Hey people who have been reading Amped Out!

Sorry about the lack of updates lately! We've just been really busy, BUT! The story will be wrapped up VERY soon! I've been busying trying to design cover art for the book (yes Amped Out is going to print!), but Stacey is going to get the next chapter up sometime in the next day or so, and then I'll work my little but off to get it all finished up!

I just wanted everyone to know that we are NOT leaving this project unfinished, and that I hope you all come back to read the ending!

*waves and MWUAH too all*

We did it! We won NaNoWriMo! The story isn't OVER by ANY means, but we did reach the word count!!! 50,782!!!!!

The letter arrived two days letter, stuffed into the mailbox amidst bills and sale papers. Ryan might have over looked it, taking it for junk mail, if the Greenbriar Treatment Center logo in the top corner of the envelope hadn’t caught his eye.

It was a thick envelope, and heavy, and when he ripped it open, he half expected it to be nothing more then a bill, or something else that would have to be sent back, since he wasn’t the one taking care of Mac’s billing. But since it was addressed to him, he thought that maybe it was something he was supposed to see.

He was more then a little surprised when he pulled out the letter, three pages front and back, scribbled in Mac’s minute scrawl, so sloppy that he could barely read it. In a few spots the ink ran together, creating eligible blurs, and he knew right away that Macon had been crying when he’d written it.

Carrying it into the living room, Ryan sat down on the sofa, flipping on a lamp as he settled down to read it, wondering what Mac could have had to say that would warrant filling up three entire pages with writing.

( A letter to say I love you. )

Five days. It had been five long, agonizing days since Macon had last heard from Ryan, and in those five days he’d driven himself and everyone else at the Greenbriar Treatment center absolutely mad. He was making himself sick with worry, not eating, barely sleeping, making his way in and out of the days like a drugged up zombie. In the days since Ryan’s visit, there had been not a single phone call, no letters, no contact of any kind, and he was nearing the point of calling the police.

What if Ryan had been in an accident? What if someone didn’t know to contact Macon at the treatment center? What if he were dead (God forbid!)?

The nurses and the rest of the staff were getting frustrated with him, trying to force him to eat, threatening him with hospitalization if he didn’t do something soon. It was evident just by looking at the man that he was letting himself go, hip bones sticking out at disturbingly sharp angles, dark shadows beneath his dull, practically dead, eyes. He’d skipped group therapy every day, not wanting to listen to everyone else chatter on about what was going on in their improving lives, and in his regular sessions of therapy he’d cried silent tears, refusing to talk, unsure of what to say.

But today, on the fifth day of Ryan’s absence, everything cracked, and Macon opened up.

( Falling apart. )

It had been four days since the last time Ryan saw Macon. Four of the longest, loneliest, most doubt-plagued days of his life. Four days in which he spent a majority of the time he wasn't busy at work with his head in his hands, silent tears of longing and heart-ache and sorrow slipping down his gaunt cheeks. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep... All he could do was weep and ache for arms that apparently didn't want him anymore.

He awoke that morning from a nap (there was no sleeping for him, not anymore), body stiff and sore, more like he'd been run over by a train than anything else. He showered just like he did everyday, dressed in the same 'uniform' he wore every day, ate the same bland breakfast and got into his car, ready to go to work. ( SSDD... Same shit, different day. )

Ryan's stomach was churning as he made his way, again, down the interstate, heading west, toward Pittsburgh and Greenbriar. It wasn't like the first time he'd been down that road, with Mac cringing in teh seat beside him, his stomach knotted so tightly at the thought of separation that he thought he was going to die.

No, this was a different type of nervous energy. This nervousness was of the pleasurable variety. He was going to finally see Mac, finally, after a long, hard, lonely week. Long, because work was hectic most days, the cold and inclimate weather often turning normally nice, hospitable customers into raging assholes. Lonely because... well... he didn't have Mac. Before the man had come into his life, he'd been perfectly content with his, on the whole, solitary existence, but now that they'd shared a space, a life, their bodies, their hearts... it was depressing to be alone in his little guest house, looking at the empty chair across the table. He couldn't wait for the day to come when he could bring Mac home with him, home for good.

Those nervous little butterflies flitting around his stomach, Ryan pulled his old truck up into the parking lot and slipped out, locking the door behind him before practically jogging across the lot. It had been so long (too long) since he'd seen his lover. He didn't want to wait anymore.

( Love sick.... )

Time.

If there was one thing that Macon Dunlevy had a lot of these days, it was time. There was time between meals, and time between group therapy meetings. Time between sessions with his doctor, and time between when Ryan called at six, and when he finally drifted off to sleep. Time to waste, and time to kill, time measured out in bitter chapters, like a never ending story book from hell.

The only thing that existed in more abundance then time at the Greenbriar Treatment Center, was questions. They never seemed to run out of questions to ask. How was your day? What are you thinking? What do you think that means?

And Mac’s personal favorite, how does that make you feel?

( Time goes by so slowly... )

Ryan was more than just a little bit nervous as he drove his beat up old truck down the interstate, heading toward Greenbriar Treatment Center in Pittsburgh. He felt sick, like his stomach was all tied up in knots and he kept burping up something that tasted vaguely of liverwurst... Only problem was he hadn't eaten liverwurst since 1985.

A glance was stolen to Macon, sitting in the passenger seat and looking very small and just as scared as Ryan felt. He felt bad, terrible really, for basically forcing Macon into rehab but if they were going to have a future, if they were going to have any kind of a life together at all, it had to be done. It had to. He just hoped Macon could see that and not end up hating him for stealing a month of his life. He hoped that it was worth it in the end.

( Don't leave me here! )

The minutes ticked by, and each hour melted into the next, until time itself became nothing but a blur of sitting and waiting. How long had it been since Mac had been checked into the hospital, and then rushed into the back of the Emergency Room, surrounded by nurses and doctors in pressed white scrubs holding shining silver instruments that were supposed to make it all better? How long had Ryan been sitting in the waiting room, sucking back cups of 75 cent coffee from the vending machine, only eating an actual meal when one of the nurses prodded him to go to the cafeteria to get something hot inside of him?

And how much longer would it be? How long would Ryan have to wait before someone told him something that would ease his nerves?

( In joy and sorrow, my homes in your arms... )

Ryan paced the floor of the waiting room at the county hospital, glancing at the clock nervously every few minutes. He'd wanted to ride with mac in the ambulance, wanted to hold his hand and kiss him and tell him everything would be fine... But judging by the amount of blood his lover had lost and how he was convulsing, it was probably best that he drive on his own.

Of course, had he known that that decision would cost him nearly two hours of searching all the area hospitals to find out which one Mac had been taken to, he might've thought differently.

But he'd found the hospial and checked Mac in, claiming to be his brother. It was the only way they'd give him information about how he was doing. And, thankfully, the information so far was "he's in stable condition and as soon as he's out of the ER and into a room, we'll let you know."

The last time hed'd heard that was twenty minutes ago. The first time he'd heard it that afternoon was five hours ago.

( Oh, the agony of waiting... )