How The Light Gets In - 11. Chapter 11

Luc awoke, as he always awoke, to a small surge of hope.

New day.

He breathed in those few precious seconds of it.

And then the memories came back, as they always did. The memories and the pain.

A new day, yes. But he was alone in it, as he would always be alone. Daniel was gone. It was his fault, and Daniel was gone.

And beside that old, familiar pain was the newer pain.

Scott.

Who was gone, too. With someone else. And that was also his fault.

If he had only been able to be with Scott, to let Scott be with him. He’d had the chance. He was sure of that. Scott had offered, and he had blown it. He had held back, and in holding back, had driven Scott away. Into Josh’s arms.

But how could he not hold back? There was – there had been – Daniel. And there would always be Daniel. For Daniel was always here, in his heart.

Scott wasn’t Daniel, couldn’t be Daniel. Though he was so like Daniel, like Daniel could have been, would have been.

And Scott was somehow in his heart too, there with Daniel.

It was all just so confusing, and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t, he just couldn’t…

And then the black hole threatened to open up again, as it always did.

He forced his eyes open, did his best to push it away.

He was lying in what had become his normal position these last few weeks, curled on his right side with his wounded left wrist, carefully splinted in black Velcro, clasped protectively to his chest.

He shifted his weight, rolled carefully onto his back, and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the pain. The very different pain, the cleansing physical pain that promised to drive out the other.

He braced himself – and moved his fingers.

And, to his complete surprise, felt them against the naked skin of his chest.

Naked.

He was naked.

The shock of it was even greater than the pain of his damaged nerves and muscles.

Luc never slept naked, never allowed himself to be that exposed. Not even alone, in his own bed. Naked was dangerous. The touch of his hand against his own skin threatened to overwhelm him.

Dislocation.

Panic.

He forced open his eyes.

He was greeted by a steel grey light and the faint sound of water running. Conflicting data, which only magnified his confusion.

The light told him Nova Scotia. Alone.

The running water, the shower, said he wasn’t alone. Montreal. Family.

And then he heard humming, a soft sad baritone, and he knew exactly where he was, and with whom, and the world careened even more wildly.

The steel gray coming in the floor-to-ceiling windows was the foggy Atlantic.

The faint sound of water was the shower next door.

The humming coming through his half-open bedroom door – because the door had been left open, which was why he could hear the water and the slow sad baritone – the humming coming through the door to him was… was…

Matt.

Whom he had forgotten, once again.

Last night came tumbling back, and he groaned.

Then he searched out his T-shirt, an old, soft, long sleeved one of Robert’s that was way too big for him and swallowed him up. He pulled it on, curled up tight, and dragged the covers over his head. His hand was throbbing now, and he clutched it to his chest. It didn’t help. Even with his eyes squeezed closed, he could still hear Matt. He could still remember.

The blonde stranger was such a complicated mess of contradictions.

On the one hand, he’d been so crude and defiant, had actually seemed to take some kind of pride in describing his past encounters with Josh. What had he called himself? A slut, a slut with a heart of gold… The hardness in his voice, the bitterness, as he’d uttered the words, had been very real.

And yet this same hard, bitter young man had been sensitive enough to need only a few hours of observation to figure out how Luc felt about Scott. And sensitive enough too, when the storm of Luc’s emotions had finally broken, just to hold him last night, to hold him kindly, without judgment, without expectation.

Luc remembered the concern in Matt’s solemn face, the calmness and strength in his embrace, the warmth of his smooth golden skin.

He groaned again.

It was bad enough having Matt here to baby sit him, run his errands, ferry him around. How in the name of God was he supposed to face him now? How could he possibly explain last night?

***

Matt stood under the shower for a long time, arms across his chest, letting the hot water beat into his skin. He was thinking about the night before, the weeping boy in his arms, the pain. Luc’s sorrow had been so raw, so real. It had spoken to something in Matt that he did not want acknowledge, leaving him feeling somehow… open, vulnerable. He could not allow that. Not now. Not again.

But he could not get the memory of it out his head. What the fuck had he let himself in for?

He’d been lying awake, tossing restlessly, when he’d heard the frustrated shriek from Luc’s room, the smash of the door opening, the cursing and fury in the kitchen. He’d practically run out his room, concern giving way to sheer panic when he’d found Luc in the kitchen, cursing and fighting with the pill bottle, tears streaming down flushed cheeks, slender chest heaving.

Matt didn’t know where the explosion of emotion that followed had come from, but he could guess. Seeing Josh with Scott had left Matt himself feeling bruised and battered and raw; it must have been even worse for Luc. And Luc, clearly, did not have the same ability to shut it out that Matt himself had.

