Everybodys Wounded

Everybody's Wounded Book 2

How the Light Gets in Chapter 15

Luc stood with his forehead pressed to the window and his back to the huge living room where had spent the summers of his childhood. For him, this had always been a magical place, homey and constant, the sacred summer retreat where, for six weeks between school years, he could just be. In many ways, this was where he'd grown from boyhood to manhood.

He had been happy here once. His summers had overflowed with good times, happy times. The days were long and warm, caressed by ocean winds and tinted golden with sunshine and freedom. The evenings too, long and playful, surrounded by loving parents, teasing brothers, board games, books.

And music too. Here, away from studies and ambitions, he would bubble over with playful music that poured out of his heart.

In Luc's memory this wall of glass was a window on a bright wide world, this room always bright and filled with laughter.

In Luc's memory, the North Atlantic was always silver blue and beckoning.

But now it was winter, dead of night, and the North Atlantic menaced. The sky was moonless, starless, and the glass no longer a window opening out into the world, but a barrier trying to protect him from it.

Everything beyond it was black.

And standing here with the room silent and the laughter stilled, he knew the summers of his childhood were gone forever. Daniel was dead -- and so too was the boy Luc had been.

And the man he was becoming?

The man lived still, but suspended. He did not know how to go about finding a way forward.

Everything was cold -- except the places where Matt touched him. Everything was silent, except for the soft, soft sigh of Matt's breath against his ear.

It took him a long time for Luc to be able to speak.

"His name was Daniel," he said finally. "He died three years ago. Three years ago tonight."

He stopped, pressed his burning forehead more firmly against the cool glass. His voice sounded tired and rusty. He was aware of Matt behind him, touching him just enough to let Luc know he was there. It seemed to Luc that Matt was holding his breath, and his hands on Luc's hips were still and warm.

In that suspended breath, Luc dared to try again.

"His name was Daniel. He died three years ago tonight. He -- he hanged himself."

Now Luc felt Matt's hands tighten around his waist, the fingers press. Otherwise Matt remained still, silent.

"His name was Daniel," Luc said one more, his breath fogging the glass. His voice was quieter now, less certain in his own ears. "He hanged himself three years ago. Tonight. Because of me."

He felt Matt breathe again, one deep, shuddering breath that felt warm and alive against his ear, his cheek.

"His name..."

But he didn't seem able to do more than that.

"His name..."

His fists tightened, the pain in his left hand swift and familiar and somehow comforting. It was good to hurt. Why was this so hard? It had happened three years ago. Three years was a long time. Three years...

But he couldn't do this. He couldn't talk about Daniel. He'd never been able to talk about Daniel. Not since that night, when his parents had brought him home from the hospital, and told him what Daniel had done.

What made him think he could speak of it now -- especially to this unknown man who stood so still behind him? This man whose anger and deliberate brashness seemed be masking his own well of hurt. He d idn't know Matt -- and Matt hadn't known Daniel. How could he possibly understand? And why should Luc want to speak of it now? In the three years since it had happened, he had never acknowledged Daniel's death aloud. Had hardly ever uttered the syllables of his name.

And why should he speak now of what Daniel had done, and what it meant to him? He hadn't spoken of it anyone, not to his mother or his father. Not to his brothers. Not to the psychiatrists who had haunted his last three years. They had all tried to get him to speak, asked him questions, given him permission, even suggested that speaking of it was necessary to Luc's own healing.

Maybe it was necessary, but he didn't know how. The words did not come -- not the words for what Daniel had done, and not the words for what those acts had done to Luc, deep inside himself. He did not think the words existed to describe what those acts had meant to him. What he felt.

He could not tell. He would never be able to tell. What made anyone think he possibly could?

He stood, still and silent, for a long time, his forehead pressed against the glass.

It was black out there.

So black.

And cold.

Part of him wanted to be out there in it.

The wind like knives.

The air frigid, salty, smelling like tears.

Luc had no tears.

Luc didn't make a sound.

Finally, after a long, long time, it was Matt who spoke, Matt whose voice broke the darkness, softly.

"His name was Daniel," Matt said.

