Work Text:
The road is long and winding, a graying ribbon sunken in between the swamps of the Louisiana lands. Sweaty, muggy heat bears down on Brendon, sticking to the insides of his lungs. His arms itch. The mosquitos have been feasting on him.
His feet ache, but he's long since gotten used to it. Mud soaks in past the battered, worn soles of his shoes and into his socks. With every step he can feel the bare skin of his left foot scraping away where it's exposed to the ground. He needs new shoes, but he doesn't have money enough to buy them. He's been getting slower and slower every day. The thing that follows him doesn't.
Beside him Ryan shuffles along slowly, his head bowed and his bare chest forever red from the sun. His hair has gotten long enough to hang past his ears, greasy and dirty, blocking his eyes. His boots have held up better than Brendon's sneakers, but even they won't last forever.
They've been walking for a year and a half. After Brendon's father died, after his mother took him to church and prayed for his soul, she told him about the curse. About God's wrath for his father's grandfather's father's vanity and pride. Brendon hadn't believed her until he'd seen the shadowy thing walking ever closer to him a week later, slow and sure.
"You have to leave," his mother had said, tears running down her face. She held him close to her for a moment before turning him toward the door. "If it- If it kills you, it will go after your brothers. You have to lead it away. Just keep moving and you'll be safe. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."
Ryan caught him on the way out of town, his face bruised down one side, his lip split and still bleeding sluggishly. He didn't call Brendon crazy when Brendon panicked at him. Didn't stare him down. Didn't do anything but nod and lead the way into the desert.
Brendon had been sixteen. He'd been thinking about prom and his first car. He wonders sometimes if that life was real or if he'd always been walking, leading the thing away from his family.
It follows them, never stopping, never breathing, never resting. Brendon can see it sometimes when he's been still for too long, lurking just behind him. His family's sin come to life and sent to kill them all.
It had caught his father. His father who thought that working as a traveling salesman would be enough. His father who never sat through a full church service even as he told Brendon and his brothers that above all the Lord was the most important thing in the universe. His father who thought enough prayer would make the monsters go away.
Brendon stumbles over a buried stump and nearly falls into a pool of tepid swamp water. Ryan catches his arms and pulls him back up. Brendon pauses, eyes closed, and tries to make himself less dizzy. His stomach has been empty for too long and he hasn't slept for the last two days. Ryan has slept for less.
The terrain here is rougher than they're used to, harder to navigate. They've been travelling through the swamp, trying to keep the thing away from people. There are rules. No going through cities. No sleeping near houses. No highways. Nothing that would put anyone in danger.
When they had first started, Brendon thought the beast would only come after him. He led the way through Vegas, bold and sure in his decision. In a crowd, it would be hard to find them. And it had been. The beast cut through the bodies in its way, invisible claws slicing through abdomens and throats until it could see Brendon through them all.
When he sleeps, Brendon sees the blood. All of it belongs on his hands. He'd been too proud, too cocksure, to take proper precautions. He hasn't been so stupid or so selfish since. When he jerks awake screaming, Ryan rolls him over and slaps a hand over his mouth to silence him. He lets Brendon sob against his chest until they absolutely have to move on.
Brendon steps onto solid pavement for the first time in days. It feels strange after so long. He's almost gotten use to the give of the swamp, almost figured out just how to step on unsteady ground. The road is empty. If he stays on it for a while, they might be able to gain an advantage.
He doesn't think they'll live to see twenty. His father flew often from Nevada to New York, leading the beast on his trail in a chase. He'd gotten overconfident. The creature was slow, steady, but it wasn't stupid. It adapted. Changed. Learned his father's secrets and figured out how to use them against Brendon.
Brendon tucks his hands into the soft, sweaty undersides of his arms and keeps going. He feels like he's going to melt, never mind the sun being down for a few hours already. The air back home was sweet and dry. Here, it steals his breath and makes his skin feel heavy.
"Try running for a bit?" Ryan asks. His voice is rough, dehydration sinking in. They need to find water soon. Brendon nods.
It takes everything out of him to run. He's too hot, too hungry, but they need to rest soon and the only way they can afford that is if they make some distance. They're wearing down fast and the beast is catching up.
Brendon times his heavy, uneven breaths to Ryan's, his feet aching each time they slap against the pavement. He makes himself not think about the pain, or about the beast, or about how worn down he is. He prays, he thinks about his baby brothers all growing up into men, he thinks about the frail curve of Ryan's shoulders and the sound of his voice.
They go two miles. Before, Brendon had been on the track team. He could run five miles easy. He'd been better fed and better rested then. Ryan folds over, hands on his knees, skinny back heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Brendon collapses on the grass next to him, ignoring the mud, and wills the burning in his lungs to go away.
When they can breathe again, they run another two miles. It's not enough, will never be enough, but it will give them a little time to take naps. To rest just long enough to keep going. Brendon remembers sleeping in until noon, wasting the day away with video games and books. God, he'd kill for a book.
"Go first," Brendon says when they reach a clearing. There's a gas station up ahead, the low lights burning bright in the dark. If he's lucky, they'll have already thrown out the trash. If he's not, they'll have to wait until morning to try for food.
