Merritt knows that in the entirety of the year and a half in which he had personally known J. Daniel Atlas, that he has never seen him wear anything shorter than sleeves which run just past his wrists.
He remembers the days when winter has faded, grasping the chilling breeze and freezing a hail of rain. It leaves a season brighter and warmer and far more humid in its wake. The brightly shining sun replaces the darkened clouds, the plastic fans and cheap air-conditioning replaces the indoor broken heaters and they no longer rush and fight for the first shower of steaming hot water installed in basic motel rooms with passable security. It is the time in which his signature fedora becomes a straw hat with coloured ribbon, Henley's constant jeans and trousers are long and short skirts, and Jack is finally convinced into leaving his trusty leather jacket hanging at whatever cheap hotel they have decided to stay in for the night.
The only constant, he finds in this odd and evident transformation, remains Daniel himself.
His jeans aren't shorts and his shirts are still donned beneath tight vests and thick designer sweaters. His shoes are still leather and no doubt somehow suffocating, and the only flesh he reveals is that of his hands and past his neck. Merritt has tried not to dwell on it, but he has even come to realise that all of the illusionist's dress shirts are perhaps slightly longer than necessary, falling to the point where the knuckle of his thumb begins. His collar is always buttoned to the far top, as high and gripping as possible, and the mentalist finds himself wondering how the younger man is able to stand the heat when the remaining Horsemen are in short-sleeved polo-shirts and open footwear. He does not question it for a while, though.
The day comes when his suspicions are raised is one of the hottest he had ever felt. They are in Miami and the sun belts down mercilessly on them, glimmering and shining within a clear blue sky which is utterly cloudless. They are in a hotel with a beautiful ocean view and large bedrooms, absolutely accommodating and one of the most comfortable they had even stayed in for more than a night. For once there are no creaking beds with rusty springs and the cheap ten dollar fans usually donned hideously on the white ceilings are instead large, expensive air conditioners which fit comfortably in their stylish suite. For once, Merritt is completely and utterly relaxed.
The only downside is that they had only managed to get three rooms. All were donned with queen-sized beds, except the third room was considerably larger and had two. Naturally, Henley got her own room and oddly enough, Jack managed to get the other due to the fact that he had gotten them the suite initially, as well as at a discount price. Merritt found, strangely, that he did not in fact mind sharing with Daniel. They had done so before, and in their lengthening friendship of midnight card games and early morning debates, Merritt had noticed a single factor; Daniel had never once revealed anything past his wrists to any of the Horsemen.
He would always change in the bathroom or an equally empty and private space, and always in clothes far too warm and thick for a season such as this. And yet, it had not been until that evening that Merritt truly paid it any mind.
They are walking down a boulevard with shirtless surfers and bikini clad women are racing towards the beach down the lane. Children are in dresses and shorts and no one is wearing anything thicker than a light, thin layer of cotton or equally cool denim and colourful flip flops.
Almost no one, Merritt reminds himself.
Beside his vibrant blue and orange pineapple covered Hawaiian shirt and Henley's flowing knee length skirt is Daniel; dressed in his signature dark denim and dark blue dress shirt beneath a stylishly collared black sweater. Both reach to cover the knuckles of his fingers. The only thing which seems mildly summer related are the dark glasses hiding the irises of his eyes from the glistening sun, and Merritt cannot help but deduce.
He is saved from much clever guessing, however, as Jack peaks over Henley's shoulder in his red polo shirt and long tan shorts and stares at Daniel for a long while as they walk. They are in comfortable silence and for once Merritt does not mind. Until the card captor dressed in winter apparel beside him breaks it.
He tilts his head first and glances at Jack, holding the slightly younger man's stare through his glasses. When he says nothing, Daniel allows a long sigh through his lips and speaks.
"What is it?"
He does not say much more, and Merritt realises he does not have to. Jack's staring has become ridiculously obvious that even Henley has caught on, and everyone has begun to pay rapt attention to the pair. At first Jack looks back down and around the boulevard, attempting to seem as if he had not been staring, but soon he notices the look Daniel is sending him and gives in.
He hesitates for a moment and hums quietly, as if he is unsure as how to address the issue. At the illusionist's one raised eyebrow however, he finally replies.
