Okay, I am warning you now, I couldn't help myself :P Ryan sees him, and knows him, and *still thinks he's there for the same reason any guy is*. And it kills him. Because somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere even he didn't know still existed, maybe the memory of Brendon was the last good thing in him. And now that's filth too. Now that's worse than filth.
Ryan doesn't even look up, he's putting on the whole show, 'cause god knows this guy's paying for it. The just off bow of his head, the way his legs are slightly further apart than they need to be to sit--everything is deliberate, and he knows just how it looks. His voice is flawless. "How do you want me, sir?" 10 parts fake submission, 5 parts seduction, tailored to perfection, not a hint of what he thinks of this scum. He hates the line in his mouth, maybe more than anything, the sick of powerlessness and obedience and submission, but it doesn't matter, because it's all an act. They can't reach inside him. No one can reach inside him, if inside him even still exists--no one can reach what's real, so it doesn't matter that it's sick, and it doesn't matter what they think they take from him.
"Ryan."
It's like an echo across the room--earthquakes in echoes and a breath on the night air drifting through time, fall leaves and snow. It's eight years since he's used that name--eight years since anyone's known it.
He looks up before he can stop himself--before he can tell himself not to, please not to...and everything's changed, just like that. Because there is still something left inside him. There is something left that they couldn't reach. And right now, his chest might as well be heaving open waiting for the filth to flood in and take it, because...Ryan looks down again before he can panic, tries desperately to think. He doesn't know what to do. He always knows what to do, he's good at this, he's brilliant, but...he can't. He can't. It can't be this. It can't have come to this.
The last goodness left in the world. The last memory of love, buried deep inside of him, deep where no one could touch, deep where no one could hurt it, even himself. The last, useless trace of faith. The last thing that was real.
Ryan thinks he'd maybe do anything for this to be a lie. There's a fleeting moment of madness where he thinks maybe he could run--maybe they're so used to him being good that they wouldn't know what was happening until he'd gone. He knows it wouldn't work. But...Ryan swallows, and presses the name as far from his mind as he can. He can forget that he ever looked up. He can forget that this is that face, that voice, that memory. He can pretend, in the tiny, subconscious part of his mind that still believes despite him, that this person was never here; that this never happened. This is just another paying customer, and Ryan will do what he does.
He knows he won't forget, though, even as he knows he doesn't really have a choice in this, knows there is no running, knows it's really very simple. This is hell, this is the last faint touch of light in a distant past turning to scum and bile and hate. Ryan doesn't know why he's surprised; it shouldn't be such a blow. Of course -he-'s just another mongrel. Of course he's no better than the rest.
Ryan doesn't look up again, and the way this hurts, the way this tears out his internal organs and his muscles and bones and shreds his skin in all the ways he thought he was too numb, too strong to feel again...the way this hurts is schooled from all but his eyes. His face is a work of art, as it always is, and his voice is the same. He bows his head a little further, because there's no role he can't play, nothing he can't do. If -this man- came here to fuck the innocent boy buried in Ryan's heart, then Ryan will tear that out into the open and give it to the filth, because he doesn't need it anymore, doesn't need anything. This is what he is. This is what he is now. The tone of Ryan's voice is carefully measured--the tilt of his head, the spread of his legs as deliberate as ever, and he murmurs, quietly, 10 parts fake submission and 5 parts seduction and barely even a trace of defeat--"You can call me that if you like."
no subject
Okay, I am warning you now, I couldn't help myself :P Ryan sees him, and knows him, and *still thinks he's there for the same reason any guy is*. And it kills him. Because somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere even he didn't know still existed, maybe the memory of Brendon was the last good thing in him. And now that's filth too. Now that's worse than filth.
Ryan doesn't even look up, he's putting on the whole show, 'cause god knows this guy's paying for it. The just off bow of his head, the way his legs are slightly further apart than they need to be to sit--everything is deliberate, and he knows just how it looks. His voice is flawless. "How do you want me, sir?" 10 parts fake submission, 5 parts seduction, tailored to perfection, not a hint of what he thinks of this scum. He hates the line in his mouth, maybe more than anything, the sick of powerlessness and obedience and submission, but it doesn't matter, because it's all an act. They can't reach inside him. No one can reach inside him, if inside him even still exists--no one can reach what's real, so it doesn't matter that it's sick, and it doesn't matter what they think they take from him.
"Ryan."
It's like an echo across the room--earthquakes in echoes and a breath on the night air drifting through time, fall leaves and snow. It's eight years since he's used that name--eight years since anyone's known it.
He looks up before he can stop himself--before he can tell himself not to, please not to...and everything's changed, just like that. Because there is still something left inside him. There is something left that they couldn't reach. And right now, his chest might as well be heaving open waiting for the filth to flood in and take it, because...Ryan looks down again before he can panic, tries desperately to think. He doesn't know what to do. He always knows what to do, he's good at this, he's brilliant, but...he can't. He can't. It can't be this. It can't have come to this.
The last goodness left in the world. The last memory of love, buried deep inside of him, deep where no one could touch, deep where no one could hurt it, even himself. The last, useless trace of faith. The last thing that was real.
Ryan thinks he'd maybe do anything for this to be a lie. There's a fleeting moment of madness where he thinks maybe he could run--maybe they're so used to him being good that they wouldn't know what was happening until he'd gone. He knows it wouldn't work. But...Ryan swallows, and presses the name as far from his mind as he can. He can forget that he ever looked up. He can forget that this is that face, that voice, that memory. He can pretend, in the tiny, subconscious part of his mind that still believes despite him, that this person was never here; that this never happened. This is just another paying customer, and Ryan will do what he does.
He knows he won't forget, though, even as he knows he doesn't really have a choice in this, knows there is no running, knows it's really very simple. This is hell, this is the last faint touch of light in a distant past turning to scum and bile and hate. Ryan doesn't know why he's surprised; it shouldn't be such a blow. Of course -he-'s just another mongrel. Of course he's no better than the rest.
Ryan doesn't look up again, and the way this hurts, the way this tears out his internal organs and his muscles and bones and shreds his skin in all the ways he thought he was too numb, too strong to feel again...the way this hurts is schooled from all but his eyes. His face is a work of art, as it always is, and his voice is the same. He bows his head a little further, because there's no role he can't play, nothing he can't do. If -this man- came here to fuck the innocent boy buried in Ryan's heart, then Ryan will tear that out into the open and give it to the filth, because he doesn't need it anymore, doesn't need anything. This is what he is. This is what he is now. The tone of Ryan's voice is carefully measured--the tilt of his head, the spread of his legs as deliberate as ever, and he murmurs, quietly, 10 parts fake submission and 5 parts seduction and barely even a trace of defeat--"You can call me that if you like."