Yelling
by M. F. LuderPart seven
Look what you did
Is this who you wanted me to be?
Well, it's not me
- It's not me. Three Doors Down.
On Saturday morning, the sun beating down on them, Ryan sits on one of the pool chairs, book propped up on his leg, head tilted back. His gaze flickers from time to time to the pool, Seth on the lazy boy, grinning back at him.
"Dude, really. Reading? I mean, come on! The sun is high and the water--" Seth says, dipping his hand in the water and making a splash in Ryan's direction, though it doesn't actually reach him, "--is very warm. Come on. Ryan. I'm here, all alone. That's so not pretty."
Ryan gives him a tight smile over the rim of his book, The Hellfire Club, and shakes his head. "Not today."
Or tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that, actually, because you know perfectly well, my beautiful, that there are marks on your skin still, am I wrong? The voice whispers and cackles, a laughter that sends a shiver down Ryan's spine.
His gaze shifts to his right shoulder blade, covered by the black cotton of his long sleeve shirt, and even though he can't see it at the moment, Ryan remembers. He remembers the way the bruise had looked Thursday night and how it had morphed into the clear marks of teeth after a hard bite. He shudders, taking a shaky breath.
And if Ryan was looking for a reason not to be seen in trunks, he has three sets of them. Blacks and blues and oranges and yellows that mean ownership by hands and teeth of a man he'd rather never see again.
His hand shake as he turns the page, eyes barely acknowledging the lines, caring if what he's reading is true, or noticing the plot anymore. He can still feel the teeth on his shoulder, he can hear the words being whispered in his ear. Beautiful, fuck, so beautiful. Beautiful and mine and beautiful and Ryan slams the book closed.
Seth looks up at him, head tilted to the side, confused. "You ok?"
Ryan lets out a shaky sigh, eyes downcast, looking at the cover of the book but not really focusing on it. He nods.
"You look a little pale. Dude, how come? With all this sun, all this--"
"Boys?"
Ryan looks up over his shoulder to the door leading to the kitchen. Sandy and Kirsten walk out into the yard.
Kirsten stands by Ryan's side, hand placed on the back of the pool chair, fingers barely touching his shoulder. Ryan shudders. There is only cotton fabric between her fingers and his mark and the knowledge makes him feel disgusted with himself.
"We're going to Dick's for lunch," she says, her voice warm and friendly. "Do you want to come?"
Ryan's gaze shifts from Kirsten's hand to Seth, who at some point moved from the lazy boy to the edge of the pool, arms folded on top of the grass, chin resting on the back of his palm. Ryan swallows past the knot in his throat. He certainly doesn't want to go, wishes he didn't have to go again in only a couple of days. But if Seth wants to go, then he'll go as well because that's the way things are. If one goes, so does the other. They are something of a package deal.
Seth seems to be thinking about it before shaking his head. "Nah, I don't see the point. It's boring, with stories about old friends yet no embarrassing stories about you. So, no, thanks mom, but I'll think we'll pass." Seth glances at Ryan and nods, not really asking but knowing that Ryan totally agrees with him. Ryan always wondered about that, about how Seth, at times, could know Ryan's answer to a question. "Leave us some money? We'll probably call for pizza or whatever."
Kirsten takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to come with us. Dick has no family, no children. I think, up to a point, we're all he's got."
"Mom." Seth grimaces, shaking his head. "Really. He's your friend, you know?
Kirsten's about to say something else, to add insult to injury probably when Sandy places a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. They can come with us next time." Kirsten nods even as Sandy says, "We'll leave you money on the counter. Pizza or Thai, but don't go overboard."
Seth fakes a gasp. "What? When have we--?"
Kirsten lifts an eyebrow as she makes her way to the edge of the pool, squatting before her son and placing a kiss on his damp forehead. "Don't buy too much food, ok?"
Seth waves it off. "Yeah, yeah."
She turns around and places another kiss on Ryan's forehead, even as he ducks his head. Don't touch me, he wants to tell her. Don't touch me, please. Just don't.
Her hand moves to his hair, placing a lock behind his ear, smile on her lips. His heart seems to beat faster, his throat so very tight he can barely breath. "Take care, okay boys? Anything happens, call us."
She smiles one last time before following Sandy to the kitchen door, who calls out, "bye!" over his shoulder.
When Ryan turns around to look at Seth, his breathing ragged and his chest tight, Seth looks at him with wide brown eyes and a grin on his face. Ryan's breathing seems to relax, to find its natural rhythm as he gazes at Seth.