Ryan nods and curls up under a tree, asleep before Brendon's even turned away from him. He'll get ten minutes, they'll run a while more, and then Brendon will get his turn. They've got a routine. It works. It's just reckless enough to keep them alive.
Brendon avoids the doors and the pumps of the gas station, keeping his head down. If he worked inside, he'd call the cops on himself. He's unwashed and ragged, his hair too long and his clothes torn. At best he looks homeless. At worst he looks crazy. Dangerous.
There's a glowing orange open sign in one of the windows and a blinking calendar. It's August thirtieth. They've been gone for so long. Ryan's eighteen today, legally adult. He should be back in Nevada, buying cigarettes and a lotto ticket and crashing casinos. He'll never do those things. Not while he's with Brendon.
The dumpster smells awful, they always do, but there's a few heavy black bags inside. Brendon rips one open and rifles through. It's still hard to ignore the slick, gross feel of mystery garbage liquid on his hands, but they can't afford to be prissy.
He finds two unopened bags of off-brand Cheetos and a packaged sandwich. He checks over the label, squints at the sandwich inside, and looks for holes in the thick plastic box. It looks clean and edible. Expired at noon, but still good.
Thank God for arbitrary food safety protocols.
The next bag gives up a case of expired juice boxes and a crushed, crumpled package of Hostess cakes. Brendon pockets the cakes, puts the bags back into the dumpster, and carries his haul back to the clearing.
Ryan cracks open one eye when Brendon sits next to him. He looks a little better, for all it's worth. Brendon hands him a juice box and he sucks it down, reaching for another immediately. They eat in silence, trying to go slow to keep their stomachs from cramping. It's a hard learned lesson that they won't ever forget.
"I think I want to go back to Vegas," Brendon says when he's down to the bottom of his chip bag. His stomach feels full and heavy for the first time in days. Ryan blinks up at him, waiting. "Maybe I can find a way to reverse it."
"Don't you think someone else has already tried that?" Ryan asks. He tears up a handful of damp grass and spreads it out over his legs. He doesn't say no. He never does. Brendon shrugs.
"What else is there to do?" He bumps his shoulder up against Ryan's, taking comfort in him. He doesn't know if he would have survived even this long without him.
It's almost funny, in a way that really isn't, how much he's come to rely on Ryan. The weird kid with all the bruises, a friend of a friend of a friend, no one at all before. And now-
Brendon pulls the cakes out of his pocket, smoothing it out awkwardly. Ryan's told him he never really did birthdays, never really did any celebrating growing up, but Brendon's used to big parties and big families and big cakes. This feels so small in comparison. Nothing at all.
That's all he's got to offer Ryan: nothing at all.
"Happy birthday," Brendon says, handing him the crushed, sticky package. Ryan gives him a half smile and stares down at it.
"Thanks." Ryan peels open one corner of the wrapper, sticking his fingers inside and scooping out a mass of cupcake. His hands are dirty, but it doesn't matter. Things like that stopped being important hundreds of miles ago.
"You don't have to keep doing this," Brendon says into the silence. He stares at his filthy shoes, at the bare skin of his little toe peeking through the worn canvas. "If you stop walking with me, it'll stop following you."
"Where would I go?" Ryan asks, muffled around his fingers. "Back to Dad? I'd rather deal with eyeless." He throws the empty wrapper into the grass, licking at the remains of cream. "Do you really think I'd leave you alone with that thing? Fuck you. I'm not doing that."
Brendon's chest tightens. He leans over the bare amount of space separating them and presses his lips to Ryan's. It feels good. Forbidden. Something just for them. He can taste the sweet chocolate, the sour insides of Ryan's mouth. One of Ryan's hands curl around his jaw, his thumb brushing the space below Brendon's ear, sticky and perfect. His lips are dry and cracked and Brendon has never felt anything better.
Ryan bites Brendon's lip and then world is shifting and the ground is hard against Brendon's back. Ryan crawls over him, barely there weight pinning Brendon down. He feels suddenly feral, his hands running down the length of Brendon's chest and tangling up in his hair.
"Are we doing this?" Ryan asks against his neck, teeth scraping his dirty skin. Brendon arches into the sting, head digging into the grass. He feels alive.
"Yeah," he gasps, dragging Ryan down harder against him.
They rut against each other there in the middle of nowhere, open and vulnerable and uncaring. Brendon hangs onto the feel of Ryan against him, the one good thing in his fucked up life, and shouts into the night.
This is what life's supposed to be. This is what he's been missing.
When it's over, Ryan curls up around Brendon, face pressed to his shoulder, taking shaky breaths. Brendon holds him close. He's so warm everywhere, sweat sticking to his back and temples, but if he lets go, Ryan will float off and it will just be him and the beast. Brendon can't let it happen.
"We can't go to sleep," Ryan mumbles. He rests on hand on Brendon's stomach, ignoring the wetness of his shirt.
