better than us."

"He's right, we're not going to find them here." Gerard pushes his hair back off his face, leaving a smudge of dirt on his forehead.

"Then we'll go back," Bob says. "But not until we've checked out those roads."

Which is fine by Spencer, they're here anyway, they should check, even though he suspects it'll lead to another dead-end.

They walk back to Bob's car, the rain is becoming heavier and Spencer bows his head and tries to ignore how his inner thighs are chaffing as they hurry along the path. He half expects Bob to make a fuss about them getting inside when they're all so wet, but all he does is shake his head and slide into the driver’s seat, switching on the engine and heat as soon as they're all inside. Within minutes the car is warm and Spencer feels disgusting, hot and clammy as he tries to get comfortable, which is hard when all his clothes are clinging and his shoes squelching each time he moves.

"There should be towels in the back," Bob says, and Frank twists around, hanging over the back seat as he rummages in the trunk until he makes a triumphant sound and sits back down holding on to two towels. They're both ragged and suspiciously dirty, but Spencer gratefully takes the towel he's offered, rubbing it over his head. When his hair's as dry as it's going to get he rubs at his arms and then hands the towel to Jon, who vigorously scrubs at his hair, enough that when he emerges from under the towel his hair is sticking up on end.

Spencer can't help his smile. "Nice look."

"You know you're jealous," Jon says, and hands the towel to Bob who gives his hair a cursory wipe before throwing it over Spencer's head into the back.

"Ray's sent directions to the roads." Bob's looking from his cell to a map he's got spread over the dashboard. "I'll follow them all for while, see if we see something."

The probability of them seeing anything useful is slight, Spencer knows that, but it doesn't stop the anticipation that they could. His jeans rub painfully as he turns so he can look outside, the rain running in rivulets down the window and the wipers swishing as they pull out onto the road.

~*~*~*~

Mikey's arm is over Ryan's shoulder, Ryan holding him upright as they run. They're heading toward the trees that surround the cabin and everything seems pin-prick sharp, the swish of grass against Ryan's feet, the sound as they pant for air, the breeze that ruffles through Ryan's hair. His back prickles, and he expects to be shot at any moment, a bullet carving through bone and flesh. Ryan runs faster, hauling Mikey forward each time he stumbles.

"Keep going," Ryan gasps, and chances a look back. There's no one in view but it doesn't mean they're safe, the man could be anywhere, and all Ryan can think about is getting to the trees, where at least they'll have a chance to hide.

Reaching the outskirts of the forest is a relief but also provides a hindrance as the ground is covered with twigs and old leaves. There's a narrow path but Ryan doesn't lead them that way, instead he makes his own route, zig-zagging between trees and brushing past scrubby bushes that snag at his legs and arm. It's darker now, the sunlight blocked and the air feels clammy and oppressive.

Ryan's breathing hard but fear keeps him going well past the point of exhaustion. Mikey looks grey, visually shaking and Ryan's having to take more of his weight, until he's more carrying Mikey than actually providing support. Still he keeps running. Even when his chest burns and he's hurting so badly all he wants to do is lie down and never move. Which is why Ryan doesn't stop, because he knows once he does he won't want to get up again, and he can't do that. Not yet.

"Ryan." Mikey hasn't spoken for a while, and it takes a while for Ryan to hear him through his intense need to run run run. "Ryan, we need to stop."

"Wha'?" Ryan slows, and sways as he looks at Mikey.

"You're still bleeding."

Ryan looks down, and as if looking at the wound is acknowledging it at last, pain flairs white hot. He gently touches under the gouge and his skin is slick with blood, his right pants leg soaked through at the top. It looks like a lot of blood, and Ryan feels light-headed and sick.

"Don't faint on me now," Mikey says, and Ryan blinks hard and tries to stand up straight. It doesn't help and he falls forward, bringing Mikey with him so they both collapse to the ground. Winded, Ryan looks up a the canopy of trees and waits for the world to stop spinning as Mikey reaches out and rests his hand on Ryan's arm. "I guess we can rest here a while."

"A few minutes." Ryan watches the branches sway overhead. Exhaustion tugs at him, and fighting the urge to sleep, he seeks a distraction, something that's got nothing to do with deranged kidnappers or death or being stuck in a forest. "Do you have any pets?"

Mikey looks at Ryan as if he's insane, then shakes his head. "Not right now, Frank said I make enough mess with adding an animal into the mix."

"You live together, yeah?"

"You remembered." Mikey smiles and Ryan doesn't say he remembers everything about that night, from the moment Mikey invited him to sit until he left to walk home, glitter on his fingers and the taste of Mikey on his lips. "Yeah, we've got a place, it's a shithole but it's ours. He says no dogs or cats, though."

Ryan remembers Bess, the way she looks at him each morning. "That sucks, everyone should have a dog if they want one."

"Yeah, well." Mikey shrugs one shoulder. "He's got a point, but when I've a bigger place I'll have both. A cat that does tricks and a dog. I'm going to buy it clothes, a sweater at least for when it gets cold."

"Impressive." Clouds scuttle across the sky, visible in flashes through the trees. Even though he shouldn't, aware he's touching on secrets, Ryan says, "I've got a cat, well, share a cat, but I want a dog. One that'll always be mine and never leave."

"They're good at sticking around."

Ryan looks at Mikey then, says, "We should find shelter." The last thing Ryan wants to do is move. Lying down isn't comfortable, there's something hard digging in his back and his side still burns, but standing will be a thousand times worse. Not that they've got a choice, lying exposed like this isn't an option and they both need medical attention -- fast.

"That tree looks hollow." Mikey says, going with the diversion. He's looking at a nearby tree, the bottom twisted roots where the ground has worn away, there's a space there, small but hopefully big enough for them to hide while they plan. Steeling himself, Ryan sits.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Moving is everything he expected and more. Gritting his teeth, Ryan gets to his knees, then his feet, then holds out his hand to help Mikey stand.

Mikey looks up at him, dubious. "I'd just pull you back down."

"Well I'm not leaving you there," Ryan says, and keeps holding out his hand until Mikey reluctantly takes hold. When their hands are clasped together, Ryan pulls, pure bloody-mindness keeping him on his feet until Mikey's standing, balanced on one foot. A moment, then Ryan pulls Mikey's arm over his shoulder, and they head for the tree, stumbling slowly forward, until finally, they drop to their knees, and more fall into the space rather than crawl.

~*~*~*~

They've checked three of the five roads Ray marked, and are pulling up to the fourth. It's still raining, but lighter now, more a drizzle than the storm of before. Not that it matters, Spencer's not drying out at all, and each time they park up, everyone peering at the ground as if it'll give up some secret, he feels more uncomfortable. This road appears to be more of the same, Bob's pulled up on the verge and Gerard's crouched down, running his fingers over the ground.

"This pattern, it was at the first lay-by." Gerard looks up and beckons them over, and they all stand in a circle, watching as Gerard traces a pattern on the black tire mark left on the road. "See, it's got the same crosses and marks."

Spencer leans forward but he can't see any real distinguishable pattern, just black streaks and he can't help feeling that Gerard's seeing things that aren't really there.

"It looks like a black mark to me," Bob says, holding up his hands when Gerard starts to protest. "I'm not disagreeing, just saying I can't see it."

"I've got this feeling." Abruptly Gerard stands and looks along the road which disappears into the trees. "It's strong, really fucking strong. We should check it out."

"You had a feeling at the last road and it turned out to be nothing," Frank says, and he moves next to Gerard, so close they're touching. "I think we should go back."

"I. Just." Gerard's shoulders slump and he starts to walk back toward the car. "I guess."

"No. Wait," Spencer says, surprising even himself. The sensible thing would be to go back, to get in touch with the police and make them take over the search. But there's something, a feeling that's lodged deep inside that feels all Ryan. "We should see where the road goes."

"I agree." Jon's standing next to Spencer, a solid constant support. "We can turn back after a certain time."

Bob looks between Gerard and Frank as if deciding what to do, and Spencer wants to yell that he's got a say too, but Bob turns and gets into the car, says, "Ten minutes."

It's enough. Spencer waits until Jon climbs into the car and then follows, taking his usual place. The seat is wet, damp patches under his ass and against his back and it still feels too warm. As soon as Bob gets in he opens all the windows, and Spencer rests his hand on the door frame, rain misting against his face as they begin to drive.

"When I find him, I'm never letting Mikey out of the house." Gerard turns in his seat so he can look at Frank. "I mean it, I'm getting a fucking lock put on the door and he'll only go out if someone's with him."

"He'll try to get out," Frank says, and even from the few hours Spencer saw Mikey, he has to agree. Mikey doesn't look like someone who'd like to be trapped inside. "I'm going to use handcuffs, the fucker's going nowhere without me."

Bob glances over his shoulder. "You won't need them, I'm going to put iron bars on his window and door."

Bob sounds serious, Spencer leans forward, says, "When you've done that, can you do Ryan's room too?"

~*~*~*~

Ryan tucks up his knees and watches the rain. He insisted that Mikey sit closest to the tree, sheltered under the roots, but it hasn't stopped him shivering, and Ryan's frantic as he tries to think what to do. They can't stay here much longer, they're not hidden at all and the man could find them at any time. But even the thought of running again makes Ryan cringe. Except of course, they've got no choice.

"I'd kill for a coffee right now." Mikey's leaning forward, his hand cradled against his chest and his legs outstretched, his ankle even more swollen than before. "Coffee and some wings, the kind that leave grease on your fingers."

"Sounds good, but I'd go for pizza, the homemade kind." It's something they do at home, a quiet day and Spencer will create bases from scratch. He always gets flour down his clothes and makes this intent face as he kneads, like he's putting all his frustrations into the dough. It's Ryan's job to cut the vegetables and he likes the methodical chop of the knife as he fills bowls with mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes. Not onions though, he always leaves that to Jon, it's fun watching him try not to cry. Which leaves Brendon grating cheese, and every time he manages to grate his knuckles. Ryan would do anything to be there now, watching Spencer hide his smile as he sighs and gets out the band-aids.

"You cook?" Mikey says, and while his expression hasn't changed he manages to sound surprised.

"I chop," Ryan says. "It's an important part of the process."

"I'm sure it is." This time Mikey smiles, the slightest curl of his lip. "So, who does the rest? You never said who you live with."

"I share a place with three friends. My best friend Spencer, Brendon and Jon. Spencer's the cook."

