i can’t stop thinking about how ryanaim’s circumstances force them to speedrun a course in effective communication not even post-leave, but on the leave itself. they are two passportless, broke teenage runaways aiming to get as far as money allows. they end up sharing food, water, clothes, chargers and anything else ryan has packed. they both have had a killer night fighting off their entities, they both have been hurt and now are sporting bruises and cuts and injuries they have to take care of. the gentleness between them has never left, but now it’s dialled up to the maximum.
ryan’s back and arms have been killing him a long time; throwing rocks and punches put a strain on his muscles and sitting on buses for hours on end is killing him, too. naim sees him wince, sees how carefully he moves and carries himself, and then he silently shoulders his—now their—backpack. ryan doesn’t protest and just looks at naim with a mix of gratitude and something teary and hopeful and huge. after all, naim’s always been observant; now he lets himself act on it, even if it’s as insignificant as carrying a bag when ryan would rather not.
similarly, naim’s throat has been hurting inside and out since that last fight with the entity in his own bathroom and at the mill. breathing’s easy, but he can barely swallow normal food and talks quietly, the muscle inside too raw to strain it. ryan doesn’t question it outright, but he keeps throwing him worried glances when all naim does is drink tepid water from time to time. he asks a simple, “naim?” with intention, with emotion, and naim is getting better at reading his intonations—because he knows ryan can’t ask anything else, because he too is familiar with the way the words claw at his throat and try to escape his mouth, but are trapped behind the bars of his teeth instead, strangled by years of repression and avoidance. naim isn’t sure he knows the words he wants to say, so how would ryan? undoing mental defences and unlearning the shame of vulnerability doesn’t happen in a day or two.
when they end up having a long layover in ouyen, ryan drags him to a servo and they look for some baby food—that overpriced apple carrot purée—and the soft sandwich bread naim can nibble on without his throat throbbing too much. naim protests, expectedly, because baby food is fucking stupid and expensive, but ryan can’t and won’t have naim weak and hungry just because he’s too strubborn and hurting. their first post-leave argument is about $3 pear purée approximately five hours into the flight from bandee and it makes naim pause and burst out laughing, sound hoarse. he thinks fevereshly, this is real. i’ve really run away with ryan. i’m with ryan. he wants to buy me baby food.
(ryan does buy him baby food. naim looks at him with those huge wet eyes and clutches the pouches to his stomach, and ryan surges to kiss him quickly on the mouth, hidden away from prying eyes in another shithole for a few more hours. the kiss is all the more sweet when naim follows his lips blindly as he backs away. “we’re still at the servo,” ryan reasons quietly, “let’s go find a park or sumthin’.”)
ryan tries to speak his mind clearly and hopes naim has enough in him to reciprocate, even if sometimes the worry is spoken in riddles and intonations. they learn to say i’m starving and i need a nap and i’ll watch your sleep and i’ll wake you up and are you hurting again? with and without words—with their eyes and hands and hums. their long journey becomes a study in touches and tones; in how to communicate without baring the edges that are still scary and sharp and shield their deepest wounds and doubts. they learn fast that, it’s okay to tell me things. you can just nod. i’ve got you.
dailybridgerton
prguitarman
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