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The world didn't stop spinning after August 22nd.
As much as it seemed as though it should have, it didn't. As much as the events that had occurred mere hours beforehand seemed enough to send the earth to a screeching halt, giving the universe time to steady itself before continuing onwards.
It didn't.
It was strange to think that to the rest of the world, August 22nd could've been considered a normal night. Average, even. Whilst Nick was being mauled in the forest by a beast incomprehensible to their naive minds, someone could've been making dinner. When Laura and himself had been fighting for their lives against a curse-riddled family they had both previously thought as pure, someone could've been having their first kiss.
Whilst Ryan had been forced to shoot the man he'd shakily adopted as a father figure in his life, a mother could have been watching her child take their first steps.
Ryan ghosted trembling fingers over the wound in his side - naut but a scar, knitted over itself to leave only a jagged line of raised skin. Hours ago, blood had seeped from the gash, pain searing through his torso at every slight movement.
Then again, the puncture marks in his arm reduced to nothing more than symmetrical pinpricks had been bleeding rather intensely, too.
The hours wedged between sunrise and the present were all melded together to form an intangible blur, consisting of invasive questions, flashing lights that seemed much too bright for an imminent migraine, more invasive questions, more lights, and severe dehydration. Ryan was entirely sure he'd stopped answering at some point, curling further into the shock blanket draped over his shoulders and allowing whoever else was present to respond for him.
Everyone else had gone home. Emma had called her dad the moment she gained access to cell service, taking both herself and Abi a mere ten minutes later. Nick and Kaitlyn disappeared the moment they were allowed a reprieve from the impromptu interrogation, and he didn't blame them in the slightest. God knows what happened to Laura and Max once they had been dragged away - knowing their luck, they would still be under attack by a barrage of insensitive and intensely specific questions. Jacob began walking home.
(He made it two minutes before collapsing onto a nearby bench and calling an uber.)
Which left Ryan and Dylan - an odd throwback to their first night at the quarry.
Dylan had arrived leagues ahead of everyone else, having taken an early bus to - in his words - 'snag that worm.' Admittedly, it hadn't been one of Ryan's proudest social encounters - Chris distractedly waved him off, told him to go chat to the new counsellor, knowing entirely well that simply 'going to chat' with a complete stranger was exactly the epitome of everything Ryan hated.
But the thought of disappointing Chris left a whetted pang of discomfort to curl around his ribs, so he obliged, albeit rueing his every step.
Ryan had never thought he could meet another living, breathing being to rival his sister's level of verbosity - but Dylan Lenivy seemed to take it as a challenge. The moment he opened his mouth to introduce himself, the other counsellor beat him to the punch, theorising within minutes about how their next two months would pan out.
Ryan watched in hardly-concealed horror as Dylan proceeded to talk for at the very least ten consecutive minutes, cracking jokes that missed their target significantly more often than they landed. His demeanour was so blatantly awkward, fidgeting with his hands and scrambling to fix scattered sentences that would've been better uncorrected, like he really, really didn't know what to do with himself.
It was almost a godsend when Chris appeared behind them, introducing himself as 'Mr H' with a warm smile and saving both boys from the pit they'd dug themselves. Dylan looked as though he could've cried with joy at the interruption - like he indeed realised he was only making things worse by talking, though he physically couldn't stop himself.
Distantly, Ryan found himself thinking of a certain myth he'd learned about at some point in his life. He could only recall certain elements - how humans had once roamed the earth, fused with another, until they were one day split into two. Doomed to spend the rest of their lives looking for their other half. Their 'soulmate,' a romantic may christen it.
As Ryan trailed behind Dylan and Chris during the tour, he wondered if he'd found his. Making things awkward by talking, versus making things awkward by not.
They seemed like they'd fuse pretty well. Amalgamate into some stilted being that made every social gathering unbearable.
August 23rd, and Dylan's parents weren't picking up the phone - he didn't seem surprised. Ryan didn't ask.
Reluctant to wake his grandparents and ask them to drive such a way to pick him up, Ryan instead relayed to Dylan that he would be accompanying the latter for the night - or until he was safely home. Whichever it came down to, he would be fine with it. It was the least he could do after cutting off the boy's fucking hand.
Which was how they found themselves resting in a motel an hour's way away from Hackett's Quarry, fighting against the memory of blood-stained maws and ruthless beasts for the prize of sleep. The police couldn't even shell out for two goddamn rooms.