"Spencer." Mikey looks past Ryan, as if he's trying to remember. "He's the one with the glare and sweet shoes."

"That's him." Ryan can't actually remember what shoes Spencer was wearing the night he met Mikey, but they'll be sweet, they always are. It's just one of Spencer's things, he's got his own style, and that means awesome shoes. Just thinking of that, how Spencer's closet floor is crammed with carefully arranged shoes, makes Ryan eyes prickle. He blinks, says, "It's our first place, me, Spencer and Brendon. We moved in there from home, then Jon came later, when another roommate didn't work out."

Mikey's watching intently, even as his eyes keep sliding closed and he lists to the side. "You like it there?"

"It's home," Ryan says simply.

Mikey nods, quiet as he keeps looking past Ryan. It's still raining and the ground looks slick, the tree branches drooping and the air's full of the scent of wet earth. "Ryan, you need to leave me behind."

"What, no!" It's an immediate reaction and one that Ryan means, no way is he leaving Mikey here. When they go they're going together, no matter what Mikey says.

"You have to." Mikey isn't raising his voice, but he sounds determined, even as his arm shakes as he keeps himself propped upright. "There's no way I'm getting back up, my ankle's fucked and I'll just slow you down."

"I'm not leaving you," Ryan insists. he's not. He's not leaving someone behind. "I'll help you, I can get us out of here, I can."

"No, Ryan," Mikey says, perfectly calm, and Ryan wants him to shout, to do anything but sit there looking so obviously ill. "I can't walk out of here and you can't carry me."

"I can try. I can..."

"Ryan." Mikey reaches out and grabs Ryan's hand. "I know you'd try and maybe we'd make it, but there's more chance if you go alone. You know that."

And that's the thing, because Ryan does know. It's painfully apparent that Mikey's not going anywhere under his own steam. It's taking him all his strength to talk and he's barely able to sit upright. Deep down Ryan knows he's got no choice, but even the thought makes him feel sick. He says quietly, "I don't think I can."

"You can," Mikey says. "You're going to get out of here and get us help. I know you can do it."

It's confidence Ryan doesn't feel, but he takes it anyway. Breathing past the lump in his throat he wraps his arms around Mikey, ensuring he only brushes their bodies together before standing with a groan. "I'll find someone, I'll come back for you. Promise."

Mikey looks at Ryan, says, "I know."

~*~*~*~

They drive for more than ten minutes, Spencer texting Brendon as they follow the narrow road, the trees so close the branches scrape against the side of the car. From the enthusiastic replies about Ray's awesome guitars and amazing music knowledge Spencer suspects Brendon's getting along with Ray just fine, which is a relief, and helps ease the guilt at leaving him behind, and having no news about Ryan. Spencer's explained they're following a feeling, but when it's put down in words it looks insane. His head is pounding when he hits send.

"I'm turning at the next clear spot." Spencer can't see Bob's face but he sounds tense, which isn't surprising, the road twists ahead, rising steeply upwards, and if they meet another vehicle there'll be no way to get past.

"We should keep going." Gerard's seat-belt is pulled tight as he leans forward, hands against the dash as he looks outside. It's how he's been sitting for almost five minutes, and he turns, pointing at the side of the road. "The branches are snapped, see, and that pattern was on the road. I think the van comes this way."

Bob shakes his head and glances at Gerard. "Anything could have snapped those branches, and it's been raining, there's nothing to see."

"I can see," Gerard says, sounding frustrated. "I've been watching."

"Even if you have, who's to say it's the right van?" Bob's plainly pointing out truths, but despite his gruff demeanor Spencer sees how he reaches out and squeezes Gerard's knee. "It's time to go back, Gee."

"No. I think. I can." Gerard runs his fingers through his hair then turns so he can look in the back. "Spencer, what do you think?"

Surprised, Spencer tries to think what to say. The feeling that Ryan is still out there is strong, but he can't help wondering if he's grasping at straws, mistaking the constant burn of loss for something else entirely. It would be easy to say go back, to demand the police do something, walk the streets searching, do anything but sit in this car -- except that feeling is there. "I think we should keep going, a little while at least."

Gerard doesn't smile, but the relief is there as he turns to Bob, who says, "Fine."

They keep driving, and the road gets steeper, twisting around on itself at times so that Bob's swearing under his breath, finally, they turn a corner and see a cabin, one with a black van parked outside.

"I knew it." For an instant Gerard sounds triumphant, but that abruptly changes as he starts to open the door, despite the fact they're still moving.

"Jesus Christ, Gerard." Bob yells, as Frank grabs for Gerard's shoulders stopping him from jumping outside.

"Mikey could be in there."

"And so could the fucker who took him," Bob says. Which makes sense and Spencer takes his own hand off the door handle, but it's hard, because Ryan. All Spencer wants to do is run inside.

"We should phone the police now." Jon's already opening his cell but stops dialing when Frank opens his door, tumbling outside as soon as they stop.

"Phone if you want, I'm going in."

Despite Bob's protests, within seconds everyone is outside. Jon's still holding his phone but he's stopped dialing and Spencer starts to walk toward the cabin, Gerard and Frank at his side.

"You're all morons," Bob says, and moves so he's in walking in front. "We could be shot where we stand."

"Or we could find Mikey," Gerard says, and starts to run.

"Seriously, morons." Bob starts to run too, but they're both overtaken by Frank, who sprints ahead to the cabin, and starts pounding on the door.

"That can't be good." Jon's running at Spencer's side, looking concerned as he watches Frank. "He's going to get us killed or arrested."

Spencer keeps running, his feet thudding against the wooden steps. There's no one answering the door and Spencer stands at the edge of the group, looking around. Apart from the drips of water everything is quiet and it should be a beautiful scene, sunlight filtering through the dark clouds, the woods pressing close, but things feel wrong. Like there's something out of place that Spencer can't quite see. He keeps looking, and cold floods his body, twisting out from his spine when he notices the dark stains on the floor, and toward the back of the cabin, a long row of disturbed earth.

Spencer gulps and reaches for the railing, says, "Look."

"No no no." Gerard shakes his head, impossibly white and he pushes Frank aside so he can try the door. "Mikey! Mikey! Are you in there?!"

The door opens, and Gerard almost falls inside. Steadying himself, he rushes in, and Spencer braces himself for the sound of a gun, screams, anything, but there's nothing and he follows everyone inside, where he finds Gerard standing next to an open door, looking so stricken that Spencer isn't sure he wants to see what's inside.

"Gerard?" Frank says quietly, and he darts forward when Gerard suddenly goes down. Spencer's first thought is he's fainted, but Gerard's standing back up, leaning heavily against Frank, a boot cradled against his chest.

"It's Mikey's. He's here. Was here. Mikey!" Brushing Frank off, Gerard starts to move out of the doorway, heading for the other room, but Bob grabs him, hauling him towards outside.

"He's not in there, promise." Bob's holding tight to Gerard, looking grim and slightly green, which frightens Spencer more than anything he's seen so far. "Frank, sit with Gee. Jon. Can you phone the police? Tell them... tell them they need to get up here. Spencer...."

"I'm staying here," Spencer says, and Bob looks at him for a long moment before he nods.

"I can come with you," Jon's standing close to Spencer, looking frightened, and Spencer should tell him to stay, because Ryan's Jon's friend too, but Spencer needs to do this alone. For now anyway. He shakes his head and Jon says, "I'll be right here."

When Jon starts to dial, Spencer looks around, taking in the details he missed before. The blood stains on the floor, the lock on one door, shiny metal that's wrong against the wood, but mostly he notices the smell. It's cloying and Spencer has to steel himself before he walks toward one of the open doors. He looks inside and sees a windowless room, a pile of filthy blankets on the floor, an overturned bucket and a messy heap of shoes and clothes thrown in one corner. Fighting the urge to hurl, Spencer takes a step inside, and the air is thick, blood, shit and piss and Spencer's desperately hoping Ryan was never here when he sees the shirt.

Crying out, Spencer drops to his knees and picks up the shirt; or part of it anyway. The part with the logo of Ryan's pet shop, stained with blood and Spencer brings it to his face, surprised when he feels tears against his fingers.

"Ryan's?"

Spencer looks up and sees Bob standing in the doorway, looking ghostly pale. Spencer drops his hands but keeps the shirt clenched between his fingers, thinks RyanRyanRyan as he says, "Mikey?"

"No sign, but the other room, there's, there's this table and...." Bob runs, his hand over his mouth, and Spencer keeps kneeling on the floor, the piece of Ryan's shirt held tight in his hands.

~*~*~*~

All Ryan can think is run!. He's stumbling over the slick ground, his feet skidding on the wet leaves and vines that seem intent on snagging his feet. Everything hurts, breathing hurts, and he's wet through and cold, except for his side which burns from ribs to thigh. Sometimes he slows, listening for sounds of pursuit, but each time he can hear nothing but his own heart beating too fast, too loud.

Ryan wants to stop. Collapse to the ground. Curl up and sleep.

He runs.

Falls to his knees when his foot gets caught under some kind of trailing vine. Lands heavily and gets back up.

Ryan's hands are filthy, mud over blood, a leaf stuck over the tattoo on his wrist. He peels it off, lets it drift to the ground.

He's got no idea where he's going. Just knows he has to keep going down.

Down. Down. Down. Don't stop. Won't stop. Because Mikey needs help.

Ryan's hair hangs in his face and he pushes it back, then skids, falling once again.

And Ryan's done. Done. Fucking done. He can't get up. He can't. It hurts too much and he clenches his fists and tries not to cry.

It takes a while, enough that Ryan's shaking with the effort to maintain control.

He stands. Slowly. Painfully. Runs again, until finally. Finally. Ryan thinks he hears something.

Changing direction slightly, he slows down, expecting to the see the man at any time.

He doesn't. What Ryan finds is a road.

Ryan steps out, and breaks screech as he holds up his hands.

~*~*~*~

Spencer's leaning against the bonnet of Bob's car, Ryan's shirt held in his hands as he watches Gerard get questioned again. While it's impossible to hear what he's saying he's obviously angry, enough that both Frank and Bob are on alert, tense as they stand close to Spencer. When Gerard starts to yell they both run.

"I tried to tell you. We all did. I came to the fucking station every day for two weeks and each time you wouldn't listen. What did you expect us to do?" Gerard's still, the only color in his face the spots of red in his cheeks. When the detective questioning him says something inaudible, Gerard takes a step back, his hands in his hair. "Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare. We found this place because we were looking for Mikey. I wouldn't hurt him, this has nothing to do with me, with any of us and if you did your fucking jobs instead of being assholes you'd know that."

