Stuffing (Jogan-ish)
"He feels like a child, clutching a treasured soft toy that has lost much of its stuffing; hoping to fix it by sheer will and love alone."
Julian runs. Logan chases.
NOTES: My take on the often used plotline. A little more serious than my usual fare. I tried to delve deeper into Julian's state of mind post Hell Night as he goes through the stages of grief. Medical jargon courtesy of my brother. And if nothing else, Beautiful City (Godspell) is included in the story.
Undisplaced oblique fracture of the left 7th to 9th rib, transverse fracture of the right clavicle; spiral fracture of the left wrist; first and second degree burn lesions on the upper arms and shoulder; lacerations on his neck, arms and flanks; multiple contusions and abrasions. His medical report read like a victim on an episode of CSI.
His pharmacological prescriptions did not fare any better: Dihydrocodeine and aspirin for the pain, topical Neosporin to stave off infection, anti-inflammatory Ibuprofen, calcium supplements and A-Z worth of vitamins.
Is it any wonder then that Julian woke to agonizing throbbing pain. The pain meds have worked their way out of his system and he is due for the next dose. It's been like this for almost two weeks, falling asleep doped up to his eyeballs then waking up from the pain. Rinse, repeat. This mindless dependency on opiates is starting to grate on his already overtaxed nerves. At least he is finally strong enough to sit up in bed or walk around for short periods.
It's 1am. The need to pee urges him to get up and he makes his shuffling way to the ensuite bathroom.
Once done with the essentials, he leans heavily against the marble sink counter. This simple effort exhausts him. And the throbbing pain intensifies but his mind is still a foggy haze. He splashes water on his face. The cut on his hairline stings prompting him to look into the mirror.
He takes a good look at himself, the first time in weeks. Hair is limp and shaggy like someone took a weed whacker to it. But it is his face that startles him. Sickly pale and gaunt. A thin pink line runs down the side of his neck. When he turns his head it pulls painfully. His eyes follow the line down to the neckline of the t-shirt. With his good arm, he pulls down the fabric. Another thin red line runs across his collarbone.
Once his eyes adjust to the lighting, he studies the reflection of his arm in the mirror. A multitude of pink lines and scabbed over abrasions criss-cross the outside of his forearm. Yellowing bruises serve as backdrop. The same pattern is repeated on his upper arms interspaced with burns marks.
He can't bear to go any further and stops his assessment there. Pain flares on his side. Cracked ribs make the simplest movements like breathing difficult. Tears prick his eyes. He keeps his breathing shallow to minimize the movement of his chest. He doesn't realize he is not getting enough oxygen until his vision washes green and tunnels. He needs to lie down before he passes out. The bed looks awfully far. Falling down would make things a lot worse. Luckily he still has the presence of mind to sit down on the bathroom floor. He ends up lying on his back on the cold tiles, dizziness taking over. He wonders where the nurse is. Then he remembers, he is no longer in Lima Memorial Hospital. –Shit-.
He couldn't take staying in the hospital any longer. He just wanted to get away. Away from everyone and everything. Away from their concerned sympathetic eyes –oh! poor thing. pity the victim-. He hates it. He doesn't want to be reminded of how helpless he was and still is. If he could just get away from the, maybe he can postpone having to face reality. Put off dealing with emotions, guilt, even put off accepting. He can pretend everything is as it was and nothing is as bad as he thinks it is.
Dolce has other commitments; she had already postponed filming for three weeks to be by his side. Each day costing studios tens of thousands of dollars. Now that he's awake and in recovering well, the studios are getting angsty for her to return to finish the five more weeks of filming. She would be back as soon as it was over. Travis just wrapped his latest movie so he could be back in New York as early as next week. Both parents agreed, New York was the better option. Besides in his state, a five hour flight to Los Angeles was out of the question.
Everything was planned and provisions made in anticipation of his arrival (24-hour nurse, stay in housekeeper, etc); except his father isn't expecting him for another three days.