Because Matt had been able to shut it out. Even when he’d seen the signs, the tender glances, the secret smiles, the careful almost touches…

Fuck.

It was only when he turned the water off that Matt realized he was humming. Fairly loudly. One of Rufus’s bloody dirges. He shut up. He couldn’t go there again. He wouldn’t. It had never even been a love affair, he didn’t even have that much. As far as Joshua was concerned, it had never been anything more than a couple of blow jobs – though sure as fuck they’d left Matt bruised and battered, and he just didn’t know any more ways to walk away. (For those unfamiliar with Rufus Wainwright, the allusion is to This Love Affair from Want 2.)

He pushed open the shower door and grabbed his towel from the rack, drying himself vigorously. The family bathroom he was using was the larger of the two in the condo, with a glassed-in stall at one end and a huge tub at the other, separated by a long tile counter with two sinks and a mirrored wall. The bathroom in Luc’s room – the master bedroom – was much smaller, though luxuriously appointed. Scott had told him it was the opposite of Joshua’s place, which had a huge luxurious ensuite, and more modest second bathroom.

Matt didn’t want to think about Scott in Joshua’s bathroom, but he couldn’t help it. How much of Scott’s stuff had invaded Joshua’s space? An extra toothbrush? A razor? Everything?

Matt’s everything didn’t consist of much: a toothbrush, toothpaste, a shaving kit, a few grooming products. So few items that they looked lost on the long counter.

He looked at himself in the mirror, staring morosely at the blonde good looks that he once valued so highly. The bones were good. And the hair, especially towel tousled as it was now, more artful that he could have arranged it. But he felt old. Old and tired. There were shadows under his eyes, and the lines around his mouth were sad.

One day at a time, kiddo, he told himself. That’s all you need to do. Just worry about one day. Today.

He wondered if Luc, still sleeping next door, would find that thought as useful as he did. One day at a time. Maybe he should tell him.

Listen kid. All you really had to worry about was getting through this one day. And that is possible. Tomorrow might not be. But today, just this one day, you can do.

Yeah. Whatever.

Fifteen minutes later, Matt was unloading the dishwasher when he looked up to see Luc in the kitchen doorway, covered neck to bare toes in an ancient long sleeved T and Joe Boxer pajama bottoms that were both so big on him he looked a little lost. As always, he was holding his splinted left hand protectively against his chest. His right hand was pushing back the mass of tangled black curls.

“B’jour,” he said. “I thought I heard someone out here.” His voice was soft and shy, and again Matt was surprised by its deepness.

“Hey,” Matt said, as Luc cast the guarded, silvery blue eyes down at the floor.

As Matt studied the boy in the kitchen with him, he was himself aware of some nervousness after what had passed between them the night before. And if he himself was a little nervous, he could just imagine how bad Luc felt. After all, Matt had given nothing away, while Luc – Luc had wept in his arms.

He felt for the kid. Any idiot could see that Luc was sensitive and fragile, and Matt was no idiot. He was also pretty sure that Luc had been overwhelmed not just by how he had felt last night, but by the very fact that all that emotion had poured out of him. He didn’t think Luc was used to revealing much, especially in front of a virtual stranger.

“Um – how’s the hand this morning?”

Luc looked down at the centre of his chest. Only the ends of his fingers were visible, but Matt could see shape of the splint through though the soft, worn fabric. The splint, and the fine lines of Luc’s slender frame, and the small, hard nubs of his nipples.

He looked away.

“Better,” said Luc, his voice so soft Matt could just make him out. “Merci.”

"I was up early,” said Matt into a silence that threatened to become awkward. "I thought I’d, um...”

He glanced around the kitchen, his eye lighting on the coffee maker, a fancy chrome thing that suggested serious coffee drinking. He’d already noted the bag of ground Starbucks in the cupboard.

“Make coffee,” he finished lamely.

Coffee? Where the fuck did that come from? He didn’t have the faintest idea how to make coffee, not in that machine. He took his coffee black – in extra large take out cups.

“Merci,” Luc said again. And just for a second he met Matt’s eyes, and a smile curved his mouth. It was just a flicker, sudden and gone, but still, it was a smile, and Matt realized that the boy was beautiful when he smiled. “I like coffee first thing as well. I’ll, um, go and um…”

His voice trailed off, as he edged his way back towards his room.

Matt was still standing at the counter staring anxiously at the machine when he heard Luc’s bedroom door closed and, a minute or so later, the sound of his shower.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

He started opening drawers, looking for some kind of manual for the coffee maker. When he realized there was none, he approached the machine itself, pressed a few things, watched a lid open, a red light come one, and figured, what the hell. It couldn’t be that hard.

