rl rps: swoon
swoon
debate camp slash. you're the hot one.
I can't anymore, Sam had said, and Ryan had said what, and Sam had said, I can't, not anymore, to you, or for me, and Ryan had said what are you talking about, like he really couldn't understand what Sam was referring to or like he didn't know Sam anymore, and they had been in the safe concrete of their room, away from the prying eyes in their debate group lab, away from Forrest, their lab leader, away from Chris and Justin and the two girl teams that didn't really know anything, away from it being cold in their classroom. Here there was nothing except a faucet that dripped and a closet between their two closets that was completely empty. And Sam had said, you know, through his teeth almost, and Ryan had hissed, but I don't, and it was up to Sam to show him, so he reached over and kissed Ryan and said, this, and then came that period of self-loathing he's still suffering through, because inside he knows he still can, that he still does, and that he still is.
And so now, still at debate camp, a little bit into the dark of night, Sam wakes up because Ryan suddenly climbs onto the bed, his nose a few centimeters away from Sam's nose, the back of Sam's arm pressed flat into Ryan's chest, and their breathing starting to mingle. Ryan is just staring at him without much of any feeling, the way Ryan always stares at something, but Sam gets this impression of misunderstanding, like maybe Ryan just said something and Sam, asleep, didn't hear it at all.
"You know I hate it when you do that," Sam says, actually croaks with his voice half-asleep, scooting himself back into the wall to get some space in between him and Ryan. His bed is the one that's set up next to the wall across from the door. Ryan sleeps in the bed closest to the door. They had been given a three-person room despite the fact that there's only the two of them, but neither of them are really complaining. More room, and the third bed they use to dump everything on, both of them being teenage boys, and neither of them too particularly neat. Ryan's a little bit more fastidious than Sam, though, so Ryan's bed is usually made in the morning, not military tight like Chris makes his bed, but not pulled part and shoved around like Sam's blankets.
"Come on," Ryan whispers, keeping his lip in that pursed position even after the words have gone silent.
"What," Sam says, meaning for it to be a question but he figures he knows what Ryan is talking about, because Ryan is already looking at the bill of Sam's hat, almost trying to remove the red baseball cap from Sam's head without touching it.
"Just," Ryan bites out, frustrated, and Sam can almost hear him blinking his eyes as he tries out different versions of what he wants to say in his head. Ryan shakes his head. "Now. For me. Just this once."
"Go to bed," Sam answers, feeling his bones start to weaken and bend and suddenly hating Ryan for being there and himself for even letting Ryan attempt to approach him. He had been sleeping a bit before this and the last thing he had seen before he blanked out was Ryan sitting on his own bed, Indian-style, the wrinkle of the sheets reflecting the lights from the cabinet like alcove where their sink and medicine cabinet mirror are, opposite the end of the Ryan's bed. The rest of the lights were out, and they're still out now, so Sam can only see the outline of Ryan's ear and cheek. Most of it is just feeling the warmth coming from Ryan, and the fact that when Sam tugs at his blanket that's gathered at his waist it doesn't budge, because Ryan is lying on it.
"Sam," Ryan says, not whispering anymore, but nothing above what Sam considers a murmur. Sam turns over in his bed, the blanket cutting across his waist as he moves because there's no way it can give through the tension. He can't see the wall, of course, but he knows what it looks like: pastel yellow mixed with gray blocks in a brick-like pattern, little dents and holes in it, the texture of stone or cement glazed over with paint. Like a prison, Ryan had said when they first got into the room, but that was, what? Almost a week ago. No, maybe four days ago, and then they had still been--
"Go to bed," Sam says again, and clenching his teeth, making his jaw hurt. He waits for Ryan to say something back to him, okay, or no, or anything, because Sam can't see Ryan, and can't seem him in the dark, so he needs, really desperately needs, Ryan to say something, almost as much as Ryan needs Sam to do this thing in the dark, this touching, this. "Get off my bed, Ryan. Go to sleep." Sam can smell Ryan from here, the steam from his shower and his soap scent.
A touch of Ryan's fingers on the hand Sam has thrown over his shoulder is all the warning Sam is given before something hot and warm presses against the tendons under the skin of Sam's wrist. Dark, and silent in the room, so Sam can hear Ryan's mouth moving, the little sounds of Ryan's tongue and the tension broken between Sam's skin and Ryan's mouth, terrible and sensitive sounds, while Sam trembles against the cold wall pressed to his forehead and his elbow. Warm. Slow. And wet, and Ryan trails down a little to where the wrist connects to the arm, and then back up, to the edges of the palm. Sam can feel Ryan's knee pressed against the back of Sam's thighs.
Sam suddenly sits up, banging his head against the wall in the process, and he jerks back his hand. "Ryan," he says, loudly, but he can't be so heartless as to scream. Sam can see the outline of Ryan's chest against the backlight of the fluorescent light hanging over the skin. Can see Ryan's chest shaking, and can hear it, but can't really do anything about it. Can feel his own back rubbing against the wall each time he breathes. "Ryan," he says again. Ryan turns around and slides off the bed, shuffling in his sandals towards the sink. Sam absently rubs his wrist against his blanket, watching Ryan brush his teeth. Which, Sam thinks, is odd, because when he brings his wrist to his face later, before going to sleep, he can smell the mint of toothpaste on the spot where Ryan's mouth was.
The next morning Sam wakes up and Ryan is already outside, running in a big white shirt whose collar spreads to the middle of his collarbones and drags down to his chest in a line even with Ryan's armpits. Long athletic-like shorts, shiny, red, the color of Sam's baseball cap, except the fabric catches light in the sun. Six o' clock, Sam thinks, groaning, and slides his feet into his sneakers bare, crushing the back of his shoes as he walks to the sink. Ryan's toothbrush is still wet and drips despondently into the sink. For a few minutes Sam watches that dripping, then violently shakes his head to snap himself out of it.
