Work Text:
Dear Ryan,
I got a balcony in my new apartment, I thought you’d like to know.
It took me a few weeks to settle in, but my mom and I both agreed living on my own was a good step to coping with the aftermath of everything. Thankfully, I haven’t had any nightmares about that night. I know you have been having those and I’m sorry, it must be tough. I wish every night that you can fall asleep without the fear of reliving all of it, without the guilt and terror that we all went through. I hope it got better for you, and if it didn’t, I hope it eventually does.
My apartment is close to campus, and I got a job as T.A in my quantum physics 400 class this semester. Mr. Evans is the best, he said my essay about gauge theory was one of the best he has ever read. Now I don’t know about all that, but he still thinks I’m an exceptional student so he offered me the position. I was super flattered (and surprised, like what? Suck it Tyler Anderson!) and it pays really well, but mom is gonna help with rent and groceries.
I also got a cat that sleeps in between my feet at night, Buffy. She used to be a family cat but we recently registered her as an emotional support animal and now she’s living with her daddy ;). Mom sacrificed a lot after…that night for me, and while I’m super grateful sometimes I feel like she’s pitying me. I mean after all that trauma and a lost limb, can you blame her? But I know I’m probably overthinking it, it’s all out of love and compassion and empathy. But I can’t help but worry, it’s in my blood. A Leviny special, if you will.
But Buffy is living a comfortable life with me. She likes it here, thank god, I was worried about her acclimating to a new environment. But she likes her little bed and her customized feeding bowl. I even spent the big bucks on a spacey litter box. And though she uses her bed in the day for her classic cat naps while I do homework or attempt to cook, she prefers to sleep in that little gap between my feet while I’m sleeping in the night time. I think it means she loves me.
And despite all this, I still have this grip. This grip I’m letting go.
You see, living with this new hand is driving me crazy, like a literally insane dude. It malfunctions ALL THE TIME. You’d think with the latest technology we got with this AI shit and ugly Tesla cyber trucks that look like Roblox cars that this wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe I should make my own, I genuinely think I’d do a better job at this point.
But the reason I deal with this shit is because whenever I don’t wear my prosthetic out in public, I feel like I just walked out butt naked. Everyone stares, and even though it looks objectively better than the night you chainsawed it off (again, thank you, I asked and it’s not your fault–just in case you forgot), people still can’t wrap their small-minded heads around the fact some people are amputees. I’m going to try and say ‘fuck that’ whenever I reluctantly look to my prosthetic hand before I walk out the door. Why should I let other people’s bigoted opinions of me dictate my decisions? That was the question my therapist asked me when I was talking to her about this, and I can’t seem to find an answer for her.
On top of that, I’m just going to let go of the grip of my grieving my hand in general. I made the decision then, I’d rather sacrifice a hand then become one of those monsters. One that kills my friends, one that evokes fear in my friends, one that forces their hand in self-defense. I knew you people for two months and yet I couldn’t stand the thought of me killing you or Kaitlyn or any of you guys. My mom always called me an empathetic kid. I guess I turned out just like her.
And I found it hard to get angry about it all, about what happened to us that night because of the recklessness. I found that I didn’t get angry about it until recently. Angry that Chris Hackett put us in that environment by letting us stay, angry at Jacob for purposefully making the car break down, angry at myself for not being more careful or not helping as much as I could have…or for never learning how to shoot a gun properly. I guess I realized, I’ve got a pretty long fuse. Because after almost half a year, I’m starting to feel angry. This is normal, I know. But why wasn’t I before? Must be just a me thing. I knew you felt anger. I knew Kaitlyn felt it. I knew Abi did as well, though I wasn’t expecting it from her. I think I just felt numb for a while. After they properly fixed up and polished my nub, I didn’t have much worries about it all. That was what I was most focused on I think, which was a bit selfish of me. But then I remembered everything else, why it had to be done. The stuff everyone did that night. I felt sick, then depressed, then numb. Now I’m angry. But I’m also relieved. Because from some grace of God, we all survived that night. So I guess the anger won’t last long, there’s nothing else to do about it.
Anyways, some other stuff. I got some pretty tattoos. I got a little line work kitty on my good forearm. It resembles Buffy, but don’t tell her that it’ll go straight to her head. I also got a campfire that sits on my left thigh. For you guys. For Hackett’s Quarry. While it put me through hell, literal hell that almost got me killed by goddamned werewolves of all things, it taught me a lot. I met you. I met Kaitlyn. I met people who saw me at my most vulnerable and I wouldn’t be who I am today without it. I got an appointment set up already for another, Abi was right—tattoos are an addiction. I feel like a crack addict. This one is a surprise though, I’ll send you photos when I get it :)
All I’ve been getting these days is good news, I guess it’s my good karma coming around. Or the universe’s way of saying sorry for that cursed night. Either way, I don’t mind it. And any good news I get belongs to you as well, so I’ll tell you it all.