Luc stared out into the blackness.

"His name was Daniel -- and you loved him."

Luc closed his eyes, but it didn't matter whether his eyes were open or closed. It was as black out there as it was under his eyelids. Matt stood very still behind him. Matt's chin on his shoulder seemed hardly any weight at all. Matt's hands on his hips were still and warm and strong.

"Yes," he whispered finally.

And then -- nothing.

What else was there to say? He thought for an instant that maybe the words Matt had dared to speak aloud were the words --. But no. After that soft, soft admission, words seemed...insufficient.

After another long while, Matt did move, began to turn Luc slowly, carefully, in his arms. Luc froze for an instant, resisted, but the pressure from Matt's hands was slow and somehow comforting and so, in the end, Luc allowed it. And when he felt Matt fingers glide up his neck, press into his hair, he allowed that too, allowed himself to be drawn in, allowed his head to pressed against Matt's shoulder, allowed Matt's fingers to linger there, tangled in his hair.

He was cold, and the curve of Matt's neck was warm.

"It's ok," said Matt eventually.

"No," said Luc, his face pressed against the warm line of neck and shoulder. "It's not ok. It'll never be ok."

"Maybe not," said Matt. "So if it's not ok, tell me what it is. Tell me about Daniel."

Luc didn't know what to say. He'd been asked this before, and responded only with a wall of silence. Would that wall protect him now? Did he want it to?

"Luc?" Matt's voice soft and warm, like the curve of his neck. "Tell me about this boy you loved."

"I don't know how." Luc admitted.

"Tell me anyway," said Matt. His fingers played gently in Luc's hair. "Start with something easy."

"Nothing's easy."

"What did he look like?"

Luc took a took a deep, slow breath, struggling with how he could possibly explain Daniel to Matt. He knew Matt was waiting. Matt's neck smelled good. His fingers in Luc's hair felt warm.

"Big," he said finally. "Much bigger than me, even though he was younger. He had big hands, big feet--." He smiled, there in the warm curve. "He was big."

Matt said nothing, just continued to work his fingers gently through the tangle of Luc's curls.

"We were very different," Luc said slowly. "English and French. Big and small. Loud and quiet. He played hockey. I played piano. He was always so certain, and I was, well, me. I was never certain. Except about him."

In the dark of the living room, Luc could sense Matt waiting for him to continue. And suddenly, he wanted to try.

"The thing is..." he said slowly. "All the ways we were different?"

"Mmmmm."

"They never mattered. When I played the piano, he understood. When he played hockey, I understood."

"Yes," said Matt. As if he too understood.

And that was how it began: Luc, murmuring into the curve of Matt's neck, a slow trickle of words at first, an explanation, a wish, a story. Words whispered there, and Matt never speaking, never demanding. Matt just holding him, the fingers of one hand tracing slow circles on Luc's back, between Luc's shoulder blades, the fingers of the other hand quietly alive against Luc's skull, in Luc's hair.

Somehow, Luc found words to describe how he and Daniel had first met in the change room of a local hockey arena. How different they were -- and yet how instantly connected. How Luc had felt, right from that first meeting, that Daniel had somehow chosen him.

He told Matt about the friendship, how he cheered Daniel on at his hockey games, how Daniel listened to his music. How hard Daniel tried to please his father -- and how his father had given him everything but time.

With his face pressed gently into the curve of Matt's neck, he was able even to tell of his own awakening awareness that his love for Daniel was more than their friendship. How, when the other boys talked about girls...he thought only about Daniel. How magical that love seemed, like a poem, like a piece of music that touched him deep. How his only regret had been the knowledge that he would always have to keep this other love secret, in a friendship where, until that time, there had been no secrets.

He found a way to describe that Boxing Day. The sudden and complete understanding in the change room. The joy and the fear. And afterwards...afterwards the end of secrets. The magic of Daniel's kiss, Daniel's touch. The long afternoon in Daniel's room. The wanting. The loving.

And then the horror.

Standing in front of the window, with Matt holding him close, he was finally able to tell all of it, in a calm, slow, rusty voice that did not seem to belong to him at all. No tears. Just words. And Matt, who held him and listened.

