Already posted on my LJ. Just thought I would share over here as well.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A Week Before Cohen
Chapter One
"Fuck."
"Fuck, Ryan, just sit still and hold that there."
Trey wiped the water that slicked his palms from the bag of ice off on his jeans, then got up from the couch. He turned on the TV and muted the volume, falling back onto the sofa as he flicked through the channels so quickly that it made Ryan nauseous.
He sighed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep, albeit shaky, breath. He held the ice firmly against his throbbing left temple—drops of water occasionally rolled down his wrist and forearm before soaking into the sleeve of his shirt.
"Why the fuck are you still here?"
Ryan grimaced at the accusing tone of his brother's voice. Slowly, carefully, he pried his eyes open and squinted in Trey's direction.
"Because you're not," he spat out, his voice more of a whisper than anything else.
"Bullshit," Trey scoffed. He dropped his feet from the coffee table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking directly into Ryan's eyes. "You know damn well you can split anytime you want. Arturo and me, we'd make room. We have a couch, you know."
Ryan bit back a sarcastic laugh and shook his head—immediately regretting it when he all but felt the force of AJ's steel-toed boot connecting with his skull again. A small groan escaped his lips and he dropped the hand holding the ice onto his lap, bowing his head and waiting for the excruciating stabbing pain to reside.
Trey was quiet for a few minutes—or at least it felt like a few minutes—and Ryan was thankful for the silence. He didn't want to hear about just how easy it would be to move out. He already had a bag packed in his closet, hiding behind a box containing some old clothes. It was too tempting to just up and leave as it was. But he knew, the second he followed Trey's lead and jumped ship, it would be AJ's open season on Dawn.
"Maybe…you should go to the hospital…."
Trey's voice interrupted Ryan's sick reverie. He suddenly realized how wet and cold the left leg of his jeans was, the melted ice having spilt out of the plastic bag. He tried to open his eyes again, but the left one was fighting him, like the lids were glued shut. He settled for another quick shake of his head, and bit his lip in anticipation.
He could barely hear Trey's response over the roaring of the blood in his ears, but it sounded something like, "You're one tough son of a bitch, you know that?" It was followed up with the Trey Atwood equivalent of a pat on the back: a punch to the bicep.
"M'tired," Ryan moaned, leaning back into the lumpy cushions of the old sofa.
He felt the plastic bag being removed from the loose grip of his fingers.
"Hey."
"C'mon."
"…how long…?"
The voices slipped in and out of Ryan's dream, every word growing stronger and dragging his unwilling brain back toward consciousness.
"Hey, Ryan, c'mon."
He forced his eyes to open, if only to stop the voices from talking.
Before he could even process what was happening, Theresa jumped back, avoiding the vomit that came without warning.
"Whoa!"
Ryan leaned forward, coughing, choking—his throat stinging, his head imploding.
Why couldn't they have just let him sleep?
A gentle hand rubbed small circles at the top of his back. He focused solely on breathing through the paralyzing pain.
"I've got to go."
He recognized the gruff arrogance of Trey's voice.
"We can't just leave him here! God knows what AJ will do to him."
Ryan winced at Theresa's shrill objection. She was too close to be talking so loudly.
"This is why I don't live here anymore." There was a sigh…possibly a boot kicking a piece of furniture. "Fuck. Can't you just take him to your place?"
"Yeah, I'll just toss him over my shoulder and jog over. Jesus, Trey, just help me move him."
Footsteps approached. A hand grabbed Ryan's shoulder, shaking him roughly.
"Ry, can you stand up?"
He didn't want to move. He didn't want to think. The pain coursing through his head and neck surpassed anything he'd ever experienced. The thought of standing up made his stomach hiccup a threat.
"Here…. Take his other arm…."
Trey grabbed one elbow and Theresa the other.
When Ryan felt his body lift off the couch, he forced his eyes open. Again, only the right one was functioning, and the dim light from the corner floor lamp sent violent bolts of lightening through his skull.
He kept his eye open long enough to somehow step over the pile of vomit on the floor, and then relied on memory for the rest of the trip. Occasionally, Theresa would mumble words like, "step up" and "step down," but he could barely focus on her instructions.
It was beyond dizzying, and he savored the enormous relief when he was dropped onto a soft bed.
"'Kay, I've gotta go. Take care, little bro."
"Trey…."
A door slammed and Ryan turned his head into the pillow, praying and begging for silence.
As if Theresa could read his mind, she didn't speak again. A blanket was pulled up under his chin and a kiss placed on his right cheek. The door shut quietly.
When Ryan awoke, he immediately felt his heart jump up his throat. Only when he was able to focus his one working eye enough to recognize the dark interior of Theresa's room, did he let his muscles relax, falling back into the pillow.
He tried blinking back the blinding pain behind his eyes, but to no avail. Fortunately, he didn't have to squint. The one window's blinds were not only drawn shut, but a dark colored sheet had been tacked up on top.
He vaguely remembered mumbling something about turning off the light when Theresa had nudged him awake earlier, so he assumed that had been her solution.
Muffled voices filtered through the door. Heated. Not a fight, not like the ones he was used to, but more like a clashing of opinions. He could almost guarantee this in this safe zone, no one was taking a boot to the head.