How a semi-lucid teen managed to check himself out of a hospital was a testament to his acting skills. Since the doctors and agents knew of the plan to move him, all he had to do was convince them the schedule had been moved up. The rest just went according to plan. He doesn't remember what he said to them, or the drive to the airstrip or getting on the plane. He flitted in and out of consciousness during the flight. The pain and exhaustion only slightly mitigated by the plush comfort of the private jet.
He does however remember calling Derek to tell him he had arrived safely in his father's condo before taking his meds and passing out on the nearest bed. He was not even sure if it was his room.
Something nags at the edge of his mind. It sounds like shrill ringing and it is annoying. He's just clawing his way back into consciousness, but the ringing stops so he lets himself sink back into the abyss.
When he wakes, its dark outside. The pain everywhere is agonizing. He manages to roll over and push himself off the cold bathroom floor. His meds are in the kitchen where he left them. If he wants relief, he is going to have to work for it. By the time he makes it to the kitchen he is bone weary and ready to collapse again. When was the last time he ate? On the plane? Not a scrap of food in the rarely used kitchen. Shucks. He takes the meds anyway, washing it down with the only water he can find, straight from the tap.
He is starting to think 'running away' isn't one of his brighter ideas, like many of his ideas as of late. God! His chest and collarbone hurts. And the room is swimming. He grabs the cordless phone off the kitchen island and lets himself sink to the floor, back sliding down the cabinet. But he can't remember the numbers off the top of his head. It's all saved in his phone that is still in his jacket pocket back in room.
Screw it. He'll just rest here a few minutes and then make the trek back.
The screaming phone jolts him awake. It sounds like its coming from right next to his head.
Whaa? The room is bathed in an orange glow. And he feels rather warm. For a moment he thinks it is on fire and he is back in the art hall. But the phone screams urgently again and he is nudged back to reality.
*click* "Harroww…?" Julian finally answers, speech slurred.
"JULIAN! Where the HELL have you been? "
"Dee? Wha..? I zust called you zis afferrrnoon. M in New Yoor." Julian replies blearily.
"That was two days ago! We've been trying to get you since yesterday!"
"…." Derek's not making any sense.
"Jules?.. JULIAN! Is anyone there with you?"
"…uhh…duunnnoo.." mumbles barely able to stay awake. His head is pounding. The air feels stuffy. His body feels sluggish and hot.
"Logan is on his way. He landed in New York an hour ago. He should be there any time now."
"M phinee…juuzzt need sleeep," He sound like a battery operated toy running out of juice.
"…-Yeah, finally got him on the phone. He sounds really out of it. Where are you? …ok. I'll stay on till you're there- …" Julian can hear Derek talking to someone on another line.
Muffled pounding on the main door. Moments later there is an electronic buzz and the door opens. Logan arrives with the building security guard and a concierge from the front desk. They scour the large suite looking for him.
There is a small backpack by the entryway, the zip open, some of the contents strewn over the floor like someone rummaged through it haphazardly. Besides that, the suite does not look occupied. None of the lights are on, and the ventilation is off.
It is Logan that hears something coming from the kitchen and he flies towards that direction. Rush of displaced air as Logan barrels through the swing doors. He hears Derek's staticky panicked screaming before he even sees Julian. His heart drops. Julian is curled on the kitchen floor with the phone he is no longer listening to next to his hand. Oh God, no.
Derek's cursing now, the strings of colorful expletives nearly blowing out the earpiece. He picks it up. "D, got him. Call you back…"
"Julian! Jules, can you hear me?" Logan kneels next to him and slides a hand behind his head shaking him gently. His skin is hot and flushed. Logan can feel the rapid pounding pulse through the skin of his neck. The cut down the side of his neck is angry red, and inflamed. The bandages on his arms are stained with fluid from the weeping wounds.
"…nnngggmmhh.." is all the response he gets. There is a sick feeling of déjà vu that threatens to paralyze him. He forces himself out of it. "Get a car around! He needs to go to a hospital NOW." He calls to the other two that came with him.
