August of Whump (day 24: Unresponsive) // Bad Things Happen Bingo (Drugged)
Ryder loses track of Kit at a party, only to find him unresponsive on the floor. This isn't the first time Kit has been here, but he's not waking up right.
@augustofwhump @badthingshappenbingo
The lights pulsed and the ground shook as the clock struck two. Everything continued as it had for hours. Mark said he got new speakers, and he didn't lie.
Thundering bass threatened to shatter the windows with every beat, and it sent shockwaves through Ryder's swimming head as his surroundings blurred into a whirlwind of color and sound. Too fucking drunk for this. Every edge faded as he pushed through the crowd, every face morphed into someone unfamiliar for just long enough to make him stumble.
Kit. Kit was the only person Ryder needed to find. And even that little two-toned twink wouldn't stand out through the haze of lights and growing fear.
If anyone touched a hair on that head…
Kit had been sitting with a group of friends, people they both knew. A couple strangers, too; one who carried the conversation and another, a quiet dude Kit hung off of. Mark's brother, Jack, he heard. Ryder got vibes off him; he looked at Kit with something that made Ryder shiver. Kit insisted on giving him the benefit of the doubt. Trusted him. And Ryder was an idiot.
They made out on the couch, a teaser performance by a professional who gave it his all—Kit to a T. Ryder's position as a voyeur was usually a fun one with Kit; tonight, however…
He brought the rim of his cup to his lips as he watched them and gave Kit a hesitant nod; he'd let him have his own fun tonight. A quick adjustment in his pants, and it was off some other part of the house, some new deals, some old connections, some bloodied knuckles in some way he already forgot.
But now it was 2 AM. And even though the party continued to rage around Ryder, no one had seen Kit since before midnight.
Nothing was unusual. Ryder had covered most of the house by now; girls doing lines off a counter, some guy passed out on the couch with piss staining his crotch, smoke and solo cups and blown pupils and drunken bodies swaying out of time. It was a party. No one knew anything was wrong.
Every person Ryder passed heard a slurred question; some gave answers that melted into static. Some words stood out in the tangle of his thoughts: "Jack," "wasted," "upstairs."
Upstairs.
Kit would've gone himself. He was a showoff. Brought condoms tonight like he did to every bar or club or house party they'd ever been to.
But he would've made it known when they came down. "Guess who just got laid?" with a wild gesture to whichever spent guy he'd just taken to the stars. Their friends would laugh, whoop, roll their eyes. It was predictable. And Kit would spill every detail to Ryder—dick size, performance, position, cum review, the works.
Kit could protect himself, that one thought was certain; but Kit had been hurt before. Badly. In places just like this, too, by people like that.
And Ryder had seen him. He had seen that look in his eyes.
Upstairs. Ryder needed to get upstairs.
This house was unfamiliar. Too unfamiliar for a goddamn search and rescue. Upstairs, the lights were off, only dim strips of room lights and nightlights that barely avoided getting ripped out of the wall. His eyes had adjusted enough, but his head swam harder, his calls for Kit growing louder.
"Shut up…! Try'nnnna fuckin' sleep…!"
His head throbbed as it whipped in the direction of a weak shout—or did it come from the other room over there?—and his vision blacked out for the briefest of seconds. Shit. But even in a stupor, that wasn't Kit's voice.
Ryder's throat went dry, tension building in each doorway, staring into the rooms long enough to flush his cheeks further before asking the same question and hearing the same thing each time: Kit wasn't there, and no one had seen him.
And Ryder's jaw clenched tight, his stomach dropping to the floor as he faced the final room in the upstairs hall. Shut all the way, but not locked. No light from under the door, no sounds, no signs of life; Kit hadn't been anywhere else.
Ryder's hands shook with the heart rate of a mouse, the doorknob jiggling beneath his palm with a heaving breath. The instant his fingers touched the cool metal and his forehead touched the white-painted wood, everything seemed to shift on its axis, and his busted knuckles whitened as the doorknob creaked with a slow twist of his wrist.
Light from the hall was scarce, but it was enough, and over the past half hour of exponential anxiety, the false alertness kept a dark spiral at bay. Something to hold onto. Even if it gave way to waves of overwhelm that threatened to knock him to the fucking floor, it kept him moving.
It was dark inside, but it was a bedroom—neat shelves, tidy desk, no signs of struggle. The bed had no headboard, a mattress on a boxspring with messy blankets and a pillow in the middle.
"Kit?"
