Yelling
by M. F. LuderPart six
I'm trying hard to breathe now but there's no air in my lungs
There's no one here to talk to and the pain inside is making me numb
- Changes. Three Doors Down.
It's happening again, he notices. This thing that takes over time and makes him forget things that happened in between. Ryan remembers leaving the house and getting into the car. He remembers making that first turn and after that, it's all static. Until he makes the last turn and pulls into the driveway of the house.
He parks, turning off the engine and sits there for a minute. His breathing is shallow and he doesn't think, his brain 'unable to muster even that much, and everything around him is freezing.
One deep breath, then a shallow one. Chest tight. Another deep breath. A grimace. A fleeting thought. Seth, smiling at him. Chest too tight. Can't breath. A sob that dies in his throat. Sandy hugging him close. Oh, god. I can't. Let me go. Kirsten kissing his cheek before leaving for work.
Another shake of his head that means nothing because, while he might be weak, he knows what has to be done. So he does it. He removes the seatbelt and pushes the door open, not thinking, not able to. He slams it closed and makes his way to the front door.
The last time he was here-- He takes another deep breath. The last time he was here, well, he didn't walk in the front door, did he? His mom always used the back door, the service entrance. And another deep breath.
He only knocks once. The maid answers the door, wearing a dress that's very much like the one his mom used to wear. She nods, opens the door wider and lets him walk inside. He's expecting him, of course. He probably told this woman that a young man would be coming in, something about an internship? An interview? An assistant, or whatever. Something that wouldn't make it look suspicious, of course. Of course.
Ryan doesn't know quite what to do, so he does nothing. He stands in the middle of the living room, calves touching the sofa but refusing to sit down. He takes one breath after another and, somewhere in the back of his mind, he tries not to hope for Mr. Dart's absence from the house.
Silly of you, my darling. Silly of you. Of course he's there. He's waiting for you. He's been waiting for you for the past six years, I can assure you. He's waiting for you.
It's a certainty that makes Ryan shiver. A moment later, before hope can fully blossom, Ryan hears a door open and then the man walks over to him, smiling, grinning -- smirking.
Ryan's fingers start to ache, cold, and it reminds him of a cold winter in Reno, when his mom and Trey and him were staying in their car, one window broken. His fingers ache now like they did then and, slowly, he places his right hand in his pocket.
"Hello, there." The grin doesn't leave Mr. Dart's lips. "I thought you wouldn't come."
Ryan swallows thickly. There are no excuses, and even if there were, Ryan doesn't think he could think of one.
Mr. Dart seems to wave it off. "It's okay. I understand. You're a busy young man. I understand."
Of course. Of course you understand. You knew I was going to come, one way or the other. I've always done it. You're certain I always will.
Ryan fears the man might be right.
He doesn't say anything for a moment, knows better than to give Mr. Dart any more ammo. Better to keep quiet, to wait, and Ryan does exactly that. It doesn't take long, another half breath and a painful reminder in Ryan's chest that something in his life is shifting and it might never be corrected.
Mr. Dart smiles at him. “Anyway, I'm glad to see you here. Shall we take this into the study?"
Ryan's gaze shifts to the door that leads to the kitchen. The polite words hide nothing, especially not the intention, and he feels his hands trembling, shaking, and his insides wavering. He takes a soft breath through barely parted lips before walking around the living room. He sees the maid push the kitchen door open, looking directly at Mr. Dart.
Mr. Dart nods. "Yes, that'll be all Rosemerta. Thanks."
The maid nods before turning around, closing the kitchen door behind her. Ryan's gaze once against shifts to Mr. Dart before lowering back to the floor. Of course he would ask the woman to leave, to run an errand, whatever, to leave the house. Of course, because Mr. Dart is no idiot and he likes the place to himself, to themselves.
He likes you alone, Ryan, my beautiful. He likes to know there's nothing else in the house to interrupt you two. A throaty chuckle forms in the back of Ryan's mind. He likes to have you to himself. Yes, Ryan, my beautiful.