Ryan forcefully scrubbed at his eyes. The mattress was uncomfortably solid beneath him, the thick scent of dust prominent in most motel rooms lingering in the air.
His gaze locked on the sliver of light beneath the bathroom door. Dylan had attempted to discretely sneak inside without waking Ryan - knocking over a lamp in the process, hence 'attempted.'
The second he knew he was in the clear, Ryan had pushed himself upwards to lean against the headboard, hands folded in his lap, waiting. He knew he hadn't imagined the stifled, fearful cry to his right as Dylan jolted awake beside him - his point only further proven by the boy's stuttered footsteps to the bathroom that soon followed.
Try as he might, Ryan was unable to distract himself from the events of the previous night. Shocker, he knew - what kind of a fool couldn't clear his mind of murderous fucking werewolves and the weight of the gun in his hand as he pulled the trigger on the only man he'd ever considered anything close to a father figure? No matter how loud he blasted his music, how many podcasts he pumped through his headphones like adrenaline shots, the static of clarity still stained his skull like blood.
(He forbade himself from thinking about Chris - at least until he was out of Dylan's vicinity. He wasn't ready to cry in front of the other boy.)
Speaking of which.
The sound of a choked whimper slipped beneath the crack under the door.
Ryan was halfway across the room before he even registered moving, going against every single instinct he'd built up in his own mind since the night before. Heading directly towards the strange noise was listed under several tabs in his mind, including - but not limited to - 'bad,' 'danger,' and 'absolutely not.'
But it was Dylan. And it wasn't like he was sleeping, anyways.
Raising a hand, Ryan knocked on the bathroom door.
"Dylan?" He called.
"..hey, Ryan," Dylan replied after several seconds, voice audibly quaking. "You good? I'm good, I'm- uh, dreams aren't- dreams aren't doing much good for-"
A muttered curse, followed shortly by a strident crash.
"I'm good, I'm good, I just s- I slipped-" Dylan whimpered, any attempt at acting blasé evidently dead and buried, his words tapering off into sobs.
"Dyl, I'm coming in, okay?"
Ryan pushed open the door, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light.
Dylan was curled into himself, leaning against the far wall, shoulders shaking. His clothes had been discarded underneath the towel rung, revealing the healed scars littering his torso. A white towel tied loosely around his waist.
The bottle of motel-supplied body wash had split open on the floor, the water-heavy liquid seeping onto the tile from the gape in the lid - Ryan stood it upright before moving to kneel in front of Dylan, tentatively placing his hands on the boy's knees.
"Hey, breathe, dude," Ryan murmured, the words coming out slightly more brusque than he had intended. He tempered his voice. "What's wrong?"
"Still- smell blood, I didn't get it off, I couldn't-" Dylan fisted his hand in his hair, tugging roughly. The other arm lifted, as though to mimic the action, but stopped short at the realisation of what had occurred. He choked on a sob. "Fucking hand."
"Hey, hey, woah."
Ryan reached forward, gently wrapping his hand around Dylan's remaining wrist and coaxing it away from his head.
"You're gonna draw more blood like that."
"Can you bleed from your scalp?" Dylan mumbled whilst flexing his fingers, staring at them with a strangely melancholy sheen to his eyes that seemed unrelated to the tears.
"You'll find a way," Ryan responded, drawing a wet laugh from Dylan. "I think there's still blood in your hair."
"I couldn't get it all out, then," Dylan said. His lips twitched into a weak attempt at a smile. "Lend me a hand?"
Ryan tsked, fighting the relieved grin off his face as he pushed himself upwards. "Too soon, dude. C'mon, get up."
Dylan blinked, staring up at the hand Ryan had extended with an unreadable look.
"Unless.. you don't.. want me to?" Ryan's eyes drifted down to the towel wrapped around Dylan's waist. It had seemed so trivial seconds ago - a body was nothing compared to what he'd seen hours beforehand. He had assumed watching each other bleed and stare death in its twisted honour was bound to pry some trust between the pair - however, contemplating Dylan's patent hesitance, he wasn't so sure anymore.
"No, no, it's okay," Dylan said abruptly, jolting to life. He reached upwards to take Ryan's hand.
They both stared at the bandaged wrist, positioned to grasp the offered hand - if only he had one of his own.
"Not used to that, yet, I guess," he mumbled after several seconds.
Dylan lowered his wrist, replacing it with his other arm. Luckily, this one had remained intact - his fingers curled around Ryan's cool palm, allowing himself to be hauled upwards.