I know I could’ve just texted you this, as I finally scored your number (took a traumatic night that bonded us forever to get it but hey, a win is a win), but would we really be camp friends if we didn’t write to each other? Plus, my grandma gave me free stamps and man stamps are expensive these days so I’m not about to waste these bad boys. You get the cute otter one because I like you :-)
Please write back. Tell me all about your life right now, spare no details. But also keep texting me. I enjoy the tiktoks you send. I’m thinking about asking the group chat if they want to do the candy salad trend where we bring different kinds of candy and trauma dump to the camera. How many views would that video get? I mean I think we have pretty unique experiences we can profit off of.
Stay safe out there, Dylan.
-
He licks the envelope, which has an odd taste so he makes a disgusted face, then seals it. On it, he writes ‘Ryan’ in cursive. For some reason, cursive has always stuck with him throughout all these years despite learning it 13 years ago and never again. As promised, he peels off the otter stamp and sticks it to the top right corner.
He doesn’t know how or when he got the idea to write to Ryan. He wonders if Ryan would think it’s weird and regret giving him his address or if he’ll write back. Or read it at all for that matter. But he doesn’t hesitate the idea of sending it anyways when he leaves for the post office (not before giving Buffy many pets as she brushes up against his leg). The post office is conveniently close, only a three minute walk. He slips it into the drop off box outside and watches as it slides down the chute.
He smiles to himself on the way back thinking about Ryan getting it in the mail, confused and intrigued. He wonders if Ryan will at all know it’s him. The cursive would put him off, but maybe the otter stamp would be a clearer sign pointing him in the right direction. Whatever may happen when the envelope reaches his front porch, he knows it’s out of his hands right now. It’s in Ryan’s now.
-
Ryan woke up from yet another nightmare.
In this one, he was back at the radio hut with Dylan. Although, he refused to cut off Dylan’s hand, too terrified to grab for the chainsaw or the gun. Trembling, trying to find comforting words as Dylan screamed in agony as the curse flowed through his veins. He kept hearing ‘Ryan please, Ryan cut it off!’ but he just couldn’t. Then, even though he knows it wouldn’t happen like this, Dylan turns right there and then. He looks Ryan in the eyes one last time before pouncing on him and Ryan wakes up in a cold sweat.
He catches his breath quickly, guzzles down the water on his bedside table and sighs. He thinks of the way Dylan’s eyes looked in his dream. Yellow as the sun, begging and somber. He could see the regret, the disappointment, the guilt. He squeezes his eyes shut as if he is trying to push the picture right out of his mind.
He climbs out of bed and tries to start his day despite the harrowing dream. He gets dressed, just jeans and a t-shirt, he doesn’t have much to do today. Some small errands, and maybe he’ll work on his animation project. He trots down the stairs and fixes himself a bowl of cereal.
“You got mail.”
He lifts his head from his cocoa puffs to find his grandmother standing at the kitchen counter in front of him with a stack of mail in her hand. She drops it on the counter with a ‘splat’ and walks away to grab her daily glass of orange juice (told by her doctor since she’s been lacking vitamin D lately).
“Thanks grandma.” he mumbles while sifting through the pile. One was a spam letter from this college about donating money, psh like I don’t already pay enough. The second was a reminder to pay his credit card bill (which he already paid on time of course). The third was a…letter.
Before wondering why anyone would send a letter in 2023, he admires the pretty cursive of his name on the front. Then his eye drifts to the stamp, which depicts a playful otter in the water. He smiles. Is this Dylan? Is the first thought that occurs to him.
He opens it carefully, not wanting to rip anything, and slides the letter right out. After unfolding the creases, he reads it.
-
Dear Dylan,
Wow, I was not expecting this. Like not in the slightest. But I’m not mad about it. I’m actually really happy to hear from you. I guess we never properly caught up like this, since our texts are mostly tik toks and memes and whatever bullshit we come across that we just MUST send to each other. This is nice, I like it.
First things first, I’m very happy for you. Living on your own is a big step, you’re brave, and I demand pictures of Buffy. How did you not tell me about her before? Did you name her after Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Because that’s just…so Dylan. In a good way. It’s also sort of Ryan, as I own the first 3 seasons on VHS. Makes me sound a million years old huh? I hope you and Buffy sit on the balcony together when spring hits NY, which right now feels like forever away. But stick it out, it’ll be worth it. I can picture you out there drinking coffee with Buffy in your lap. It makes me feel better about the idea of you living all alone. A part of me is worried but another part of me knows you can do it, cognitive dissonance I guess. But I’ve seen you that night Dylan, you can do anything. I’m certain.