No response. Another step in. There were cups scattered across the floor, tissues… Two condom wrappers, but not Kit's. Someone had been here, though.
Time moved in slow-motion and Ryder's feet fell heavier, only to stop completely when he saw it.
Fuck.
Tucked tight behind the side of the bed, barely peeking out from above the mattress, a tuft of blond. Just one more step, and the body slumped behind the bed was in plain view.
"Kit—"
The name escaped Ryder's lips with a guttural gasp, legs wobbling as he stumbled over trash.
Kit was propped halfway against the side of the mattress, his body both limp and rigid at once; he slumped to the side, but his body didn't give completely.
It was so fucking obvious.
His tight black shorts were pulled down around his thighs, bare ass to the ground and flaccid cock exposed; the front of his crop tank was stained with alcohol, fluid and vomit.
It happened again.
"Fuck, Kit…!"
His thin arms lay useless by his sides, thighs spread and knees bent at an awkward angle. And glancing up, his hair was thoroughly fucked; the black was mussed, shiny with sweat, the blond in small telltale clumps by his face. Neck marked with hickeys… and his lips had fallen slack, smeared with the same mess that trailed up to his cheek.
Ryder froze. His chest grew tight, the air squeezing out of his lungs as as Kit's face came into full view. His eyes… Far from open, but not fully closed. There was nothing in that expression. That same horrifying blankness had greeted him before. Last time, though, Ezra was in town. He knew shit, he came to help. Ezra hadn't gotten wasted while his best friend was…
"Hey, hey, Kit. Kit," Ryder's throat closed around his words, but he softened his tone as he attempted to kneel by his side. But he lost his balance, landing just shy of crushing Kit's brittle legs with his weight. "Hey, baby, look at me."
His hands and knees hit the thin carpet with a force that would've made him shout during the day, rugburn and harsh bruises already blooming; right now, he had too many shots of anesthetic still burning in his veins.
Too many shots of stupidity.
He wasn't responding.
Too many shots. Enough to let this happen.
And too fucking bad. Ryder had to handle it. He'd done it before.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, whispering a one-word prayer to whatever out there had yet to give up on people like him and Kit.
Two trembling fingers made contact with the younger man's clammy neck—definitely sweating, shit—feeling for a pulse. Just beneath his sharp jaw, right about… there. Ryder stared, eyes wide, praying that the small thump-thump beneath his fingertips wasn't his mind playing tricks on him.
He locked his focus on Kit's narrow chest. The walls breathed, but Kit didn't.
Ryder's hands shook as he fumbled Kit's chin upward. "Kitty… Look at me."
Kit's mascara didn't run; he wore the waterproof shit lately. But it had still smudged around his eyes, light concealer fading to reveal his dark circles. Maybe sweat, maybe tears, maybe the alcohol… or whatever that fucking roach spiked Kit's drink with.
Ryder bared his teeth as his eyes began to mist, a broken whimper escaping him with a rough wipe of his eyes.
Not yet.
So Ryder let out a soft, dry sob, curling into himself as he leaned forward and placed his ear just above his best friend's full lips. His head swam with his eyes closed, but he focused, breathing out a sigh as soft puffs of warm air hit his cheek—not slow, no wheezing.
"Thank fucking christ…"
Kit was alive. He was breathing.
But that was the bare minimum. Ryder had to wake him up.
The sound of the party outside the bedroom had faded into the background. People peeked in and walked off; business as usual.
Calling 911 wasn't an option; neither was the hospital. They'd call the cops, the last thing either of them needed. He had the fucking warrant, too much shit on him, too much shit and too many people in this fucking house—GOD.
He'd figure something out. He always did; couldn't do anything but try.
Get a grip.
Ryder slapped himself in the face, hard. The impact jolted him out of his emotional spiral, followed by another, then a violent shake of his head with a muttered "fuck." His own saliva spattered Kit's scarred shoulder; his cheeks burned as he winced.
His palm came to Kit's cheek as his other hand kept his chin steady, tilted slightly down and to the side; every now and then, even in the dark, it appeared Kit's eyes would move beneath his heavy lids. He was still in there. Ryder slapped him, too, lightly at first.
"Hey, Kit," His voice raised just slightly, but the party was louder.
No response.
"Kit!" Ryder's voice raise with the force of his second slap.
Nothing. Fucking nothing.
Kit was burning up. Simultaneously, he was cold. Ryder growled, bloodied fingers curling into the ruined fabric of the messy blanket as he pulled it from the bed. Soft linen enveloped Kit's scrawny frame as Ryder's limbs cradled him in slow, stiff motions. One leg slid up between the mattress and Kit's back, lifting him with utmost caution; nothing changed.