Bob steps forward then, taking Gerard's arm, and while he's not speaking, the look he gives the detective says everything as he steers Gerard away and back to the car where they've all been ordered to wait.

"He asked me where I was when Mikey went missing, if I'd argued with him. They're digging up fucking graves and Mikey could be in there and they're asking me if I'd hurt him. I couldn't. I'd never." Agitated, Gerard tries to pull away from Bob, but then stops, his voice quieting. "I wouldn't, you know that, right? I'd never hurt him, he's Mikey."

"They don't know what they're talking about," Frank says angrily, and he moves next to Gerard, pulling him close. "They don't know, but we do."

"I know, I know." Gerard leaning heavily against Frank, watching as white-suited people carefully explore the graves to the side of the cabin. "I just wish they'd stop asking stupid questions and tell us something."

Which is something Spencer agrees with. As soon as the police arrived they were shooed away from the cabin and had to watch as more vehicles arrive. Crime scene investigators and uniformed police and detectives that keep asking questions that should have been asked weeks and days before. The worst thing is they're being told nothing. All they can do is wait, watching as clear bags of evidence are brought out of the cabin and each minute that passes Spencer's more sure Ryan is dead. He has to be, Spencer saw that room, the blood stained walls and floor, the table and the row of knives. They're all images that are burned into Spencer's mind, and the longer he's made to wait the more he adds Ryan into the memory. Struggling as he's tied to the table, screaming as a knife cuts into his skin.

"I'm going to make them tell me something." Spencer can't wait another second and he looks for the head detective, the one that keeps asking questions and ordering that they stay in one place. It takes a while to find her, the area around the cabin is crowded with people, but when he does Spencer strides forward, Jon at his side. It takes a while to bypass the crowds of people and get close, and when they do Detective Barratt is holding a walkie-talkie, listening to someone talk.

He needs urgent medical attention but he insists he needs to be there to help. I can take him to the nearest hospital, he's in no condition to resist.

Spencer stills, his heart beating painfully fast, he steps forward, ignoring the frown Barratt sends his way. "They've found someone? Have they found Ryan? Tell me!" Spencer wants to grab her and shake until she answers, because he was so sure, so sure Ryan was dead. "Please."

Barratt looks at Spencer, her expression softening slightly as she talks. "Bring him up here." She hands the walkie-talkie to a uniformed officer and turns to Spencer. "It appears Mr. Ross managed to escape, he's being brought here now."

Spencer wants to yell or scream or laugh. He wants to fall to the ground and cry. "He's alive. Ryan's alive." Spencer turns to Jon, who looks stunned. "He's alive!"

Jon grabs him then, spinning Spencer around so that Barratt has to step smartly back. When he's back on solid ground Spencer can't stop grinning, until he sees Gerard running over, Bob and Frank right behind. Guilt flaring he looks at Barratt. "Is there news about Mikey?"

She waits until the others are close, says, "I can't release that information at the moment, if you wait..."

"No," Gerard says, and while he's not yelling, he's not moving either, standing and staring at Barratt. "If you know something, tell me. I need to know, it's been weeks. I can't, I can't keep waiting."

Barratt tilts her head, looking at Gerard, then finally. "According to Mr. Ross, your brother was alive when he left him. It's why he's insisting he come back up here. We're sending out our own search parties but Mr. Ross was adamant he can lead us there faster."

"So Mikey's alive," Gerard says, and when he sways both Frank and Bob grab hold of his upper arms.

"The last we know, yes," Barratt says, her tone brisk, but she's looking at Gerard, how he's biting at his thumb nail as he watches the road that emerges from the trees. "The car will arrive in a few minutes, you can wait here."

She walks away, and Spencer turns to Jon, says, "Brendon. We..."

"Already on it." Jon's got his phone next to his ear, and no one speaks as he says, "Brendon. He's alive."

Brendon's yells are easily heard, and Spencer can imagine him running around the room, probably in some kind of dance with Ray. Then Jon's smile fades. "We don't know yet, he was; Ryan's going to help us find him."

Spencer feels cold as Jon keeps talking, because he's realizing even if Ryan's alive he doesn't know if he's okay. Spencer needs to see him and his stomach is churning as Jon ends the call and then slips his arm around Spencer. Keeping him close as they wait.

It seems to take hours for the car to arrive, but eventually, when Spencer's about out of his mind, a car appears, heading toward the others that are parked up close to the cabin. There's no chance Spencer can wait. He runs, arriving as the car slows to a halt and he's tugging at the back door handle, desperate to get inside. It opens, and Spencer's half in half out the car, his knee jammed against something metal as he grabs hold of Ryan and holds on.

"I thought you were dead," Spencer says, his face against Ryan's neck, breathing him in as Ryan grabs hold, his arms around Spencer as he clings on, his breathing hard and wet.

"Spence. Spencer." Spencer finally pulls back a little when Ryan wiggles. "I need to go get Mikey."

"Right, sorry," Spencer says, and he backs out of the car, his hand always on Ryan as he gets out of the car.

It takes him a while, Ryan's movements are slow and deliberate, and when he stands Spencer sees he's wearing an over-sized rain slicker, the arms hanging well over Ryan's hands. His pants are torn and his face bruised and filthy. Spencer wants to scoop him up and insist he go to the hospital, especially when Ryan's knees buckle and he needs to rest against the car.

Spencer moves forward. "I think you need...."

"I need to go get Mikey," Ryan interrupts, standing still when Jon gathers him in a hug. For a moment Ryan holds on, his head against Jon's neck, then he stands straight, his hand pressed against his side as he looks past Jon to Gerard. "You're Gerard right? I promised Mikey, well, lots of things, but the important one is I'd go back for him."

"He's alive," Gerard says, his eyes glittering. "Mikey's okay."

"He's a little bashed up." Ryan's blank expression flickers, and maybe Gerard doesn't see it, but Spencer does. It makes him worry about what they're going to find and selfishly he wishes Ryan would just leave, but he's already pushing himself upright and shuffling toward Barratt, who's looking stern as she approaches.

"Didn't I tell you not to run around the site? It's too dangerous to wander." She glares at Spencer, but when she looks at Ryan she's sympathetic, keeping out of his personal space. "Mr. Ross, we have dogs and trackers on their way. If you need to go to the hospital."

"I need to go find Mikey," Ryan says, and he crosses his arms across his chest, his back toward the cabin. "He's waiting for me."

"I understand, I'll gather my people to go with you."

Ryan shakes his head and starts to walk. "Tell them to follow me."

Barratt looks like she's going to protest but Ryan's walking so slowly she catches up easily, her team spreading out around them at all sides. Concerned, Spencer walks close to Ryan, sure he's about to fall, sure it's more a matter of when than if. Ryan's breathing hard, his expression set and feet dragging as he heads through the clearing toward the trees, never looking anywhere but forward. Even if he did look back he'd see nothing but Gerard, Frank and Bob, Jon and Spencer at his side, surrounding Ryan in silent support as they make their way into the forest.

It's cool in there and the ground is soggy, Spencer's shoes squelch with each step and Ryan's slowing even more, his hands trembling as he looks around. Spencer isn't sure what he's looking for, everything looks the same to him, but Ryan's seeing something, and finally, what seems like an endless time later and when Spencer's about to say, enough. Ryan darts forward.

"Mikey!"

At first Spencer doesn't see him, then through a tangle of gnarled tree roots he makes out someone curled up and motionless, the remains of one of Ryan's t-shirts spread over his chest.

"Oh god, Mikey!" Gerard runs past Ryan and drops to his knees. He reaches out and rests his hand against Mikey's neck, keeps it there, tears already falling as he looks for Frank and Bob.

It's then that Ryan crumples.

~*~*~*~

"Ryan? Ryan!"

Ryan tries to open his eyes. He's tired. So very tired.

"Ryan!"

Something touching his face. The sound of a zip. Cold against his chest.

"Fuck. Ryan. You're a moron, why didn't you say?"

Ryan gasps, eyes opening as something touches his side. Pain. Heat. Melting the cold.

"The ambulance is coming, you idiot." Spencer. Kneeling over Ryan, looking scared. Ryan tries to reach out for him, his fingers flutter against the ground.

"Sry."

"You'd better be." Spencer takes hold of Ryan's hand, holds on. Ryan closes his eyes.








Hands on his body. Ryan tries to pull away but can't. Leather straps around his hands, a knife at his side. He yells, tries to pull away. Hears Spencer.

"Let me through, now."

Has to be a dream because Spencer's not here. He's at home, far far away. Ryan struggles.

"Get out of my way!"

"Spencer." Ryan's throat is dry and everything's moving, twisting, slipping through his grasp. Then Spencer, smiling as he bends over Ryan, taking hold of his hand.

"I've got you."








Bright lights. The sound of voices, Ryan opens his eyes. He's floating, the world slowing slowing slow.

People at his side. Glinting lights. Twisting tubes.

"Ryan. Ryan, look at me."

Ryan's eyes are weighted, he looks to the side. Sure he'd seen Spencer, but he's gone. Ryan's lost him.

"Spencer...."

"He's outside." Someone leaning in close, smelling of flowers not blood. Hand gentle on his shoulder. "You can see him soon."

Ryan sleeps.


~*~*~*~


Spencer wakes up with his neck in a crick and Ryan's torn shirt still held in his hand. His eyes feel gritty and he rubs them as he sits forward, checking on Ryan. He's lying on his back, the blankets pulled up over his chest, hiding the dressings that cover his right side. There's a drip going into Ryan's hand, a cannula under his nose and he looks pale, his hair lank and dirty against the white of the pillow case. Spencer shuffles his chair forward, so he can keep watch, needing to be close.

"Has he woken up yet?" Brendon asks, walking into the room. He's carrying a tray of coffees and a paper bag which he sets on one of the over-bed tables,

"Not yet," Spencer says, and holds out his hand for a coffee.

"Demanding." Brendon hands over one of the cups, keeping the other for himself. Grabbing a chair, he starts to pull it next to Spencer then stops, looking at the police officer guarding the door. "I should have got him one, hold this."

Spencer takes hold of Brendon's coffee and watches as he opens the bag and takes out a muffin. Wrapping it in a napkin he goes back outside, and grins when the officer takes the muffin with a nod of thanks.

