Chapter Text
They take the overnighter to Melbourne. Sun setting over the long, dry, empty stretch of podunk Victoria grassland, slowly filling with the power poles, brick houses, and wide black-tar roads that Naim’s used to the closer they get.
Ryan’s head drops onto Naim’s shoulder as the bus passes through a town little more than a dozen shack-homes and a petrol station, and sleeps hard for most of the eight-hour ride. Waking in bouts between shared-earbud-songs only to put his lazy mouth on Naim’s scraped-up jaw before closing his eyes again. In the rolling dark outside, white-blond hair flashes under truckie headlights.
The woman and her baby get off at Charlton; the thing comes for Naim at the stop after while he’s washing his hands in an Ampol toilet. Sees it standing in the open stall behind him when he looks briefly up in the mirror and runs out with his fingers still wet and soapy. Ryan, waiting right outside the door, stops him from running onto the freeway, damn near wrestling him to the ground to do so. Fuck, Naim, it’s alright.
The bus pulls into the Melbourne coach station a little after four-in-the-morning with just Ryan, Naim, and an elderly couple in safari vests and boonie hats left. They get off and hunker down in the station’s trendy café to charge their dying phones and ignore the thirty missed calls from Naim’s mum. Naim makes Ryan come inside the all-gender toilet with him this time, the barista gives them an odd side-long look when she punches in the door code for them.
“She probably thinks we’re gonna fuck in here,” Ryan says, leaned up against the bright tile, backpack by his feet, watching Naim change out his sweaty shirt for Ryan’s spare.
“Don’t say that,” Naim’s pale face burns, Ryan laughs.
“Oh, Naim,” he moans, loud and breath-y. Head thrown back in faux-orgasim; his bruised throat bared. “Don’t stop!”
Naim shoves him once, twice, “You’re such a cunt.”
They kiss messily, Naim’s lips against Ryan’s teeth because he won’t stop smiling. His ringed fingers sweep up Naim’s neck to settle in the back of his hair. Naim ends up giving Ryan a handie, evening the score, licking his palm clean in strange satisfaction.
They brush their teeth with Ryan’s toothbrush, sour-mouthed from the long bus ride. Naim brought nothing with him but his phone, ratty velcro wallet, and his lighter. Being sixteen-year-old, jobless layabouts, as Naim’s mum likes to say, they have exactly $195.60, mostly Ryan’s chore money made from mowing the lawn and cleaning his bird’s cage. They buy an overpriced ham-and-cheese toastie for $15 to split, too hungry to care, and leave the café before they get kicked out for loitering.
Naim’s not sure what the plan is; not sure if he cares so long as he’s with Ryan. He hit up all his old school mates while on the bus, asking around for a couch to crash on, keeping the why vague and trying not to seem too desperate. A few responded, Mia, with her chill hippie parents who Naim’s mum never got on with, and Daniel, surprisingly. Newly graduated, he used to sell weed cut with oregano to Naim and his buddies who didn’t know any better in Year 9.
Today 3:28 am
From: Daniel
thought u died man haha
roomies gone till sunday lmk if yuo want the address
Having killed two hours taking up prime café booth space, it’s almost 6 am when Naim texts Daniel that, yes, he very much would like his address, and another four hours before he hears back. Ryan keeps twisting his head about to stare at all the tall glass office buildings reflecting early morning, egg-blue sky. They take the tram to St. Kilda Beach, skipping the fare, and Naim sits in the sand while Ryan kicks around in the water. Jeans rolled to his knees, sinewy shins and big boney feet on display. Wind all in his hair and tan coat, and in the thick palms with their broad green leaves.
“Reckon your mum’s called the police yet?” Ryan asks when he finally shuffles back over, shoes and socks in hand. Red-cheeked and salt-sticky.
“Definitely,” Naim says. She’s probably called his aunt in Keilor Park and all their old neighbors, too. Maybe even, reluctantly, Mia’s parents, who’d make them do a sound bath after every playdate.
When Ryan stole Pastor Rod’s car from Izzie and disappeared for days, there hadn’t been nearly enough noise. With them both gone now, it might be different. A weird hope that Naim can’t help but hold onto.
They nap there on the beach, Ryan’s bag his pillow, and Ryan’s chest Naim’s. Trusting the morning joggers and dog-walkers to keep them safe enough. Naim can feel it though, knows if he opened his eyes he’d see it somewhere beyond the boardwalk, and keeps them shut for that very reason.
Daniel lives in outer Eastern Melbourne, the city bus gets them halfway and Daniel agrees to drive them the rest; Naim’s so grossly grateful he could cry, he texts Daniel that they’ll chip in for fuel, instead, and drops him a pin.
He picks them up from some street corner in a busted blue ute older than all of them. At nineteen, Daniel has a scrappy black mustache and rangy brown arms. He’s in a servo uniform, visor and all, that makes Naim think of Hunter.
“Mate,” Daniel drawls out, elbow resting on the open window, happy to see him in a way that shocks Naim, who’d never gave him much thought even before he and his mum moved. “Back from woop woop? Thought youse was dead. Who’s your friend?” He nods at Ryan, smile shifting as he seemingly takes in their beaten faces and dirty clothes.
“You alright?” Daniel asks.
And Naim really is going to cry, now. The past weeks catching up to him in the worst possible moment. His head hurts from not having had any water all day besides a sip from the tap in the café toilet; the back of his throat still aches from the thing shoving its hand all the way inside. He feels Ryan put his real-hand on his back as his eyes brim over, hot.
“Shit. Okay,” Daniel slaps his stereo to turn off the surf-garage he was blasting, rushing to pop the passenger door open. Ryan helps Naim in first as they squish together onto the bench seat.
Daniel has one of those dancing hula girl things on his dash, the footwell padded with Macca’s bags that crinkle under Naim’s sneakers.
“Thank you,” Naim tells Daniel, voice all mucus-y and embarrassing. “Seriously.”
“No worries, man,” Daniel looks as out-of-his-depth as he probably feels. What’re you supposed to say to the kid you used to sell bad weed to when he starts crying in your shitmobile after begging for a place to stay? He meets Ryan’s eyes over Naim’s head.
“Hiya.”
“Hey,” Ryan says, in the same quiet way he’d talk to the adults at church, just shy of a put-up job of politeness. “Ryan.”
“Daniel.”
For a moment it seems like they’re going to do something stupid, like shake hands, but they don’t.
Naim wipes at his raw face as Daniel shifts the beater into drive and cautiously turns the music back on. Bone-tired but still somehow just outside his body, he reaches down to grip Ryan’s hand, who squeezes his in turn.