Should've stopped him.
"Kit, do not fucking do this—" His voice was hoarse, barely audible, crackling and choked with unshed tears.
Ryder continued to shake. Kit's toothpick thighs came to rest over one leg, nestled in his lap while his fingers slid up the damp fabric of the younger man's back, up his sweaty neck to cradle his head.
The sight tore him to shreds. Kit had been helpless like this before. He'd been in even worse condition before, and Ryder had sat with him through it. Ryder cried that time, too, and every other time he had to watch his favorite boy suffer… especially when it was his own fucking fault.
Should've stopped him.
Kit was smart, yeah, and skilled in self-defense, more sophisticated stuff than Ryder ever learned. He had lived in this world since he was sixteen and he could take care of himself. But Kit was only 23.
Ryder had six years on him, but with those six years came a world of experience—he had been an idiot at 23. Kit was less reckless at that age… But he was young, and tonight was recklessness incarnate.
Kit trusted a guy who put Ryder off.
And Ryder let him go alone.
His eyelids fluttered, then squeezed tight shut until the heat receded. Ryder breathed through gritted teeth, hissing with each inhale as he forced his emotions back. Not now.
"Okay… Okay, I'm gonna try something. Just don't punch me if it works, 'kay?" His tone softened and his broad frame curled protectively around Kit as he lowered the messy blanket and brought one palm to his chest. A gentle rub over his filthy tank; every muscle, each slight indent, all of it was plain to feel.
Scrawny ass.
Ryder offered his best friend a fragile smile. "Yeah, it's gonna hurt… You've gotta eat more, y'know…"
Tender words accompanied a soft stroke of Kit's head; a gross depiction, but not a mimicry, of caretaker and child. No one had ever made Ryder feel this way—so soft, cautious, heartbroken.
Ryder placed his knuckles against Kit's sternum, rubbing gently at first. The slight contours of the bone beneath stood out starkly against his fingers.
"Please, Kit, please, stay with me babe…"
The pressure of Ryder's fist against Kit's breastbone increased incrementally, knuckles grinding into his narrow chest.
No response.
Fuck—
Ryder sputtered, a mix of a scoff and a gasp and even laughter, a sound of raw panic. "Yeah, this sucks… I know…" He muttered, his arm trembling as the force increased. "Just… open your goddamn eyes…"
Ryder's heart threatened to burst through his ribcage. His breath came in quick bursts even as he desperately tried to keep his expression soft. If he scared Kit even more…
But Kit just kept breathing, staring through the bottoms of his eyelids.
Ryder let out a frantic laugh—people outside the bedroom had begun to take notice. His vision trembled, turning red and white and fading out and abberating and fuck—
He dug deeper into Kit's chest, so deep he knew he'd regret it when it bruised.
"It hurts, right? Right?! Kit?!" He couldn't hold it in anymore, spit flying as hot tears rolled down his cheeks. If he was louder, if he pressed harder…
It had been fifteen seconds. Fuck only thirty—he'd keep going until Kit woke up, even if he had to crack his sternum.
Kit's eyebrow twitched—a hint of a grimace. Ryder's eyes widened with a glimmer that disappeared as fast as it came.
There were onlookers now. A guy and a girl standing there, horrified, but just watching.
Ryder locked eyes with both of them—his cracks were showing, and they could tell.
"Go get Mark!"
One rushed off while the other retreated. Fucking christ.
His attention returned to Kit. The bruises were already forming beneath his knuckles, but he ground them deep, Kit's soft skin cold and damp against his own boiling skin.
Ryder's voice fell into whimpered babbles. His thoughts had grown incoherent. Just dig. Dig. Dig. Hard enough to feel Kit's sternum pop.
And just as Ryder breathed in, winding up another shout with the raw pressure in his chest, Kit's lips parted just slightly in a choked cough, a wheeze, his eyelids fluttering as he let out a muffled groan.
"Kit!" Ryder couldn't hold back a silent laugh, the sound escaping through a crackle of suppressed tears. "Holy shit…"
Kit was silent, but his head tilted, his features crinkling again.
"You almost fucking died on me, asshole," Ryder's tone lightened, only for his faint smile to fade into a wave of sorrow. His fingers kept pushing. "Come on… Say something, man."
Kit groaned again. "F…fuck…"
His tears fell at full force; he was beyond thankful Kit couldn't see them, even as his eyelids opened. Kit's grey eyes trained on nothing, thousands of yards away, still glassy with pupils blown.
