When Day is Night Alone 3/10

[turps]

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

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

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

"Well, if you're sure."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With lots of ketchup?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Look."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Coming right up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds good to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ryan grins. "But you love me anyway."

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

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

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

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

"It can't hurt," Ryan says.

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

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

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

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

"We've no parents that would care."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

"Since we were kids."

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

"Si?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer nods, says, "Sure."

~~~~~

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let go!" Ryan yells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Spencer!"

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

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

~*~*~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Coming up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

Ryan wakes and all he can think is, hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Four

Comments

In case you hadn't guessed, I'm commenting as I read...

[crowgirl13.livejournal.com]

Whew! I'm glad I was wrong about that first car ride. :)
And yay for nice waitresses!

"I swear, if you say one word about the structure of a poem about sexual diseases I'll lock you in here." Hahaha! All of the bits about Ryan's word-ish expectations - and Spencer's response to them- bring me glee.

Okay, that conversation with Si about parents and whether or not there's anyone who cares about them is super creepy. This can't go well... *is back to biting fingernails*

The size of that breakfast rachets up the tension, as does that couple of hours of sun-lit hanging out. And this is where the fierce looking out for each other thing is BAD. Ryan - listen to your instincts! Spencer - stop being so stubborn; you're just a kid! *frets*

OH NO! *covers eyes*

Wow. I'm proud of Brendon. Terrified for him and fearful of what comes next [Thank god he had enough for a bus ticket], but man, I don't know if I could hold it together that well. Granted, his ability to cope is *also* freaking me out a little...

AHHH! Oh no, oh no!
Spencer!

[The similarity in smells of the truckstop bathroom of doom and Si's cab is an excellent connection. In addition, the contrast between that brief sunny, people-watching interlude and Brendon's moment of disbelief in the middle of a beautiful flower-filled day really underscore what these boys are going through. They feel surreal, but somehow make the experiences that much more concrete. That last scene of Ryan and Spencer, hurt and hidden in this ocean of grass as cars go on by, all unknowing, is CINEMATIC. So very clear and easy to visualize. *claps and continues on*]

[halighanawfulie.livejournal.com]

I admire Brendon a lot. No matter what he just keeps going. He doesn't just give up and lay there, right there, on the ground and just gives up completly. He is this state that he just keeps walking, almost like a robot.

And when Spencer wasn't waking up... That was so intense, because they are in the middle of nowhere, no one is there to help them and they are basically screwed and I cant possibly imagine the Panic that Ryan must have felt when Spencer didnt respond.

I liked the contrast between the nice people you find on the road, and the waitress for example, and the disgusting pieces of pure shit that are excuses for human beings that deserve to get hit by the sun itself such as Si.

[nimmy.livejournal.com]

so achey, poor boys, you're killing me with all their hurt *keeps reading*

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I know. I was very mean to them /o\

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I think if Brendon ever stopped walking he wouldn't have been able to get going again. It's a horrible state to be in, but he should be admired. A lot.

I hate Si so much. Thinking he can take advantage like that.

Re: In case you hadn't guessed, I'm commenting as I read...

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Whew! I'm glad I was wrong about that first car ride. :)

I was giving people false hope, much like Ryan and Spencer had.

The size of that breakfast rachets up the tension, as does that couple of hours of sun-lit hanging out. And this is where the fierce looking out for each other thing is BAD. Ryan - listen to your instincts! Spencer - stop being so stubborn; you're just a kid! *frets*

Yeah, it's something that experience will teach. They both think they're world wise but they're not. There's people out there that will take advantage and lull into a false sense of security :(

You pointing out all these things. There's no way I could ever say thank you enough.

[littleladypunk.livejournal.com]

Yay, Si didn't do anything to Spencer and Ryan *breaths in relief*

How old are they anyway, and Brendon?

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Yeah, they were lucky there.

They're all around 16/17, Young enough they should be at school and out having fun, not having to do things like survive on their own.