ryan whelan who grew into his sexuality through violence, learned that desire is inextricable from fear and intimacy requires pain. part of him knows it's wrong that he comes away from sex bruised and beaten--but it's all wrong, isn't it? that's what he's told every sunday, when the pastor brushes over commandments against lying, stealing, adultery and places sexual immorality at the detestable forefront.
what he feels is wrong, so it should hurt when he acts on it.
a new boy comes to town, bug-eyed and withdrawn, wearing ill-fitting clothes like he thinks it'll make it harder for people to notice him. but ryan notices. notices the way naim reid looks back sometimes during class, eyes touching on him and then away.
anything you're not afraid of? he throws verbal stones instead of physical, not wanting to scare him off, but needing the violence as lead up if he's going to dare act on his building desire. funnel web spider--an excuse to flick a finger against soft cheek, a well-aimed, final blow. naim snaps, swears, shoves him with a force ryan is used to, and so now he can change the tide. they go down hard on the dust-covered concrete floor, naim splayed out beneath him, pinned by a hand on each wrist. and ryan's panting, praying, repenting in advance, but he's a son of adam as much as his father's. he takes and eats of the fruit.
naim looks up at him, eyes filled with shock. ryan's heart spikes, adrenaline turning to poison in his gut. but then naim pulls him down, and the kiss doesn't bruise, the soft whimper he offers up into ryan's mouth not from pain. he yields when ryan touches him, lets him change their position without a fight. ryan's never had this feel so right before. never had a kiss so bloodless.
then naim pulls away, panicked, says they should stop, and he realises that even tenderness cannot conceal what they've done. you ever been there before? to the mill? no, he says. first time. because he's never taken hunter there before, hunter who touches ryan like he wants to kill him, like he wants ryan to tear his throat out with his teeth and put him out of his misery. don't tell anyone, he says. this town will eat naim alive if he dares.
ryan lies awake thinking of the way naim had sighed into his mouth, unfurling underneath his touch like a blooming flower. there are no bruises where naim touched him, but he almost wished there were, some kind of mark on his body as proof it hadn't been a dream. he should leave it, he knows. go back to being different, ignoring naim at school.
ryan's already ruined, but gentle naim might still be saved, if they leave it here.
he entices naim back to the mill with a promise of a joint to share because he's wretched and weak, and naim follows like a duitiful lamb. he tells him of his mother, loosened by the buzz, grief sticky in his throat. shit hole, he calls the place that's all ryan's ever known. it was my mum's idea to move here.
so there's nothing you like about this place? nothing? and he's trying hard to stay casual, but his desperation echoes clear in the wide open space of the mill. nothing, naim says, and then kisses ryan like he's never been kissed, except in the same place by the same mouth all those days ago.
the pastor's son comes knocking, and ryan's been taught to turn the other cheek rather than dodge, so the stones hit him straight on as he bites through his tongue. hunter will taste the blood, when they're bruised enough they can finally touch each other with hands instead of rock, but he won't care. they were raised in this shit hole together, the two of them, and they're made of the same rotten stuff. naim will figure that out sooner or later, and he'll high tail it out of this shit hole and move on to big and better things. and ryan will stay, church every sunday, head bowed, praying to god none of these people ever see him for what he is.
the mill is a distant dream, when hunter licks the blood from his teeth, nails digging into his throat. this is what he deserves.
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