"I'll get Jed a coffee next time," Brendon says, and sits, taking his own drink. Taking a sip, he settles back in his chair. "Think he'll wake up soon? It's been nearly a day."

"Bren, quiet."

Surprised, both Spencer and Brendon stand, looking down at Ryan. He's got his eyes screwed shut and sounds terrible, his voice little more than a croak, but he's moving, talking. Spencer rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. "I'll get you a drink."

There's a jug of water on the bedside table, pouring out quarter of a glass, Spencer slips his hand under Ryan's head, ignoring the way he glares in response.

"I can manage."

"Sure you can," Spencer says, and steadies the glass as Ryan takes a drink. When he's finished, Spencer puts back the glass and uses the edge of his t-shirt to wipe at the water that's spilt down Ryan's chin. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've had a knife stuck in my side, was shot, then ran through a forest." Tugging one-handed at the blankets, Ryan pulls them up further and Spencer can almost see his mental barriers go back up at the same time. "Did we find Mikey?"

"You did," Spencer says, and he pulls his chair closer to the bed. "He's in the ICU right now."

Ryan's eyes are closing, he yawns, says, "Good, it wasn't my message to tell."

"You should tell Jon Ryan woke up," Brendon says, when it's apparent Ryan's fallen asleep. He takes another muffin out of the bag and starts pulling off the paper, carefully peeling it down.

"I'll call him," Spencer says, but Brendon shakes his head.

"It'll be better in person. You can see Clover then, and take a shower."

Spencer gives Brendon a pointed look. "Are you saying I smell?"

"Dude, you reek." Brendon pops a chunk of muffin in his mouth and the thing is, he's right. Spencer can't remember the last time he took a shower and his clothes feel stiff with dirt. "You'll watch Ryan?"

"I won't take my eyes off him," Brendon promises. Careful of the coffees, he pulls Spencer into a hug, holding tight. "He'll be fine and I'll call if he wakes up again."

"You'd better." Reluctantly ending the hug, Spencer backs toward the door, always watching Ryan, and Brendon, who's leaning forward, already talking softly as he takes Ryan's hand.

A quick smile at Jed and Spencer hurries down the corridor, intent on going home and getting showered as fast as he can. When he reaches the elevators he presses the button for down, then steps back, waiting for it to arrive. Spencer's the only one in the area and he's glad. He's too tired for small talk and knows he must look terrible, something that's proven when the elevator arrives and Spencer steps inside and is faced with a mirror. One that shows the beginnings of a straggly beard and bags under his eyes. Turning away, Spencer stares at the doors, and finally they begin to move, his stomach dropping as they go down.

It's on floor four that Spencer reaches out and presses the button for three. It's the floor for the ICU and while he hadn't intended to stop, Spencer knows that he has to. He hasn't seen any of the others since the day before, those chaotic, painful, then slow hours while they had to wait, desperate for any news. It was Jon that saw Ray later, finding out that Mikey was hanging on, but there's been nothing since, and Spencer needs to know.

Stepping out of the elevator, Spencer looks around, and it doesn't take long to find Gerard, Frank, Bob and Ray. They're all gathered in the waiting room, the low table covered in white plastic cups and if Spencer thought he looked bad, he's got nothing on them.

"Hey," Spencer says, and he's unsure if he should go in, worried that he's intruding, but Ray smiles and when Gerard looks up he does the same, even if it is forced.

"Come sit, how's Ryan?" Gerard asks, and Spencer takes a seat on the couch, sitting between Frank and Bob.

"He'll have a hell of a scar but he'll be fine." Spencer remembers the bloody gash he found when he unzipped Ryan's coat, but as bad as that was, Mikey looked worse. "Mikey?"

Gerard's shredding a plastic cup, white strips are scattered on his knee and he picks at another, pulling it in half. "They're letting me see him once an hour. He looks half-dead."

"But he's not," Frank says. "They're pumping him full of antibiotics and he'll be fine. And when he is I'm going to find the bastard that did it and carve out his heart."

"When they find him I'll join you," Spencer says, and the anger he's keeping pressed down threatens to spill over as he imagines his own form of revenge.

"I'll kill him first," Gerard says simply. Spencer believes it.

~*~*~*~

Two days in hospital and Ryan's allowed out of bed, but he doesn't go far, a walk loses its appeal when you're wearing a hospital gown and have to shuffle along towing a drip stand. It especially does if you're followed by a guard. It's the last Ryan hates the most, having the officers there is a reminder that the man -- Joshua Arkman -- is still out there somewhere, and knowing that is terrifying.

"I could wash your hair today," Spencer says suddenly, and his expression is carefully blank, like this is something he offers everyday.

Ryan reaches up and touches his hair. It's still dirty and the strands feel greasy under his fingers, but the worst is the smell. Each time Ryan moves he's reminded of back there, dirt and blood and he looks at Spencer, says, "Please."

It takes Spencer all of a minute to gather a bowl of warm water and Ryan suspects he's arranged this in advance. As Spencer sets his supplies on the over-bed table Ryan eases himself to the side of the bed. Doing so makes the pain in his side flair, but in a dull way, dampened by drugs. When he's as comfortable as he's going to get, Ryan reaches for a pillow, placing it between his arm and side.

"I think, if you could lean your head forward, that'll work." Spencer unfolds the towel with a snap of his wrist and tucks it around Ryan's neck. "I'll pour the water over, you sit still."

Ryan doesn't point out that he’s not capable of doing anything else, just presses against the pillow as he leans so his head is over the bowl of water. It's not an easy position to hold but the effort is worth it when Spencer pours the first cup of water. It soaks Ryan's hair and trickles down his cheeks, taking the dirt with it so the water in the bowl turns brown.

"Okay?" Spencer asks, and he pours over another cupful before swapping the cup for shampoo. "Brendon bought this especially; he said everyone should smell like bubblegum."

Through his dripping hair, Ryan looks at the bottle, which is bright pink and shaped like a dinosaur. "He's bought me kid's shampoo?"

"He bought you dinosaur kid's shampoo," Spencer says, like it's an important distinction, and he squeezes a blob on his hand. "He says it's his favorite."

Enjoying the feel of Spencer's fingers rubbing against his scalp, Ryan breathes in deeply, smelling bubblegum and not dirt. Ryan decides it's his favorite too.

"I've got leave-in conditioner, we thought it would be easier." Spencer runs his palm over Ryan's head making clean water splash into the bowl. "Mom said it's the best kind."

Ryan looks through the wet strands of his hair. "You asked your mom for conditioner advice?"

"Not especially for that," Spencer says, and squeezes a blob of conditioner onto his hands and starts to work it in, like this is something he does every day. "She's been calling every night to see how you are, I asked then."

"You've told her I'm okay." Ryan hopes so because he doesn't want Ginger to worry.

"Sure, I told her you're doing cartwheels and dancing a jig." Spencer pulls at a strand of Ryan's hair and Ryan tries to glare, giving up when all he ends up doing is scowling at the bowl of water. "She said she'll call you soon."

"She doesn't have to," Ryan says, and he can't help hoping she won't, there's only so many times he can say that he's fine.

"Hmmm," Spencer says, and steps back, producing another towel which he wraps around Ryan's head. "I saw Gerard earlier."

It's a jump in conversation Ryan didn't expect, but it's one he welcomes because no one's been talking about Mikey, it's like they're afraid his name will prompt memories Ryan needs to forget. Which is impossible, because Ryan never forgets, the memories are always there, it's just a case of how deep they're buried at each moment of time. "How's Mikey doing?"

"Better." Spencer moves the table, pushing it to the side of the room and despite Ryan's protests helps him get settled back against the pillows, then tucks in the covers. "He's sleeping a lot, which is probably just as well."

Ryan isn't so sure, while the memories are bad in the daytime they're worse at night, when the nightmares take hold and haunt your dreams. Imagining Mikey lying helpless in bed makes Ryan's stomach twist, and he knows what he has to do. "I want to see him."

"You can't even walk up the corridor right now," Spencer says bluntly and he picks up the bowl and heads into the bathroom. "Wait a few days, until you're stronger."

Which isn't going to happen. Gritting his teeth Ryan pulls back the covers and moves back to the side of the bed, sliding his legs to the floor he braces his hand against the bed frame and stands, preparing to make for the door. Two steps and Spencer's back in the room, dropping the empty bowl on the table as he moves to intercept.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm going to see Mikey." Ryan's got one hand on his drip stand and he pulls it with him as he walks, he's wearing underwear so doesn't care that his gown is gaping at the back and his hair may be damp but that doesn't matter. He's got somewhere to go and no one's going to stop him. Not even Spencer.

"You're going to get past the guard, off the floor and down to the ICU," Spencer says, and Ryan nods and takes a step to the side, maybe Spencer thinks he won't make it, but Ryan's going to give it a try. "You're an idiot."

"Maybe." Ryan shrugs one shoulder. "I'm still going."

"I'm telling you, an idiot." Spencer takes hold of Ryan's arm, stopping him from moving further. "Look, just sit down and I'll work something out."

Ryan considers, he would have got to Mikey somehow, but having Spencer on his side is always a plus. He steps backwards and sits down, tugging at his gown so it covers his knees. "You're taking me there?"

"Seeing you collapse bleeding once is enough," Spencer says, and Ryan realizes Spencer's holding his own bad memories, something that makes him feel guilty for pushing, especially when Spencer's looking so pinched.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says softly, and he pats the bed to his side. "Come sit."

"I thought you wanted to see Mikey?" Spencer says, but he's already moving, sitting at Ryan's side, so close they're touching.

Ryan rests his head on Spencer's shoulder, says, "I can wait."

~*~*~*~

It takes careful maneuvering to get out of the small bathroom and back into his room. Edging out of the door, Ryan pulls the drip stand behind him and jumps when he sees someone standing next to his bed.

"Sorry, Ryan." Rebecca, one of the nurses steps to the side, close enough to help if Ryan needs it, but allowing him to get back in bed on his own. When he's settled, she pulls up a chair and Ryan feels anxious, like he's about to be told something bad. He wishes Spencer was here, Brendon or Jon, but Ryan's sent them all home, insisting he'll be okay for a few hours -- he's regretting that now.

"It's okay, it's nothing bad," Rebecca says, and glances toward the door. "Mikey Way's well enough to be moved and it was suggested he share your room, that way you can have one guard. But I wanted to run it past you first. If you don't want him here...."