"We can get you a hook." Ryan guided Dylan to the shower, ensuring they had access to shampoo before turning on the water. "Borrow Laura's eyepatch, if you really wanna sell it."
"You know, Kaitlyn said the exact same thing. About the hook."
"Great minds think alike."
"Fools rarely differ."
"Do you want help, or not?"
"Jokes. Continue.. o wise one."
Whilst they were talking, Ryan poured a generous amount of shampoo onto his palms, working it gently into Dylan's hair. The water stained with remnants of blood at his feet, blemishing the towel that had dropped to the floor. The feeling of dextrous fingers massaging his scalp was enough to make his eyes flutter closed, the rusted, overbearing scent of iron replaced with something clean.
Dylan vaguely felt the need to speak, to break the quiet of the vulnerable atmosphere they had entered unknowingly. He had never quite succeeded in fragile environments, concealing his own emotions with awkward comments and quips that guaranteed him a spot as 'the careless one.' If he didn't take things seriously, no one would take him seriously. No one would ask. That was how he liked it.
The air seemed simultaneously heavy and gentle as Ryan worked the blood out of Dylan's hair, shielding his face from the shampoo that spilled from his scalp. That was the thing with Ryan - where his jokes wound up the other counsellors, Ryan always appeared to look closer. Like he knew what Dylan was trying to do, and blitzed carelessly past his emotional walls. It was happening right now, and he wasn't sure whether he hated it or craved it.
Ryan tilted the showerhead down, letting the water cascade over Dylan's head. The scent of blood was now entirely absent, replaced with what he had identified as jasmine - he hadn't realised how tense the blood was making him until it was gone.
"Does that hurt?" Ryan asked, so quietly it almost disappeared beneath the sound of the water trickling down Dylan's skin.
Before, Dylan would have agreed. When he had first tried to shower on his own, the water hurt like hell, cascading over his open wounds and setting fire to his bones. Ryan had been out at the time, and he was glad - he didn't want the boy to hear him cry.
But now, it was gentle against his skin. With the remnants of dirt washed off, and the blood no longer threatening to throw him directly into the memory of what had happened, he felt safe. He had no clue how Ryan remembered that he didn't like his showers hot, the water barely stretching into the territory of 'lukewarm.' He knew he had mentioned it once at camp, whilst they were each supervising their own cabin in the lake, bantering over nothing in a bid to keep themselves somewhat entertained. Once, and Ryan had remembered.
"I'm good," Dylan responded faintly, despising how his voice wavered.
The water turned off. Dylan blinked, and Ryan was extending a towel out to him, eyes trained on the boy's face. He reached to take it, - with the hand that was still there, thankfully - fumbling to wrap it around his waist.
"I'll go get you more clothes."
For a time, Dylan was alone. He mechanically swiped the towel over his skin, ridding of any water droplets that lingered. A distance away, cars rumbled by, their engines sputtering in volume before becoming inaudible. The sound of a bed squeaking rhythmically down the hall made him snort quietly - of course, the world hadn't stopped spinning for anyone outside of Hackett's Quarry.
Ryan returned with an armful of clothes, leaving them on the floor with a promise that he was right outside if Dylan needed. It was sweet, and evidently very difficult for him to verbally admit something so considerate, so Dylan relented on the teasing. For tonight, at least.
After several minutes of definitely not struggling to get his clothes on - he had one hand, give him a break (or a hand, ha. He was gonna get so much use out of that one,) - Dylan padded out to the bedroom.
Ryan scrambled to look like he hadn't been waiting, shifting awkwardly on the bed and fumbling on his phone with what Dylan was sure was simply the home screen.
"You're all good, man," he mumbled, taking his place on the other side of the mattress.
Dylan was instantly tucked beneath the blankets, a spare pillow held to his chest. They had toyed with the idea of a pillow wall before attempting to sleep, due to Dylan's embarrassed claim of his tendency to latch onto whatever was in his vicinity whilst asleep, though they scrapped it. Ryan allowed himself a few seconds of self-indulgence, studying Dylan's form before moving to lay down.
His thoughts drifted, and surprisingly enough, the memory of Dylan's peacefully content expression as he worked the blood out of his hair was enough to distract him from the events of the night before. He had been so worried that Dylan would reject his offer, that he was merely joking when he had asked for a hand. But-
"Thanks, Ry," came Dylan's slurred whisper from the other side of the bed.
"..night, Dyl."
And if they woke up the next morning tangled in each other's arms?
That was nobody's business but theirs.