I’m not surprised you booked the job, you’re intimidatingly smart. Like what the hell even is a gauge theory? God if I didn’t know you and how much of a goofy asshole you can be then I would totally be afraid of you. Good thing I’m not though. But hey, congrats anyways. And don’t be so humble, you probably run circles around this Tyler Anderson kid. I mean like, he can suck it.
Your therapist is right man, you shouldn’t let these judgy strangers with nothing better to do decide what you should do. If you try to blend into a crowd you barely even like what’s the point of living? Not be all philosophical, just trying to be motivational. Should I be a Ted talk host? Who am I kidding, that would not work out, I can barely even get the campers to listen to me. But seriously, you are so much more than whatever people who can’t keep their thoughts away from their faces think. I mean I think it’s even cool (am I saying this to make me feel better about the guilt I feel about Texas Chainsaw Massacring your hand? Maybe…), but c’mon! You’re like a pirate, instead of a peg leg it’s a peg hand. Or a hook, like Kaitlyn suggested. That shit is cool. You’re a pirate who knows quantum physics. You’re so cool.
You made the right decision Dylan. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t think anyone else I know would sacrifice a limb just to avoid the risk of anyone else getting hurt. You called yourself selfish, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said, you are so selfless it scares me Dylan. I know you were terrified but you insisted. Your empathy is a strong and helpful tool, even when you thought you didn’t do much, none of us would have survived that night without you.
As for that night, I don’t talk about it much. I guess with you would be who I’m most comfortable talking about it with. You and Laura get it the most I guess. You both lost something at some point, even if Laura got her eye back, she was the lucky one. I tried to talk about it with my therapist, I know I technically can since we were all given these therapists specifically to talk about it. But how can I? They don’t even know the half of it. They won’t believe a word I say anyways. It’s just to rehash trauma, but what’s the point if they won’t believe me?
I still get nightmares, unfortunately. I just had one actually, you were in it. It was us back at the shack. I decided to not cut off your hand, you turned. You were almost merciful, looking at me with your eyes, before attacking. Then I woke up. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never escape them. These nightmares.
The most common ones I get are the ones where I shoot Chris. I think it’s the most recurring one because that’s where a lot of my guilt lies. I knew I had to, I bored a hole inside a life that couldn’t compromise. I now call it a memory. But I think about it a lot, I also think about how in that moment, when I shot the bullet, all I saw was a blur of color. All I saw was an endless blue, I was staring right through it, like the eye of a hurricane. All I could think in that moment, that moment of not feeling much of anything to try and numb the pain and guilt, was you. I thought of you. Isn’t that weird? I thought of how you are doing right now, who you were with and where you were. Is Dylan okay? I can’t believe you were the first person or even thing that came to mind. I barely even knew you. And now look at us. Writing letters.
I take medicine prescribed by my psychiatrist to try and help lessen the nightmares, and I mean I guess it helped a little. I’m starting to think it might just be a placebo though. Before I’d have them every night, now I get them more like every other night. But it doesn’t change much, I still wake up shivering and gasping for air. I still relive the same shit I want so badly to bury in the ground. Having them slightly less often doesn’t change the fact that I hate falling asleep because I’m frankly terrified of what my mind has waiting for me when I can’t control it. I feel out of control.
That’s probably part of the reason I can’t live alone. I would love to live alone and start my independent journey like you, I always fantasized about having my own apartment and that whole space to myself. You know me, brooding loner. But I’m not in that place right now. I’m so happy that you are though, especially with one less part of you. You don’t give yourself enough credit for being as brave as you are, I admire you for it.
I get feeling angry, I get the lag, I get it all. You should be angry, the shit we went through, it sucked. It was awful, like Jesus, we were just kids fooling around after working for 2 months straight in the middle of nowhere New York. We didn’t deserve any of that.
I think I drew a pretty short straw then, Chris was my mentor. I was seen as this leader in his eyes, and through that vein, in charge of my peers. I didn’t know what to do half the time when all the stuff was still unraveling, when Laura explained what exactly it was that was going around attacking us. I felt so many times people try to turn to me for answers, I was the one who was in charge to keep everyone safe initially so of course I’d know how to deal with goddamn werewolves in the woods. It’s no one’s fault though. We all did shit we had to do. You and I are major examples. I made a lot of tough calls, but it’s what I had to do to survive.
This is all pretty therapeutic, and to that I say thanks for letting me air this out. I needed it. But it’s getting a little too dark so I’ll just save it for Dr. Connolly.