"I just, I mean, how can you wear that?" His voice breaks out quickly and the curiosity marring it is extremely obvious. He turns his gaze back and so does Henley; now all three Horsemen are watching Daniel's expression and Merritt finds that he himself wants to see what the younger magician has to say for himself.
Daniel takes a moment of consideration before tilting his head back and staring off at the crowd walking around them. He shrugs, repositions his dark leather shoulder bag and says, "Wear what?"
Merritt recognises the signs of slight nervousness and watches as Daniel's fingers begin to tap against his leg practically subconsciously. Curious.
"You know…" Jack continues, seeming almost unsure and yet comfortable; and Merritt realises that this holds some deeper meaning to Daniel. He does not interfere, however, as Jack rephrases his inquiry. "Clothes so… wintery, I guess. It's like eighty-five degrees and the only wind blowing is hot and sandy. How can you stand to wear those long sleeves, and a sweater? I mean I'm in a polo and it is bloody hot."
The tapping which only Merritt can see has ceased, replaced only by the tight press of long fingers against denim. Daniel almost unnoticeably rolls his shoulder before answering with the same nonchalance as before,
"It's not that hot."
But that is a lie and they all know it. Only Merritt can see purpose further than the others, and does not miss the feint flush on Daniel's skin or the constant movement which looks almost like all the illusionist wishes to do is roll his sleeves up to his elbows and maybe get rid of his sweater.
Henley opens her mouth this time, and is about to support Jack when the reach the beach. Almost instantly, the sight of golden sand reaching into glimmering deep blue water washes away all their curiosity and questions. They race past everyone else clad in swimwear and into the water, and only Merritt spares a glace to watch as Daniel sits beneath and large umbrella and shift comfortably, leaning back on the wooden chair with a chilled glass of lemon-water and his nimble fingers flying expertly through a pack of cards.
His sleeves do not shift and Merritt does not see the pale skin hidden beneath, and the mentalist knows that there is a reason for that.
His suspicions are heightened the morning after, when the waiter arrives at their table and serves their breakfast. She has flowing curly brown hair which falls to her waist, the dotted straps of her bikini peeking out from her uniform when she asks Daniel if he would like to join her in the private pool later. She leaves her number and his coffee, her heels clanking against the indoor tiled floor to the rhythm of Henley's scoff and Jack's light chuckle. Daniel only smiles but does not comment, instead concentrating on his food and being ever so careful to keep his wrists covered.
Merritt notices that even after they leave Miami, Daniel has not taken the waitress up on her offer.
Only after they take a bus to the outer-skirts of Miami, does Merritt realise that this goes past a phobia of water or anything similar. He considers it being an obsessive- compulsive trait, but faintly dismisses the idea to the back his head when an uncertain feeling begins to overwhelm him. He glances from his cushioned seat and averts his eyes from the movie playing on the small screen at the back of the seat in front of him, removing his headphones momentarily and glancing at Daniel on the other side of the moving vehicle.
Merritt realises that this is perhaps an extremely rare moment in which the younger man's defences are lowered. Henley is snoring quietly behind the illusionist and Jack's eyes are closed as he hums softly to the music pumping through his earphones. Only Merritt takes a moment to consider Daniel; his head is bowed slightly as he concentrates on the novel cradled in his hands and Merritt thinks it's Oliver Twist or Bleak House or something of the sort. His hair covers his eyes and his legs are crossed over one another, and only then does Merritt notice that the position in which the younger man is sitting stretches his sleeves so far that more pale skin is revealed than usual, except his is so entranced by the book that he does not realise.
Merritt is about to go back and finish The Godfather when something further catches his eye. It is almost unnoticeable, but it is there. It is there and it is almost clearer than day and it stands, tormenting Merritt as his mind pauses all it's thought processes for a moment, and all he is able to do is stare.
It is thin and long and lines the outside of Daniel's wrist and the inside as well, from what Merritt can see. It is a slender, ash-white scar; uneven and ragged and oh so very evident.
It is the result of an attempt to slit the wrist.
Merritt freezes, for a few seconds. He is staring but his eyes do not really see and he does not know what he is more surprised at; the fact that the scar exists or the fact that he had never noticed or deduced the signs first.
