When Day is Night Alone 4/10

[turps]

"Ryan?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can't make promises like that."

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

"Right, so you're fine."

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

Ryan shrugs. "I've been better."

"Not good enough. Details, Ryan."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're leaving your shoe on?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

"It was that bad?"

"Worse."

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

"I'll be fine."

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

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

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

"That's miles back," Spencer says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Banana aren't supposed to be red."

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

"My point is, they were gross."

"And yet you ate them."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know," Spencer says.

~*~*~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

"I said move."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I could kiss you right now."

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

"Told you we'd get here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not by me," Spencer says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Five

Comments

[crowgirl13.livejournal.com]

UGH! Big quote ahoy... THIS:

"I'm not dead, Ryan."

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

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

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

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

"You can't make promises like that."

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

Aside from being an awesome encapsulation of their relationship, this made me tear up. Oh BOYS.

Okay, it really, really sucks that they lost Ryan's bag, but I was worried about the guitar. Kind of a lot. [As it symbolizes the Dream and possibility of happy endings. It's battered, but in one piece. WHEW!]

He's not McGuyver; he's not able to fix things or make complicated contraptions out of nothing. He's only Ryan Ross, and right now he’s just plain scared.
OH RYAN!
[This whole interplay between the two of them is heart-wrenching. There's enough humor - okay, enough bone-tired snark - that it leavens things a bit, but DAMN. *clutches chest*]

I love that scene in the bathroom with the metal mirror and Ryan with grass in his hair. It's another one that's crystal-clear, easy to see.

Ugh trashcan diving. And having a lively imagination is not your friend in those kinds of situations -as thoughts of maggots and bones working out of skin and rabid dogs [really, Ryan? RABID DOGS??] show.

I can't even imagine the horror of banana and beet sandwiches. >_<

~~~
When it gets dark, Brendon half closes his eyes and lets the world become a blur, which is better than having to see his own reflection.

I think the use of reflections -both of Ryan and Brendon - in this fic is fascinating. It's happened more with Brendon - perhaps because he doesn't have a Spencer to verbally reflect him, and he's being constantly forced to look, compare what he sees with what everyone else sees of him. It's interesting from an age perspective, from a 'how do I protect myself' perspective and in constantly hammers home how alone Brendon is.

Oh, and I'd like to punch Brendon's mom in the head.

Ah man, he's sick too? Bden can't cut a break! :(

~~~

Sometimes, when every part of him is hurting, Ryan thinks about leaving the instrument behind. It would be easier to go on without it, but he can never bring himself to actually set it on the ground and walk away, because Ryan's already lost so much. He can't lose this, too.

Yes, that. :D

Their first kiss is a gritty-dirt, stinky, bloody lip kiss? AWWW... [I shouldn't find that cute, but well, it is.]The timing of this conversation is really excellent too.

The sharing peanut M&Ms thing is too much [and of course Spencer insists on the peanuts for protein]. *Smishes those boys together. Carefully*

I sincerely hope that trucker!Bob is on his way - Ryan and Spencer need help, pronto!

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Man, your comments. It's taking me double the time to reply than it should because I sit and flail over each one.

Aside from being an awesome encapsulation of their relationship, this made me tear up. Oh BOYS.

I love the fact that Ryan and Spencer are such BFFs. Ryan has such utter trust in Spencer, which says so much because Ryan doesn't trust easily. So I love that you see that too.

Also that the conversation between the two of them felt real to you. They're in a really bad situation, but they're still kids, everything wouldn't be dark conversations and heavy scenes.

I love that scene in the bathroom with the metal mirror and Ryan with grass in his hair. It's another one that's crystal-clear, easy to see.

Ryan is so much about image, so tidy and perfect in how he dresses that the mental image of him filthy and more importantly, too tired to actually care about that, gets to me every time.

I can imagine him looking at himself, plucking out the grass and normally he'd be horrified, but just then it's taking all his energy to stay upright.

Banana and beet sandwiches make me gag thinking about them, still, I think I'd prefer those to garbage food :(

It's interesting from an age perspective, from a 'how do I protect myself' perspective and in constantly hammers home how alone Brendon is.

I spent a lot of time thinking about this story, and with Brendon it kept coming back to how it would have taken a long time for him to even feel slightly at ease with himself in terms of liking guys. It's something so different from what was expected of him, and he'd know that, but he had the strength to research and look inside of himself and try to deal. Which is hard at any time but even more so when you're his age and know the feelings you have are against everything your Church and family believe.

To get to that point and then have it all stripped away is a nightmare and his perception of himself changes until when he looks at himself he can't even recognize who he's seeing.

Family is such a strong thing for him, and he lost that. Was thrust out of that close knit space for being wrong. There's no wonder he ended up so screwed up.

When I researched this story I was reading accounts from people who'd been sent to these 'anti-gay camps'. It disgusts me that such things exist.

Ah man, he's sick too? Bden can't cut a break! :(

He was. That was actually a point I wondered if I'd pushed too far, but he needed to be broken down completely. Being sick did that, as well as showing yet again how far away from his family he is.

Their first kiss is a gritty-dirt, stinky, bloody lip kiss? AWWW... [I shouldn't find that cute, but well, it is.]The timing of this conversation is really excellent too.

Can you imagine? It would suck in so many ways, and yet to them it was perfect. &them;

Trucker!Bob to the rescue!

[halighanawfulie.livejournal.com]

Ryan and Spencer make me smile. They don't have anything but themselkves and eachother. and somehow they aren't completly desperate. In the middle of all the shit that has happened, they are so happy for hving eachother. and all the reminiscing and the stories of when they were little. everything is so endearing. and the kiss :) So perfectly unperfect.
They manage to be very rational and complete dreamers at the same time.

And then at the other end of the spectrum it's Brendon who is absolutely alone. he is beyond being lonely. he has no one. His family stopped aknowledging him. It's like they erased them completly. You can almost see his face fading away from family pictures. It's like someone pressed delete and he vanished. He is so alone. so fuckin alone.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

So perfectly unperfect.

You have this knack of pointing things out that make me go, yes! Because yeah, perfectly unperfect is the best description of the kiss, as is them being rational and dreamers at the same time.

You can almost see his face fading away from family pictures

Even knowing how it ends, that makes me feel so sad.

[lazydwarf.livejournal.com]

I'm reading this in bits while I'm "working" and I just want to flail my hands about and squeak and I think I'll be found out if I do that. Poor beebees!!!!

[turps33.livejournal.com]

No, I'd imagine flailing and squeaking aren't the way to go at work *g*

They are poor beebees :(