He told of what happened afterwards, how he'd tried so hard to see Daniel but found himself blocked at every turn, his calls, his emails, IMs. How he'd finally hid outside Daniel's house early one morning, waited until his father had gone to work, then pounded at the door. How Daniel wouldn't let him in. How he'd taken the big, big risk, told Daniel -- told Daniel --.

"I grabbed his arm as he tried to close the door," Luc whispered into Matt's neck. " I told him my parents said he could stay with us if his father was being abusive. I told him I loved him. He didn't say anything at all. He just looked scared and shook off my arm and slammed the door."

"I shouldn't have tried to see him the last time. It was my fault. But I had to. I was going kind of crazy. I don't know what I was thinking. I took the bus over to his school, and I met him as he was leaving. He was alone, and I went over to him. He looked at me, and he shook his head, and turned around and started walking away. I couldn't let him. I couldn't. I --."

Luc took a deep breath, felt the dead spot inside him. But he'd come this far, farther than he'd ever thought possible. He felt Matt's arms around him, still and calm, and felt that maybe he could do it. Maybe he could find the voice...give voice to it...

So he started again, in that calm, dead voice...

"I went after him. I took his arm, and, and when I I took his arm, and he just -- went crazy. He started hitting me, called me a fucking faggot. All the things his father had said, they just poured out his mouth. I couldn't fight him, I didn't even try. I don't even remember, really. I mean, what did it matter? Apparently some guys came over and pulled him off me. He probably would have killed me if they hadn't."

Matt pulled him closer, rocked against him a little, not in a demanding way but in a comforting one. He still said nothing, as if he could wait forever.

"I didn't go to the funeral," said Luc finally. "I didn't even know...what he'd done. I was in the hospital. He'd -- hurt me. Broken fingers. Broken ribs. A pretty bad concussion. Some internal bleeding. I didn't even find out until after it was over. When Papa told me, I -- couldn't believe it. I just couldn't believe --."

He pressed into Matt's shoulder, forced himself to breathe.

"And then I had to. Believe. He left me an email. I didn't find it for over a week, because I didn't go near my computer..."

He felt Matt's fingers circle his back, slowly, comfortingly.

"I didn't mean to memorize it. I'd unmemorize it if I could. But it was so short --. He said "I'm sorry. I know you can never forgive me. You shouldn't ever forgive me. I don't deserve you to forgive me. My father is right. I'm evil. Evil. But you aren't Luc. You aren't."

"Ok, tell me," said Josh, easing himself reluctantly from the warmth of Scott's embrace. He'd been splayed exhausted on his stomach, warm and lethargic and sleepy. But Scott, usually limp and sated and the first to fall asleep afterwards, felt tense and restless against him.

Josh couldn't relax. Something was wrong. Scott's tension was unnerving him.

He was used to Scott being completely...there where they made love, murmuring, whispering, completely present, intensely...his. And afterwards he had come to depend on the wonderful, wonderful lethargy that would infuse Scott's body, the drowsy embrace that seemed to say that, just for a few more minutes, he wouldn't let the loving go, that he never wanted to let it go...

Never before had Scott made love to him so silently.

Never before had Scott been so restless afterwards.

When Josh moved away, Scott made a small sound of protest and tried to pull him back. As much as he wanted that, Josh resisted. He rolled onto his back, and then sat up against the headboard. He pulled the duvet high up his chest.

"Tell me," he said again.

Scott rolled onto his side, and beneath the covers reached a hand low around Josh's hips, trailing slow fingers across his stomach.

Josh shuddered. But although Scott's fingers were warm and strong and insistent and knew exactly how to touch him, Josh resisted. He focused on controlling his breathing, and waited.

"Tell you what?" Scott asked finally.

"Tell me what's wrong."

Scott's fingers suspended their intimate voyage. He leaned over, kissed Josh's shoulder. "Nothing's wrong," he said.

Josh rested his cheek on the top of Scott's head.