Turned out it wasn’t.

He filled the thermos with water, which he then poured into the machine. That worked.

It was an eight cup thermos, and the Starbucks bag gave cheerful per cup measurements, so he measured out eight scoops. Still good.

Holding his breath, he pressed the button, and the red light came on, and soon the machine was making soft, promising sounds.

He breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention to the other food groups he’d mastered. He was, after all, a genius with a toaster. He took out bread and butter and strawberry jam and, um, pop tarts…

***

Luc was good at the one handed thing now. He dried himself off, and dressed carefully but fairly quickly, sweater first, gently over his wounded hand. Then the black Velcro splint to protect it, boxers and socks and jeans. He could even use his left hand a little, his thumb and two fingers, for buttons, even for his fly. Presumably the splint would be gone soon, maybe even today, but he felt safer with it somehow.

And suddenly there was a loud stream of profanities from the kitchen.

Matt was standing at the counter, fuming at Luc’s father’s pride and joy – the elaborate stainless steel coffee maker that was spewing steaming brown grainy water everywhere. It had spread across the counter, was dripping down the cabinets to the floor. Matt kept trying to approach it, and every time he did, it spit steam and brown crud at him.

Luc couldn’t help it. He started to laugh.

Matt whirled around – and at the look of absolute desperation on his face, Luc laughed even harder.

“It’s not funny!”

But Luc just stared at the fury of the machine, laugher bubbling out helplessly. He tried to stop. He really did. But he’d seen this before – his mother had done it several times, much to the amusement of the entire family.

“I’m sorry,” he finally managed over the continued sputtering and spraying of the machine. “But – it really is. Funny.”

He waved Matt away from the machine. “Get out of the way, ok?”

Matt obediently stepped back, and Luc approached the machine from the side, reached around it with his good hand, and yanked out the plug.

It spat out a few more streams of steam and brown water, and then went still.

Luc was still laughing, but when he turned to Matt and saw the genuine dismay on the handsome face, the laughter died in his throat.

From crotch to neck, Matt was dripping wet, coffee grounds dark and muddy against his faded jeans and pale blue shirt. There were grounds in his hair, and on his right cheek a reddened spot where he must have taken a direct hit of steam.

Luc found himself raising his hand, grazing the cheek gently with the fingertips of his good hand. Matt shuddered and drew away.

“Are you ok?” Luc asked, slowly dropping his hand to his side. “Are you burned?”

Matt shook his head, and stepped back, pressing himself against the counter. His face was stark, almost panicked. Luc couldn’t imagine why. Surely he wasn’t that upset over such a minor domestic disaster.

“Um, Matt? It’s just a pot of coffee. We can make another one.”

Matt swallowed; Luc found himself watching the movement of his throat. His face seemed to relax a little.

“I – I didn’t destroy the machine?” he asked.

This time Luc managed not to laugh. “No,” he said. “You just forgot to put the filter in.”

Matt looked at him blankly, shaking his head.

Luc smiled. “You aren’t the first one,” he said. “My mother does it all the time. Here, let’s –”

He looked around but he didn’t see the metal filter anywhere. “Where is it?” he asked.

“What?”

“The filter?”

“Filter?” Matt’s cheeks flushed.

Realization struck, and Luc’s smile grew wider.

“You’ve never used this machine before, have you?” he asked.

Matt shook his head slowly. “Uh – no,” he admitted, flushing a little. “Actually, I, um…”

“What?”

“I’ve never actually used a kitchen before,” Matt admitted. “I’m pretty much a total klutz in here.”

“But what about last night? You made dinner...”

“Uh – Laura. And as she will tell you, it was pretty much pre-prepared. I really just did the heat and serve thing.”

Luc wondered why Matt had even bothered with the pretense – it wasn’t like he’d expected him to be able to cook or anything – but Matt looked so forlorn that Luc wasn’t even tempted to laugh. He reached up again, and brushed the coffee grounds off Matt’s cheek. This time, their eyes met and held.

“So – can you manage anything in the kitchen?” Luc asked gently.

Matt shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, then added with a slight grin. “Well – except for pop tarts.”

“I like pop tarts,” said Luc, very seriously.

Matt started to chuckle.

And Luc started to laugh in earnest.

***

The rugby boys had finished their weight training and were wandering, sweat-drenched and tired, down the hall to the showers. Bran and Scott paused at the door to the smaller gym where the gymnastic team was practicing.