Send me pics of the tattoos, they sound so cute. I’m happy you’re happy. I’m pretty happy myself, despite it all. My good news is yours as well, if I have any, I’d tell you. Here’s me writing back, because I think it’s a sweet idea. Of course you’d write me a letter, I expect nothing less from Dylan Leviny.
I will of course continue to text you (that’s why I finally gave you my number, you earned it well) and oh my god I just searched up that trend and usually I hate doing tik tok trends but that one sounds so good for us specifically. I can only imagine the comments on that one, we have to schedule a get together. Ryan approved.
Safe as ever, Ryan.
-
Buffy loves to wake up Dylan with friendly paws pressing deeply into his chest. Her claws weren’t out, but the pressure still emits enough pain to wake him up. Drowsy and just a tad bit irritated, Dylan rises from his bed to rub the leftover of his sleep out of his eyes. He looks out the window, it can’t be any later than 7 am, and while he usually sleeps late on his days off of classes and work, he might as well start the day early today.
To say Dylan did not expect a letter back was an understatement.
He fully forgot that he sent one in the first place and it’s only been about a week since he has. He still thought about Ryan, like a lot. But that’s normal. Ever since Dylan met Ryan he’s been enamored with him but in a much more deep way than he usually gets when he likes a boy. He doesn’t know if he can describe it to someone if he tried to. Maybe it’s a similar feeling to when you first discover your favorite tv show. You start it and there the obsession begins. You love the story, the characters, the soundtrack, the actors (or at least just the way they bring said character to life). You keep watching and you’re invested, and you can’t stop. You stay up late just to find out what happens at the end of the episode. Soon you will fall into the rabbit hole that is the fandom of the show, you will buy merch and like fanart on Tumblr. And if you didn’t have a Tumblr before, you will create an account. It’s new, it’s exciting, and you just can’t get enough.
Dylan can’t help but smile at the envelope. It has a fucking bear stamp on it.
He doesn’t know if Ryan reciprocates his feelings. Or at least if not to the extent that he feels, maybe he just likes him in a normal way. Or maybe there’s even just a sliver of a chance they could be something more than friends.
Somehow, the letter gives him a sense of hope. Whether it’s a false hope or not, he doesn’t know for sure obviously, but it’s there. A glimmer of hope. His eyes skipping and hopping over the words, he sees the heart Ryan put into it, and he knows he must have been hard to be so vulnerable. Well, of course it’s easier to write what you feel than say it to someone’s face, but still. And it feels like they are the only people that can understand each other. Dylan knows he has Kaitlyn, and everyone else that went fought through that night tooth and nail, but the tenderness of Ryan’s words reassuring him in silky ink, feels so intimate he just might melt.
Dylan wonders if he still has more stamps.
-
Dear Ryan,
I’m in love with you. Full stop. Oh my god, please. I know I’m an idiot, I know you’re too good for me, but please, give me a chance. I would do anythi–
-
Nope. Dylan crumbles up the paper and tosses it in the can. Can’t send that.
-
Dear Ryan,
For some reason, I really didn’t expect a letter back.
And I don’t expect another letter after this one. Call me a pessimist, I don’t care. I like to call myself a realist, personally. I’m pleasantly surprised of course. I think this is a nice dynamic, it’s like we are secret lovers in the 1700’s.
Ignore me, I hope all is well. Of course you saw the photos I sent of Buffy, but I’d like you to know she woke me up this morning with her paws firmly pressing into my chest. She thinks she’s my little alarm clock, but 7 am is way too early on a Saturday, so I must have set it for the wrong time. And of course she’s named after my favorite 90’s tv show, what else? We should binge it sometime, please bring your dorky VHS tapes, I have a player–cause I’m a dork too.
I mean where to start. I’m always thinking of you. It’s true, when I’m doing dishes, or taking out the trash, or in the between state of consciousness before I fall asleep to the sound of my tv playing a show I’ve seen many times before. It sounds odd I guess, but you’re on my mind a lot. I fear this letter will only make it worse. I guess this is my way of telling you that while I’m content, I’m a bit lonely. I miss everyone, I miss you. Is this too weird for Ryan Stoic-and-Intimidatingly-Chill Erzahler? I hope not.
Those nightmares sound terrifying, I can’t even imagine. Sometimes I get dreams where I get snippets of events that happened throughout that night, but no big picture. Like puzzle pieces scattered on the floor, with no clear direction of what the puzzle is supposed to resemble. I wake up more confused than scared. So I guess it’s preferred.
