When Day is Night Alone 1/10

[turps]

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

No, strike that. Reverse.

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

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

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

They don't.

~~~~

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

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

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

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

~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. I..."

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

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

"Answer me, Brendon."

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

Spencer was taken away when Ryan was thirteen.

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

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

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

~~~~

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

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

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

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

"Where is he now?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell Spencer I'm asking about him."

"I will," Ryan says

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

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

~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I help you?"

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

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

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

“You won’t stay at all.”

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

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

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

"Ryan."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Even if I mix the flavors?"

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

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

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

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

"Spencer..."

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

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

"I don't want to tell you."

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

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

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

"And you?" Ryan asks, icy calm.

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

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

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

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

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

"And go where?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

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

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

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

"Do you like that, Brendon?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

"You're a good son."

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

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

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

Part Two

Comments

[crowgirl13.livejournal.com]

I absolutely love this Ryan. He's got so much determination and fierceness in him.

My favorite detail for its contrast is this:
Alan's wearing polished leather shoes that are laced tight, the bows perfect, unlike Brendon's sneakers with the curly orange laces that spiral free.

The use of descriptive color really stands out in this section. The blue windows, red of slurpee and straw, yellow of fading bruises have a hard edge to them that captures the desperation and fear, here.

Ryan's portioning out the spaghetti is just heartbreaking.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I think Ryan is all kinds of wonderful, and I was so worried that I'd make him one dimensional. Ha, my list of worries for this story was a mile long, I'm sure you've noticed. I do think he's fierce when he needs to be, so I'm glad you can see that.

I love Brendon's laces, and you saw them :D

[halighanawfulie.livejournal.com]

Ok so I'm reading part 4 now, and I was planning to write a long ass comment when I finished reading the fic, but I realised I would forget all the shit I wanted to say, so I just went back to comment each part and then keep reading.

The details in this are brilliant you know. The mood, the tone of this fic is already somehow different from anything I've ever read.

I know I'm not gonna finish this without crying so hard my chest hurts.
I like your writing style and the way you alternate between each characters stories.

The brainwashing that's going on with Brendon... It makes me sick to my stomach. Poor kid.

And Spencer and Ryan. The way you write their friendship is amazing. I'm loving it so much. And all that has happened is so heartbreaking you know, but no matter what happens Ryan has so much determination. And when Spencer was late... for a moment there I thought that something had happened to him, and I felt so scared for what that would do to Ryan.

I think My favorite thing was the last few lines. Ryan and his dad. For some reason that just slayed me.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

The details in this are brilliant you know. The mood, the tone of this fic is already somehow different from anything I've ever read.

You know when you have a bad day and you remember things that made you feel on top of the world? This is going to be one of those times.

The brainwashing that's going on with Brendon... It makes me sick to my stomach

It's a sickening thing, yet it's something that goes on all over the world. That such places as Shepard House actually exist disgusts me.

Ryan and Spencer keep each other going. If Ryan had been too late and he'd lost Spencer, well, I think he'd have lost himself too.

Ryan and his dad. For some reason that just slayed me

Just going from the little we see in canon, the situation between Ryan and his dad was complicated. It's possible to love someone deeply and hate them too. That's what I was going for then. That Ryan had to leave, but doing so wasn't easy.