Floating edge of consciousness. It feels AWESOME. Not unlike floating in a pool on lazy summer afternoons. Everything is calm, and his eyelids are washed in white light. He doesn't know where he is but he doesn't care. There is no pain and he feels marvelous. Bits of conversation float his way. At first he can't make out who or what they're saying but as the time passes he catches more details.
His senses trickle back to him one by one. There is a rhythmic beeping on his left. The air is a little cold. It smells of something familiar but not particularly pleasant. Then the spell is broken and he's sucked back into his body. .No. Go back! The throbbing ache, the scratchy throat and the nausea make themselves known. He's so sick of this! His eyelids are sticky making them hard to open. Just when he thinks the effort is not worth it, something wet is wiped over them. It feels icy cold, making him want to swat it away. "Nnnnooo.."
"Jules.." a familiar voice.
Logan is looking at him with that expression he's come to know over the years as 'silently fuming'. Frankly Julian doesn't give a damn. The constant pain (ranging from dull throb to lancing; depending on the cycle of his medication) has driven him beyond the edge of caring and he knows he going to rip the head off the next person that tries to tell him what to do. He wants to pry off the restrictive cast on his left wrist- but he can't move his right arm because of his collarbone- then his side hurts every time he moves or takes a breath- and he's uncomfortably itchy all over from the healing scabs. Seriously, who wouldn't be bitchy.
Julian continues to eat his orange jello as haughtily as one can eat jello. He doesn't have much of appetite and his throat hurts so it is the only 'food' he is willing to take.
"What?" he shoots Logan with what he hopes is his bitchiest look.
Logan is nonplused. He has been on the receiving end too many times. And coming from someone as banged up and sick as Julian is right then, it loses much of its sting.
He just takes a deep breath and straightens himself, still resting his elbows on the bed. His hands are steepled in front of his face touching his nose so it covers half his face. It makes the green death glare that much more intimidating when it is all you can see. It would have cowed any other mortal. But Julian is not just any mere mortal.
So they are at an impasse. The longer they stare at each other, the angrier they both become. Julian huffs impatiently, Logan grinds his teeth. Yet for the first time since they have met, no angry words are exchanged.
It is Logan who finally breaks the unproductive silence. He opens his hands in a pleading gesture, but his eyes are anything but begging.
"What the HELL were you thinking?" It's not really a question.
Julian just looks away. Logan pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to reign in his anger.
"You run away, in this condition, when you know there is no one to take care of you; your wounds are infected, you have a high grade fever and you were nearly in hypoglycemic shock. This is purely conjecture, but are you actually trying to kill yourself?" his voice is quiet but dripping with sarcasm.
Julian bristles at that but says nothing. He doesn't like having his decisions questioned. Even if they were made in a drugged haze.
He hates that his life has been turned completely upside down by this. Hasn't he always been everything his parents wanted him to be? Hasn't he always done what everyone tells him to? He is obliging to his fans, obedient to the directors and producers, gracious to his cast mates, considerate to the production crew and generous to his friends. Yeah sure he is a diva sometimes but compared to what Hollywood brats can dish out, he's an angel. So what has he done to deserve this? -Why HIM?-
This line of thinking invariably brings him to question the existence of higher being. If there was a God, why put him in this situation. Why test him? What wisdom is there in putting the lives of so many in the hands of a seventeen year old? How is that fair to anyone?
And if the damage to himself was not awful enough, why did the consequences to others have to be so devastating, so permanent? Someone died for God's sake! He should have let Derek tell the teachers. He should have left. So many lives altered because he was wrong.
"Julian…" Logan exhales and buries his face in his arms on the bed. So much is said in that one word. Julian hears frustration, resignation, and worst of all disappointment. When he looks up again, Julian notices Logan's eyes are watery and red. Come to think of it, Logan doesn't look so great himself. He looks tired, dark rings around his eyes, hint of stubble on the chin and he somehow looks sunken, thinner. Despite all that, it is his hair that gets to him. The haphazard cut, product free and falling into his eyes, something the old Logan would never have allowed himself to be seen in that drives the point home. Another life irrevocably changed. The final nail in the coffin so to speak. This..