Sam is waiting at the top of the stairs that lead to the boys' room floor when Ryan comes in, sweaty and out of breath from running. They stare at each other for a while, not saying good morning, Sam because he can't, and Ryan because he's angry enough that he can't. Ryan is still running in place. The sunlight is coming in from the huge windows that make up the wall beside Ryan. The shadow of the statue of Saint Mary that stands white and immaculate in the faux garden outside falls in as well, just in front of Ryan's moving feet. Sam is transfixed by the way the light quivers over Ryan's temples and the wet marks the sweat made as it trailed down. Everything is still, so quiet that Sam can hear Ryan's breathing over the sound of Ryan's shoes hitting the floor, even at this distance.
Just as Sam is opening the door to go back into the room floor, Ryan yells at him, no longer running in place, "Where do you want this to go, Sam? What are you trying to accomplish?" And Sam, reeling around, his hand gripping both the doorknob and the railing of the stairs, "I'm not trying to accomplish anything, there isn't anything to accomplish, and it isn't supposed to go anywhere," and Ryan yells back, "Damnit, Sam!" Their voices are loud in the hallway, in the early morning sunshine, in the silence, loud enough that some half awake coach from one of the other schools pokes his head out from behind the door, telling them in no uncertain terms that there are other people trying to sleep and if they must insist on quarrelling like they're dating he suggests they take it outside where nobody can hear them. Sam, furious, stalks through the door into the dorm floor and then locks the door to their dorm room, even though he knows Ryan has the key to get in.
It just makes him feel better in an utterly harmless, childless, and immature way.
After breakfast, they sit on the opposite sides of the row of seats in the auditorium for their morning lecture. Ryan is immovably calm whenever Sam glances at him, and Sam trains himself to quickly snap his head back to the front whenever he even suspects Ryan is turning his head to look at Sam. They play this game for a little while, alternating glances, and Sam can hear behind him one of the girls in his lab ask her partner quietly, but all girls are a little shrill, what do they think they're doing, being subtle? and Sam can't help smiling grimly, just a little.
Ryan, though, is too far away to hear, and doesn't care, and keeps his eyes on the speaker when Sam looks at him, and suddenly there really isn't much for Sam to say, or do, than to turn his head back and pretend he's paying attention, and he doesn't wait for Sam when the lecture is done and they're supposed to go to their classrooms.
Instead Ryan stands in that bathroom after the presentation in the auditorium, the lights off and the distant ringing of empty hallways and half filled classrooms still buzzing in his ear. This bathroom is next to the classroom their lab calls the homeroom. It's an ordinary bathroom, the same for men and women, which means that the guys have to remember to pull down the seat lid when they're done, or else the entire male race will be hearing about it for the whole day. There's a electronic hand dryer on one wall and the other wall has an odd colored stripe of tiles running from the ceiling and across the floor. The sink is next to the toilet. The mirror is dim and has a small crack in one corner. The light switch is next to the door, dingy and palmed yellow.
They had been in here just two days ago, Ryan up against a wall and Sam with his hands all over and Sam had said, pushing his cap to the floor, shhh, you'll make someone wonder what's going on in here, which made Ryan laugh hard enough that Sam had to kiss him, hard, on the mouth. Ryan's head had banged against the tile floor a couple of times during that excursion, all warm hands and wet mouths and the feeling of Sam's baseball cap getting crushed under Ryan's palm and their knees knocking against each other.
Ryan stands there now, alone, and after a while opens the door again to walk out. It was about a year or so since he and Sam had been debate partners, and it had been dark room love affairs ever since, but something had changed in between the time span of two unlit bathrooms, and that changed thing isn't the bathroom, the lights, or Ryan.
In fact the changed thing isn't Sam either, but more the passage of time, and suddenly it becomes obvious what is desperation and reality. Sam can see it, but Ryan can't, or won't, or something that has to do with free will and trying.
Back in the classroom, though, Sam, without free will and unable to try, can't help but watch Ryan's feet, the dark tan skin ending so abruptly at the ankle, a tan line where the sock is, and Ryan's feet so white, long and almost uninterrupted in their whiteness. Sam can't help but watch those feet, watch Ryan and his speed, the invisible thread that only Sam can draw from Ryan's temple to the corner of Ryan's mouth, and Sam looks at Ryan so hard that the next time Sam blinks, his eyes draw tears and his mouth is cotton dry.
It doesn't help that at that time, Forrest assigns them both topics to do for negative briefs, since they don't have a team to go against for the practice tournament, since they aren't competing as a team anymore. Sam had told Forrest just before the presentation at the auditorium that they weren't going to be partners anymore, and Forrest had given him this hard, flinty look that completely contradicted the way Forrest carries herself, all bubblegum sweetness and too-old-for-pigtails. It was a look that told Sam exactly the opposite of what came out of Forrest's mouth, which was, "Whatever you boys think will make you happy," and Sam knew that she knew at that moment that they would never be happy, never be satisfied, never be content, apart or together or apart but together, but that they needed to be together even without the happiness and satisfaction. She had guessed that hunger, maybe, and her eyes had been cold even though the tilt of her head, soft and curious, wasn't anything like her eyes.
Forrest looks at Ryan, then at Sam, and asks them separately what they want to do for their negative briefs. It's the first time they've had an audience for their break-up, and Sam can't look at Forrest in the eye, or really look at any of the others, Justin or Chris who exchange looks and quirk their eyebrows, and especially the girls, who are rustling and tapping their feet, wondering why they Sam and Ryan don't have to go up against their opposing team's affirmative case. Sam watches his hands move across his desk nervously when he mutters something about disadvantages and topicality, but when it's Ryan's turn, Sam has to look up at Ryan, because Ryan's voice is strong and unafraid, when he tells Forrest he wants to do the solvency blocks on any case he can get his hands on. Ryan looks straight at her, not at Sam or at the floor, and Sam wonders why he can't be like Ryan, brave enough, maybe, to not care, or a good enough actor that it seems that way. Like Ryan in the auditorium, knowing Sam is watching him and listening to him, only to him, and turning that into something sharp against Sam's throat.