Ryan feels likes choking on his own saliva. He makes his way to the study, the path burned into his memory, like an old scar that will never really be forgotten, no matter how much he tries. As he crosses the threshold, it feels like he's walking into a meat locker. The temperature lowers rapidly and before he knows it, before he's even realized it, his hands start to shake. He shoves them into his pocket as not to show weakness.
He pauses in the middle of the room, gaze down, trying to breathe in a regular pattern.
He doesn't hear Mr. Dart move around the room, nor does he hear the space being closed until there is a hand on his shoulder, touching his collarbone, caressing it almost lovingly. His lips are pressed into a thin line and his stomach clenches at the breath against his neck.
"I've missed you, you know that? I've missed you so much."
Ryan closes his eyes as lips graze his chin, soft kisses making their way down his neck to the hollow of his throat. He bites on the inside of his cheek, hard, and his eyes are clenched shut, willing himself to let go of the present and think of something, anything, as long as it's not in the here and now.
Mr. Dart's other hand, his left hand, lifts the edge of Ryan's shirt and his fingers scratch at the skin until reaching his nipples, rubbing them, and Ryan swallows with difficulty.
There are more kisses Ryan doesn't dare think about, nor count, and tries not to feel, though he has no idea how to do that. There are kisses everywhere around his neck and his shoulder, and there's a voice that whispers, "Take it off."
Ryan knows what the man is talking about. Saying nothing, pretending to be dreaming and his hands trembling, he takes off his shirt and lets it fall to the ground. Then there's a chest against his back, and lips against his skin, and his body feels like it's on fire, in anger, in frustration, and it's one feeling after another, each one more horrible than the one before.
Both hands fall onto his stomach, touching the light hair that makes its way from Ryan's navel down his jeans. One hand moves up, touching the nipples again as more kisses are placed. The other works on the belt, easily removing it.
Ryan's eyes stay closed. He doesn't feel anything but fear and anxiousness and things he can't quite describe. His hands shake, again, and they seem unable to stop. His breathing's shallow, almost panting, though he tries to control it as much as he can but failing miserably. He tries to think about something, anything, but not this and he doesn't know where to begin.
The button gets undone, then the zipper is pulled down and Ryan can feel an erection against his ass. Mr. Dart licks Ryan's shoulder, kisses his way up to the neck, and then scrapes Ryan's chin with his teeth. Ryan shudders and inhales sharply.
Don't think, he tells himself. Don't think. Breathe. In and out. Breathe. Just in an out. Breathe.
There is something wrong in his life, Ryan thinks, if it has gotten to the point where he has to remind himself to breathe.
"So perfect. So beautiful. So... so beautiful."
The words seem to be a whisper of the past that was never really forgotten, that never will be.
Fingers press against his crotch, touching it and trying to get a reaction from Ryan that will never happen, no matter how much the man tries, or touches, or kisses or licks. His jeans are shoved roughly down his hips, along with his underwear. Ryan feels his whole arm shaking, his shoulder and his teeth clattering, and god, if there's anything that feels more wrong than this, more humiliating, Ryan has no idea what that could be.
Suddenly, there's air against his back, and a draft makes him shudder. His arms fold over his chest, hands gripping his forearms tightly, nails digging into skin. He opens his eyes for a moment, a second, and looks down at his jeans pooling around his ankles on the floor, along with his underwear. His dick is soft in a tangle of dark blond hair, and he groans in the back of his throat, the first sound he has dared make since he walked into the study. His grip tightens, making it hurt for a moment and the distraction is welcomed. Ryan closes his eyes before thinking anything else, before throwing up in the despair of all of this.
When the weight against his back returns, he can feel skin against his own. There is no need for words, there never was, not on his end at least. He toes off his shoes with the ease of practice, and steps out of his jeans, if only with some difficulty. He takes another step forward, hands letting go of his arms and getting hold of the desk before him instead. He barely notices a small bottle standing in the corner. He leans forward, slightly, head bent, eyes still closed.
He feels hands on his ass and more words are whispered. Words like beautiful and perfect, like soft and don't move. He doesn't listen to them. He hears nothing, except a buzzing in his ears, in his mind, and he tries to find something to focus on before he bites off his tongue.