"I know," Brendon says. He presses his face to Ryan's hair and closes his eyes. He's exhausted, sore from head to foot, but there's something like the familiar flutter of happiness inside his chest that cannot be ignored. "Just a couple more minutes."
---
The sun is too hot and so is Ryan where he's pressed tight to Brendon's side. Brendon kisses his temple and rolls away, yawning. He feels better than he has in weeks. Maybe they should have done this before. Wasted time they'll never get back.
Then it hits him. Sun. They fell asleep. Fuck, fuck, fuck .
"Ryan," Brendon hisses, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. Ryan jerks awake, arms swinging, knuckles almost clipping Brendon's jaw. "Fuck, we have to go. Get up."
There's the ugly, sucking sound of feet in the muck and Brendon freezes. Oh, God save them. He looks up and there it is, right at the edge of the clearing. One long, spindly arm lifts and a broken finger points at him. The beast has no eyes but it doesn't need them. Its massive, gaping mouth hangs open and ready to devour them whole.
Ryan's talking, muttering something Brendon can't hear. He looks up and Brendon points back at the beast. Ryan swears and scrambles to his feet. He's still sleep slow and confused.
"Go," Brendon shouts. He shoves him, already trying to find the best route away. There's the gas station down one way, already ruled out, and the swamp in the other. They'll have to run through the swamp and hope they don't get stuck.
"Holy shit," Ryan says, and then he's off like a shot, feet pounding the pavement.
He's going the wrong way. He's heading towards it. The beast's thin, looming body arches towards them, unnaturally jerky. It doesn't speed up. Just puts one gigantic foot in front of the other, relentless. Ryan swerves away from its reaching hand, swearing under his breath.
Brendon's paralyzed for one long moment, unable to do anything but watch in horror as the beast lurches towards him. Ryan shouts, desperately trying to draw the beast's attention, not nearly far enough away, waving his arms and pounding at the trunk of a tree. It's no use. Ryan's not the one it wants.
"Run," Ryan shouts, and Brendon's body finally responds to him.
He takes a deep breath, prays, and runs headlong towards it.
The beast nearly gets him by the throat, its spindly fingers passing just shy of Brendon's skin. The air around it is frigid, ice clawing its way into Brendon's lungs. Ryan grabs his wrist when he's close enough, dragging him into the swamp. Brendon doesn't look back.
They hit the wet ground too fast, feet skidding in the mud. They need to find the street again. Running on pavement is so much easier, they have a better chance of getting away. Brendon's heart is beating too fast, fear energy and adrenaline making him shake. Ryan's hand is sweat-damp in his, their fingers already slipping apart.
"I can see the road," Brendon pants, trying to hold on tighter. When he turns, his hand slips free from Ryan's.
"Go, go, I'm still here." Ryan speeds past him, longer legs eating up ground, aiming himself towards the strip of road. It's not that far away, just on the other side of the hill. Brendon can't hear the beast but he won't look back. He can't.
The hill is steep, too high and too full of stones and loose branches. Blood rushes in Brendon's ears, making him deaf. They'd been so stupid. He should have known better. He shouldn't have taken risks like his father. He should have kept his fucking impulses to himself.
He shouldn't have risked Ryan.
They're almost to the bottom when Ryan's foot catches on an upturned branch. He yells as he goes down, bouncing off two trees in his path. Dirt flies up around him, the awful sound of his head smacking against the ground sickening. He hits the road with a wet, heavy thud. Brendon runs faster. He collapses down onto his knees next to Ryan, trying to pull him up. Ryan shouts again, raw and pained. Brendon's lungs burn. He can't do this for much longer.
"My leg's broken," Ryan says, choking. "Oh, god. My leg's broken." He struggles to sit up, his left leg dragging him down. "Leave me here." He wraps a hand around the back of Brendon's neck and drags him in for a rough kiss. He's shaking, tears running hot down his cheeks. "Just go."
"It'll kill you." Brendon tries to help him up again, but he can see the bone through the red, torn flesh of Ryan's shin. Ryan shoves him away weakly. He's so pale.
"Go," Ryan breathes out. He closes his eyes and slumps back against the pavement. "It'll give you some time."
Brendon's head snaps up when he hears the crack of branches snapping. The beast glides down the hill, feet steady like theirs hadn't been. Its hand reaches for them, fingers snapping closed on the long palm, taunting them. It knows it has them. Cold terror closes in around Brendon's chest, stealing his breath away and freezing him.
He could let it catch him. He could just stop running. It seems so easy. Death may hurt, but there would be no more running, no more fearing for his life. Just black, empty space and the grace of God bringing him home.
"You have to keep going for your brothers," Ryan says. His dark eyes, narrowed with pain, pin Brendon down. "Keep going for me, you asshole." Brendon laughs weakly. He tries to kiss Ryan again, tries to tell him goodbye without words, but Ryan turns his head away. "Go."
Brendon forces himself to stand, forces himself to turn his back on Ryan. Grief makes his legs heavy. He focuses on the unsteady in and out of his breath, on the steady sound of his feet on the road. Behind him, Ryan screams and then is silent.
Brendon runs, and it follows.