It’s not fair you had to do anything you did that night, but you’re right. We all acted on pure instinct, some of it was warranted and right, some of it stupid. But hey we did it, we made it out alive. Ever since I’ve been trying to stay more optimistic, like something small will happen and I will want to scream but I tell myself-hey man, you survived freaking werewolves and I feel a little bit better about the tea I spilled on the carpet.
Now I’m not saying that you should try to do this, I’m no therapist. I think what I’m trying to suggest is that you need to give yourself more credit here. I don’t know how you survived it. If I was in your position, I wouldn’t know how to. I don’t think I’d have the strength now. I feel so exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. I can barely keep my eyes open past 8 pm nowadays. Am I old?
Sometimes I feel like I was barely even there. Of course I experienced it, but I felt like I wasn’t in my own body. Like someone else was controlling me and my actions. Like I was just a side character. But that’s the problem, I was there. And I am still there. I’m there all the time. In my bathtub when I turn on the faucet, in the park on an evening walk, in my own bed in the middle of the night. And I feel like time isn’t real, and that it’s slippery. It happens and then it’s right out of my hands, far from reach. A disc that holds everything that once was, slippery and intangible. And all I have then and now is memory, it’s all that is mine.
Ryan, you say these nice things as if you weren’t the whole reason we are all here today. You call me selfless as if you didn’t hurt someone close to you for all of us, for some people you barely knew. It’s because you knew it was right, despite your own emotional ties to Chris. That’s bravery.
So if you ever need anyone, and you want to talk your ear off to someone who isn’t a therapist, I’m here. You have my address, you have my attention.
With everything in my heart, Dylan.
-
Ryan knows it is reckless. He knows it is impulsive and a little bit crazy. But at this moment, he doesn’t even care.
The idea of seeing Dylan is a stronger want than the fear of being judged that it is 11 pm at night and he’s going to show up at his door. He knows that truly Dylan won’t care, that Dylan means it wholeheartedly when he said that he is making a space for him and he is open to him whenever he wants. At this moment, he wants it. He’s sure of it more than he was ever sure of anything at all.
He packs. He doesn’t think much while doing it. Sleep clothes, regular clothes, toothbrush (Dylan has toothpaste, right? Right.) He is frantic, but his pulse isn’t as fast as it usually is in situations like these. He thinks about Dylan. He thinks about his kind eyes, his warm smile, his almost overwhelmingly wonderful welcoming presence. His words written on paper repeat in his mind. I could always make a space for you, and If you ever need anyone, I’m here. You have my address, you have my attention.
Like the beat of a drum, or the beat of his heart-unexpectedly steady, he stuffs it all in a spacious backpack. He zips it up, and grabs the keys to his grandma’s van. He can use it whenever she’s not currently driving it, a quote directly from her when he asked if he was able to use it for emergencies. Is this an emergency? Not necessarily, but hey, she said whenever she’s not driving it. And she’s fast asleep with no plans for the weekend. So might as well.
With nothing but pure adrenaline keeping him afloat, he runs out the door but tries his absolute best not to wake anyone up and manages to make it to the van without being caught or stopped.
Directions to Dylan’s apartment, the one with a balcony, the GPS says it’s about an hour drive. An hour is nothing, it’s irrelevant. The radio suffices for now, since it’s late there’s soft jazz filling up the vehicle. Ryan needs to focus, he can’t crash just because he had this revelation that he needs to see Dylan in the middle of the night and feels a bit like a loon.
When he gets on the road, he starts to feel his nerves die down a bit. The minutes only go down, of course there’s no traffic, it’s 11:12 on a Thursday in January. He starts to ease into the familiar feeling of driving. The memorization of the road signs and following directions. Each clean left turn he takes makes him feel more and more human and less and less insane. He knows where he is going, he’s aware of what time it is, but it feels more right now than it did before.
Maybe because he knows that even though doing something like this is impulsive and a bit crazy on paper, despite the logic, it feels like it’s what he’s supposed to do. He knows Dylan won’t mind, this sort of thing is something he would find more flattering than creepy. He knows how he’d react, and Ryan has no doubt in his mind that it will be positive.
Then a song comes on the radio–and Ryan almost immediately recognizes it. It’s a song that Dylan played when he was DJing the camp’s radio. He remembers because that day he went up to Dylan later in the day to ask what the song was, he liked the sound. And Dylan, in his bright purple and green collared shirt, laughed and said, “I knew you’d like it Ryguy, I was hoping you’d ask.”
After a bit more flirting, Dylan did tell him the name. “The Promise” by When in Rome. While Dylan can be a cocky smartass, he has really good taste in music Ryan will admit. The song was strangely motivating, like a theme song justifying this weird little journey, this quest.
He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say.
But soon enough an hour turned to thirty minutes then to fifteen. And his heart was thumping faster, louder. His nerves feel like they bore a hole through his heart and there is this gust of air blowing in and out and in. Then out.