"Ok," he said, keeping his expression light. "So tell me the thing that isn't wrong that has managed to drive away your normal post coital lethargy and made you so bloody antsy. `Cause if you tell me, maybe then we can both get some sleep."

Scott's laugh was a low rumble and his kissed Josh's shoulder again, tasted it for an instant.

"Maybe you just didn't do a good enough job," he said, and once again tried to pull Josh back into his body. "Maybe if you just come over here and coital me some more..."

Josh laughed too -- and pushed Scott away.

"I'm serious," he said. "Tell me what's bothering you."

A heavy sigh, and then Scott rolled away from him, "Ok," he said as he too pulled himself up to sit against the headboard.

Josh waited, aware of Scott silent beside him. With a good foot of rumpled sheet between them, Josh suddenly felt cold. Like every breath was a step away.

It occurred to him that this was the true meaning of distance. A step away from each other.

A step towards solitude.

He knew that space within him, that solitary space. It was an emptiness, an apartness, from which he would never be entirely free. There was strength in it, that space. Strength that allowed him to be calm and safe and alone. He knew it would always be there, and that he would always be able to find it again if he had to.

"It's Luc," Scott said finally.

Josh waited. He was very still, very silent, looking for the space inside. The rumpled sheets between them began to feel enormous.

"Or maybe it's Matt," said Scott finally.

Suddenly Scott pushed himself back down under the duvet and rolled onto his side, towards Josh, reaching an arm around his waist and resting his head in the center of Josh's chest. His breath was warm and damp against Josh's skin.

"Matt?"

"Yeah. I'm beginning to think maybe you were right about him. I mean, I think Bran's right and he's trying, and maybe some things have changed. But deep down, I don't know. The way he looks at Luc --. Maybe no one ever really changes."

"What do you mean?"

"I get the feeling that maybe he's still a player. Luc's so vulnerable right now, but Matt looks at him like...like he wants to own him."

"Protective?"

"Maybe. But maybe he just wants in his pants. You didn't seem him with that Stevie dude. If we'd walked in a minute later, I swear that little blonde twerp would have been blowing him. Matt pretty much admitted as much. And the way he talked to me about it after -- like that kind of shit is just...the norm, you know? But Luc's not like Stevie. Luc's not the sort of guy Matt should expect ..."

"To provide casual blow jobs?" said Josh softly. His hand, which had been absently rubbing the back of Scott's neck, went still.

"Shit," said Scott. And then he was up on one elbow, and his hand was on Josh's jaw, turning Josh's face towards him.

"You were vulnerable, baby," he said softly, stooping to kiss his eyelids. `You were vulnerable, and he was there, and I get that. All I'm saying is...Luc's that vulnerable. And he's a lot younger than you were. And I think almost completely inexperienced."

He kissed Josh again. "I don't think being with Matt like that damaged you. If anything, I think Matt made you...stronger, made you see things clearer. But Luc... fuck. If Matt fools around with Luc, it could do so much...more damage. If Matt starts fooling around with Luc, it could be a fucking disaster."

Josh wrapped his arms around Scott's neck, drew him down, brushed his lips across Scott's mouth.

"Talk to him, then." Josh said. "Explain it to him."

"I'm not sure I can," said Scott slowly. "I don't think Matt likes me very much. He looks at me like he thinks I'm gonna eat Luc alive or something. But you know, I don't think it would be good for him either. I mean, I don't know the whole story, but I know from what Bran said that Matt's been through a lot. He's trying so hard to get past all this." He sighed heavily. "I wish I could talk to Brandon about this, but with Laura just out of the hospital, he's got so much on his hands already. And I'm not sure it's really something Bran can talk to him about..."

Josh closed his eyes. This was one of the things he loved so much about Scott; his concern, his loyalty to his friends. There was something so naive and pure about it. Josh knew that if Scott could rescue them all, he would. Even Matt.

Scott's mouth was so close to his that Josh could feel his own breath reflecting back against his lips, still tender from the kisses of before.

"Maybe it would it help if I talked to him," he said softly. "I've kinda been where Luc's been, as far as Matt goes. Maybe he'll listen to me."