"No. I'll share." Ryan still hasn't seen Mikey and this is the perfect way to find out how he is. "Is he okay?"

"I can't share other patients information," Rebecca says, and Ryan knows that, he does, but Mikey's his friend and no one will tell him specific information. All he wants to know is if he's okay. "But, in a general sense, if people are moved to a regular room they're getting better."

"Thank you," Ryan says, and while something eases inside, he knows he won't be fully reassured until he actually sees Mikey himself. "Do you know when he's coming?"

"I'm not sure, it takes a while to get things sorted." Rebecca stands and smiles at Ryan. "I'll go tell them it's okay. You should try and nap while you can."

Ryan nods. That's something he can do, or try to do anyway. He pulls the blankets up to his chin and closes his eyes -- maybe this time the dreams will stay away.

~*~*~*~


Spencer only left the hospital because Jon and Brendon turned traitor, taking Ryan's side as he sat and insisted Spencer go home. Even then he only stayed long enough to shower, get changed and eat a quick meal. Now, three hours after they left, Spencer's heading toward Ryan's room, hurrying when he sees Gerard, Frank, Ray and Bob standing outside the door, the police guard a few steps away. Afraid something's gone wrong, Spencer's almost running, his shoes squeaking against the floor as he comes to a stop.

"Spencer, hi." Gerard looks better now, still appearing tired, but nowhere near as bad as before. He indicates the room and the shut door. "Mikey's moving in, they're getting him settled."

"Oh," Spencer says. He hasn't expected this, but he should have because it makes sense, especially as the police are so adamant Ryan and Mikey need protection until Arkman is found. Which makes Spencer feel bitter, because if the police had done their jobs they wouldn't need it at all.

"How's he doing?" Brendon asks, and they all back up against the wall as porters push a bed along the corridor. The man lying on it looks old, an oxygen mask on his face and drips going into each arm. They're followed by a woman, her eyes reddened, a bulging plastic bag held against her chest, and Spencer hates this place. It reminds him of death and pain and each time he sees Ryan, looking so pale still, moving so carefully to achieve the simplest thing, he wants to shout and scream. That it isn't fair, that Ryan shouldn't be suffering like this.

"You okay?" Gerard asks quietly, and Spencer schools his expression before looking his way.

"I'm fine, just tired. I stayed here last night."

"Me too." Gerard stretches and then slumps back against the wall. "The ICU couches suck to sleep on."

"I think my back's curved into the shape of a chair," Spencer says, and he wonders if Gerard's having the same issues in leaving Mikey alone. He's about to ask when the door is opened and a group of nurses step outside.

"He's all settled." One of them looks at Gerard and gives him a smile. "Take care of him."

Already half in the room, Gerard looks out, says, "I will."

When Spencer goes inside it takes a while to actually see Mikey. His side of the room is full of stuff. There's a huge bunch of balloons in the corner, at least twenty of them, most of them black. The window sill is full of vases of flowers and there's a full fruit bowl on the table, as well as a stack of cards inches thick. There's also plushies, most of them unicorns, including one balanced on the end of Mikey's bed.

"Sweet unicorn," Brendon says, and picks it up, examining it's bright-red eyes and sharp fangs. "Or is it a zombiecorn?"

"A unibie, maybe," Mikey says. It's the first time Spencer's seen him since the day of the rescue, and on first look he doesn't look much better. The cut along his jaw is stitched and he's a mess of bruises, on his face and neck and over his shoulder and arm, where the stitches stand out in a long line, dark and nasty looking.

"Fucking gruesome, yeah?" Frank says, and Spencer flushes at being caught staring. Frank hunches his shoulders, looking unconcerned. "I stared too, the first time. Gerard's learning wound care for when Mikey comes home, but there's so fucking many. I tried, but it was hurting him and I had to stop. Some tough guy."

"There's nothing wrong about not wanting to hurt your friends." Spencer looks back at Ryan, who's propped up on a load of pillows and watching Mikey like he's the only thing in the room. "The first time they changed Ryan's dressings I nearly threw up."

Frank flexes his fingers. "I let Mikey hold my hand when they changed his, I thought he'd broken my hand by the end. I'd let him if it helped."

Spencer understands that compulsion, the need to do anything to help ease Ryan's pain. Except, the pain that's the worst can't be helped, not by Spencer or any painkiller, especially as it's something Ryan's trying to hide. It makes Spencer feel helpless, and all he wants to do is get Ryan home and hidden from the world. "I'm going to," Spencer indicates Ryan, and Frank nods.

"I need to go on a coffee run, Gee's running on five cups an hour right now. You want anything?"

"I'm good," Spencer says, and isn't surprised when Brendon goes with Frank, beaming at him as they leave the room. "I think Brendon's got a crush."

Ryan turns to Spencer, looking surprised. "I thought he only met him when I went missing."

Spencer remembers hours of waiting and the seemingly never-ending search, it's something that's forged a strong bond despite the relatively short time. "He did, but it feels like more."

"They match height-wise, anyway," Ryan says, and already his attention is back on Mikey, watching as Gerard arranges pillows and straightens Mikey's blanket. "He looks better."

"I suppose, Spencer says, and Ryan turns to him.

"You didn't see him Spencer, when he was in that room and that fucking freak was hurting him and then after, when we ran. I thought, I thought he was dying and oh god, I left him and I though he was dying." Ryan's voice is rising and he's got his hands clenched against the covers. Worried, Spencer sits on the bed, turned so he can directly look at Ryan.

"Mikey's okay, you can see him. He's fine."

"I shouldn't have left him," Ryan says, his body so tight that Spencer knows it has to hurt.

"Oh my god, no you don't." Spencer looks up and sees Mikey's trying to sit, but Gerard's holding him in place. He looks at Spencer, says, "Your side or mine?"

For a moment Spencer's unsure what he means then he sees Jon and Ray pulling the door closed and Bob standing in front of the window. When the room is concealed as much as it can be Spencer slips off the bed and releases the brakes on the wheels. It'll be easier to take Ryan to Mikey because he's connected to less machines. "Hold on," Spencer says, and together with Ray he pushes Ryan's bed across the room, Jon steering from the front. It takes a while to get it turned around, the bed is big and heavy and Gerard has to rearrange a stack of plushie unicorns, but eventually the beds are side by side.

Mikey holds out his hand. Ryan reaches out and entwines their fingers. He holds on.


~*~*~*~


The beds are moved back in place late in the afternoon. Ryan's expecting some comment but he's wheeled back to the correct place without a word, and when Rebecca checks his wounds she asks Spencer to help, supervising as he washes his hands and opens the sterile dressing pack.

"You remember what to do," Rebecca asks, and Spencer nods as he sets out the bowl and cotton balls. While he's doing that, Rebecca pulls aside Ryan's gown, exposing the dressings that go from his hip over his ribs. "Are you okay with Spencer doing this?"

Ryan hates seeing his stitches and he hates that Spencer has to see them too, but he trusts him totally, says, "Yeah."

Spencer looks nervous, but his hands are sure as he soaks the cotton balls in sterile water and then carefully cleans over the stitches, taking his time so he's sure each one is done. Despite his gentle touch, Ryan winces each time, he tries to hold it in but he can't help it, especially when Spencer hits the parts that are especially deep and slightly infected.

"Sorry." Spencer's biting at his bottom lip but he never stops cleaning, because if he can't do this Ryan won't be able to eventually go home. When he's reaches the last stitch, Spencer drops the cotton ball in the bowl and peels the backing off a huge dressing which he positions on Ryan's side and smoothes on. "Done."

"Thanks," Ryan says, and relaxes against his pillows, trying to ignore how his side is thumping with fresh pain.

"Doctor says you can go from IV to oral antibiotics now," Rebecca says. She's busy gathering up the used dressing pack and crumples it up, setting it on the table. "I can take that out."

"Good." Having to walk with a drip is something Ryan hopes to never do again, and he's thrilled it's about to be taken away. Holding out his hand at Rebecca’s urging, he steels himself for the cannula to be removed, but all he feels is a weird sensation, and then Rebecca's placing a cotton ball on the back of his hand, covering it with a strip of tape.

"Leave that for a while, and no running marathons now you're more mobile."

"He won't," Spencer says, looking stern. Ryan says nothing, it's not like he's going to disagree.

"Are you doing Mikey now?" Ryan asks, looking across the room when Rebecca pulls back the curtains around his bed, showing that Mikey is dozing and Gerard reading some comic that he keeps dropping as he falls asleep. Rebecca looks over too as she gathers up the trash and drops the needle in a sharps container.

"I am." She smiles and fills out Ryan's chart, hooking it over the bottom of the bed. "Remember what I said, no running."

"Promise," Ryan says, already half-asleep.


~*~*~*~

When Ryan opens his eyes, Spencer's curled up in the chair, his legs hanging over the arms and his chin on his chest. He looks anything but comfortable but Ryan doesn't wake him, it's not as if Spencer will go home. Looking around he realizes it's dark now, the only illumination the dim strip lights in the middle of the room, but it's enough to see Mikey's awake, sitting upright as much as he can, his glasses glinting when he moves.

Ryan can't see Gerard at first, but eventually sees that he's in the match to Spencer's chair, but instead of curling up in it he's lying forward, his chest against the bed, his hand over Mikey's knee, as if he's afraid he'll be spirited away. Despite that Mikey keeps looking around, everything about him screaming fear. Pushing back the sheets, Ryan slides out of bed. The floor is cold against his bare feet and he pads across the room, says softly, "Mikey, hey," before he gets too close.

"Ryan, you should be asleep," Mikey says, his words slightly slurred.

"I've slept all evening." It's chilly without his blankets and Ryan shivers as he moves to Mikey's side, carefully of the monitors and the tubes that lead to Mikey's arm. Hand against his side, Ryan props himself against the bed and looks at Gerard.

"He won't wake up," Mikey says, and Ryan can see the effort he's putting in to stay still. "He's been awake for days now. I told him to go home but he won't." Mikey's silent for a moment, then adds. "It's selfish, but I'm glad that he doesn't."

Ryan looks across the room. "Spencer's the same. I tell him to go but he keeps coming back." He turns to Mikey then, taking in how tired he looks, so obviously hurting despite the drugs being pumped into his body. It's the first time they've talked alone since Ryan left Mikey behind, and as he looks at him then is overlain by now, so he's seeing Mikey here, but also back there, deathly pale and still, watching as Ryan ran away. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Mikey sounds surprised and Ryan doesn't understand, because he left Mikey behind, he could have died. "And if you mean about leaving me, you had to. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't."

