flirting with disaster

three

            Sometimes Rye wasn't quite sure that he had a place in the world – Somewhere where he really belonged. Certainly not his house, which was less of a home and more of a stack of beams and boards and broken memories. Even with only Rye and his father left, there were still the echoes of screams and broken beer bottles, of Rye crouching in the corner when he was little, begging for them to stop – And, later on, the shadows of Rye making dinner for the twins, their shrieks of laughter on Pancake Palooza day, when, every Wednesday, they'd share breakfast for dinner, and he'd always make one pancake with a mystery ingredient – Sometimes bananas or chocolate chips, and sometimes something really odd, like gummy bears.

Gross, for sure, but Rye would've done anything for them, to let them know that they had a big brother who loved them. He wondered if they still remembered that now, as he was stuck with a bathtub that smelled like bleach and pillowcases turned yellow from cigarette smoke and a kitchen stacked with dirty pans and an overwhelming silence that made Rye want to punch something.

He didn't belong at school, a place of schedules and organization and learning and paying attention and of a thousand stupid people blabbing on and on about irrelevant things, like the world might just end because Becky's fake nail fell off. Fuck you, Becky.

When Rye was little, he wanted to belong here, at a place in the world that provided structure when nothing else in his life could, what with his flaky mom and alcoholic father and older brother already planning his escape from their family of ticking time bombs. He'd had hope, that first day, his thumbs hooked around the straps of Robbie's raggedy old backpack that was almost bigger than him and nearly falling apart at the seams. He had wanted a new one but knew better than to ask, six years old but already knowing that their money had better causes to go to, like nights on the town and vodka shots.

He walked into the brick building with his head held high, and hope guiding his steps, and he breathed in the smell of new crayons and pencil shavings and little feet storming around and he had thought, just that one time, that, maybe, he had finally found a safe place where he could belong. The other kids didn't see that, though – All they saw was his clothing that hadn't been washed in a week, and that stupid old backpack, and the small bruise blossoming under his cheek that wasn't from falling off of the monkey bars. Before he'd even really had a chance, Rye had been denoted an outcast, but perhaps that was for the best, anyways. He'd gone home to a father that could sniff out weakness and pounced on it like a wolf, informing Rye of exactly who he was, and who he would never be.

But Rye wasn't quite sure that he belonged here either, with his scumbag friends, getting high enough to forget, even if only just for a night. Because maybe, if he wasn't stuck there, in dark corners and sticky bars and places of the neighborhood that other people went out of their way to avoid, he'd be able to put his anger into a more productive use than swinging his knuckles at people, who crumpled under the force of it, or objects, like the lamp that shattered and burst, or the wall, the only thing sturdy enough to beat him and his rage and give him scars and scrapes and bruises back.

So maybe he did belong there, blowing rings of smoke out of cigarettes and inhaling the grey clouds until it was absorbed into his head and his heart and he couldn't quite make out anything. Maybe Rye did belong there, because his body was a map of tattoos and bruises and scars, a storybook that he hid underneath hoodies and disinterested gazes, the cover to a book that he never let anyone else read. Maybe he did belong there, because his mind was a nuclear warzone, thick with layers of anger that hid any true emotions that he may have once had. Because Rye was all piercings and pain, big hoodies and helldom and slouching and scowling and giving up before he began.

And right now he was sprawled out on Mikey's couch, in one more house that wasn't quite home but was still a place to waste time. A joint was loosely gripped within his fingers and his head was in that suspended state right before the high hit. Mikey was in the kitchen, pouring a bowl of Cheetos that he would end up devouring before ever bringing it back out to Rye who didn't really care if his stomach was as empty as the rest of him. Somewhere along the line, his survival instincts had kicked the bucket and he lost the ability to truly care about whether he lived or died, his only real reason to stay here being the twins, who may or may not have been better without him anyways.

But he wasn't thinking of them as he stared at the cracks on the ceiling and the mysterious stains that seemed to have been there since the place was built. Instead, and not for the first time, either, Rye wandered back to Andy, and he wondered what he was doing at that moment in time.

He shouldn't have had to – Andy was in the only place he would ever be on a Tuesday afternoon, and that was in class. He had been slightly disappointed, but not really surprised, to realize that Rye wouldn't be coming in that day. And, not for the first time, Andy's mind wandered back to Rye, the boy who never followed the rules, whose reputation was bigger than he was, and he wondered what he was doing at the moment in time. He couldn't linger on it for long, though, because their teacher began to speak, and Andy gave his full attention to her.

And, see, Andy liked school, he really did. He liked learning, liked the routine and regulation of it, liked it being nearly the same thing every day, and he liked being good at it. But those weren't the only reasons that Andy Fowler always strived so hard to succeed.

It probably began to take root when he was little, far too young to understand it quite yet, when his father left both him and his mum. In Andy's memory, it had always been just the two of them, and she had always had to work harder and longer hours than she would've preferred to in order to support them financially. So, like Rye, Andy had had to grow up quickly. By the time he was five years old, still sporting pastel pink chubby cheeks, he had taught himself to read, simply to be able to help around the house and sort the mail. His mother loved him, her little prodigy, oh so very much, and it broke her heart just a little bit to watch him grow so independent when he shouldn't have had to be.

Maybe it was a part of who he was, and always would've been, but it was true that, deep inside of him, Andy felt the need to prove to his mum, and to his dad, wherever he may be, and to the world, that he was good enough. His way of accomplishing that was by giving his all into everything that he did. When Rye had cut and folded his heart into something small enough to pack away and forget about, Andy had let his grow big enough to consume him, and guide him in everything that he did. It was his heart that he put into the in-class essay on World War II that Rye would take a zero for, and it was his heart that looped his thoughts back to the bruised and battle-weary and beautiful boy time and again.

Rye was fire and ice and gasoline all in one, an explosion ready and waiting to happen, but maybe, Andy hypothesized to himself as he sat in the quiet library at lunch, just maybe, Rye was more at risk to harm himself than anyone else. It was a big risk to take, and Andy was far from a daredevil. The only rule he had ever broken was that one time he had illegally downloaded a YouTube video – But even then, the video was one that he had to watch for homework. He hadn't had time to go to the library after school and he didn't have the internet at home and just the thought of doing it in class before it began was enough to set him off into cold sweats, so he'd had no real choice but to find some way to save it.

He had been washed over with guilt about it for a few days afterwards, too, convinced that at any moment, the police would show up at his door and lock him up for what he had done. He had worried about it, in fact, until confessing it to his mum around his dry and scratchy throat and she had, of all things, laughed and kissed his forehead and sighed because, oh, her son was so unlike anyone she had ever known, and, oh, did she love him oh so very much. She had reassured him that he had nothing to worry about, that people downloaded YouTube videos all the time and she was certain the FBI had more important issues to handle, but he had never quite abandoned the tickle of fear over it.

But maybe, just maybe, Rye was something worth taking a risk on.