He is unable to contemplate his horrifying discovery, however, when the bus stops and they have arrived at their destination. He quickly regains his composure and only glances from the corner of one eye as Daniel notices and repositions his sleeve hurriedly; tucking away his battered and often read copy of what is now evidently David Copperfield. He runs a pale hand through his thick hair and stands to wake Henley behind him, who has yet to open her eyes.
Merritt forces himself to notify Jack of their arrival and act as normal as possible, giving nothing away of his shocking discovery.
He wants to question Daniel, though he is aware he does not have the right to. All of the Horsemen had lives before this, and Merritt does not think it is his place to ask the illusionist whom he had believed to have had a most spoilt and loved childhood why he had such scars. He is still debating within his own mind the possible advantages and disadvantages of such an inquiry after another successful show in which they were able to become more infamous and evade the law once more.
When he realises that his curiosity has become an unhealthy distraction, he decides that he will take a leap of faith and ask. Worst case scenario, he thinks, Daniel will raise his eyebrow in that secretive way he does, deny everything Merritt had said, shrug and never speak of the incident again. Merritt decides that he will take his chances.
They are back stage when he finds the courage to approach the issue. It is only him, Daniel and a faceless worker which remain when he walks past the equipment and the illusionist comes into view. He is reciting what he will say in his head and forcing himself to remain on task when he notices that Daniel is not wearing his suit jacket longer, and his right dress sleeve has become caught on a sharp piece of equipment. He is tugging and tugging irritatingly at the fabric which refuses to come loose and Merritt is striding forward in an attempt to offer help. He is only a few feet away and about to speak when the worker pushes past him and nudges the equipment one hundred and eighty degrees by accident.
Several things happen simultaneously; the man backs away quickly and raises his hands in apology before stumbling away and off the almost empty stage, Merritt steps forth quickly and the sound of the seams of expensive fabric ripping from wrist to elbow is painfully audible.
Merritt is not sure, for one of the few rare moments of his life, of what exactly to expect. He thinks it might have been something along the lines of one or two white scars running across the wrist or over the forearm. Something that would have been the result of uncertainty; contusions which may have been hesitant and light and not deep at all. What he sees is certainly not what he expects, that is the one thing which is for certain.
The now bare underside of Daniel's forearm, running from the edge of his wrist and up along his elbow is absolutely littered with mutilations. The marks vary; long and short, thick and thin, straight and jagged- though all bear one common similarity; they are all deep and unambiguous and it is evident that the hand which carved them into the now seemingly too pallid flesh had been sure and driven and anything but hesitant. Merritt does not realise he is staring; his eyes are filtering through the range of scars; each no doubt having been painful once upon a time, each more morbidly creative than the previous. However, what Merritt finds shakes him the most is the fact that he is able to tell that the shallow layer of cuts which covers almost the entirety of unmarred flesh is self-inflicted.
What scares Merritt the most is that Daniel had done this to himself.
The tension weaving itself evidently through the undeniable silence is so thick Merritt thinks that if he takes too deep of a breath he may choke on it. His orbs are still fixated on the mutilated limb and he finds that he cannot tear his attention away from it. He notices, in this rare moment of vulnerability he is experiencing, that every wound is either older or younger than the one beside it. Some are almost a decade old, so pale they are almost unnoticeable; and may be to someone who is not looking for them. The earliest, he thinks with a pang of concern, cannot be more aged than two, maybe three years. Merritt thinks that is not too long of a time ago.
Neither he nor the Showman speak for some time, and when the older man is finally able to tear his gaze from the sight it immediately flies to meet Daniel's eyes. They are less than a metre away from each other, and Merritt cannot stare anywhere but ahead into the deep, fathomless stormy grey irises of his friend. In some far away deep subconscious of his he knows he should attempt to convey understanding and empathy; that he should attempt to make the situation as bearable as possible. But he ignores it, because he knows that he does not understand how someone as seemingly uncaring and spoilt as Daniel could do such a thing to themselves. He cannot blossom empathy which he does not feel, he cannot begin to comprehend what reasons the younger man could have had. All he is able to think about is what he is hiding behind his other sleeve or his back or his ankles.