After Forrest dismisses them, Ryan escapes from the auditorium building that smells of rain and cold. Outside it's still summer, the trees loaded with fruits that look like tiny apples, dripping wet from the sprinkles that seem to enjoy activating just as the debaters walk down the sidewalk on the way to the library next to the auditorium building. There's a statue of Jesus in front of the auditorium building and Ryan waits there, seeing Justin and Chris exit a few paces behind him. Chris glances between Justin and Ryan, then says something quietly to Justin and walks off, his brown leather sandals flapping at his heels noisily, his outer plaid shirt billowing out behind him, the sun bright on his hair and his pink acne-ridden face. It's Thursday. Chris hates Thursdays.
"What's up?" Justin says, appearing rather suddenly at Ryan's elbow. Justin isn't quite awake, but the way his skin is brown and tanned and bottled straight from the asphalt tops of basketball courts make him look merely casual, eyes lidded instead of straining to stay open. Ryan smiles, or rather attempts poorly at smiling, because Justin snaps from relaxed to worried in mere seconds.
"It's nothing, I--"
"We know," Justin says quietly, making some inexplicable gesture in the general direction of the library, probably to indicate to Ryan that Chris, currently in the library, knows as well. Justin, acting apologetic, and Ryan feels guilty, or maybe not that much after all.
"I don't know what I did wrong," Ryan says to Justin finally, taking a few hesitant steps towards the library, but it occurs to Ryan that maybe he didn't do anything wrong and that it isn't his fault, except he can't say it to Justin or Sam that way, can only say it to himself. "Maybe I did something stupid," Ryan finishes.
"No," Justin says, casting a look at the library, and Ryan can hear in his head the sounds of brown leather heels slapping the bottom of Chris's shoes as he walks. "It's usually not anyone's fault," as if he was reading Ryan's mind, and trying to comfort him with words he can't say. Ryan looks at Justin, more intently than he would normally. Justin is shorter than him, and there's still boyishness around his eyes and mouth, but the rest of him is sharp, and grown up, his hair nearly the color of his skin, that's how brown he is all over. And in every step Justin takes Ryan can see he still believes in lost causes.
So Ryan is stupid, and asks, "Why haven't you and Chris ever--?" and can't bring himself to say anymore, not with Chris walking off behind the glass door entrance into the library, and the busts of Socrates and Dante staring down at Ryan from the brick walls of the library. Justin takes a moment to think, then laughs, and it's a self-deprecating laugh, sure, but it's a more sincere laugh than anything Ryan could form, if he had to laugh when answering a question as sensitive and stupid as the one he just asked.
"Because," Justin says, and Ryan thinks that in between every word Justin seems to be trying to bite a hole through his lip with his teeth, "Chris isn't like Sam. Sometimes I don't think Chris cares about anything but debate."
At that moment Ryan wonders if he knows now the reason why Justin always tries to apologize and smooth over Chris's aptitude for making social mistakes, Chris's disparaging statements, and Chris's insults. Maybe to make Chris just that much more indebted to Justin, so much indebted that one day Chris will look back on it all and see how much he owes Justin, how many people would have hated him and refused to give him any help if it wasn't for Justin paving the brambles smooth and soothing everyone over with a smile. Chris, maybe, seeing Justin always a few steps behind of him, but realizing Justin was always a few steps ahead of him, and maybe, just maybe, loving Justin for that one reason.
"You're lucky," Justin says softly, pushing open the door, and Ryan would like to say, no, I'm not at all, until he sees Sam disappearing up a flight of stairs and getting lost between the bookshelves, but glancing a little at Ryan at the door, and even with Sam suddenly declaring he can't, even with Sam trying so hard to stop, even with Sam as Sam is, Ryan would have to agree that at least he is luckier than Justin, because if Ryan was in Justin's position, he probably wouldn't be able to live with himself.
There's a small circle of armchairs on the first floor of the library, a distance away from the door and the computer lab in the front of the library. There's a small pod of computers to the right of the armchairs. For almost the entire day, then, or mostly until the afternoon, the boys spend their time jockeying for the seat next to Megan, which to Ryan seems stupid because none of them are really want to sit next to Megan, but it makes more sense when he's actually doing it, because there's something about Sam's eyes when Ryan is the one sitting down and Sam is the one pacing around the armchairs, and there's something about the corner of Sam's lips when they move when it's Sam sitting down and Ryan is the one moving, fidgeting all over the place. Ryan doesn't even really like Megan. She's nice in an utterly bland and appropriate way, the kind of girl Ryan's mother, for once, would like to see him date. Her hair is dark brown, and she has small thick-framed square black glasses, the old fashioned kind that has just become popular, and a scatter of freckles across her nose. She's comfortable with herself, and that's what Ryan sort of likes about her, but other than he really just doesn't. Even though she is the only girl who would still be willing to play the object both Ryan and Sam to express their latent frustration with each other.
Because that's what they're doing, whether or not both of them realize it.
Some of the other debaters pass by and throw them all strange looks. They're the only ones not researching themselves to death, Megan because she doesn't care about losing in the next debate tournament and Sam and Ryan because they aren't participating. The armchairs are comfortable, and Ryan can't complain. This is probably the closest, he thinks, that he'll get to Sam for a while, sitting in the warm spot Sam leaves behind and watching Sam from the vantage point behind Megan, a convenient enough stance because he can slide his eyes over to Megan if Sam looks up at him. And that's how they spend their time that afternoon, really, both of them looking over Megan and talking to her half-heartedly while they wonder how much the other person is listening in, a love triangle without the love.
Until Megan asks them both, rhetorically of course, "What are you most afraid of?" Ryan answers so quickly his tongue almost stumbles over the word, "Heartbreak." And it's the first time he turns deliberately to look at Sam, who suddenly walks over to the window so the shadow of his back is that much blacker than it would be otherwise. Sam pauses for a long while as Ryan watches him, Megan watching Ryan, and Sam just standing there, biting his lip. Ryan digs his fingers into palm, waiting.
"Good intentions," Sam says finally, exhaling so that the word 'good' is sort of lost in his breath. Megan laughs, going on to say how she was expecting to hear death or something, but neither Ryan nor Sam are listening anymore. Sam turns around and for a long, endless, infinite moment, Ryan and Sam are watching each other, both of them completely incomprehensible to the other, but both of them fitting, clicking, and understanding in a way only the two of them can.