He has no homework left for tomorrow, nothing to get done. A fingertip touches the rim of his asshole. Ryan sucks in a breath. No, no, no homework. But he has a History paper due Monday, and he'll have to work on that this weekend. If Seth doesn't declare the weekend to be Ryan and Seth time. The finger moves inward and Ryan bites on the inside of his cheek. Deep breath. Seth... Seth, yes, Seth. Seth, who thinks Ryan's doing a Biology project with Sarah and Bridget and Nell, and Ryan wishes he was because--
A hand on his right hip, fingers digging into his skin, as the other one prods deeper. Ryan lets out a breath through his mouth, the corner of his eyes prickling. No, no, think of something, anything, just keep on thinking. Seth, yes, Seth, that was good. Seth and the Biology paper and the homework. And then everything is forgotten, brushed away like the wind before the storm when Ryan can feel the head against his cheek. He takes in a deep breath, holding it, while there is a tongue against his collarbone and more whispered words that mean nothing, if only serving to make Ryan feel sick to his stomach.
There is barely a second of hesitation, no more preparation than a muted bite on the soft skin of the back of his neck before there is pressure. Pressure everywhere, on his ass cheeks, on his chest, and then everything turns to black as pain takes over. Pain, scorching somewhere inside him, on his hips and on his upper legs, is nothing against the disgust he has for himself. It hurts, yes, and he closes his eyes shut, forehead against his forearm. He takes in a shallow breath and lets it out through barely parted lips. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"Beautiful. So." A pause, a breath, a groan that's muffled by Ryan's throat. "Fuck, so beautiful."
Ryan wants to cough, to spit, to throw up, at the horrible taste on his lips. It's like the air around him is being compressed and there's suddenly nothing to breath in, nothing to hold him together and he whimpers, softly, eyes close shut.
"So beautiful."
Ryan does nothing but stand there, hands griping the desk with as much strength as he can muster. He breathes in through his mouth and lets out the quick breaths. His nose's pressed against his left forearm, face in a grimace.
He can hear the groans and grunts, while trying to convince himself not to listen to any of it. There's nothing there, with him. He's alone, or so he thinks. Thoughts run through his mind, nothing but a blur of color and thought and feelings and touch. He tries to grasp onto one but it slips through his fingers. There's a deep thrust that knocks the wind out of Ryan before he takes a shallow breath through his mouth. It seems to lessen the pain, breathing through his mouth. Or maybe it's him grasping at straws.
There's pressure, so strong, somewhere inside him, building up, the strain felt mostly in his hips and legs and everything under his waist that, for a moment, Ryan feels like he'll throw up over the desk, it seems to hurt so much. He tries to focus, find a center. Something, Ryan, really, please. Just something. Think of something, out there, not here. Think of something or... or you'll give in, or you'll be gone.
And then, out of nowhere, Ryan can remember brown eyes. He remembers laughter, his very own laughter, sounding, somehow strange to his own ears, as if he hadn't heard it in years. He might not have. Ryan's clench on his teeth lessens, if only a little.
Seth's laughing, curls a mess, heart light, as he makes his way down the harbor with his skateboard. Ryan's laughing as well, in this picture Ryan has in his mind's eye. He's laughing, grin on his lips, mouth wide open in happiness. He's riding his bike along Seth's side, the two of them, like it's always been. It's just the two of them.
There's a quickening in the man's pace before a faltering in his rhythm. It takes Mr. Dart a moment to find it again, the pace, and then it's quicker than before, if not a little bit erratic.
Ryan takes in a shallow breath.
Seth, he thinks. Seth, sitting down in front of the TV, controller in hand, smiling at him. Mr. Dart sinks his fingers into Ryan's left hip. Ryan gasps. Seth, lying down on the floor of his bedroom, head tilted back, saying that this is the only way he can find the answers to the universe. A bite on Ryan's shoulder that makes him grimace. Seth, in the catamaran, grinning, trying to teach Ryan how to do a fisherman's knot.
Seth, on his skateboard, Ryan by his side, the two of them making their way down the pier. Just the two of them. Seth, grinning--
There's a groan that's muffled by Ryan's shoulder, the pace quickens, the hands on his hips tighten, the teeth sink deeper. The pace is lost, turning into erratic movements against Ryan's back, as a long moan leaves Mr. Dart's lips.