It might sound stupid or silly or whatever, but Seth backed him up. He might not have noticed, of course, because Seth doesn't know that Ryan doesn't want to come in close contact with Mr. Dart, but he did. Seth backed Ryan up. And Ryan realizes that he's never felt this safe, this good, this protected, by anyone, until now.
"Come on," Seth says, placing his hands on the grass and pushing himself out of the pool. He doesn't do it as smoothly as he should, as smoothly as Ryan does. Seth places his knee on the tile, body tilted the side as he tries to place the other one. Ryan stifles a chuckle. By the time Seth has placed both knees on the grass and he's pushing himself upwards, Seth's panting. "Okay, so not doing that again."
He shakes his head, like a dog, sending droplets of water in Ryan's direction. Ryan chuckles, lifting his book to cover his face.
"Let's go. I'm starving."
Ryan nods, following Seth into the pool house where he'll change back into his clothes, sprawled on top of his bed just like Seth left them two hours ago. Ryan sits down on the bed, propped up on his elbows, hands almost touching his sides.
He watches Seth out of the corner of his eye and he breathes, slowly and calmly and when he closes his eyes, he lets out a soft sigh. Safe, he thinks. Safe. The word runs through his mind as Seth changes, the sounds and movements familiar to him.
On the Wednesday night of the third week of Ryan's nightmares, Ryan didn't hear the sound from the TV. He blinked, eyes slightly unfocused even as he stared at the screen. He didn't hear the front door open or slam closed either, until he saw something out of the corner of his eyes. He stood up, watching Trey make his way into the hall on the left of the house that leads to the bedrooms.
"Trey," Ryan called out, following him as he bit the inside of his cheek, hand slightly trembling. He'd been feeling this knot in his stomach for the last couple of hours, like he'd get sick if he so much as moved, but he didn't care about it as he walked into the room they both shared.
Ryan paused by the frame, watching his brother pick up a shirt that had been thrown between his bed and the wall. Trey smelled it, grimaced and let it fall down once again. Ryan took a deep breath.
"Can I spend tomorrow afternoon with you?"
"What?" Trey looked up from the second shirt he picked up, a green one with a Dunkelvolk knock off logo on the chest. He snorted. "You're shitting me, right?"
Ryan swallowed, his right hand shaking slightly as he took a step into the bedroom and sat down on his own bed. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them a second later. Trey wasn't looking at him anymore, but smelling this shirt before nodding to his satisfaction. Trey didn't even seem to care.
"I don't want to go there, ok? Trey, please--"
"Fuck, you must really hate that house if you're going to beg me." He turned around, evil grin on his lips, mocking him. "Are you going to beg me, Ryan?"
Ryan pressed his lips into a thin line. He would, if he knew it would change anything, if it would get him anywhere but that house tomorrow afternoon. But it wouldn’t because his brother thinks that men don't beg, don't say please and certainly don't apologize.
"I'm going to this party tonight. I might hook up with Andrea. I've heard she puts out." Trey took off his dirty gray shirt with three holes along the edge. He let it fall onto the bed, half on it, half on the floor, and put on the green one. "Even if I can't," he said, shrugging into the holes of the arms, "I'm going after her tomorrow."
Trey turned around, lifting his mattress and taking out a battered wallet he hid there. Ryan knew of the place, of course, but their parents didn't. And it wasn't like Ryan was going to steal from Trey because Trey was smart and knew exactly how much he had inside, and Ryan wasn't stupid.
"Too bad, little brother."
Ryan tilted his head, watching as his brother put back the wallet and let the mattress fall down on top of it. He said nothing as he watched him go, fifteen years old and so much wiser than Ryan himself. It was Ryan's fault for thinking Trey could help him, would want to help him, protect him.
How can you do this? He heard himself ask in the stillness of his mind. How can you let him do that to me? How can you? How?
He said nothing, of course, because those things weren't to be said, not to his brother, not to anyone else. He sighed, stood up and walked out of the bedroom. He heard the door slam closed and hoped Trey had a good time, slept with that girl because tomorrow, Ryan was going to have to face his tormentor and say nothing, again.
On Thursday afternoon, after school, Ryan pretends he's not stalling, he's not actually pretending that life has a wicked way of biting him, of marking him on the neck and on the hips. He sits on Seth's bed, notebook on his crossed legs, book by his side as Seth has one Literature book -- obligatory reading because he's so not into Joyce -- on top of his propped up knee.
He does the calculus problems with a skilled hand and without the need to check the answers. He gets them right most of the time and really, right now, his mind isn't exactly concentrating on it. He'd rather do them at the kitchen table but Seth insisted Ryan do them in Seth’s bedroom. "It makes me feel smart," Seth had said, though Ryan doesn't actually see the logic in that. Then again, he doesn't see any of Seth's logic most of the time.