"That's it, Kitty. Talk to me." Ryder's heart swelled and broke; his fist loosened into a palm upon Kit's fragile bones. "Stay with me."
Ryder stared down at his best friend following a harsh sniff and a desperate swipe of his watery eyes with a burning hot shoulder.
"Ry-der…" Kit slurred his name, drool spilling from his lower lip as his eyes flicked slowly around the room.
Ryder couldn't stop the huff of relief, unconcerned about the other onlookers gathering in the hall as his face contorted with emotion. Even now… He could recognize him.
"I'm here, Kit. I've got you. You're… you're safe." He hiccuped and aimed his face away from Kit for a cough—that word almost felt sour.
He caught his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing for a moment before allowing his posture to relax, easing some of the pressure off of Kit.
Ryder's eyes narrowed as he heard Mark's voice in the background, approaching the upstairs bedroom as the name 'Jack' rushed through the crowd in whispers. He cradled Kit closer and hardened his expression as Mark entered.
"Don't touch him," Ryder felt weak as much as he felt feral, a cornered animal protecting his companion. He looked further from Ryder than anyone in the room had seen him… all but Kit.
Mark handed Ryder a bottle of water—sealed—and Ryder avoided his eyes as they went over what little they knew for certain. Jack had left the party over an hour ago, and Mark showed no surprise, only disgust, frustration and a promise not to allow Jack near Kit ever again.
It wasn't enough for Ryder. He'd pull some strings, make shit happen, maybe beat Jack to the brink of death himself. But he kept his eyes locked on his best friend, silent and nodded along.
Kit slowly came to throughout, able to drink the water Ryder pressed to his lips, able to mumble that he felt like shit and ask where he was, if someone had been there.
And it didn't take him long to recognize the static in his head, the filth and ache in his body.
The instant it clicked on Kit's expression, heat welled in Ryder's eyes yet again, just for a moment. His reddened lips gently brushed the blond side of Kit's head, then the black. Past, then present.
Kit shut down. He always did. He wouldn't talk about it, but he was awake. He would survive.
A couple of Kit's close friends came by to check on him and offer help as the two sat against on the floor, asses and legs numb; Ryder hesitated to move him until he could move on his own. They couldn't do much but assure him he was cared for—other presences there for a friend. The rest of the crowd left them alone, and that was for the best.
"Ryder… Take me… back to your place." Kit stammered after a few minutes of drinking water and testing his own motion, his mouth dry and his eyes watering from more than the remnants of intoxication. His limbs appeared leaden, his body still sagging, but his coordination was returning, enough for Ryder to guide him down the block and into a car. "Take me home."
The last of Ryder's adrenaline had worn off, leaving him almost lethargic in his spot. But still, he was quick to move out from underneath Kit, careful to avoid knocking him with his knees. His ass tingled as he stood; the bruises and rugburns from his fall to the floor had started to hurt, but that meant he was coming back to himself.
The faces and sounds Kit made as he struggled to stand… Ryder whispered assurances. He never wanted to let him out of his sight again.
It took another twenty minutes to get Kit out the door, then another fifteen minute wait for the nearest Uber. By the time they got back to the apartment in all its mess and glory, it was 3:38 AM.
Ryder would keep Kit awake until he was fully lucid, and even then, he'd watch over Kit when he managed to fall asleep. Deadbolt the doors, lock all the windows, even the vents… He'd keep him safe.
Hands gentle and voice low as he cleaned Kit up, Ryder observed the vulnerability within himself. He rarely let himself be soft, but soon, they both settled, both sitting up on his mattress with Kit's favorite adult cartoon playing on the TV. Kit leaned into Ryder; they both looked like hell and felt even worse.
But they had each other. Even if the self-blame and fury would take him over the moment Kit found peace in sleep, he still had his best friend.
The night was calm when Ryder and Kit headed out on a deal. Hubris clouded Ryder's judgment; he took a shortcut somewhere along the line, and he and his dear Kitty paid. Kit managed to call Ezra for help, only for Ezra to end up in the same shit as them. Now, they're left with no other option but to call Damien.
Kit is Damien's most profitable product — the man would do what he could to preserve it. Kit softens yet sours further at the mention of him, his hands growing clammy and his body tensing with memory. Ryder dreads it, certain Damien is going to make him pay for this — again. And Ezra, as much as he hates Damien for the same reasons, just hopes he'll care enough about his "property" to keep the whole found family safe.