Ryan sighs, head leaning forward, in defeat. The man has won.
Mr. Dart's forehead rests against Ryan's shoulder for a moment, and then he's placing soft kisses on tender skin, hands caressing hips and stomach. Ryan wants this to end, for him to take a step back and let him go, finally, please.
The afterglow doesn't last long. Another kiss, fingers grazing his belly button and the line of pubic hair that makes a trail down to his crotch.
"So beautiful."
Ryan grimaces at the word. Finally, Mr. Dart pulls away, slowly, and Ryan can feel the pressure lessening and though the pain subsides, it doesn't go away. There's a lingering feeling of ache and sting that might never leave him. His upper legs scream in pain, in protest at the rough angle and the tension they've been put under, as do his arms. His knees seem to shake for a moment, and Ryan has to release his hold on the desk. He bows forward, his forearms against the desk, and it takes him a moment to catch his breath.
"You've been perfect, as usual."
Ryan can hear movement behind him, but he hesitates to turn around. In fear, his mind whispers, because you're afraid of him, darling. Aren't you? You've always been afraid of him. But you're done now. You're done for today. Tomorrow will be another day.
He sighs, his movements lethargic and painful, as he pulls himself into a standing position. He turns around, head down, squatting before his clothes as he gathers them in his arms. He hurries to put on his pants without thought of the underwear, and slides his feet into his sneakers.
When he looks up, finally, hesitantly, Mr. Dart smirks at him with a tilt of his head. "You've been amazing. I missed you."
Ryan feels his throat tighten, bile on his tongue. His jaw hurts from the strain and constant pressure.
There's a grin on Mr. Dart's lips. "Go on. Go to the bathroom, freshen up. You know where the door is."
Nothing more needs to be said, that's for sure. Ryan takes in a shaky breath and leaves on trembling legs. He hurries toward the second door on the left before reaching the end of the hallway that leads to the living room.
He closes the bathroom door with a thud, letting his arms fall open and the clothes clatter to the floor. He closes his eyes shut, painfully, head tilted back against the door. Breathing comes with pain, and he smells the heavy scent of Pinesol clinging to the walls, and the lemons, the coppery tang, nauseates him, the bitterness lingering in his chest, and for a moment he worries about himself, about his sanity and then there's nothing. There's only silence in his ears and coldness against his back.
He takes two deep breaths and opens his eyes. His clothes are on the floor. How did they get on the floor? He shakes his head. Doesn't matter. He picks them up, putting on his t-shirt and ballooning the shirt in one hand. He picks up underwear and places it with the dark shirt. Taking a step forward, he watches his reflection in the mirror. His lower lip is swollen from where Ryan bit it. He hopes it'll come down by the time he reaches the house. His eyes are red, but there's nothing he can do about that.
Taking a deep breath, he smells the lemons and he unfastens his pants and sits down on the toilet, pants at his ankles. He rolls toilet paper around his hand, three turns, and places the roll back. He wipes his ass and when he pulls back the paper, looking at it, he notices the square on top of his palm soiled, almost transparent. Ryan feels the bile on his throat and lets the paper fall in the water.
He stands up, the muscles in his inner things complaining once again, and makes the water run. Pants done, he picks up his clothes and leaves the bathroom in a hurry. The front door is unlocked and he makes his way through it in a blur of motion. He reaches the car, doesn't think as he scrambles for his keys in his pockets and pulls the door open.
There's no time to think. He throws the clothes on the passenger seat, on top of his backpack. He shifts the gear to first and when he looks at the rearview mirror, a face that doesn't seem to be his looks back.
"Who are you?" He asks himself quietly. He shakes his head, swallows, and pulls out of the driveway and onto the street.
Ryan splashed water onto his face, lifting his head and looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It's Thursday afternoon and that fact alone makes his hands shake.
"Who are you?" His mind asked his other self. "Who are you that you let a man like that touch you?"
His throat was tight, his hands stilling as they grasp the edges of the skin. I am no one, Ryan wanted to answer, but didn't dare to. I am nothing but a shadow, a memory. I am not here. I shouldn't be here. I'm not here.