They avoid each other for pretty much all of the next day. The tournament is arranged so that there are always half of the debate camp debating and the other half watching. It's not hard to avoid Ryan, because there are a lot of classrooms and a lot of debaters going at the same time. Once Sam loses Ryan the first time, it isn't hard to keep avoiding him. But they do end up watching the last debate together, Ryan sitting next to him, scratching away at his legal pad, and Sam is reminded of how Ryan takes notes, hurriedly, with post-it notes sticking out all over the place, and in red pen, with tiny handwriting. How Ryan flows perfectly, legibly, almost at the rate of talking. How Ryan never seems to look at his page when he's writing, so his flow always comes out looking slightly crooked, as if it were xeroxed from a page and the original was placed slanted on the copier. Sam barely flows at all, because he's always been dependent on Ryan's flows. It's so simple, he realizes, to slip back into the way they were before. Sam, out of pure habit, accidentally reaches over and circles a Roman numeral on Ryan's flow and even starts scribbling down a counter-argument before he realizes what he's doing. Ryan's eyes, tired, and mildly frightened, and something about the way Ryan breathes shakily before going back to attacking his legal pad with his pen makes Sam hurt inside.
That night, back in their dorm, Sam is reading a paperback novel he had brought along with him, but Ryan is just about to go to bed. The lights are on. Ryan has an inability to sleep with the lights on, though, so he gets up and snaps off the light, grunting when he hits his knee on his bed as he walks back. Sam is blinded for a little while too, his book lost in his hands as the shock of the darkness hits him. Stunned, then irritated, he feels his way across the room and snaps the light back on, giving Ryan a blinded look before attempting to go back to reading, sitting crosslegged on his bed.
Ryan's bed squeaks as he rolls off. This time Sam is prepared for it, blinking his eyes rapidly a few times as the light turns off. He waits five seconds for his eyes to adjust, then walks over to the light switch again and flips the switch so the light turns on again. Ryan is huddled under his covers, just the top of his head showing. Sam goes back to his own bed and tries to read again, except suddenly he realizes that he doesn't even know where he left off. It's in that silence that Ryan asks him, "Why don't you care anymore?" and Sam stops breathing for a long, long time, and when his breath does come back it's shallow and faltering, because he realizes the question Ryan is trying to ask is, 'why don't you care about me anymore?'
"We never get along," he says. "We're always getting into stupid fights. Like this." Sam gestures to the lights, then realizes that Ryan can't see him. "Like this whole light thing. And it's okay when we're debate partners, because sometimes both of us come up with brilliant points, but in this-- in this--this" Sam stops. It's a minute before he looks up from his book and at Ryan. Ryan's not facing the wall with his covers pulled up anymore, he's looking at Sam, his chin propped up over his arms that are crossed over the pillow. Ryan stares at Sam for a little while, then turns rolls over again, tucking himself in, his eyes closed.
Sam understands perfectly what Ryan is saying. What if I don't argue with you, Ryan is asking, his wrist draped over his eyes trying to block out the light so he can go to sleep. Look at what I'm sacrificing for you. Look. We're not arguing anymore. And Sam, his hands trembling and causing the book in them to shake, when he does close the book and turn off the lights, spends an hour awake, trying to convey with his eyes across the dark room, it's not you. Don't believe me. Don't believe me. It's me and you'll realize all of it later.
Sam doesn't know, though, whether or not Ryan hears him in the dark.
Ryan, anyway, doesn't say anything about either the light incident or Sam's telepathic message when they wake up in the morning. They're not worried about anything because they don't have a debate to do, so they're lackidasical in the morning, lingering over the silence during breakfast and drowning themselves in that silence as they walk together, making a detour through one of the buildings and still refusing to talk to each other when they get stuck in a dead end and have to retrace all of their steps to get outside again so they can walk to the auditorium building. Ryan somehow slips off to another classroom. Sam loses him and he realizes, when he sits down to another debate, he's lost his flow pad too, because Ryan, out of habit, took both of theirs in his backpack. He doesn't concentrate on the debate at all; instead he spends his time thinking about Ryan flowing in another classroom, Sam's flow pad slowly decaying in his backpack. Sam doesn't know if he'll ask Ryan for it back, anyway.
Evidently Ryan's debate ends before Sam's does, because when Sam walks back to his dorm Ryan is already in the room, cleaning up the room, and in that half-cleaned room, Sam can see even more clearly the difference between their personalities. Ryan's belongings had been stacked neatly and now it's easy for him to put them back into his suitcase. Sam doesn't even bother to fold his left over clothes. He throws them all in his suitcase.
Cleaning up is hard when neither of them want to touch or talk to each other. They keep running into each other and not apologizing, agonizing over it silently with their blankets and their pillows. Somehow during the last day they had mixed up their toothbrushes and, when packing, Sam realizes that he has Ryan's, except he and Ryan still aren't talking, so he has a hard time trying to get his back from Ryan. Finally he just slips Ryan's toothbrush into the front pocket of Ryan's suitcase and gives up on his, just like he's given up on his flow pad. To the winner, Sam thinks, goes the spoils, but then he decides that doesn't make any sense in this situation, because there aren't any winners or spoils, and Sam doesn't know what defines war.
Sam's parents arrive first and right before he leaves, Ryan still sitting on his stripped bed and gazing off into the distance, Sam flips the light switch twice, leaving it off. Ryan doesn't say anything, not even goodbye, and Sam is forced to wonder if Ryan flinches when Sam slams the door, even though he knows none of it is Ryan's fault at all.
Ryan's parents come later. They don't ask him what's wrong even though it's obvious from their faces that they know something is wrong. Pulling out of the college campus, the rain starts pouring even though the sun is still sort of shining through. Ryan has his hands on his knees and when his mother finally breaks down and asks him how Sam is, Ryan watches the shadows the raindrops cast on the car window moves on the backs of his hands and his jeans, shifting and never still, chasing each other across the glass.
"Oh," he says, answering his mother after a long, disturbing pause, "the way he's always been."
debate camp slash. you're the hot one.