"But he's hung up on you. You know that. It'll make him feel --."

"You can't be responsible for anyone else's feelings," said Josh.

Scott lowered his head then, and buried his face in Josh's neck. Josh knew, from the catch, from the soft, soft sigh, that Scott was breathing him in, and the knowledge thrilled him.

"How come you're so smart?" Scott whispered, tracing the line of Josh's jaw, his neck, with small, small kisses that left Josh trembling with want. The alone place deep inside him felt very far away.

"And so beautiful," Scott whispered.

"And taste so good..."

`Hot chocolate," said Matt, putting two mugs down carefully on the coffee table. Then he settled down beside Luc, and turned towards him. A table lamp burned soft and golden, and there was some music playing, soft, blues, something Matt had chosen from the stack of CDs Luc seemed to have separated out as his own.

After the long, long story, the sad, dead words, the Luc looked exhausted. He sat, sat slumped on the sofa, head bowed. His hands lay helpless in his lap, palms up, and he seemed to he staring down at them.

Matt still didn't know what to say, so he waited.

"I don't know what to do anymore," Luc said finally. "I don't know what I feel. I don't know how --."

Matt looked down at Luc's hands. The tender skin of the long, narrow wrists was so pale he could see the fine blue tracing of veins beneath. On the right wrist was a clearly defined red line, already healed, already fading. On the left wrist --.

Matt looked at them sadly, the cruel, angry scars. Slowly, he reached out his own hand, traced them with his fingertips. He felt Luc tremble at his touch. The Quebecois boy did not raise his head -- but he did not move his hand away.

"I know you've forgiven Daniel," said Matt, his voice barely a whisper. "But you have to forgive yourself too. You have to forgive yourself for this."

Only then did Luc look up, the shadowed, fine-boned face troubled and sad. Their eyes met, and held.

"I don't know how," he said.

Caught in those haunted eyes, Matt found himself thinking suddenly of his parents. Of his mother, who had never given up on him, never stopped reaching out to him, no matter how hard he pushed her away. Of his father, a hard, hard man who found emotion almost impossible to express, yet who had held on tight and dragged Matt back from the edge despite his kicking and screaming.

As Matt continued to be caught in Luc's gaze, his fingers, of their own accord, continued to trace the jagged scars on Luc's wrist with the barest touch.

"I don't think there is a "how' to forgiving," Matt said finally. "I think it's something you just do."

Gently, he let his fingers slip around the narrow wrist, but he didn't look down, afraid to break their connection. Slowly, almost unaware of it, he raised the wounded wrist to his mouth. Luc's skin was warm against his lips, unbearably soft. A sigh escaped those soft swell of Luc's mouth, and the silver eyes widened.

What the fuck are you doing? Matt asked himself.

He realized that he didn't know. He just didn't know.

Carefully he replaced Luc's hand on his lap. The boy was shaking.

So was Matt.

Luc was staring at him. Matt was caught in the pale gaze.

"I'm sorry," Matt said, struggling for words. He forced himself to be still, separate. "I shouldn't have done that."

He watched the silvery eyes fill with tears.

"What?" Luc whispered, his voice trembling and confused. "Why? What's wrong with me? What have I done? What haven't I done?" A sob broke through that stabbed into Matt's heart. "What's wrong with me?"

Matt swallowed hard, fighting back the tears at the back of his own throat. He extended his hand, pushed those too-long black curls from Luc's forehead.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said softly.

Luc drew his bottom lip between his teeth, and Matt felt it as if it had been his own mouth. "Then what?" he asked.

"You're killing me, is all," Matt admitted.

Luc's eyes widened. "I'm -- what? How?"

Matt turned away a little, leaned back against the sofa, closed his eyes. He remembered what his therapist had told him, and forced himself to take deep, quiet breaths.

What could he tell this boy that mattered? He knew so many words, so many gestures, had used them so many times on so many confused boys. He has used them lure, to seduce...

And now all the words, all the gestures, seemed like so many pathetic clichés.

But how could he possibly express his concern, his caring? What other words were there? What other gestures? How could he tell this boy he was so much more, deserved so much more, than this pain and this confusion? How could he tell him without... without...taking. Without taking.