Ryan doesn't see it that way, no matter what Mikey says, what everyone says, he knows he did wrong. "I shouldn't have left you."

"Bullshit," Mikey says, and even if his word are careful on account of his jaw, Ryan can hear the steel behind them. "Leave no one behind is valid in theory, but in practice it's bullshit. You did what you had to, you got me out of there and I'm alive, we both are."

"But what if you'd died?" It's Ryan's worst fear, the one that's haunting his dreams when he leads them back to Mikey, and find him lying lifeless, his body cold, and Ryan knows that it's his fault, accepting the blame as dream Gerard screams out his rage."

"I didn't," Mikey says, looking down at Gerard, then admits, "I wanted to, back at the cabin when I was alone and that bastard kept coming each day, then you came and you were so determined to get out. You kept me fighting."

"I don't know how." Ryan wraps his arms around his body, his fingers aching in remembrance of clawing at the door. "I was so afraid. There's nothing brave about that."

"There is if you keep going despite that," Mikey says, and he's got one hand against Ryan's leg, the other just touching Gerard's hair. "I'm afraid now, so fucking scared."

Ryan covers his hand with his own, says, "I know."

~*~*~*~

They get news about Arkman on the day Ryan's going home. After a week in this room he's desperate to leave, and he sits on the side of his bed, surrounded by the gifts sent by friends. At first Ryan tried to help, but Spencer's packing the bags, choosing items on some system Ryan doesn't pretend to understand. It's easier to let him do his own thing and Ryan's holding a stuffed dog, a gift from Jon, when Barratt walks into the room. Her heels click against the floor and she's holding a file under one arm. Ryan tightens his hold on the dog, he doesn't like how she's looking at him, or the way she frowns as she sees Mikey.

He's sitting on top of the covers today, his casted foot resting on a pile of pillows and a comic resting on his lap, turning the pages one-handed as Frank leans forward and reads along, making comments to try and get Mikey to laugh -- sometimes he even succeeds.

"Gentlemen." Barratt steps further into the room and looks between Mikey and Ryan. "We've news about Arkman, Michael, I've pictures I need you to look at."

"Mikey, his name is Mikey," Frank says, and looks at Mikey. "Do you want me to call Gerard?"

Mikey looks unsure, but eventually he shakes his head. "He only went home a few hours ago, let him sleep. I'll be okay, and you're staying, right?"

"Let her try and get me out of the room." Frank scowls and pulls his chair even closer to Mikey, taking guard at his side.

Coolly, Barratt steps closer. "I've no objections to you staying." She looks at the file, and takes out a sheaf of pictures, Spencer can just see part of the first one, red against white and already he knows he doesn't want to see more. "Two days ago we received a tip-off about someone offering what they called 'art of life' to the underground art community. Investigating further we discovered it was Arkman and gained examples of his work." She steps closer to Mikey, and Ryan stands and follows, moving so he's standing at Mikey's free side. "Mikey, we need you to look at these, see if you recognize the person you were held with before Ryan."

Mikey blanches white, but he indicates that she should go ahead. Barratt shows the first picture, placing it on Mikey's lap. He shakes his head, says, "No."

Barratt brings out another, and Spencer wants to walk away, knowing he'll remember these images forever, the crop of a male torso and the deep cuts that are slashed in the skin -- obscene art created through blood and flesh. Mikey shakes his head once again.

Barratt keeps displaying the pictures, is at the fourth when Mikey stills then points at a curved cut that winds under someone's ribs. "That one, I recognize that cut, it was the third night and it bled like a bitch. It was the only time I saw Marcus cry."

"You're sure?" Barratt asks and Frank bristles, picking up the picture.

"He said he recognized it, what else do you need?" Handing it back Frank stands, looking furious. "Why aren't you out there arresting him instead of hassling Mikey?"

"We needed additional identification." Barratt puts the pictures back together and slides them in the file. When she looks up she's all business, but Spencer catches the faintest glimpse of exhaustion before she reshores her professional calm. "You're lucky, apparently Arkman decided to run rather than pursue when you escaped. He's under surveillance in Belgium right now."

"Lucky, you think we were lucky?" Ryan's voice is level and carefully controlled, only the set of his shoulders giving away how furious he really is. "We fought to get out of there and ran for our lives and you think we were lucky?" Grabbing the hem of his t-shirt, Ryan lifts it up, showing the dressing across his side. "Was I lucky to get this, or Mikey lucky because he's got multiple scars and a fucked ankle?"

"I didn't mean it that way," Barratt says. "My apologies." File held tightly she looks at Mikey, at Ryan. "As Arkman is out of the country we'll be discontinuing the guards, you're perfectly safe."

"What's the matter," Spencer bites out. "Is it costing too much?" and has a flash of vindication when Barratt looks away, because this is insane. They can't take away the guards, not when Arkman is still out there. Even if he is in another country it's too close. Until he's locked away Ryan won't be safe at all.

"We're watching him, he won't get near them," Barratt says. "We'll be in touch."

"And what are we supposed to do until then?" Ryan asks, as closed off as Spencer's seen him all week.

"Get on with your lives, any way you can."

She leaves and Spencer moves close to Ryan, touches his arm and says, "You okay?"

Ryan replies. "Take me home. Please."


~*~*~*~

Being at home should be better, but it's not at all. Ryan wanders the rooms, running his fingers over the back of the couch, his books, the TV with the DVDs piled close on the floor. They're all things that he knows, but they feel wrong, like he's stepped back into a place that's not his; not anymore. He tries to work out why but his head is a mess, potential explanations tangled with memories that hurt.

He'd thought when Arkman was caught things would get better, but they haven't. On a logical level Ryan's satisfied that he's been captured and shipped back to America for trial, but emotionally the man who hurt him so badly remains free. He always will when he haunts Ryan's life and manipulates his dreams.

"Do you want a drink?" Brendon's in the kitchen, back to Ryan as he looks through the cupboards. "We've got herbal tea, or I guess you can have coffee."

Ryan's not thirsty, but he goes to the kitchen, sitting when Brendon pulls out one of the chairs. "I could drink some hot chocolate."

Brendon smiles. "I can do that." He stretches up on tip-toes, collecting cocoa powder and then milk which he measures in two mugs before pouring into a pan. Each movement is controlled and Ryan can see how Brendon's reigning himself in, the trapped energy bleeding out as he turns on the heat and stirs in the powder. As he does that, he sways his hips, circling them in time with his stirring, and for the first time today Ryan feels like smiling, knowing that any moment Brendon's about to sing.

"Snow is falling, all around me, everybody having fun." Ryan can't help laughing, and Brendon turns to him, already smiling.

"What?"

"It's summer and you're singing Christmas songs," Ryan says, and Brendon looks back at him, his smile smaller, but obviously happy.

"It's the hot chocolate, it reminds me of Christmas." Brendon turns and stirs the milk, then looks back at Ryan and adds, his voice quiet. "And you're here. It's like Christmas morning."

Ryan doesn't know what to say, but he knows what to do. He holds out his arms and Brendon comes rushing over, leaning into the hug. They hold on, Brendon's arms tight around Ryan, holding him close and for a few moments at least, Ryan has the sense of safety he'd thought that he'd lost.


~*~*~*~

Spencer sits up in bed, and tries to resist the urge to get up and check on Ryan -- again. It's hard because Ryan feels so far away, even if in reality it's only the next room. Spencer lies down. He's so tired that his head is throbbing and his eyes hurt, like he's blinking over grit. He turns over, cheek against the pillow, it's too hot and he throws it to the ground.

The clock on the bedside table has red numbers that glow in the dark. Twelve thirty. Twelve thirty-seven. Twelve forty-five. Spencer's chest aches and he abruptly sits up, getting out of bed. Ignoring his slippers he pads across the bedroom floor and out into the corridor, light bleeds from downstairs, but before Spencer goes down he checks Ryan's room. It's empty, and even though Spencer knows he has to be downstairs there's a band around Spencer's chest, enough that it's hard to breathe.

He goes downstairs, says, "Ryan? You down here?"

"In here." It's Jon speaking, not Ryan, and Spencer hurries down the last steps and sees that Ryan's sitting in the corner of the couch, a blanket over his lap. Clover's lying on his knee and he's stroking her back, long fingers brushing through glossy fur and Ryan's got his head tilted to the side, like he's listening to her purr. Jon's sitting at the other end of the couch, his legs tucked up and bare toes curled around the edge of the cushion, he's watching some infomercial and the light of the TV flickers over his face.

"Come sit," Jon says, and he looks at Spencer, examining him in a way that Spencer hates because he knows Jon can see everything, including the last clinging tendrils of panic. Jon smiles, soft and understanding. "We're deciding between getting a chop magic or one of those snuggies."

"A snuggie," Ryan looks up from where he's watching Clover, and in this light his eyes are dark sockets and his skin white, like living death and Spencer can feel his neck prickle with realization at how close they came to that reality. Just the thought of life without Ryan is painful, like there's something ripped out from inside and he sits in the space between Ryan and Jon, needing to touch and remind himself Ryan really is there.

Jon looks past Spencer, and pokes at Ryan's knee, making Clover jump up and run away. "I told him snuggies are tacky."

"They're blankets with arms," Ryan says, and he's holding onto his own blanket, pulling it up on his chest as the man on TV eats an apple, demonstrating a zebra print snuggie. "They're genius."

"They're ugly," Spencer says and he wonders if Ryan would prefer a zebra or leopard print pattern. Zebra he thinks and memorizes the product number as he imagines Ryan wearing the snuggie, his skinny wrists sticking out of the arm holes and the swish of material as he wanders around. It makes him smile and Jon shakes his head, reaching for a pen.

"You know Brendon will want one too." Jon looks around for paper but there's none in reach, turning his hand he writes over his arm, the product number and a times four, and Spencer realizes Jon's planning on a matching set.

Spencer sighs. "We'll look ridiculous."

"They're blankets with arms," Ryan says again and Spencer knows he's only half listening to their conversation, seemingly caught in the void between being awake and asleep.

"They're pretty, and practical."