I can't anymore, Sam had said, and Ryan had said what, and Sam had said, I can't, not anymore, to you, or for me, and Ryan had said what are you talking about, like he really couldn't understand what Sam was referring to or like he didn't know Sam anymore, and they had been in the safe concrete of their room, away from the prying eyes in their debate group lab, away from Forrest, their lab leader, away from Chris and Justin and the two girl teams that didn't really know anything, away from it being cold in their classroom. Here there was nothing except a faucet that dripped and a closet between their two closets that was completely empty. And Sam had said, you know, through his teeth almost, and Ryan had hissed, but I don't, and it was up to Sam to show him, so he reached over and kissed Ryan and said, this, and then came that period of self-loathing he's still suffering through, because inside he knows he still can, that he still does, and that he still is.
And so now, still at debate camp, a little bit into the dark of night, Sam wakes up because Ryan suddenly climbs onto the bed, his nose a few centimeters away from Sam's nose, the back of Sam's arm pressed flat into Ryan's chest, and their breathing starting to mingle. Ryan is just staring at him without much of any feeling, the way Ryan always stares at something, but Sam gets this impression of misunderstanding, like maybe Ryan just said something and Sam, asleep, didn't hear it at all.
"You know I hate it when you do that," Sam says, actually croaks with his voice half-asleep, scooting himself back into the wall to get some space in between him and Ryan. His bed is the one that's set up next to the wall across from the door. Ryan sleeps in the bed closest to the door. They had been given a three-person room despite the fact that there's only the two of them, but neither of them are really complaining. More room, and the third bed they use to dump everything on, both of them being teenage boys, and neither of them too particularly neat. Ryan's a little bit more fastidious than Sam, though, so Ryan's bed is usually made in the morning, not military tight like Chris makes his bed, but not pulled part and shoved around like Sam's blankets.
"Come on," Ryan whispers, keeping his lip in that pursed position even after the words have gone silent.
"What," Sam says, meaning for it to be a question but he figures he knows what Ryan is talking about, because Ryan is already looking at the bill of Sam's hat, almost trying to remove the red baseball cap from Sam's head without touching it.
"Just," Ryan bites out, frustrated, and Sam can almost hear him blinking his eyes as he tries out different versions of what he wants to say in his head. Ryan shakes his head. "Now. For me. Just this once."
"Go to bed," Sam answers, feeling his bones start to weaken and bend and suddenly hating Ryan for being there and himself for even letting Ryan attempt to approach him. He had been sleeping a bit before this and the last thing he had seen before he blanked out was Ryan sitting on his own bed, Indian-style, the wrinkle of the sheets reflecting the lights from the cabinet like alcove where their sink and medicine cabinet mirror are, opposite the end of the Ryan's bed. The rest of the lights were out, and they're still out now, so Sam can only see the outline of Ryan's ear and cheek. Most of it is just feeling the warmth coming from Ryan, and the fact that when Sam tugs at his blanket that's gathered at his waist it doesn't budge, because Ryan is lying on it.
"Sam," Ryan says, not whispering anymore, but nothing above what Sam considers a murmur. Sam turns over in his bed, the blanket cutting across his waist as he moves because there's no way it can give through the tension. He can't see the wall, of course, but he knows what it looks like: pastel yellow mixed with gray blocks in a brick-like pattern, little dents and holes in it, the texture of stone or cement glazed over with paint. Like a prison, Ryan had said when they first got into the room, but that was, what? Almost a week ago. No, maybe four days ago, and then they had still been--
"Go to bed," Sam says again, and clenching his teeth, making his jaw hurt. He waits for Ryan to say something back to him, okay, or no, or anything, because Sam can't see Ryan, and can't seem him in the dark, so he needs, really desperately needs, Ryan to say something, almost as much as Ryan needs Sam to do this thing in the dark, this touching, this. "Get off my bed, Ryan. Go to sleep." Sam can smell Ryan from here, the steam from his shower and his soap scent.
A touch of Ryan's fingers on the hand Sam has thrown over his shoulder is all the warning Sam is given before something hot and warm presses against the tendons under the skin of Sam's wrist. Dark, and silent in the room, so Sam can hear Ryan's mouth moving, the little sounds of Ryan's tongue and the tension broken between Sam's skin and Ryan's mouth, terrible and sensitive sounds, while Sam trembles against the cold wall pressed to his forehead and his elbow. Warm. Slow. And wet, and Ryan trails down a little to where the wrist connects to the arm, and then back up, to the edges of the palm. Sam can feel Ryan's knee pressed against the back of Sam's thighs.
Sam suddenly sits up, banging his head against the wall in the process, and he jerks back his hand. "Ryan," he says, loudly, but he can't be so heartless as to scream. Sam can see the outline of Ryan's chest against the backlight of the fluorescent light hanging over the skin. Can see Ryan's chest shaking, and can hear it, but can't really do anything about it. Can feel his own back rubbing against the wall each time he breathes. "Ryan," he says again. Ryan turns around and slides off the bed, shuffling in his sandals towards the sink. Sam absently rubs his wrist against his blanket, watching Ryan brush his teeth. Which, Sam thinks, is odd, because when he brings his wrist to his face later, before going to sleep, he can smell the mint of toothpaste on the spot where Ryan's mouth was.
The next morning Sam wakes up and Ryan is already outside, running in a big white shirt whose collar spreads to the middle of his collarbones and drags down to his chest in a line even with Ryan's armpits. Long athletic-like shorts, shiny, red, the color of Sam's baseball cap, except the fabric catches light in the sun. Six o' clock, Sam thinks, groaning, and slides his feet into his sneakers bare, crushing the back of his shoes as he walks to the sink. Ryan's toothbrush is still wet and drips despondently into the sink. For a few minutes Sam watches that dripping, then violently shakes his head to snap himself out of it.
