ryan throwing a glance at naim over his shoulder in the corridor at school, beckoning, begging, helpless. follow me, he's screaming, come with me, be with me. in the crowded halls where he knows that naim is really naim, where he can watch the flow of people part around him like waves breaking on the shore—affected and interrupted and undeniably real.
ryan sickeningly relieved at turning around to see naim behind him, just in time to watch his form slipping past the tiny crack of the rapidly-closing bathroom door. ryan reaching for him with a tenderness so alien it feels like gold molten in his fingertips. naim meeting him there without pause.
fingers twined in hair. hands on waists. feet stumbling backward, dragging them toward a stall before anyone can see. whispered promises against skin warmed by skin. i know it's you, ryan's breathing against naim's neck, eyes closed against the tide of affection that threatens to sweep him out into depths so blue and dark they make him feel bare. i know, naim's throaty whisper against his ear, it's me. and it's everything ryan is himself too scared to say out loud. ryan dizzy with how brave naim suddenly seems, and holding him a little tighter.
pain being the last thing he feels. hearing the wet tear of cartilage. feeling the hot rush of blood down his neck. feeling his body wrench itself backward. watching his own hands shove naim back. then, like an afterthought, an agony so precise it's nearly blinding.
it's me, naim saying again, and ryan's sob is a guttural thing made by an animal trying to claw its way out of him. ryan rushing for the door, hand slipping in his own blood instead of stemming the flow of it, and bursting out into the corridor with heaven on his tail, yelling for help.
ryan tumbling to the cold linoleum. his arms and legs feeling suddenly thin and frail. his hand falls away. a girl is screaming.
naim's eyes, dark and wide and brimming with horror.
