thinking about ryan whelan being silently enamored with naim in school. naim, with his big brown doe eyes and his quiet, huge fear. naim with his too-big clothes and his perpetual "i want to disappear into the wall" energy. because the thing is, ryan knows that fear, has known it all his life, and to see this boy so plainly uneasy like it doesn't occur to him to put on the same masculinity that ryan wears like armor is fascinating to him. that first time he sees naim in class, his eyes catch on the profile of his face and ryan feels that familiar rush of interest and its following anxiety, a warmth followed by sinking. later ryan watches naim fumble with his lock at the bike rack behind the school, all bitten-down nails and huffed sighs through the nose and feels terrifyingly curious.
fear is the same thing that keeps ryan from saying anything when he sees how boys, how hunter treats naim at school. he hears the word they always say and suppresses flinching anger, then its accompanying despair at the watery look in naim's eyes.
ryan's been scared his whole life, but he's gotten good at fear. he's accepted the truth of who he is, what that means for him. he's learned he doesn't need to be scared of leaving bandee because he knows he never will. the fear of wanting hunter, wanting to touch him and wanting something real from him, was far outweighed by that detached surrender the first time he saw bruises from the impact of rocks on his own body. he takes it, takes what he can get, takes hunters fear and anger as well as his lust because he doesn't think he deserves anything else, because that's the only way someone touches and wants him back.
he's been burned so many times, the fear is distant compared to the exhaustion, the hurt, the guilt. his desire is a curse, a gnarled secret he holds in his ribcage. (and later, when hunter dies and naim almost does too, "it's all my fault" whispered guiltily in the rising heat, that secret burns worse than it ever has.)
he asks naim to go to the mill because the waves of want are rising over the immovable, solidified structure of pain and guilt. fuck, but he's just so curious. and at first it's hard to shed that defensive masculine posturing, but at least shoving at naim means he gets to touch him. and then naim surprises him, really, not just by kissing him back but by giving ryan the delightful revelation that naim is gentle. naim doesn't hurt him, doesn't push him off or call him a fag or throw stones. naim is under him-- and then he pulls away, retreating back into fear, and ryan feels confusion and hurt in equal measure.
ryan, possessive as he is giving, wants to share this secret thing with naim. he wants to be affirmed in his feelings in a way he never is with hunter. tell me you feel it too. tell me i'm not making it up. tell me i haven't corrupted you with this.
and he hears the unsubtle yearning in his own voice, a thin veil of casualty over a begging to be affirmed in his feelings. that twist of anxious yearning in his mouth, "there's nothing you like about this place?" naim, crinkly-eyed smile blinding, looks holy.
"nothing." and in the tender press of their mouths, ryan prays for something real.