Sam is waiting at the top of the stairs that lead to the boys' room floor when Ryan comes in, sweaty and out of breath from running. They stare at each other for a while, not saying good morning, Sam because he can't, and Ryan because he's angry enough that he can't. Ryan is still running in place. The sunlight is coming in from the huge windows that make up the wall beside Ryan. The shadow of the statue of Saint Mary that stands white and immaculate in the faux garden outside falls in as well, just in front of Ryan's moving feet. Sam is transfixed by the way the light quivers over Ryan's temples and the wet marks the sweat made as it trailed down. Everything is still, so quiet that Sam can hear Ryan's breathing over the sound of Ryan's shoes hitting the floor, even at this distance.
Just as Sam is opening the door to go back into the room floor, Ryan yells at him, no longer running in place, "Where do you want this to go, Sam? What are you trying to accomplish?" And Sam, reeling around, his hand gripping both the doorknob and the railing of the stairs, "I'm not trying to accomplish anything, there isn't anything to accomplish, and it isn't supposed to go anywhere," and Ryan yells back, "Damnit, Sam!" Their voices are loud in the hallway, in the early morning sunshine, in the silence, loud enough that some half awake coach from one of the other schools pokes his head out from behind the door, telling them in no uncertain terms that there are other people trying to sleep and if they must insist on quarrelling like they're dating he suggests they take it outside where nobody can hear them. Sam, furious, stalks through the door into the dorm floor and then locks the door to their dorm room, even though he knows Ryan has the key to get in.
It just makes him feel better in an utterly harmless, childless, and immature way.
After breakfast, they sit on the opposite sides of the row of seats in the auditorium for their morning lecture. Ryan is immovably calm whenever Sam glances at him, and Sam trains himself to quickly snap his head back to the front whenever he even suspects Ryan is turning his head to look at Sam. They play this game for a little while, alternating glances, and Sam can hear behind him one of the girls in his lab ask her partner quietly, but all girls are a little shrill, what do they think they're doing, being subtle? and Sam can't help smiling grimly, just a little.
Ryan, though, is too far away to hear, and doesn't care, and keeps his eyes on the speaker when Sam looks at him, and suddenly there really isn't much for Sam to say, or do, than to turn his head back and pretend he's paying attention, and he doesn't wait for Sam when the lecture is done and they're supposed to go to their classrooms.
Instead Ryan stands in that bathroom after the presentation in the auditorium, the lights off and the distant ringing of empty hallways and half filled classrooms still buzzing in his ear. This bathroom is next to the classroom their lab calls the homeroom. It's an ordinary bathroom, the same for men and women, which means that the guys have to remember to pull down the seat lid when they're done, or else the entire male race will be hearing about it for the whole day. There's a electronic hand dryer on one wall and the other wall has an odd colored stripe of tiles running from the ceiling and across the floor. The sink is next to the toilet. The mirror is dim and has a small crack in one corner. The light switch is next to the door, dingy and palmed yellow.
They had been in here just two days ago, Ryan up against a wall and Sam with his hands all over and Sam had said, pushing his cap to the floor, shhh, you'll make someone wonder what's going on in here, which made Ryan laugh hard enough that Sam had to kiss him, hard, on the mouth. Ryan's head had banged against the tile floor a couple of times during that excursion, all warm hands and wet mouths and the feeling of Sam's baseball cap getting crushed under Ryan's palm and their knees knocking against each other.
Ryan stands there now, alone, and after a while opens the door again to walk out. It was about a year or so since he and Sam had been debate partners, and it had been dark room love affairs ever since, but something had changed in between the time span of two unlit bathrooms, and that changed thing isn't the bathroom, the lights, or Ryan.
In fact the changed thing isn't Sam either, but more the passage of time, and suddenly it becomes obvious what is desperation and reality. Sam can see it, but Ryan can't, or won't, or something that has to do with free will and trying.
Back in the classroom, though, Sam, without free will and unable to try, can't help but watch Ryan's feet, the dark tan skin ending so abruptly at the ankle, a tan line where the sock is, and Ryan's feet so white, long and almost uninterrupted in their whiteness. Sam can't help but watch those feet, watch Ryan and his speed, the invisible thread that only Sam can draw from Ryan's temple to the corner of Ryan's mouth, and Sam looks at Ryan so hard that the next time Sam blinks, his eyes draw tears and his mouth is cotton dry.
It doesn't help that at that time, Forrest assigns them both topics to do for negative briefs, since they don't have a team to go against for the practice tournament, since they aren't competing as a team anymore. Sam had told Forrest just before the presentation at the auditorium that they weren't going to be partners anymore, and Forrest had given him this hard, flinty look that completely contradicted the way Forrest carries herself, all bubblegum sweetness and too-old-for-pigtails. It was a look that told Sam exactly the opposite of what came out of Forrest's mouth, which was, "Whatever you boys think will make you happy," and Sam knew that she knew at that moment that they would never be happy, never be satisfied, never be content, apart or together or apart but together, but that they needed to be together even without the happiness and satisfaction. She had guessed that hunger, maybe, and her eyes had been cold even though the tilt of her head, soft and curious, wasn't anything like her eyes.
Forrest looks at Ryan, then at Sam, and asks them separately what they want to do for their negative briefs. It's the first time they've had an audience for their break-up, and Sam can't look at Forrest in the eye, or really look at any of the others, Justin or Chris who exchange looks and quirk their eyebrows, and especially the girls, who are rustling and tapping their feet, wondering why they Sam and Ryan don't have to go up against their opposing team's affirmative case. Sam watches his hands move across his desk nervously when he mutters something about disadvantages and topicality, but when it's Ryan's turn, Sam has to look up at Ryan, because Ryan's voice is strong and unafraid, when he tells Forrest he wants to do the solvency blocks on any case he can get his hands on. Ryan looks straight at her, not at Sam or at the floor, and Sam wonders why he can't be like Ryan, brave enough, maybe, to not care, or a good enough actor that it seems that way. Like Ryan in the auditorium, knowing Sam is watching him and listening to him, only to him, and turning that into something sharp against Sam's throat.