A group of girls, small, lean as wires, were lined up at the balance beam watching a girl with a black ponytail attempt a dismount. The rapid, complicated twists got her safely airborne, but she missed the landing completely and landed hard on her ass. A low, sympathetic moan went up from her teammates.

“That’s the Russian dismount,” said Bran. “Laura’s the only one who has landed it clean, and she only gets it about half the time. She’s perfecting it for Nationals.”

Laura was third in line, approaching the beam.

Scott made to go inside. “Let’s watch for a few minutes,” he said.

“Can’t. Have a class first thing.” Bran was already moving off towards the showers. “You watch and tell me how often she nails it.”

Scott made his way into the gym, standing just inside, to the right of the door.

He watched her attempt it five times. She landed three, each time to much excitement from her teammates. One other girl managed to land it once as well, though even Scott could see it was less than perfect, with neither the grace nor the precision of Laura’s efforts.

Scott decided to watch Laura attempt it one more time, then head off to the showers himself.

Thinking about it afterwards, he was pretty sure that it was the error on vault that caused it. A bunch of the guys were winding down, being silly, and when one of them missed a basic dismount, the groan that went up from the other guys was loud with laughter and mock disgust.

The fallen gymnast was laughing too, and it was then, just then, as he kicked at the vault with a loud howl of dismay, that Laura was making her sixth and final attempt at the complex dismount.

“That wasn’t it,” Laura would insist later. “Think about it. Do you guys let the crowds distract you on the field? No. It’s a question of focus. You have to be focused. You can’t let anything disturb you. It’s exactly the same with a routine. And a dismount. You have to be incredibly focused to do something that complex. You have to know it with every inch of your being. Every inch, and then just let your body do it.”

Which meant that the only other possible answer was that she had not been focused, and so her body had not wanted to do it. Because right from the moment she leapt from the beam, Scott could see that her balance wasn’t right. She seemed to have made the leap a split second before she was really ready, and then she was in the air, and there was a cry and then a crash. Even the guys at the vault went still, and there was a horrible, horrible silence.

Scott ran across the gym to where his munchkin was a crumpled little heap against the bright blue of the mat. Her coach was already there, kneeling at her head, talking in a low voice. A gymnast had already been dispatched to a phone, another for first aid equipment.

It took Scott only a second to take it all in, the little heap of blonde girl, the left leg, the grey-white bone protruding through flesh just above her ankle, the blood. He dropped to his knees beside her, but stayed quiet as her coach took her carefully through the questions. She was whimpering, sweat beading on her forehead, but she answered her coach’s questions clearly.

No concussion, Scott though gratefully.

Just this.

A couple of athletes arrived with equipment: splints, bandages, boards, stretchers. The coach, a slender woman with a fierce face and short cropped hair, locked eyes with Scott for a moment.

“Hold her hand,” she ordered. “We’re going to cover this up, then move her a bit, straighten her out, stabilize the leg until the ambulance gets here.”

Scott took Laura’s hand. “Hey, Munchkin,” he said, brushing the sweat-drenched hair back from her forehead.

She clutched at him, grimacing as sterile pads were placed gently over the protruding bone. She didn’t make a sound. Tears slid silently down her temples.

He looked around and locked eyes with one of the guys.

“Get Bran,” he said, squeezing back against Laura’s grip, which was small but fierce. “He’s in the showers.”

For the next two minutes everyone held their breath.

Laura’s face was grey; at one point Scott thought she’d lost consciousness. She bit her lip so hard there was blood on her teeth – but she didn’t make a sound. Soon they had her wrapped in blankets against shock, the leg splinted and protected by bandages.

“Scottie?” Laura whispered, when it was finally done.

“I’m here, Munchkin. And Bran will be here in a few minutes.”

She swallowed hard when he said Bran’s name.

“It’s bad, isn’t it,” she whispered.

Scott met her coach’s eyes over her head. There were tears there. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“Too soon to tell, sweetie,” he said softly. “Looks a little messy, but it could well be just a break. Breaks heal. You know that.”

Laura nodded. “Hurts,” she said, closing her eyes. The grip of her fingers loosened a little.

“I know.” Once again he wiped the sweat-soaked blonde strands back from her forehead.

***

That’s how they were when Bran found them, his precious girl with her eyes tightly closed, her fingers engulfed in Scott’s massive hand.

He rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder, and the big guy turned and looked up at him worriedly.

Bran dropped to his knees, and caressed Laura’s cheek gently with the backs of his fingers.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open. They were full of tears – but she smiled at him. His heart turned over.

Scott pressed Laura’s hand into Bran’s. Bran kissed her fingers, then pressed them close against his heart.

“It’s gonna be ok,” he said.

He could hear the siren approaching.