Ryan could never sleep in. If he was at home, he'd be awoken by yelling, screaming, a television turned on far too loud, or a combination of the three. When he was at Theresa's, he felt obligated to help make breakfast and clean up around the house. It was the least he could do in exchange for a safe place to sleep with no questions asked. He would never abuse Eva's trust or take advantage of this situation. She'd been far too good to him. Far too understanding.
Today could have been the one day when Ryan's brain and conscience would have allowed him the luxury of sleeping late, but nature was calling.
He slowly maneuvered himself up and out of the bed, grabbing onto the footboard for support when he felt his body waver unsteadily. Bright colors flashed across his vision for a brief moment, but after a few calculated blinks, the room came back into focus and he trusted his legs enough to take him to the bathroom.
When he was finished, he walked slowly down the hallway toward the voices, keeping his right hand on the wall at all times to provide a solid support just in case the colors came back and starting wreaking havoc with his equilibrium again.
"He's not going back there." Eva's voice was firm, and Ryan could picture her nodding her head once in a determined nature, like Theresa did when she was absolutely set on an idea.
Ryan stopped halfway down the hallway.
"You can't just tell him he can't go home, ma. That's not how it works. And you know Ryan; he won't listen!"
"Theresa!"
Ryan stood up perfectly straight, swallowing nervously. He pressed his back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Eva lowered her voice immediately afterwards, but she had made her point—everyone was listening. "This is not about what Ryan wants. I can't keep turning my back anymore. He could have been killed! He's your age, Theresa, and I would never, ever allow you to go back to a person who had hurt you in any way. He needs someone to look out for him."
"Yes! And we do. You can't just forbid him to go home, ma! We barely have enough room here for us; where would he go?"
"There are people out there who help kids like him, Theresa! People who can care for him."
Theresa laughed bitterly. "You're kidding, right? You've got to be fucking kidding me!"
"Hey!"
But the scolding wasn't going to stop Theresa. Ryan knew her well, and when she was angry enough to swear at her mother—a sin of worldly proportions, he was aware—nothing was going to stop her from saying what was on her mind.
"You realize that if you call child services, he'll run. You know that, right?" She didn't give her mother a chance to respond. She took a sharp breath and continued to shout, her voice rising and strained, "And I don't blame him, because I've seen…WE'VE seen what happens to those kids, ma! They're not better off! They're not!"
She choked on a sob, but continued to wail. "If you call them, it'll take them at least a week to get their asses over here, and I'll tell him, ma! He'll run and leave me behind, but I'll tell him, I swear…."
Theresa's last few words were muffled, and Ryan could hear the shushing sound of a mother comforting her daughter. He'd witnessed it many times before. They were always the type of family to love and argue with all their hearts. But this time it was different. Never before had it been about him.
He felt sick. Really sick. And everything was coming apart. He didn't mean to worry Eva, or Theresa, or even Trey, but when AJ went after Dawn, someone had to step in. That was always the way it had been. And when Trey left, Ryan picked up the slack—took up double duty—and last night was bad, he could admit, but he didn't always end up lying on the floor for an hour until his brother found him. Sometimes, AJ just pushed him around and then fell asleep on the couch in a drunken stupor.
Ryan was about to turn around—return to the room where he could at least sleep away the next few awkward hours—but before he could even take a step backward, the mere shift of his weight caused a floorboard to creak. He bit his lip and tilted his head back.
Well, fuck. So much for that.
"Ryan?"
He grimaced and counted to ten. Maybe she wouldn't check. He opened his eyes to see Theresa's concerned, tear-stained face peeking around the corner. She immediately strode toward him, placing a hand on his elbow.
"Are you okay? You probably shouldn't be walking around…."
He shrugged her off. "I'm fine."
She took a step back, and without even looking up, he could picture every feature on her face—an expression of sadness and worry. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.
"Sorry," he whispered, and not because he didn't want to be overheard by Eva—who he was sure was lingering around the corner, pretending to be busy—but more because the bright colors were back full-force and he suddenly wasn't so confident he could stand on his own two feet, let alone speak.
He leaned over, one hand on Theresa's shoulder, the other on his knee, trying to find some sort of balance. It was the strangest thing, feeling like he was lying on his side when he could see his own two feet touching the ground in front of his eyes.
Theresa was mumbling something—the same old shit. She'd seen him like this before, he remembered sadly. Too many times, maybe. He couldn't help but wonder what she must think when he came to her for help, like he always did. Surely she must be getting sick of this. God, he was sick of this….
He was so hot. Like suddenly he was stuck in a sauna, the humidity making it hard to breath to the bottom of his lungs. A drop of sweat rolled slowly down his forehead. By the time it reached his chin, he was lying down. He was sure of it. Even though his eyes were closed and he didn't totally trust his other senses, this time he was positive he was on his back.
"Go see if the car will start."
He felt like the left side of his face was flat. Like when Trey used to throw him a basketball when he wasn't totally paying attention, and it smacked him square in the nose, making him feel like his features had been rearranged. But instead of the numbing tingle and roaring laughter, there was shocking pain and panicked voices.
"Now, Theresa!"
He heard the screen door slam shut, and then the piggish squealing of the old car's engine struggling to turn over.
A gentle hand wiped the sweaty hair back off of Ryan's forehead.
"No more, Ryan." The words were soft and gentle, and if he weren't waging a war against the pins and needles assailing his skull, he might have been lulled to sleep. "Soon, Ryan, things will be different."
TBC