After Forrest dismisses them, Ryan escapes from the auditorium building that smells of rain and cold. Outside it's still summer, the trees loaded with fruits that look like tiny apples, dripping wet from the sprinkles that seem to enjoy activating just as the debaters walk down the sidewalk on the way to the library next to the auditorium building. There's a statue of Jesus in front of the auditorium building and Ryan waits there, seeing Justin and Chris exit a few paces behind him. Chris glances between Justin and Ryan, then says something quietly to Justin and walks off, his brown leather sandals flapping at his heels noisily, his outer plaid shirt billowing out behind him, the sun bright on his hair and his pink acne-ridden face. It's Thursday. Chris hates Thursdays.
"What's up?" Justin says, appearing rather suddenly at Ryan's elbow. Justin isn't quite awake, but the way his skin is brown and tanned and bottled straight from the asphalt tops of basketball courts make him look merely casual, eyes lidded instead of straining to stay open. Ryan smiles, or rather attempts poorly at smiling, because Justin snaps from relaxed to worried in mere seconds.
"It's nothing, I--"
"We know," Justin says quietly, making some inexplicable gesture in the general direction of the library, probably to indicate to Ryan that Chris, currently in the library, knows as well. Justin, acting apologetic, and Ryan feels guilty, or maybe not that much after all.
"I don't know what I did wrong," Ryan says to Justin finally, taking a few hesitant steps towards the library, but it occurs to Ryan that maybe he didn't do anything wrong and that it isn't his fault, except he can't say it to Justin or Sam that way, can only say it to himself. "Maybe I did something stupid," Ryan finishes.
"No," Justin says, casting a look at the library, and Ryan can hear in his head the sounds of brown leather heels slapping the bottom of Chris's shoes as he walks. "It's usually not anyone's fault," as if he was reading Ryan's mind, and trying to comfort him with words he can't say. Ryan looks at Justin, more intently than he would normally. Justin is shorter than him, and there's still boyishness around his eyes and mouth, but the rest of him is sharp, and grown up, his hair nearly the color of his skin, that's how brown he is all over. And in every step Justin takes Ryan can see he still believes in lost causes.
So Ryan is stupid, and asks, "Why haven't you and Chris ever--?" and can't bring himself to say anymore, not with Chris walking off behind the glass door entrance into the library, and the busts of Socrates and Dante staring down at Ryan from the brick walls of the library. Justin takes a moment to think, then laughs, and it's a self-deprecating laugh, sure, but it's a more sincere laugh than anything Ryan could form, if he had to laugh when answering a question as sensitive and stupid as the one he just asked.
"Because," Justin says, and Ryan thinks that in between every word Justin seems to be trying to bite a hole through his lip with his teeth, "Chris isn't like Sam. Sometimes I don't think Chris cares about anything but debate."
At that moment Ryan wonders if he knows now the reason why Justin always tries to apologize and smooth over Chris's aptitude for making social mistakes, Chris's disparaging statements, and Chris's insults. Maybe to make Chris just that much more indebted to Justin, so much indebted that one day Chris will look back on it all and see how much he owes Justin, how many people would have hated him and refused to give him any help if it wasn't for Justin paving the brambles smooth and soothing everyone over with a smile. Chris, maybe, seeing Justin always a few steps behind of him, but realizing Justin was always a few steps ahead of him, and maybe, just maybe, loving Justin for that one reason.
"You're lucky," Justin says softly, pushing open the door, and Ryan would like to say, no, I'm not at all, until he sees Sam disappearing up a flight of stairs and getting lost between the bookshelves, but glancing a little at Ryan at the door, and even with Sam suddenly declaring he can't, even with Sam trying so hard to stop, even with Sam as Sam is, Ryan would have to agree that at least he is luckier than Justin, because if Ryan was in Justin's position, he probably wouldn't be able to live with himself.
There's a small circle of armchairs on the first floor of the library, a distance away from the door and the computer lab in the front of the library. There's a small pod of computers to the right of the armchairs. For almost the entire day, then, or mostly until the afternoon, the boys spend their time jockeying for the seat next to Megan, which to Ryan seems stupid because none of them are really want to sit next to Megan, but it makes more sense when he's actually doing it, because there's something about Sam's eyes when Ryan is the one sitting down and Sam is the one pacing around the armchairs, and there's something about the corner of Sam's lips when they move when it's Sam sitting down and Ryan is the one moving, fidgeting all over the place. Ryan doesn't even really like Megan. She's nice in an utterly bland and appropriate way, the kind of girl Ryan's mother, for once, would like to see him date. Her hair is dark brown, and she has small thick-framed square black glasses, the old fashioned kind that has just become popular, and a scatter of freckles across her nose. She's comfortable with herself, and that's what Ryan sort of likes about her, but other than he really just doesn't. Even though she is the only girl who would still be willing to play the object both Ryan and Sam to express their latent frustration with each other.
Because that's what they're doing, whether or not both of them realize it.
Some of the other debaters pass by and throw them all strange looks. They're the only ones not researching themselves to death, Megan because she doesn't care about losing in the next debate tournament and Sam and Ryan because they aren't participating. The armchairs are comfortable, and Ryan can't complain. This is probably the closest, he thinks, that he'll get to Sam for a while, sitting in the warm spot Sam leaves behind and watching Sam from the vantage point behind Megan, a convenient enough stance because he can slide his eyes over to Megan if Sam looks up at him. And that's how they spend their time that afternoon, really, both of them looking over Megan and talking to her half-heartedly while they wonder how much the other person is listening in, a love triangle without the love.
Until Megan asks them both, rhetorically of course, "What are you most afraid of?" Ryan answers so quickly his tongue almost stumbles over the word, "Heartbreak." And it's the first time he turns deliberately to look at Sam, who suddenly walks over to the window so the shadow of his back is that much blacker than it would be otherwise. Sam pauses for a long while as Ryan watches him, Megan watching Ryan, and Sam just standing there, biting his lip. Ryan digs his fingers into palm, waiting.
"Good intentions," Sam says finally, exhaling so that the word 'good' is sort of lost in his breath. Megan laughs, going on to say how she was expecting to hear death or something, but neither Ryan nor Sam are listening anymore. Sam turns around and for a long, endless, infinite moment, Ryan and Sam are watching each other, both of them completely incomprehensible to the other, but both of them fitting, clicking, and understanding in a way only the two of them can.
