Boston {ryden}

7

and how at first it's made so pure and lovely
but in battle can be torn to shreds
but with time and with patience and love and affection
can be fixed with needle and thread
because I love you, and do you love me?
and nothing will make this leave
so, remember me.

Despite my shaky truce with the boy who nearly shattered my mended life into pieces yet again, Jon kept his distance over the next week. We exchanged barely a glance over cereal bowls and late night pizza delivery, as the four of us tried to allow this absurd new life of ours to continue on in peace. Ryan slept by my side but I was hardly able to let him kiss me until I had given myself a few good days to cool off. I was late for fall term registrations at local colleges, but I yearned to go back to school, to have something useful to spend my days doing. Something to busy my mind. Something to keep me from thinking of everything I left behind.

I wrote a few more bland letters to my parents. I wrote a few empty screen plays with no endings. I wrote a few white deodorant hearts on the bathroom mirror for Ryan to see in the mornings. I wrote three spiral notebooks' worth of my thoughts and threw them out with the leftover pizza.

I spent most evenings in the bookstore down the block, a few buildings down from the bar Ryan worked at, so I could wait for him to get off.

That's where I met him.

His name-tag read PETE in perfect red lettering, though the name struck me as far too commonplace for someone as unique as he appeared to be. Intricate artwork covered the majority of his olive skinned arms, dark lettering peeking out around his collarbone from under the v-neck t-shirts he was usually clad in. I would linger in the self-help sections and he would suggest poetry and prose, fairy tales and medical journals when he passed by, flashing a winning smile that made my stomach flip once or twice in his smooth-scented wake. It was my sixth time at the book store when he finally asked my name, this mysterious boy who lived in the mysterious town I'd so recently taken up residency in.

"You strike me as a Brennan," he started up, turning down the self help aisle with his usual cart of books, a particular one titled NAMES AND THEIR MEANINGS in his left hand. I had to smile.

"Brendon," I corrected him, surprised at how close he had actually gotten with his spur of the moment guess. I didn't notice that my smile hadn't dropped, but rather was getting wider with each moment he stood beside me. Was there something about me that made strange, unfamiliar boys want to know who I was? I was 2 for 2 in that department.

"Hm, Brendon," he nodded, circling me once and ending up on my other side, name book tucked under one muscular arm. He was toned but small, just about my height, his jaw set and his coal black hair swept down over one eye– almost like Ryan's. "It fits you. I like it." A pause, and I gave no more reaction than my ridiculous smile. "I'm Pete," he said, tapping a finger on his plastic name tag, touching the red lettering I knew so well just from watching it pass me by through holes in bookshelves.

"I know," I answered, half thinking, my cheeks burning for a moment before I caught myself. I battled with my senses to function properly and fought to spit out something of worth to say, but he beat me to it.

"I bet," he picked up, with a short laugh. "You're here a lot. You must be from around here. Mostly we get tourists."

"Well, I'm not really from here," I admitted, though I had enjoyed the fact that I had stood out to him. "I just... recently relocated."

His interest burned my cheeks again. "Oh?" His perfect eyebrows raised in curiosity. "From?"

"Westbrook, Maine," I told him, surprised at myself for being so open with this stranger– though it shouldn't have shocked me so much after having run away with a completely random boy to the city I was then standing in, talking to yet another random boy, spilling my guts all over again.

"Ah, Maine," he nodded. "What brings you to Boston?"

My stomach flipped again. Why did it bother me so much to have to admit that another boy had brought me to Boston? I honestly wasn't available, after all– what did it matter?

"A friend," I swallowed my stomach. "I needed to get away."

He shifted his stance; I noticed.

"Can I ask what you needed to get away from?" His voice had dropped, to a deeper, quieter tone, his toned body leaning in closer to mine, our conversation becoming a secret, one he wanted to keep between our mouths and ears. It intimidated me, but soothed me, and I relaxed, letting him move in closer.

"The bathtub upstairs," I heard myself whisper, body instinctively moving back away from his, eyes falling to the worn carpet on the floor between us. The boy caught my movement, and matched it with his own, bridging the gap I'd created to whisper to me.

"What was in the bathtub?"

The air went stale; copper and bleach filled my lungs.

"My sister."

Guts spilled, I felt his hand touch mine before I had time to move away again. His fingers were smooth, and grazed mine gently, sending cool waves of sympathy straight to my inflamed heart, and I breathed. The door dinged with a new customer, and he took a step back, in time for me to see Ryan with his hands in his pockets, searching for me from the front of the store. I wet my lips, and he noted my glance at Ryan, a sad sort of smile coming across his mouth.

"He's waiting," he told me, backing away and easing his cart down the next aisle, leaving me alone with copper in my veins.

*

Ryan's palms were flat on my hips, his mouth quiet, breath calm and warm against my neck. I'd fallen victim to him again, I belonged to him again, and he had me weak, pressed underneath him in the bed we shared, tongue and teeth and lips all working against me to keep me whimpering for more. He'd learned me, in the time we'd shared; knew my spots, knew just where to press his warm, sticky mouth to make me shake. Nights with Ryan were hot, humid, and slow, measured by breaths and whispers and stories of his childhood as we fell asleep. We melted into each other, bodies bare and heated, his lips marking paths across my naked flesh as I pleaded with him, "Ryan, tell me another story."

He licked his lips, touched them to my thigh, and let his nose graze my skin as he moved back up from where he'd been kissing, making my heart race the lower he got. Settling his own warm body against my own, torsos and legs and ankles tangled just right, he ran those thin fingers through my hair and I watched him make silent memories of that moment as I waited for his words.

"The only story from the Bible I ever could believe was the one that told of when Jesus was crucified," he began, in a breath, his voice in that quiet tone it only fell to in our nights together. "It was the only one that really seemed plausible."

His stories always struck me. This one was no different. He spoke of something I knew as well as my own reflection, and yet it sounded foreign and new coming from those lips I loved.

"Why?" I pleaded in a whisper, wanting to hear him speak to me again, to lull me off to sleep with his lullaby voice.

"Because," he went on, fingers dancing over my cheekbone, his dark eyes scanning my face. "They came, arrested him, condemned him to death on a cross. Then made him carry the wretched cross he would die on for miles down roads and up hills, all the while being spit on, whipped, kicked, and harassed." He paused, reciting to me lines I'd heard a million times, yet they were so new. "I believe it, because I believe people are capable of being that cruel."

My heart stilled. My lungs took in more air than before, my fingers curled around his smooth shoulders, followed a path down his chest, pressed my own body that much closer to his own. I belonged to him.

"Do you believe in God, Ryan?" I begged of him, that one last detail I needed to add to the Book of Him that was forming in my mind with each moment we spent together. He knew I did; knew I'd been brought up to believe that something higher than myself had built the world I lived in. He knew it, and respected it to its very core.

"You know..." He began, lips grazing my own as he whispered. "I think I'm beginning to."

I didn't need to ask why.
His kiss spoke the truth.