"If you say so," Spencer says and worms his hand under Ryan's blanket, his fingers just touching the edge of the dressing. Spencer had changed it earlier, and he imagines each stitch, the way they pull and make the skin pucker. "You've taken your painkillers and antibiotics?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, even though Spencer was there when he did so. "I couldn't sleep is all." Ryan's eyes are closing and he leans his head against Spencer's shoulder. "I had to stop Jon buying a chop magic. Brendon would lose a finger."

"Lies, Ryan."

Spencer's not surprised when he sees Brendon walking downstairs. He's dragging his blanket behind him and normally he'd squeeze on the couch, but today there's not room, not when Ryan needs space. Brendon heads for the easy chair, then topples to the side when Jon reaches out and pulls him close. "You can squeeze next to me."

Squeeze is the right word, but thankfully Brendon's small, and soon he's half-sitting on Jon's lap, half-lying against the sofa arm. He makes himself comfortable, wiggling, his arm around Jon and pulls up the blanket so it's covering them all, then finally looks at the TV. "Oh, snuggies!"

Spencer has to laugh, quietly, aware that finally, Ryan's asleep.

~*~*~*~


Ryan's room has thick curtains, blue with white stripes, he keeps them closed, sunlight shining through the gap in the middle. It makes his room dark and too warm and he lies on his bed, drowsy as he stares at the ceiling. There's a crack in the corner, dark and jagged. Ryan closes his eyes, it reminds him of the stitches along Mikey's jaw.


Ryan reaches out groping for his phone, he calls Mikey most days, usually early in the morning, after breakfast and before the doctor’s round, and then late at night. They talk about the TV shows Ryan's watching, how Mikey was allowed out of bed for the first time, casual conversations that mask the questions Ryan needs to ask. Is Mikey still scared? Does he close his eyes and think he's about to die? Ryan needs to know, but he worries that Mikey will say no.

The tips of his fingers touch his phone and Ryan pulls it close. He tucks it against his ear and dials the number, surprised when instead of Mikey, Bob answers, says, "Hello."

"Bob?" Dread is coiling in Ryan's stomach and he clenches his fist. "Mikey? Is he okay?"

"He's fine." Ryan hears the sound of footsteps, a door closing and then Bob says, "He's with the doctor. They're letting him out today."


"Already?" It seems too fast for Ryan, and he can't help but worry. "They said he could go? He's not signing himself out?"

"It's doctor sanctioned," Bob says, and he sighs and lowers his voice. "He can't afford a long hospital stay and Gerard's going to be there. He's a surprisingly good nurse."

"Yeah?" Ryan imagines Gerard asking questions, determined to look after Mikey the best he can. It helps a little, and Ryan relaxes, says, "He's staying at Gerard's?"

"Has to, there's no way he'll get to his shithole of an apartment. Plus, Gerard's got a spare room."

"That's good." Ryan turns his head, the sunlight between the curtains has created a wedge of light, he can see dust motes floating to the ground. "Tell him I called."

"I will," Bob says, and ends the call.


~*~*~*~

Mikey calls back the next day. It's late in the morning and Ryan's sitting at the kitchen table, helping Jon make lunch by buttering the bread. Setting the knife aside, he picks up his phone, relieved when he sees Mikey's name. Ryan's been worried, enough that he nearly called, but he remembers how tired he was when he finally got home, so decided to wait, pushing his fears aside.

"Mikey, hey." Ryan snaps off some cheese, popping it into his mouth.

"Sorry I didn't call yesterday." There's a thump and Mikey curses, says, "Fuck, sorry. My foot slipped off the pillow."

Ryan winces. "It slipped?"

"I was trying to pick up the remote." Mikey's talking quietly, and Ryan knows why when he says, "Gee'll kill me. He's not letting me lift a finger."

"Tell me about it." Ryan feels a little guilty, especially when Jon's just there, busy making sandwiches and pouring milk into glasses. He's due into work soon, but won't leave until Spencer comes home. It's reassuring, and he loves that they do it, but Ryan needs to take back some control of his life, before he loses his nerve.

There's a silence, then muffled talking before Mikey comes back on the line. "I got busted. I've been ordered to sit back and do nothing."

"Sounds interesting," Ryan says, and Mikey sighs.

"I've had better times." He sounds down and Ryan tries to think how to help. Except the things he knows Mikey enjoys aren't feasible now, not when walking is an issue and they're both feeling so weak. It means anything has to happen at Gerard's and there's only one thing Ryan can think of to do.

"Want some company? I'll bring pizza and a movie."

"I'd like that," Mikey says, and Ryan imagines he can hear the smile in his voice. "Not too late though, I'm a light-weight at the moment."

"Will five do?" Ryan asks.

Mikey says, "That's perfect."


~*~*~*~


Ryan tells Spencer his plan and inevitably he ends up coming along. They phone for a cab and Ryan's about to go for his wallet when he remembers it was in his pants when he was taken. It's probably lost somewhere and Ryan sags at the thought of arranging new ID, getting bank cards and money. He tries not to think of the things he can't replace, the picture of him and Spencer when they were kids, the one of his mom and his dad.

"I've got this," Spencer says, and he steers Ryan toward the front door. "You've got everything you wanted?"

Ryan pats his pocket and then holds up a small pile of DVDs Teen Wolf, The Outsiders and Shaun of the Dead, movies from their collection he thinks Mikey will enjoy. "Got them."

Spencer pulls out his keys, and opens the front door. He's left a note on the table for Jon and Brendon, and left them voice mails and texts. Ryan had watched him, then, hand against his side, had leaned forward and added his own addition to the note. See you later, love Ryan.

They get into the cab, Spencer waiting as Ryan sits and gets comfortable, he's looking forward to the time he can move without pain or worrying about tearing his stitches, he's looking forward to a lot of things, but mostly he wants to feel himself again. He's tired of being scared.

Before, and everything is divided now, before and after the cabin, Ryan had known about monsters, some lived in his head and some in reality but he knew about both kinds, had battled them for years while living his life. Which is what's throwing him now, because as hard as he tries to forget, Arkman is lingering. Ryan sees him when he closes his eyes and sometimes he imagines he can smell that room, death and hurt crowding close.

"Ryan," Spencer says, sliding so he's sitting in the middle of the seat. His arm is brushing Ryan's and Ryan focuses on that contact as they're driven away from home. The cab is warm, cool air blowing from a vent near the floor, a dreamcatcher hangs from the mirror, swaying as they drive, Ryan wonders about getting one for his room.

"I might buy a dreamcatcher." Ryan doesn't know where to buy them, but he can find out. He'll get the biggest one available and hang it close to his bed, maybe it'll help.

"I'll look online when we get back." Spencer's wearing his sunglasses but he takes them off, hooking them on the neck of his t-shirt. He runs his hand through his hair and looks outside, then back at Ryan. "Will you be mad if I say be careful?"

"No," Ryan says, even though he doesn't know what Spencer actually means, it could be so many things. Don't go out alone. Wear your coat. Don't get in the tub for a bath. Whatever it is Ryan won't get mad, that's something he does know.

"Good." Spencer leans back in the seat, the sun beams through the windows and he squints slightly as he turns his head. "I know you like him, but it's a bad time."

"Oh." Ryan hadn't considered that kind of careful, and maybe he should have, because Spencer was there that first night, when Ryan met Mikey and realized he wanted more. "That's not why I'm going."

"I know," Spencer says. "Just, things should happen for the right reason."

"Nothing's going to happen." That's something Ryan does know, not yet anyway. He's going to spend time with Mikey, watch movies and eat and just maybe, manage to forget for a few hours.

For the rest of the journey they're silent, listening to the music that's playing. It's some kind of instrumental piece full of guitars and drums and Ryan's lost in the beat when they pull to a stop. The driver looks backs, says, "Twelve dollars." Spencer pays him as Ryan steps outside.

Gerard lives in a small house, it's surrounded by browning grass and Frank's sitting on the step to the door, a lit cigarette between his fingers. When he gets closer Ryan sees there's a plant pot to the side of the step, the remains of a dead plant surrounded by hundreds of cigarette butts. Frank flicks in another and stands.

"Everyone's inside." He starts to go in and then stops, looking over his shoulder. "Hope you brought good movies."

"I like them," Ryan says, and doesn't add he didn't expect it to be a mass viewing, because if he's honest, he's not really surprised. Things at his house happen on a group basis right now, that has to be the same here.

"Mikey's in the living room." Frank's leading them through the porch, there's a messy pile of shoes in one corner and Ryan looks away, his heart beating wildly. His fingers dig into the cases of the DVDs and he nods at Ray who's visible in the kitchen, wearing an apron as he stirs something on the stove.

"He's making pasta sauce." Gerard appears in a doorway, looking apologetic when Ryan jumps. "Sorry, I didn't think." He steps back and Ryan wants to tell him to stop looking so sad, it isn't his fault that Ryan's such a nervous freak.

An awkward pause and there's the sound of Mikey saying, "Gee, stop blocking the door and let him in." Gerard does, and Ryan enters the room.

Mikey's in a nest of blankets on the couch. He's got his foot resting on a pile of pillows and the table next to him is covered in comics, mugs and an impressive amounts of remotes. He's got his phone balanced on his lap, texting one-handed, but he sets it aside when he sees Ryan. He smiles, says, "Come and sit down."

There's an easy chair pulled up close to the couch, a batman comic open on the arm. Ryan sits there, and Spencer says, "You're looking better."

It's true. While Mikey's still thin, the stitches and bruising painfully obvious, he's regained some color. It helps that he's styled his hair, Ryan thinks. That or he's got the worst case of bed-head ever.

"I got to go outside this morning," Mikey says, and his mouth twitches as he gives Frank a look. "Frank pushed me to the garden. He nearly tipped me out four times."

"Three times," Frank corrects, from where he's sitting in a wheelchair, spinning around in a circle. "The last time you nearly fell yourself."

"I dropped my phone." Mikey looks wholly unrepentant. "I needed it."

"You could have waited the five seconds it took me to get there," Frank says, obviously delighting in the frown Mikey throws his way. "I need to go buy sodas, you want anything?"

Mikey shakes his head. "I'm good." He leans back against the back of the couch and pushes the blankets to the floor as Gerard starts to follow.

"I'm going with Frank." He stops, and looks back into the room. "No trying to move around. I mean it. If I find you on the floor again..."

"You'll revoke my coffee privileges, I know."

Ryan sits forward in his chair, wincing a little at the pull in his side. "You fell on the floor?"

Mikey glances at the door and says nothing until Frank and Gerard leave. "Bad dream, I told Gerard I was reaching for the remote."

