Monday
3:01 PM
school
Trust me, it doesn't hurt me more than to have to blow off another date with Travis, for Ryan. I know he's not appreciating it one bit. I know. But even he understood a little when he saw the state of George Ryan this morning.
He spent the weekend at my house, sleeping mostly. I made him soup and tended to his wounds, like he was a cancer patient or something. I felt good though, taking care of him. After much debating of even going to school, he wore his hood over his head all day, to hide the black eye that was more like a black face. He could barely walk, so that gave him a legitimate excuse to ditch P.E. to get coffee with me.
Jack hit him. No... Jack beat him the fuck up. And I've never seen Ryan more scared than when he interrupted that little moment between Travis and I on Saturday night. He clinged to me, like I was an invisible portal that could protect him from the world, the world that just left him wounded wherever he went. And I guess I am, because I can't express how furious I was, and how much hate I felt toward Jack Marin. Ryan just doesn't deserve this.
He takes it from his dad. He doesn't need it from Jack too. What he needs is Brendon. And that's the one thing I can't make right for Ryan. I just can't make Brendon love him. I can't take that heartbreak out of his eyes, and that's what he needs the most.
There's only two days of school left until winter break. There's snow all over the ground and in the trees. Regardless of the below-freezing temperature, Ryan is just not in a suitable condition to walk home anyway, so I borrowed my dad's car. We can go wherever we want, and Ryan wants to go to his house.
"Why?" I ask as I look over at him in the passenger's seat. He's playing with the ring on his finger again, staring at it sadly.
"My dad's not going to be home for a couple days. So don't worry about him," he says.
I'm not sure if that was an answer to my question or a way to avoid my question.
Ryan's not lying though. The usual truck parked in front of his house is not there. We race through the snow from my car to inside Ryan's house, which is not much warmer. The only room I feel comfortable in in Ryan's house is Ryan's. He keeps it warm and isolated. He has a goldfish in a glass bowl to keep him company. And he has a probably only 2x3" framed picture of he and Brendon kissing. It's been there for as long as I can remember, in that very place, kind of hidden behind some other objects on top of his dresser, so his dad doesn't take notice. I can't help but wonder how often Ryan takes notice himself.
I realize it's probably every morning, either because he has to when he pulls out his clothes from his dresser, or because he really does look at it every day consciously and willingly. Part of me feels sympathetic toward the latter, but another part of me feels he might be being a little undignified. I keep my mouth shut anyway.
I hear Ryan whimper a little when he sits down on his bed, obviously hitting a large bruise on his hip that I'm well aware of. I sit down next to him and wait for him to say something.
He puts his face in his hands, careful to not graze the wounds that covered both his eyes, the left side of his nose, the left side of his mouth, and the majority of his forehead. I pray he doesn't cry. But ironically, he says, "I hate being weak."
I run a couple fingers through the hair on the back of his head. "Ryan, you're not weak. You've put up with so much more than I ever could've... than anyone could've."
He sighs deeply, irritably. "I hate that he doesn't love me."
I bite my lip. I'm taking a chance with this one, but if I can store a little bit of hope into Ryan's caved chest, it's gotta do some good someday. If not now, then later. So I say, "You don't know that he doesn't."
Ryan looks at me. "William, stop it. Stop trying to make things sound good, because they're not. Stop even caring about me because every second you spend here trying to make me feel better, it's another second that your boyfriend is out feeling like crap. So-"
"So, what? You want me to pick between you and Travis?!"
Ryan blinks. He doesn't know what to say. And the next thing I know, he brings his brown eyes closer to mine and he kisses me, softly, just like we used to kiss. I back away quickly, wanting more than anything to let him kiss me and hold me and make him feel strong, like he's worth something and that he can make somebody feel amazing, regardless of what it does to him. I know that's all he wants. But I know he'd feel so much stronger if he could kiss and hold Brendon. I'm not the one he needs.
"Ryan..." I say slowly. "You're so messed up right now... Don't make this more confusing that it already is. You need to talk to Brendon."
Ryan stares blankly, but he's not crying, and that's a good sign. Usually any time I mention Brendon's name, Ryan's eyes at least go a little red. "William?" he says in a half-whisper.
"Hm?"
"Stay with me tonight?"
And I smile then hug him, not in a cuddling or casual way, but a real hug, which Ryan and I don't really exchange enough. "I'm not going anywhere, babe."
Baby boy can't lift his headache head, isn't it tragic? --->
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