His neck hurts, so he sighs and leans back, lying down on the bed, his neck touching the pillow.
Seth turns from his book, smiling down at Ryan and Ryan can't help but smile back.
"Tired?"
Ryan nods, craning his neck to each side until he hears the bones pop. "Very."
"Well, it's your own fault, what with AP Calculus and stuff." Seth shakes his head, placing a bookmark in between the pages before closing the book. "You couldn't settle for mere calculus, like the rest of us mortals? No, no, you had to aim for the difficult stuff. The stuff I can't even pronounce."
"You can say Integrals."
"Yes, I can, but I can't do them." Seth shrugs, slouching down on the bed, half lying down. "It's okay. The parents are happy with one genius in the family. Leaves the room open for the artist in me."
One corner of Ryan's lips curl into a smile as he thinks about Seth's drawings, the doodles that metamorphose into art. Something Ryan doesn't have in him, never will, and yet Seth touches with such an ease that makes it seem effortless.
Looking at Seth through dark eyelashes, Ryan feels more than sees the movement from Seth's hand. Fingers that were touching soft pages of a book containing poetry, that Ryan loved but would never dare say out loud, reaching out, slowly, to touch Ryan's hair. A lock of blond hair Ryan had not noticed that had fallen into his eyes, barely even hiding Seth from view, is pushed out of his eyes by soft fingers.
Ryan's breath catches in his throat, the skin from fingertips too warm over Ryan's temple. There's a soft sigh that Ryan believes comes from Seth, and it must be the angle, as he feels the air against his chin.
Ryan looks sideways at Seth and from this position, Ryan can see that Seth's eyes are not brown, but more like chocolate. Like toffee and candy and maple syrup all rolled into one, with small golden spots and a green line that reminds him of spring.
Seth's finger doesn't move, the air itself seems to still as Ryan can feel the scrape of a nail against his ear.
Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Please.
He sits up on the bed, his throat dry and his breath coming up in short gasps.
"Dude?"
The word falls on deaf ears as Ryan shakes his head, gathering his books together. "I have this history paper to get done," he says because, though he doesn't want to say anything, he can't stop himself.
Excuses, Ryan, my darling, is that all you know? Excuses?
Fuck you.
"I have to go." His movements are stiff. His Calculus book slides from the top of the pile, hitting the nightstand with a loud sound. Ryan bites the inside of his cheek and bends forward to pick it up.
I'm tainted.
"Ryan?"
Ryan doesn't turn around to look at Seth but he can imagine him, sitting up on the bed, eyes wide, confusion plainly written on his face. "Why are you leaving?" Seth would ask, if Ryan so much as gave him the chance. "Where are you going? When will you--?"
"I'll be back for dinner." He makes his way down the stairs in a hurry, not looking over his shoulder, not wanting to see Seth before leaving. He grabs the keys as he walks through the kitchen.
In a way, not quite thinking about it helps because it makes it less difficult as he pulls into Mr. Dart's driveway. His books, just like he grabbed them from Seth's room, sit in the passenger’s seat, the calculus book sliding down until it finally falls on the mat but he isn't there to see it, or to pick it up and swat away the dust, because he's standing in the middle of the study, hands on the desk, eyes closed shut, pain irradiating from the inside of him as he bites down on his lower lip.
Hours later, minutes meaning very little to him at the moment, Ryan lies down on his bed, eyes opened wide, staring at the ceiling. Seth bought his excuses, his comment about the paper that's still due and that's not getting done. He nodded in the right places and smiled and told Ryan that maybe he should have gotten a different group. Ryan felt like shit for lying to him.
Ryan swallows past the knot in his throat to the nausea he feels. His skin itches, he realizes a moment later, as his fingers keep on scratching his shoulder blade.
Everything itches from the licking and the kisses he never wanted. He stands it for minutes, longer than he should have, and finally he gets up and takes yet another shower in less than three hours, this time it lasts a little over an hour. His skin is long wrinkled, his feet starting to go numb, and he shudders from time to time even though the water is warm against his skin.
When he goes back to his bed, the sheets are cold against his still itching skin. He tells himself it'll be okay, this is week two and he can take it. Just two more. Nothing else. He closes his eyes, rolls to his side and he thinks he must be really tired, because he can hear whispered words and a fingertip against his ear. He rolls away, to the other side, legs pushed up against his chest because he's cold and he doesn't want the touch from anyone.