Perhaps not a minute has passed, and following the interaction Daniel immediately jerks back from Merritt, as if burned or caught in a sudden shock. Merritt himself does not move and the only emotion which he is able to portray through his eyes is not one he means to; his brow farrows and his gaze narrows slightly, and he knows that he is conveying accusation.
It is not intended, and had it been it been Merritt would have made sure there was no anger lingering within his orbs might Daniel understand his meaning wrong.
And yet his life has never been fair and the card captor's body language tells him that he had comprehended Merritt's meaning completely opposite to the one he had wished to show him. The younger man's eyes are widening and his lips are parting in silence, as if he wishes to speak but is simply unable to find the words. So instead, his stumbles back slightly before his defences rise and he finds the energy to take strides forth and push right past his older friend and towards the door. Merritt finds that he is unable to stop him.
Instead, he takes a few moments to watch as the ripped piece of fabric hanging from the machinery lies completely and utterly still, suddenly looking immensely bland against the grey. When he finds it in himself to move, Daniel is long gone.
He knows Daniel. He has known him for close to two years now and he has gained a great understanding of the younger man. He knows that he is ridiculously secretive and private and will ignore every attempt of prodding into his past life. This tells him that if he abandons this now, he will never know and it will only be another long kept secret hidden beneath the tormented shields which the illusionist had built up. That if he forgets about it, he will not have the nerve to question him tomorrow and the young man will be perhaps less cooperative than presently.
So when he goes out to look for him, he knows that he does not expect to find him.
It is the dead of the night and Jack and Henley are at their hotel, not as grand and fabulous as the first but comfortable and welcoming nonetheless. They are asleep because today has been a long day, and their bones ache and their muscles are sore and they are exhausted. Merritt does not even consider sleep or rest despite how much his body desires it, and instead finds himself treading through the bar-light lit town at two in the morning because he knows that Daniel is not resting either.
When he does eventually find him, it is not in a place he ever expects to see him in.
The bar is small and cosy and tucked far away from the ruckus nightlife of Miami. It does not have many patrons and is remarkably quiet compared to the other pubs he has looked at. He only hesitates slightly before stepping into the dimly lit bar and the scent of alcohol and smoke immediately crashes into him. He ignores it because he has spent hours in places like this and because he can. He ignores it because he recognises the hunched over finger twirling two fingers of scotch between nimble fingers and pointedly ignoring the stares and smiles of anyone who might be interested.
When he sits beside him on the old rickety stool and orders his own whiskey, Daniel still does not look up. His eyes are fixated on his amber drink and the golden swirls which dance with in. Merritt notices that there is no ice, and that his younger friend must have drunk this before in order to be able to swallow the sharpness of the alcohol. He does not comment until he receives his own drink, his eyes only moving to realise that Daniel is wearing another shirt beneath another thick sweater and looks no way uncomfortable despite the warm heating of the pub.
His own glass sits well in his palm and he shifts slightly, allowing a slight sigh to escape from between his teeth. He does not know what to say, or how to start. He knows he has no right judging Daniel in anyway. He does not know how to tell him that he is not.
"Don't."
The illusionist saves him the trouble.
He raises and eyebrow and the swirls in his drink become more prominent. Merritt turns to face Daniel who is still staring into the deep bronze of his drink with eyes glazed over and as exhausted as the rest of him. He waits patiently for him to continue, but when he does not, Merritt speaks instead.
"Don't what?" His answer is just as soft when he realises that none of the conversations they had ever held had been so sombre. They had always been playful or argumentative or humorous. Never had he known them to be so morbid.
Daniel raises his glace with a light flick of his wrist and swallows a long drag of scotch. He does not wince or flinch at the strong taste on his tongue and instead licks his lips as if he enjoys it. Merritt is now certain this is not the first time the younger man had found himself hunched over in a dingy bar ignoring phone numbers slid over booths and consuming such strong alcohol. He is also certain this will not be his last. He replies.
"Don't…" he takes a breath, as if unsure, "judge me. You don't have the right." The words don't surprise Merritt and he takes a soft sip of his own drink. He feels it burn his throat and enjoys the ironically sobering sensation.
"I'm not."