But he gave up to the temptation and muttered, "I'm Ryan Atwood." He sighed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He heard his mother moving around, outside the bathroom.
"Ryan?"
Ryan sighed one more time, gave one last glance to the reflection and walked out of the bathroom.
She shook her head when she saw him. "I've been looking for you."
"I was in the bathroom."
She snorted. "I have to go. That bitch of a dog will be late for her weekly appointment and then Mrs. Dart will have my head." She shook her head. "Anyway, I'll be back."
He trotted to her side, taking her hand in his. "Don't go."
Dawn Atwood looked down at her son, blue eyes in a frown. "What? What do you mean, don't go? It's not like I'm going to be gone long."
Long enough, Ryan's mind seemed to whispers. "Please, just... don't go."
Another snort. "Ryan, really. You're big enough to stay here alone. I'll be back in two hours."
When she tried to let go of Ryan's hand, he tightened his hold. "Please. Then let me go with you."
She seemed to think it over for a moment before she shook her head, long blond hair falling to her eyes. "Don't be stupid. Stay, do your homework. Have a sandwich if you want." She retrieved her hand from his, despite his strong hold, and patted his back. "I won't be long."
He swallowed as he watched her pick up the small poodle in her arms and make her way out of the kitchen. Ryan sighed, falling down onto the chair by the small table. He had tried.
He could have told her more, told her everything, but he knows that's not what she wants to hear. She has a good job now, which pays good money, and she actually wants to keep it for once. It only has to be the one job that might kill Ryan slowly.
His jaw trembled, slightly, and he had to take a deep breath before letting it out slowly through his lips. It might have been only the third time, but it felt like longer, and the fact that he somehow knew the routine made him feel sick.
Ryan stood up and walked out of the kitchen, wanting to get this over with. He didn't feel anything, only bitterness in his chest, aimed at his mother, for not quite listening to him. At his father, for not understanding, and at himself, for not being stronger.
He paused before the door to Mr. Dart's study and knocked.
"Come on in."
He pushed it open, pausing as he watched Mr. Dart cleaning a gun. The man looked up, saw Ryan there, under the frame, and grinned. Ryan hated that grin. Mr. Dart nodded, put the gun back in its case and in the third drawer on the right side of the desk.
"Good," the man said, closing the drawer with a loud noise in the otherwise silent room. "Good. I missed you."
Ryan swallowed, bitterness turning into anger and bile, letting the door fall closed with his elbow and closing the space between the door and the desk.
Later that day, as night had fallen and Ryan laid on his bed, both hands on opposite shoulders, eyes closed, Ryan could still imagine the grin, could still feel the lips on his skin and see the flashes of light on his eyes, blinding him. He shivered, rolled over in bed and bit his lower lip, pulling his legs up to his chest.
The water falls down onto his face and Ryan sighs, head leaning forward against the blue tile, the spray hitting him on the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, taking in deep breaths as his muscles continue to complain. They hurt. Everything from his waist down hurts, actually, and complains at the simplest movement.
He takes a step back in the shower, running his hands through his hair. He looks down at himself, at his hips and the light bruising on his hipbones: four fingers in the front and one slightly to his back. He swallows, shaking his head. His hand moves to his right collarbone, the skin somewhat tender to his touch.
"Ryan?"
His breath catches in his throat. There's a reason he parked the Rover and cut his way into the pool house through the backyard, not going to the house first. He knew Seth would ask questions, questions that don't have answers, and that was something he wanted to avoid. Then again, Seth's nothing if not persistent, and Ryan knows there's no avoiding what's coming.
"I'm in the shower!"
He turns off the spray and walks out of the shower, wet feet leaving prints on the tile as he reaches for the towel. He starts toweling his waist and as he comes closer to the mirror above the sink, he can see it. He had felt it, yes, fingers closing on his right shoulder and bites along his shoulder blade, but it's something entirely different to see the marks left behind.
His fingers hover above the darkening skin. They don't look like teeth, not yet at last. It's just one bruise, no longer than half his index finder, and about two thirds in width. They are not distinctive, but they are there, and Seth will notice and see and ask and Ryan really doesn't want to have to remember any of it.