And now he has to deal with it all. The questions he can't answer, the justifications he doesn't have, the judgment he knows will be meted, the blame he knows is his to bear, the damage he has caused, the guilt he will have to live with, and inevitably the disappointment he has to face.
Where would he even begin to make amends? Oh what he would give for that night to never have happened. All the millions he's made? Yes. All the awards? Yes. His own life? …he doesn't want to, but yes; that would be the right thing to do.
Cold fear runs though his veins. Like a shot of liquid nitrogen into the heart. He feels it spreading from his chest to the pit of his stomach right to the tips of his fingers and toes.. Even his cheeks are numb. He can't do this. Not now. He's not strong enough. Please not now. Julian is begs to a God he never knew he believed in. Please, please, please….
It hits him like a tsunami. Unstoppable. He feels FORSAKEN. The sobs escape him one at a time, his ribs protest in pain. He presses his mouth against the cast of his injured wrist, as if that action is enough to stave off what is about to come. But the waves won't stop. Instead they threaten to suck him out to sea where he would be lost forever.
Logan sees what is about to happen. He has weeks of experience. They have all gone through this in some way, shape or form. But Julian has been fighting it, so now he pays the price.
He catches Julian just as he crashes, before he even has the chance to hit the mattress. They both sit on the bed locked in a desperate embrace that last for minutes. Julian yields completely; physically and emotionally. It is ugly and it is wracking. He is choking on his own tears. The sounds he makes, almost inhuman. These are no Hollywood tears. This is what real grief looks like. All the weeks leading up to and after Hell Night, compressed into this singularity.
Julian feels like he's dying; in every sense of the word. Spasms grip his body and he feels every broken bone, every half healed cut, every bruise. His world is pain and grief. Still the sobs don't stop. The shirt he is clinging to is soaked. But it is the one unmovable object in this tsunami. He holds on to it like a drowning man.
Eventually he is so tired his body can't comply anymore. He can't even summon the effort to breathe. Why bother? He deserves this. Penance; however paltry. This is all he can give to the victims of that night.
The solid wall he is leaning on shifts. The lifeline is wrenched from his fingers. He claws desperately only to find himself lying in a warm lap cradled tightly in strong arms.
"It's not your fault." Logan reads his mind. "It's no one's fault but Clavell's." Logan's says it like he wants to believe it himself. Truth is, they are all still struggling with it. What if Logan was less selfish and paid more attention? If he was less of an ass, would Julian have told him about the threats sooner? What if Derek had just called for help sooner? What if Kurt had told more people? What if Laura had just insisted that much harder? What if Justin had acted sooner? And it goes on; too many 'what ifs'. Pointless now.
Julian tries to protest. "Enough. We move on from here. No more running away. We face this together. ALL of us." Logan whispers in his ear, pressing his cheek against Julian's forehead. His fingers repeatedly running through and smoothing Julian's hair. It comforts them both. He feels like a child clutching a treasured soft toy that has lost much of its stuffing; hoping to fix it by sheer will and love alone.
What Julian hears next surprises him, a lullaby sung softly only for him to hear.
Out of the ruins and rubble
Out of the smoke,
Out of our night of struggle
Can we see a ray of hope?
One pale thin ray reaching for the day...
He feels his body relax; released from the grip of suffocating panic. The waves residing and yes…yes he can see something beyond the sea of guilt.
We can build a beautiful city.
Yes, we can (Yes,we can)
We can build a beautiful city.
Not a city of angels,
But we can build a city of man.
We may not reach the ending, but we can start.
Slowly but surely mending, brick by brick, heart by heart.
Now, maybe now,
We start learning how.
It is done. He cannot change what has happened….
We can build a beautiful city.
Yes we can (Yes, we can).
We can build a beautiful city.
Not a city of angels,
But we can build a city of man.
When your trust is all but shattered.
When your faith is all but killed.
You can give up bitter and battered,
Or you can slowly start to build!
It is up to them to pick up the pieces. But at least he knows he doesn't have to do it alone.
A Beautiful City.
Yes, we can. (Yes, we can)
We can build a beautiful city,
Not a city of angels,
But finally a city of man!