Daniel seems almost surprised. He finally turns to face his friend and his elbows are resting more tiredly along the bar. He lifts an eyebrow in question but does nothing else.
"I wasn't… judging you. Back then. I was just…" He struggles, fishing for the right term. "Surprised." He supposes it is better than nothing.
For some odd reason, Daniel finds that at least mildly amusing because a light, meaningless smile twitches along his lips and it is bitter and etched with what Merritt is only able to describe as darkness. His clear glass reaches his lips again and the golden liquid disappears through his teeth, leaving nothing but dim swirls on pale glass. He motions to the bartender for another.
"Surprised." It is not a question, but a statement. The man behind the bar expertly pours more scotch into the glass and they both watch in fascination as it swishes and twirls before lying almost completely still. Daniel takes the drink with one hand but does not raise it to his lips; instead keeping his gaze on Merritt who suddenly finds the room smaller than ever. Daniel does not speak, but the darkness and shadows of his eyes are asking loudly than his voice ever could. Why?
He barely wastes a second this time. Merritt thinks that there is no point considering this.
"I'm a mentalist, Daniel." He waits a moment, as if that explains everything, before continuing. "I see things other people don't. I read them like open books. I can understand every little detail and interpret it. Except I didn't see this coming." He is the one taking the log swallow of his own alcohol this time, and Daniel remains impassively gazing at him. His eyes reveal nothing.
"I've always been used not be an open book. It isn't the easiest thing empathising with something you don't understand, mentalist or no. Not even Henley knows." Merritt runs his fingers along the circumference of the glass and turns his head. They are both facing each other now.
"Was it your father?"
The question is sudden and immediate and Merritt does not even realised it had escaped his lips. Daniel turns for a moment and the only indication he gives that he had heard is as he drinks another swallow of scotch. Merritt knows he is right, at least to some extent.
"My mother."
That surprises him, to some degree. And then the shadow filtering through Daniel's eyes tells him it had not been something he could control. Scenarios flash through Merritt's head and he can only guess.
"Don't bother." The illusionist says, as if he knows exactly what Merritt had been thinking. He only replies with the raise of his eyebrow. Daniel looks back at his drink and continues. "My mother passed away when I was younger." Merritt is about to offer his condolences when he is not given the chance. "Drunk driver. She died on impact."
He does not know if this is what had led to the scars but he does not think so. Daniel spares him another glance before he takes another long drink. The older man cannot help but ask;
"What about your father?"
"He was the drunk driver."
The answer is certainly not what he expects, but he is learning that nothing ever is as it seems with Daniel. It takes him back for a moment before phrasing his next inquiry as best and as harmlessly as possible.
"Is that when it began?" He does not need to what it is. He does not need to spell it out because they both know.
"No." The answer he receives is simply and short and yet seems to bear the weight of the world. He remembers the excessive evasiveness Daniel seems to express and the subtle flinches he attempts to hide when someone catches him by surprise. He realises now that this was something he should have seen. He realises that it is more dangerous than he could have ever assumed.
"It started before. Earlier. And she was to blame just as much as him." The bitterness almost shocks him and Merritt is forced to control the widening of his eyes and the sharp intake of breath which threatens to erupt from his throat. He had never heard such a tone from the illusionist. He had never heard such a tone from even himself.
He tries to interpret the situation the best he can but Daniel does not give him much. He is facing away from Merritt and his drink is once again pressed against his lips. The only indicator Merritt receives is the sheer whiteness of his knuckles as he holds the glass so tightly he almost fears it will shatter in his fingers. Somehow he does not think Daniel notices, or cares, at this particular moment.
"She never did anything." It is his best guess, and he feels relief wash over him when Daniel does not tell him he is wrong. He tilts his head back and speaks again, taking his chances. "Was it work? An affair? Priorities?" When Daniel does not reply, he fears he has taken things too far. He licks his lips and silently curses, parting them in an attempt to hastily apologise…
"It was cocaine." The words are not loud but they are clear and Merritt attempts to inhale and exhale and not jump to any conclusions. Daniel realises what he is trying to do and looks at him again, and the older man is able to catch what he notices is a certain haunted glaze of memories, and he knows Daniel is reliving his childhood. If he had ever had one.