He felt the tentative touch of fingers on his hand and opened his eyes. Luc sat so still. Looked so lost.

Matt forced himself to ignore the slight contact.

"You play your piano alone, late at night, with one hand," he began slowly. "But you won't let me listen. Scott can listen, but not me."

"But..."

Matt shook his head and Luc went silent, chewing that soft lower lip. He removed his hand, and Matt felt its loss.

"You cry in your sleep," Matt continued. "You cry in your sleep and sometimes I go to you, but I can't comfort you. I'm afraid that if I touch you, if I hold you, if I let myself hold you --"

That beautiful mouth trembled until Matt couldn't bear to look at it anymore. He pulled the dark, curly head onto his shoulder, and lay his cheek gently against the top of Luc's head.

"And now you come to me like this, trust me like this," he murmured, "And I don't know what to do. I don't know what you want. I don't think you know what you want. All I know is that I've promised not to ... to touch you. I promised."

Luc sat up, looked into Matt's face, his eyes wide. "You promised not to touch me? Who? Who did you promise?

Shit.

Matt was losing control of this. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't. There had been too many scared boys in his past. Luc would not be another.

Luc deserved so much more than that. He deserved more than Matt could ever give him, more than Matt even deserved to try to give him. Because if there was one thing Matt knew, it was that he was unworthy of this beautiful, wounded boy.

"Myself, " he said, and sighed heavily. "Your friends were careful to let me know where you were. And careful to point out that I'm kind of fucked up myself."

But Luc didn't seem to be listening. His mouth had curved into a small smile of wonder.

"You promised yourself not to touch me?"

Matt nodded slowly, caught in that beautiful silver gaze.

"Do you ever break promises to yourself?" Luc asked.

Matt could not look away. "I try not to," he said. "Now. There was a time I couldn't have cared less, when I couldn't have kept a promise to anyone, but now --. Now at least I'm trying."

To Matt's surprise, Luc reached out with his wounded left hand and wrapped it gently around Matt's wrist. Slowly, as Matt watched, Luc turned his hand over, palm up, and raised it slowly to his mouth.

"If I ask you, will you break this one, Matt?" he asked softly.

And then, to Matt's wonder, Luc bowed his head and touched his lips to Matt's palm. A small perfect kiss that was soft and timid and trembling.

When he raised his head again, there were tears on his cheeks.

"Please Matt?" he asked. " I'd give just about anything not to feel so -- so alone right now. Just to feel you close, just -- just that. Not to feel alone."

Matt trembled. God this boy was beautiful. How could never have noticed before?

How could he say no?

Matt cupped his hand under Luc's chin, tilted up the bowed head. He saw the tears on his cheek, on the edges of the black lashes, and he felt like his heart might break. Slowly, he leaned over, and kissed a tear so gently, so gently.

Luc's sigh was soft. Matt trembled with the beauty of it. Never before had he been so aware of the exquisite tenderness that the touch of lips to cheek could express. Never before.

He was not worthy of it. He didn't deserve this sweet boy in his arms. He didn't deserve this trust, this tenderness.

But he couldn't help it. Once again, he grazed the exquisite curve of Luc's cheek with his lips.

It was Luc who moved so that their mouths touched. Just that -- the sweet and tender touch of lips.

Matt accepted the touch, and trembled.

He had never kissed like this before, never shared a caressing of lips that was so soft, so real -- and so undemanding.

He thought briefly of another beautiful, wounded man with tears on his cheek, another beautiful wounded man who had turned away from him and broken his heart.

But Luc did not turn away.

Luc offered and accepted these tiny tender kisses, breathed them in as if they were as precious as air.

Matt whispered Luc's name, buried his fingers in the glorious black curls.

And that was what was permitted that night, in the dark, in the quiet. With the North Atlantic black and fierce beyond the glass.

Just that: tiny, tender kisses between two sad, wounded men, boys really, caught in their pasts.

Tiny, tender kisses to comfort and to soothe.

Tiny, tender kisses that almost dared to hope.