They avoid each other for pretty much all of the next day. The tournament is arranged so that there are always half of the debate camp debating and the other half watching. It's not hard to avoid Ryan, because there are a lot of classrooms and a lot of debaters going at the same time. Once Sam loses Ryan the first time, it isn't hard to keep avoiding him. But they do end up watching the last debate together, Ryan sitting next to him, scratching away at his legal pad, and Sam is reminded of how Ryan takes notes, hurriedly, with post-it notes sticking out all over the place, and in red pen, with tiny handwriting. How Ryan flows perfectly, legibly, almost at the rate of talking. How Ryan never seems to look at his page when he's writing, so his flow always comes out looking slightly crooked, as if it were xeroxed from a page and the original was placed slanted on the copier. Sam barely flows at all, because he's always been dependent on Ryan's flows. It's so simple, he realizes, to slip back into the way they were before. Sam, out of pure habit, accidentally reaches over and circles a Roman numeral on Ryan's flow and even starts scribbling down a counter-argument before he realizes what he's doing. Ryan's eyes, tired, and mildly frightened, and something about the way Ryan breathes shakily before going back to attacking his legal pad with his pen makes Sam hurt inside.
That night, back in their dorm, Sam is reading a paperback novel he had brought along with him, but Ryan is just about to go to bed. The lights are on. Ryan has an inability to sleep with the lights on, though, so he gets up and snaps off the light, grunting when he hits his knee on his bed as he walks back. Sam is blinded for a little while too, his book lost in his hands as the shock of the darkness hits him. Stunned, then irritated, he feels his way across the room and snaps the light back on, giving Ryan a blinded look before attempting to go back to reading, sitting crosslegged on his bed.
Ryan's bed squeaks as he rolls off. This time Sam is prepared for it, blinking his eyes rapidly a few times as the light turns off. He waits five seconds for his eyes to adjust, then walks over to the light switch again and flips the switch so the light turns on again. Ryan is huddled under his covers, just the top of his head showing. Sam goes back to his own bed and tries to read again, except suddenly he realizes that he doesn't even know where he left off. It's in that silence that Ryan asks him, "Why don't you care anymore?" and Sam stops breathing for a long, long time, and when his breath does come back it's shallow and faltering, because he realizes the question Ryan is trying to ask is, 'why don't you care about me anymore?'
"We never get along," he says. "We're always getting into stupid fights. Like this." Sam gestures to the lights, then realizes that Ryan can't see him. "Like this whole light thing. And it's okay when we're debate partners, because sometimes both of us come up with brilliant points, but in this-- in this--this" Sam stops. It's a minute before he looks up from his book and at Ryan. Ryan's not facing the wall with his covers pulled up anymore, he's looking at Sam, his chin propped up over his arms that are crossed over the pillow. Ryan stares at Sam for a little while, then turns rolls over again, tucking himself in, his eyes closed.
Sam understands perfectly what Ryan is saying. What if I don't argue with you, Ryan is asking, his wrist draped over his eyes trying to block out the light so he can go to sleep. Look at what I'm sacrificing for you. Look. We're not arguing anymore. And Sam, his hands trembling and causing the book in them to shake, when he does close the book and turn off the lights, spends an hour awake, trying to convey with his eyes across the dark room, it's not you. Don't believe me. Don't believe me. It's me and you'll realize all of it later.
Sam doesn't know, though, whether or not Ryan hears him in the dark.
Ryan, anyway, doesn't say anything about either the light incident or Sam's telepathic message when they wake up in the morning. They're not worried about anything because they don't have a debate to do, so they're lackidasical in the morning, lingering over the silence during breakfast and drowning themselves in that silence as they walk together, making a detour through one of the buildings and still refusing to talk to each other when they get stuck in a dead end and have to retrace all of their steps to get outside again so they can walk to the auditorium building. Ryan somehow slips off to another classroom. Sam loses him and he realizes, when he sits down to another debate, he's lost his flow pad too, because Ryan, out of habit, took both of theirs in his backpack. He doesn't concentrate on the debate at all; instead he spends his time thinking about Ryan flowing in another classroom, Sam's flow pad slowly decaying in his backpack. Sam doesn't know if he'll ask Ryan for it back, anyway.
Evidently Ryan's debate ends before Sam's does, because when Sam walks back to his dorm Ryan is already in the room, cleaning up the room, and in that half-cleaned room, Sam can see even more clearly the difference between their personalities. Ryan's belongings had been stacked neatly and now it's easy for him to put them back into his suitcase. Sam doesn't even bother to fold his left over clothes. He throws them all in his suitcase.
Cleaning up is hard when neither of them want to touch or talk to each other. They keep running into each other and not apologizing, agonizing over it silently with their blankets and their pillows. Somehow during the last day they had mixed up their toothbrushes and, when packing, Sam realizes that he has Ryan's, except he and Ryan still aren't talking, so he has a hard time trying to get his back from Ryan. Finally he just slips Ryan's toothbrush into the front pocket of Ryan's suitcase and gives up on his, just like he's given up on his flow pad. To the winner, Sam thinks, goes the spoils, but then he decides that doesn't make any sense in this situation, because there aren't any winners or spoils, and Sam doesn't know what defines war.
Sam's parents arrive first and right before he leaves, Ryan still sitting on his stripped bed and gazing off into the distance, Sam flips the light switch twice, leaving it off. Ryan doesn't say anything, not even goodbye, and Sam is forced to wonder if Ryan flinches when Sam slams the door, even though he knows none of it is Ryan's fault at all.
Ryan's parents come later. They don't ask him what's wrong even though it's obvious from their faces that they know something is wrong. Pulling out of the college campus, the rain starts pouring even though the sun is still sort of shining through. Ryan has his hands on his knees and when his mother finally breaks down and asks him how Sam is, Ryan watches the shadows the raindrops cast on the car window moves on the backs of his hands and his jeans, shifting and never still, chasing each other across the glass.
"Oh," he says, answering his mother after a long, disturbing pause, "the way he's always been."