Daniel has almost finished his alcohol when his voice rings through Merritt's ears again. When he hears him, he is once more surprised at his tone.
"It was… the only way. I couldn't…" He takes a breath as Merritt realises he is attempting to justify his reasoning for the scars mutilating his arms. He wants to interfere, to stop him, to tell him that he does not have to do this when he realises that he does. Merritt knows that Daniel has not spoken to anyone about this in his entire life and he thinks that despite how painful it may be that he does not deserve to bear the entire weight of the world on his shoulders forever. "I thought I deserved it, in the beginning." Merritt has finished his drink and motioned for another. He cannot do this completely sober, and apparently, neither could Daniel. "And it was a… outlet. It gave me purpose."
A chuckle erupts from Daniel's throat and all Merritt wants to do is crawl in some hole and bathe in silence and obliviousness because he does not want to hear this. He does not want to be proven wrong. He does not want to think about how the world had so cruelly mistreated his friend. He wants ignorance.
He is the only person Merritt knows who will ever know self-harm as a purpose. He is the person Merritt expects it from least.
"He took her off life support because we couldn't afford both his alcohol and her bills. It was one or the other. He picked the other." Merritt begins on his second drink and he does not take it slow, he does not attempt to enjoy it because now it only sits before him for a single purpose. It isn't fair, he knows, but he wants to remember none of this. He wants to forget.
There is a long pause and Merritt manages to find his voice through the haze of disorientation clouding his judgement.
"When did you leave?" He only asks because he does not want to know about the cigarette burns he knows he can find on his friend's back, or the whip marks or the burns or the bruises which have only physically faded.
"Four years after my brother." Daniel downs more than half of his third glass and Merritt has long finished his second. He suddenly wants to hit something.
It is morbid and sad and frightening that he has missed so much. That he had never thought a second more than necessary about how Daniel would never touch another, how he would avert his gaze from flames or tap nervously against his leg when he hears loud noises. He finally understands his need for control, the necessity or trusting only himself to do something, of never revealing anything which may be utilised against him.
Yet he sits here and tells Merritt about his neglectful, abusive and tragic excuse for a childhood whilst cradling a two-finger scotch. And then he also notices that he has never see Daniel drink for the same reason; not because he cannot, but because he is not willing to relinquish his hold on reality and lower his defences. It suddenly seems so obvious he wonders how he had ever missed it.
"And then you left, became a magician, escaped reality." The words leave him and he does not take them back because they both know it is true. Daniel finds his eyes once more and his glance is unprotected and his defences are non-existent. This is the first time Merritt has seen him without his shields and despite the situation, he smiles.
Daniel is taken by surprise for the first time that night and Merritt make sure he can see every ounce of understanding he has gained. He makes sure that there is no judgement or pity or anything of the sort. He smiles and it is not condescending or accusatory or angry. He smiles and it is honest and glad he realises that he will not guess anymore, because his friend is willing to tell him.
They return to the hotel that night and arrive at just past four thirty in the morning, and both crash into their mattresses with no words being said. When Merritt wakes that morning, Daniel is sitting up and groaning, his fingers pressed tightly to his forehead in a futile attempt to rid himself of his pounding headache. He can only laugh as the smell of bacon and eggs wafts through the room and the illusionist looks just as sick as he feels.
Daniel still wears long sleeves and heavy sweaters, but Merritt makes sure that the issue is forgotten. When they are the beach or pool he sits beneath the umbrella with his friend and they drink chilled lemon-water and play snap or poker or fifty-one. They go ice-skating more when they have the time and all of their rooms are now air-conditioned and cool and not at all humid.
Daniel never lifts his sleeves and he is still careful but he is more comfortable with Merritt now; he is less controlling and does not flinch when pedestrians on the streets light their cigars or cars backfire nearby.
There are still secrets between them, but they are getting there. And Merritt thinks that maybe he will ask if he ever finds Daniel in an almost empty bar nursing a glass of two-fingered scotch. He will ask about his brother and his father and he will tell him secrets of his own, he will tell him about his mother and his sisters and leaving.
And next time if Daniel needs to talk he knows he will tell him, because now there is trust between them, and to some extent neither of them require defences.