He checks the directions just to see if he’s going the right way and he sees he got a text twenty-six minutes ago. From his grandma.
Fuck. Ryan’s pulse picks up again.
He tries to focus back on the road, he’s just going straight for the next five miles. Then he tries to safely check the text, putting his short but effective password and going to his messages.
Grandma: Did you take the car?
Ryan couldn’t think of a single reason why his grandma would be awake right now. Did he wake her? But he left fifty minutes ago, and he got the text way after he was gone. Was it the neighbors' noisy dogs again? Well it doesn’t even matter, he can’t respond now. But even if he could, what would he say? Yes? And nothing else? No explanation? She didn’t ask anything else, but he knows there will be a follow-up question of ‘Okay, why? At 11 pm on a Thursday?’ or something along those lines.
He decides to ignore it and just focus on the destination, he can reply later. She doesn’t need the car now, no way. The same four places she always goes are closed right now, so unless she also decided to go visit a friend in the middle of the night, she’s texting him to yell at him for taking the car without asking her first, and he can be yelled at later.
When he arrives, thankfully, there’s a big and unsurprisingly empty visitors parking garage. And it’s free after 9 pm, which it very much is at the moment, so he pulls in and parks the car in the first spot he sees.
He gives himself a moment in the car to make a final executive decision. He can turn the car around right now, go home and explain to his grandma he needed a late night drive and didn’t want to wake her up. Or, he can do what he came here to do. Which is, unfortunately, still pretty unclear. He runs his hands through his hair, hoping it’ll help a single useful thought form in his brain.
He doesn’t know why he’s here, what he is going to say to Dylan, why this always seems to happen when it comes to Dylan. Since the beginning of that summer, he always felt this odd sort of pull to him. He didn’t know why, it felt like Dylan was just like any other goofy overly friendly guy he’s come across throughout his adolescence. But something about Dylan felt like home to him, he felt safe with him. Maybe the empty parking garage will fill the strange hole in his heart, maybe the sight of Dylan’s apartment door will make all of it make sense.
Ryan tries to push all the thoughts telling him to leave, to wait a little longer, to at least text to see if Dylan is awake. He just locks his car, zips up his hoodie and heads to the third floor of the apartment complex. Room 312, Dylan mentioned in a previous text conversation that he just bought a welcome mat with cats on it. That’s how he’ll know for sure.
When he gets to 312 he just stands there. The welcome mat littered with various breeds of cats doing silly cat things below his feet. The door is the same as any door, same as all the other doors in the building. Tall and navy blue, with cracked corners and on the top middle hangs the number. From behind the door, he hears nothing, Dylan is probably in his bedroom. He wonders if he’ll even hear the knocks. What is his goal here? The thoughts swarm him again and he feels like he might suffocate on them and if not that at least a headache will form.
He tries to shake his nerves off as if they were something to swallow. He raises his hand and knocks three times, loud enough (hopefully) for Dylan to hear from any point in his apartment. As his heart thumps faster in his chest, he prays he hears it while somehow simultaneously hoping he doesn’t.
-
“Mmhmm what?” are the words that come out of Dylan’s mouth when he is awoken by a knock at the door. Or actually, three knocks.
Dylan fell asleep (again) on the couch watching TV and cuddling with Buffy. The TV is still on, but the volume is so low he can barely make out anything they are saying. A rerun of Full House is on, when originally he was watching old episodes of Family Matters because he was scrolling through cable while bored and was reminded of its existence and subsequently grew intrigued. He remembered Steve Urkel of course, but not much else about the show.
Dylan sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and dragging his hand down his face with a quiet groan. He combs through his hair before getting up to see who the hell decided to come to his door at 11 pm. It couldn’t possibly be the neighbors asking him to turn the TV off, it’s barely even on at this point. He must have lowered the volume right before he fell asleep.
By now, Buffy is off the couch and circling Dylan’s feet, purring and meowing with the attention-craving attitude she normally exudes. Dylan leans over to stroke her once to keep her content for now. He unlocks the door and opens it, not knowing who or what to expect. Feeling almost stupid, like there could be a murderer who politely knocks on the door before killing him with an ax.
What he wasn’t expecting was Ryan Erzahler to be on the other side of the door.
Dylan hasn’t seen him in months, since…well the aftermath. And he feels like he might be dreaming all this up. A realistic dream, but he wouldn’t put it past him. Because what other explanation is there on earth that could properly justify him being here right now?