He looks around and curses under his breath. His clothes from earlier today – soiled tainted ugly disgusting -- are in a pile by the sink. In his rush to the shower, to soap his body and soul, to try and clean away the touch, the smell, the words and the memory, he had forgotten to bring the clean Seth of clothes into the bathroom with him.
"Dude, really. It's getting late and I'm hungry and mom is about to ask for takeout, so either you're going to have dinner wearing nothing but a towel or you hurry."
Ryan sighs, shaking his head. Impatient Seth, of course, another thing to count on. "Seth, wait a second, will ya?"
He hears something like a snort, or a comment, but he doesn't care. He doesn't have clothes and walking out into the pool house with nothing but a towel and marks he doesn't want Seth to see isn't an option.
He places the towel around his hips, high enough that they cover the fingerprints and thanks Kirsten silently for spending good money on thick and wide towels as to preserve the dignity he lost an hour ago. Picking up another towel, a smaller one, he drapes it over shoulders, hiding the other bruise. Well, now it's just a matter of changing.
He walks out of the bathroom, leaving the door open for the humidity to evaporate, and glares at Seth.
"Dude, immune, I'm telling you." Seth sighs, shaking his head as he stands by the bed, one of Ryan's books in his hands, Ryan's backpack on the floor by his feet. "How was the paper?"
Ryan shrugs. "It got done."
Seth nods, not actually listening, and turns around, letting himself fall onto his back on the bed, book pressed against his chest. "Ryan, really, I'm hungry. Starving. You were gone almost three hours."
Ryan doesn't say anything, only reaches into the wicker boxes that acts as a makeshift dresser and pulls out a sweatshirt and long sleeved shirt, new underwear and socks. Yes, he was gone three hours. Two of which were spent driving down to the pier and resting his head against the steering wheel before telling himself that stalling wouldn't get him anywhere and driving down to Mr. Dart's house.
He considers sitting down on the bed, but Seth's lying there and he knows that Seth will see the dark skin on his hipbones the moment he tries to put on underwear.
"One more minute, Seth." Ryan takes the clothes and changes inside the bathroom, knowing Seth won't complain.
He sits down on the toilet seat, the lid down, to put on his boxers. The smell of semen assaults him head on, strong and repulsive, and he pauses, underwear by his knees. He washed himself, more times than he can count. He soaped his hand and rubbed it against the inside of his cheeks, against the stinging inside him, trying to wash away everything, every lingering feeling of touching against his skin.
But the smell is still there, so very much it seems to suffocate him for a moment. He shakes his head to clear it, stands and pulls the underwear up with him. He wonders if he's losing it as he opens the cabinet and takes out one of the colognes Kirsten bought him not so long ago. He sprays a little bit of cologne on his ass, over the underwear before putting on the black sweatpants. He puts on the white long sleeve shirt and pauses, spraying some more under the shirt on his lower back.
When he walks out, towels and dirty clothes are thrown into the hamper and Ryan nudges Seth's feet with his own.
"Aren't you hungry?" Ryan asks, even though he doesn't think he'll be able to eat anything. His stomach is a tight knot and his throat has closed down.
Seth stands up with a jump, grinning, and nods repetitively. "Yeah. Hungry. Starving."
Seth starts babbling about going tomorrow to buy new DVDs because Hellboy is getting old, and rather worn, and maybe a second copy would totally rock. Ryan doesn't exactly listen, his face serious as he tries to take a deep breath that won't end on a shaky sigh. His ass stings as he walks and that's enough of a slap of reality. His ass stings, his legs ache and he has bruises all over his body.
Seth nudges Ryan on the elbow, grinning, and Ryan doesn't have the heart to ask him to shut up, please, because fuck if I don't want anything but silence right now. But this is Seth, and Seth is nice and comfortable and safe, so Ryan keeps quiet and smiles, only a curve of his lips, when they walk into the kitchen and Seth grins back.
It's hours later, when Ryan's alone, finally, lying down on the bed in the pool house as he tries to fall asleep and knows he won't succeed, that he can still hear Mr. Dart's voice against his ear and his touch on his shoulder and hip. He shakes his head, nightmares crawling around his mind, and spends the following hours staring at the blankness around him.