As horrible as it is, Ryan can't help feeling relieved, he doesn't want Mikey to have bad dreams, but it makes him feel less alone. "Do you..." Ryan stops speaking, he doesn't want to ask questions when Spencer can hear. Not that he doesn't trust him, but there's some things he's not ready to share; not yet.

As if he's picked up Ryan's unspoken message, Spencer says, "I'm going to see if Ray needs a hand."

"You'll end up on chopping duty," Mikey warns, but all Spencer does is grin before walking away. When he's gone Mikey turns to Ryan. “You wanted to ask something?"

"Yeah." Ryan doesn't know how to start. Mikey's seen him at his worst, and Ryan shouldn't be ashamed, because they escaped, they lived. Things should be easy now. He stares at the pictures that are hung on the wall. Original art work and photos of Gerard and Mikey when they were kids. Ryan squeezes shut his eyes, opens them and says, "The dreams, how often do you have them?"

"All the time." Mikey's arm is against his chest and he picks at a loose thread on one of the blankets. "I dream about Marcus and being on the table. Digging that grave and that we didn't get away. Once I dreamed it was Gerard there and not me. They sedated me that night."

"I keep dreaming they took Spencer," Ryan admits, and the memory is a painful thing, lodged in his chest. "I see him strapped to that table, his heart carved out and thrown to the floor." Ryan's breath hitches. "I want them to stop and I don't know how."

"I wish I knew," Mikey sounds sad and Ryan reaches out, resting his hand against Mikey's arm. Mikey looks at him, says, "I miss before, when I always felt safe."

Ryan misses that too, when he went to work and out clubbing. Saw his friends and left the house without second thought. Which is enough to make him angry, because he's lost so much, and it's not right that while Arkman's in prison, Ryan's lost his freedom too. His friends are helping, there with their strength and their love, but Ryan needs to stand alone. Before he can change his mind, he decides to start small.

"Before, at the cabin, I said I'd paint you with glitter."

"You did." Mikey looks confused, as if he doesn't know where Ryan's going with this. If he's honest Ryan doesn't know either, but he stands and takes a small pot of glitter gel out of his pocket. He'd picked it up on a whim at the time, but he's glad when Mikey smiles slightly. "You're bringing the club here?"

"Sort of," Ryan says, because it's more than that. He unscrews the lid and runs his fingers through the gel, coating them in silver. "It's more of a sign."

"That the world needs more glitter?"

"No." Ryan leans forward and draws a line of silver along Mikey's cheekbone, keeping to the side without the stitches. The glitter catches the light, sparking as Ryan keeps his fingers against Mikey's face. "That we're going to keep on living, however hard it gets."

"That's a good sign," Mikey says.

Ryan agrees.


~*~*~*~



Excited, Bess strains forward, and Ryan grips the leash, says, "Bess, heel!"

She slows and moves back, brushing against Ryan's leg, panting as she looks up at him, her mouth open and tongue hanging out at the side. Ryan rubs her head, proud that she's done what she's told. It's a hit and miss thing for Bess, but he loves her deeply, even if she does forget how to behave.

"I can't believe we're dog sitting while you go out," Brendon says, but he doesn't sound annoyed, more amused and Ryan scratches Bess behind her ear.

"Like you won't be hanging with Frank."

"I think you'll find that's hanging on," Jon says, and he tilts his head to the side, looking at Brendon. "Though how he manages it when they're both midgets, I don't know."

Brendon grins and turns so he's walking backwards, looking at Jon. "Like you can talk. Munchkin."

"That's not what your mom said last night," Jon says, and Ryan starts counting down from five, is at three when Brendon yells, laughing as he pounces at Jon.

"Gross, Jon!"

Jon backs away, smiling. "Funny, she said that too."

The chase is on then, Jon's flip flops slapping against the sidewalk as he runs.

"Can you imagine if he ever gets the nerve to approach Frank? The world would end as we know it," Spencer says, watching as Brendon leapfrogs over the bollards that line the road, uncaring of the slush he lands in.

"It would be interesting."

"That's one word for it," Spencer says. "Chaos would do, too."

"Yeah, it's best he keeps mooning over him." Ryan keeps watching as Brendon finally grabs hold of Jon's sweater, but he can also feel Spencer's pointed look. "What?"

"Like you don't moon over Mikey."

"I don't moon," Ryan says, and allows Bess to walk a little faster, but all Spencer does is increase his own pace.

"You've changed three times for this date."

"Wanting to look good isn't mooning," Ryan says, and it's not, just this date is important, Ryan has to look good.

"I guess," Spencer allows, and he walks in silence a while before saying. "But you are gone on him."

Ryan doesn't even deny that, just tries to hide his smile. Which is when someone darts out of an alley, knocking into Ryan before running. It's dark and the man is tall, broad, and Ryan's breathing rapidly, panic crashing down hard. He tries to tell himself it's just a stranger, someone who doesn't want to hurt, who doesn't see Ryan at all, but it doesn't help. His chest is tight and he hates that this still happens at times.

"Ryan. Ryan, you know what to do." Spencer's talking calmly, repeating the words and finally Ryan hears. He reaches down for Bess, fingers in her fur and focuses on his breathing, taking deliberate long breaths. "That's it, that's good. He won't hurt you." Spencer's still talking, patiently waiting until finally Ryan can manage control.

A last stroke of Bess and Ryan says, "Sorry."

"For what? It's not like you do it on purpose," Spencer says, and he bumps Ryan's arm with his elbow. "Come on. Mikey'll be waiting."

Ryan starts to walk. "He could be changing outfits, too."

"Because it takes so long to chose between black hoodies and skinny jeans," Spencer says, but Ryan takes no offense, well aware Mikey and Spencer have forged a friendship that's independent of Ryan.

A few minutes and they're close to the apartment and Ryan counts windows until he finds Mikey and Frank's. There's no one on the roof tonight, it's too cold for that, but Ryan can see shadows moving behind the closed curtains. A lot of shadows, and he wonders how many people are actually up there. A lot he suspects, there always is, it's one of the reasons they're doing this tonight, finally getting their date alone.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Spencer says suddenly. "Any of us will come along."

"I know." Ryan enters the code for the front door, he can see Brendon and Jon's wet footprints on the floor, and he follows them up the stairs, taking each step slowly, Bess’ claws clicking against the hard ground. "But no, we'll be fine and I've got my phone."

"You'd better call me." Mikey and Frank's landing is decorated for Christmas, the plastic cactus wrapped in tinsel and there's mistletoe hanging over the door. Despite the cold it feels warm and familiar and Ryan opens his arms, pulling Spencer into a hug. Chin resting against Spencer's shoulder, he holds on, Bess nudging against his leg.

"I'll call, promise."

"If you don't I'll come looking," Spencer says, and he will, Spencer always does what he says.

"We'd better go in." The door to the apartment is propped open and Ryan can hear voices, Brendon laughing and Bob yelling, and these are Ryan's friends. The people that got him here. He lets go of Spencer and goes inside.

"Bess!" Frank's hanging over Bob's shoulder, and he beckons for Bess, Ryan drops her leash and she bounds forward, licking at Frank's face, making him giggle.

Jon's already sitting on the sofa with Ray, examining a stack of DVDs and Gerard's slouching against the kitchen doorway, watching Mikey who's standing in front of a mirror, carefully applying liner. When he sees Ryan he smiles, and Ryan can't help but smile back, flipping off Spencer when he starts to laugh, because maybe Ryan is mooning, but Mikey's worth it.

"Ryan, you've got my number, right?" Ryan picks his way over to Gerard, avoiding Frank's flying feet as Bob spins him round, and Bess who's chasing her tail in response.

"I've got it," Ryan says, and pats his phone in his pocket, which has had Gerard's number for months, and Frank's, Bob's and Ray's. Not that he says that when Gerard looks so worried. "I'll call when we get there."

"Thanks," Gerard says and picks up a hoodie, holding it out to Mikey. "You sure you don't want it?"

Mikey finishes lining his eyes and sets down the pencil, says, "Positive," which is surprising, because he always wears a hoodie, they help hide the scars.

"You look good." Ryan stands next to Mikey, looking at them both in the mirror. He looks at the scar that follows Mikey's jaw, the one that snakes from under the sleeve of his t-shirt, visible scars that hint at the ones that are hidden. "You're ready to go?"

"Not yet." Mikey picks up a small jar, showing it to Ryan. "You need to put on my glitter, both sides this time."

"And you can't?" Ryan says, already holding out his hand for the jar.

Mikey smiles. "Well yeah, but I like when you do it better."

Ryan unscrews the lid and dips his fingers in the gel. "In that case." He smoothes on the glitter, following along the line of Mikey's cheekbone, then does it again, extending the glitter to Mikey's hair. "Perfect."

"If you've finished primping I'm ready to go." Ryan looks away from Mikey and sees everyone is watching. Putting down the glitter he takes Mikey's hand. "I think Bob's getting impatient."

Mikey shakes his head. "He's hungry, he'll be calling for take-out after he drops us off."

"Exactly." Bob swings his car keys around his finger. "So if you'd hurry up before I have to eat Frank."

"I'd eat Gerard," Mikey says, and looks at Gerard, who's watching Mikey and Ryan with suspiciously damp eyes. "There's more meat on him."

"True," Bob says, looking Gerard from head to toe. "But Toro'll have better thighs."

"Come on." Carefully, Ryan tugs at Mikey's hand to start him moving, because he knows these people, if they don't leave now they'll be stuck in a conversation about cannibalism and that never ends well."

"Coming," Mikey says and picks up his cane, leaning on it when they finally move, and then almost immediately stops to give Gerard a fierce hug. Which leads to a hug for Frank, and Bob, and Ray, and Jon and Spencer and Brendon and then finally, Gerard again.

"You finished?" Ryan asks, trying to sound stern, which is hard when each look at Mikey provokes a smile.

"I am." Mikey starts to walk again, and this time they get out of the room and out onto the landing, where Ryan stops them, his hand on Mikey's side.

"Look up."

Mikey does, and Bob sighs as he goes downstairs. "Five minutes then I'm coming back."

That's enough for Ryan. He leans in for a kiss and Mikey's mouth feels gritty with stray glitter, enough that Ryan can taste a faint hint of gel as he runs his tongue over Mikey's lips. Holding on tight, his hands over the scars on Mikey's sides, a reminder of what they've survived.

What they'll keep on surviving.

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