Ryan is wide-eyed, an expression he hasn’t seen on him a lot—only in a traumatic memory or two that he was encouraged to bury via his therapist, and he looks as helpless as a timid deer on the side of the highway. His body language states that he’s been caught in some sort of act, like Dylan wasn’t supposed to open the door and find him here, and that it was a secret–despite the three separate knocks.
Dylan doesn’t know how he looks to Ryan right now, if he looks judgy or mad or confused. Dylan imagines he looks like a tired mess from his point of view, but that could be just his insecurity talking. Being perceived is scary.
“Hello.” Dylan says, sort of chuckling sleepily–gravely. “What’s up man?”
Ryan scoffs, and shakes his head. “Before you ask, I don’t entirely know why I’m here either. And before you say ‘it’s okay’, I’m sorry for waking you up.”
“Oh you can tell I was asleep?” Dylan jokes, clearly awake enough to be a snarky asshole. He can tell Ryan suppressed an eye roll at that, as to not break the semi-seriousness of his demeanor at the moment. Dylan has no regrets with making his demeanor as un-serious as possible. The balance is what keeps them afloat.
“Do you already regret giving me your address?” Ryan asks, looking at him sympathetically. And Ryan being here right now is the last thing in the world that would make him mad. Confused? Sure. But regretful? Please. It’s Ryan. He regrets nothing relating to him.
“Of course not,” Dylan answers earnestly. “Do you? I sent you a fucking letter.”
Ryan laughs, Dylan lets him in.
-
As he steps into Dylan’s apartment, he realizes it’s exactly how he pictured it. So very Dylan. It’s roomy, it’s lovely. It’s warm, but not the way summer is warm but the way a hug is. A familiar fuzzy friend threads in between his legs with a soft meow, Ryan exhales melodically and leans down to give her some pets.
“She likes you,” Dylan comments casually. “I knew she would.”
Ryan looks up at Dylan, offering a smile that tries to hide the blush on his cheeks. It’s stupid. Meanwhile Buffy is drinking up his attention, probably not used to another person in the apartment. When he stands back up he spies a sliding door in the corner of the living room that leads to his balcony, and he doesn’t have to say a word before Dylan cuts into his thoughts as if he could read them, as effortless as a book he’s re-read many times before.
“Wanna check out the balcony?”
Ryan nods with a small smile, and suddenly a feeling washes over him that finally lets him settle. A feeling akin to relief or when you reach the surface after being underwater for way too long. Breathing out.
He follows Dylan outside, it’s cold again. The heat that once engulfed him dissipates and he can feel goosebumps even through his layers. He watches as Dylan slowly slides the door and locks it with a clicking sound. He sees Buffy on the other side watching them with curious eyes but shortly turns her attention away to lick her paws.
On the balcony, there is enough table for just this: a small table, four chairs, a cat bed (probably for days and nights when it’s not as cold out) and outdoor lights strung about–weaving in and out of the fence. Dylan switches them on and they glow up the entire balcony. It’s pretty, because they aren’t overwhelming light. Warm, again. Like hot chocolate.
Dylan sits at the table, so Ryan sits down next to him as they gaze at the view. It’s quite beautiful, all Ryan could make out right now in the dark is all the lights from the city and he can see what looks like Dylan’s college campus, or at least a part of it. He feels a twinge of envy coursing through him. Dylan gets this view, this apartment, this balcony, this freedom. But he knows it’s not worth worrying about, he shares the same crushing weight of his own thoughts when he’s alone at night. He survived the same night Ryan did, and lost things too. Everyone loses things. He reminds himself this as he turns to Dylan with a shy smile, he shouldn’t feel shy after everything they went through together.
“I think I just really wanted to see you,” Ryan admits, though not prompted. “So I dropped everything and I did just that.”
Dylan dips his head, grinning. If Ryan weren’t so humble, he’d think that he blushed at that. “Well I’m glad you did.”
“You mean it?”
Ryan needs to hear it again, he needs proof. It’s almost 12 am, he woke him up, he probably has classes tomorrow. Why would he be glad that he made a surprise visit, with no invitation or even hint at wanting a guest over any time soon. This whole thing is very unlike Ryan, but he can’t fight an urge as strong as this one was. And something about him is very tethered to Dylan, something that can’t change even if he really wanted to. But he really doesn’t mind connecting to a person that isn’t family. It’s foreign but it’s nice.
“Ryan, you saved my life,” Dylan states. As plain and simple as if it were common sense. “I can’t ever make it up to you.”
Ryan is fully convinced that nothing has ever been as silent before as this night. He can hear his own shallow breathing, as well as Dylan’s somehow steady breathing. How is he supposed to react to something like that? What is he supposed to say? Everything feels unreal, almost liminal. Half of his brain is static by now.
“But I can always make a space for you,” Dylan adds. “And that’s why I don’t care if you break into my apartment at 3 am and ask me to make you chicken noodle soup, or if you need a place to stay when everything feels wrong. I want to be there for you when you feel like no one else understands. Even if I don’t.”
Ryan grins, he doesn’t really feel it but he knows he is. Somehow what Dylan described is what he realizes now is all he ever wanted. Just someone there. They don’t have to be the perfect therapist or someone who provides life-changing advice. Just a normal person, a friend, who can empathize and relate to him. Dylan is that.
Of course when looking at Dylan, both in this light and on paper, he knows he can never just be a friend. Dylan was never just anyone in his life. Sure, maybe at first he was. But it’s crazy how one night can change everything. It’s crazy how one feeling can make you question everything you’ve ever known about yourself, about someone else. Dylan looks warm, like a big weighted blanket being wrapped around you on a freezing winter day.
“The stars are out tonight.” Dylan says. Ryan realizes he hasn’t said something in a while, he’s been too caught up in his thoughts. He looks up to find the stars exactly where they should be. High in the sky, long gone, but still there for just them. Them in this case being anyone who can look up and see them right now, but somehow it feels as if it’s just for him and Dylan. He knows that’s not true, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling like it is.
“It’s like they knew.” Ryan doesn’t finish the thought, he hopes Dylan can somehow know what he means. He feels their shoulders clash and it’s like everything inside him shot up like a lightning bolt through his body. His head still up, he assumes Dylan’s was as well, but when he dips his gaze, he sees Dylan’s focus back on Ryan.
“They know,” he replies softly. Ryan grins at him, he feels seen. Seen not in the way strangers stare, but in the way your mom sees you when you start sobbing in her arms as she tells you everything will be okay. Ryan feels like throwing himself in Dylan’s arms and breaking in tears.
Instead, his head drops onto Dylan’s shoulder, feeling his unexpected warmth welcome him. Dylan doesn’t react much to it, or maybe he does, Ryan doesn’t really pay attention to it. He just closes his eyes as he lays there on an old stranger’s shoulder, feeling the most comfortable and calm he’s probably ever felt in his anxiety-riddled life. He wonders if Dylan feels the same way.
-
Dylan considers the moment.
He feels that Ryan’s head falling onto his shoulder is something crafted by the gods. He silently thanks the divine. There’s always this unspokenness to him and Ryan. And even though he’s convinced he’s the only one who feels anything more, Kaitlyn has talked him into believing otherwise. And working up Dylan’s ego and confidence is something Kaitlyn is very openly against, so it means a lot coming from her. He feels like one wrong breath will blow Ryan away, so he holds his tongue.
All he can think about is how far they have come. How they wouldn’t even be here if Ryan didn’t take risks and initiative. And he feels that this isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough, whatever Dylan gives him will never make it up to him. He knows there’s no use harping on it, but it still feels necessary to voice it. He knows speaking might ruin everything, but he can’t help his mouth. “You’re the only reason I can ever get older.”
Ryan doesn’t move an inch.
Instead, the night melts into them. The sound of the winter winds whistle through the air. Dylan doesn’t know anything, he thinks even Ryan doesn’t know a thing either. Call it even.
Ryan slips a hand into Dylan’s and the action alone was enough for Dylan to burst into flames right then and there. Somehow though, his heart is still beating. Faster and louder than normal, but beating. Then it all seems to make sense, almost like this is what they were fighting for. A future, a life, a purpose. The privilege of being able to grow older. While Dylan will always see Ryan as his reason for being alive, he knows they both fought. He knows they were both there that night.
But that night doesn’t matter right now, only this night does. And maybe the phrase ‘that night’ takes on a new meaning. At least temporarily. At least as a step to help them move on. Or heal. Whichever is more realistic.
On Dylan’s new apartment balcony the two sit there for a while. In Dylan’s new apartment living room a gray and white cat is snuggled up inside on the couch, shedding her hair all over the throw blanket. And somewhere out there, everyone else they know is living their lives, doing other stuff. Emma and Abi, Jacob and Nick, Max and Laura, and Kaitlyn. Dylan’s mom, Ryan’s family, every person driving each car that passes by.
He’s glad he gets to grow older, he’s always loved the idea of aging and watching himself change over the years. Most people find it scary, do everything in their power to keep themselves from it. Looking young, staying young, it’s a craze–even among people who are younger than Dylan. But he likes the idea of living his life and showing his experiences on his skin. It’s an honor, he’s earned the right to show off the badges.
And now he gets to, with everyone he loves. With those who he will love. And remember those he has loved.
Ryan is drifting off to sleep and all Dylan can think about is if he understands how much he means to him, and hopes that one day he truly will