Warning: This chapter talks about scars. It's going to make some people angry.
The most frustrating thing about being recovering from surgery is just how much he needs to sleep. The most frustrating thing about being in the hospital is that few people want to let him sleep.
He's woken up by the nurses at six-thirty so they can check him before rounds. They take his blood pressure and temperature. They disrupt his IVs and the tube in his hip and ask him for a pain score. Then, they usually help him pee. Having someone help you with such a basic bodily function is embarrassing. It's bad when they help him with the bedpan and he makes a mess. It's worse when they decide they don't have time to help him…
He dozes on and off until rounds, when he frightens the doctor's with his morning breath and his morning face. (He doesn't spend as much time in the bathroom as Jeff or Blaine or Thad or Sebastian or Trent or Jon or … most of the Warblers in the morning. Of course, David somehow manages to beat them all. He can get up and wash his face, brush in teeth, throw on clothes and be in class in less than five minutes. Or, he can get up early and make pancakes.) The doctor checks his hip and his blood pressure and tell him that he needs to ease off the pain meds. He smiles at them grouchily because he doesn't want to be up at eight am and he wants even less to have some perky resident who hasn't even broken a toe tell him about pain management. Try fucking living with chronic pain your whole fucking life and then you can preach about breathing through the pain and managing without drugs.
Breakfast comes just after the medical entourage leaves. He's managed to convince the kitchen and his dietician that Jello is a critical part of every meal. Of course, they yell at him when he only eats Jello and threaten him with a feeding tube again, but they'll yell if he throws up as well. So, he eats enough that he has something in his stomach when he takes his pain pills, but not so much that he'll vomit all over himself and get a stupid sponge bath again.
He goes back to sleep, and sometime mid morning, the therapist comes in to help him lift weights. If he can stay strong, his muscle and skeleton can support his weak joints. And, staying strong is in theory easier than building muscles. So, he forces himself to focus on exercise and not the million other things in the back of his head. It's hard, because he's still in traction and for the most part, he's still got a drainage tube coming out of his hip. He doesn't want to think about how much blood came out of his leg, or how long it sat there, pooling against the bones and eating away at them. So, he tries not to complain about the traction, even though it sucks.
The nurses try to clean him up with a sponge bath. It just makes him even more cross. He wants to get in a real fucking shower and feel clean. He wants to stop feeling like he's wet and can't dry.
Lunch comes, and he manages to stomach it. He's hungry, but hospital food sucks and his stomach is touchy at best. He eats what's placed in front of him, but if he actually liked his food, he could eat a lot more.
He tries for an after lunch nap. He's supposed to be studying, but it's hard to keep his eyes open after food and physical activity. Even focusing on history, which is his strong suit, he ends up nodding. Math or Chemistry are so confusing that he doesn't even try.
The first few days, Sarai comes and sits with him in the late afternoon, but she leaves once its apparent that he's out of danger. He tries to ignore how sick he must have been for Sarai to have come. He's not sure how he feels about his sister leaving; one the one hand, he wishes his family were a bit more conventional and actually visited him when he was sick. Or called. Or something. Instead, he's responsible for updating them and contacting the Trust about insurance.
Once Sarai is gone, he luxuriates until dinner arrives, along with someone from Dalton. Occasionally, the visitor brings dinner. He likes that better when the hospital provides food. It's not like he had a typical heart attack. He didn't have a cardiac infarction from blocked muscle, there is absolutely no reason for all this dry chicken and salt less veggies. He tries pointing out the problem to the dietician more than once, but she ignores him. So, they boys bring him burgers and fries or thai or Indian. Once, David sent him an entire roast chicken, fragrant with Rosemary and thyme. He about clobbered the nurse who came to take it away.
Tutoring is only partially successful. His assignments get delivered, and he tries to work through them, he really does. Usually, though, he just ends up talking with whoever has come to sit with him. Their conversations range from bizarre (A poop so good that you have to text someone about it… which lead to Nick showing a YouTube clip of his favorite Aussie comedian) to informative (cosine is adjacent over hypotenuse… and hypotenuse is just a fancy name for the long side, but it only works when you have a right triangle) to just plain silly (Would you rather eat a dead cricket or a live minnow? … which lead to the discovery that Thad has tried both.)
Visitng hours end at nine, but the Dalton boys are ridiculously good at manipulating rules, so out of the ten nights he's in the hospital, he only spends one alone. And that happened to be a particularly bad Wednesday when every single one of the boys rushed back to Dalton to study for tests or write essays or solve ridiculous physics problems. Even though he's grown up in and out of hospitals and spent at least eighty percent of his nights alone, he secretly loves that someone is there. Sebastian is amazingly good at badgering the nurses into giving him another dose of pain meds at five hours instead of six, and making sure they're the right pain meds. Trent shows up with episodes of Switched at Birth and the practice translating the sign language together. He's learned a few good phrases from the show, although his favorite word (that he learned from Trent) is mosquito.
Jon is the most mindful of making sure things he needs are easily accessible without help.
On Thursday, Jeff his backpack and a panicked look on his face. Nick is stressed about something, either college applications or The Dreaded Hamlet Worksheet that Pedy just assigned, and isn't planning on sleeping. And none of the boys are letting Jeff spend the night alone. So, he ends up in the ugly blue vinyl chair.
They end up watching one of the Harry Potter movies that's on cable, because its Thursday and Thursday means movie night, even if they're stuck in the hospital without DVDs. Midway through, Jeff crawls up onto the bed. He sits, pertched at the foot of it, playing with the blanket and staring at the screen. He's wearing that same hoodie again, the one he seems to wear when he's stressed. It rides up as he leans against the bed, showing off the waistband of a pair of crocodile boxer briefs and a wide swath of skin covered in scratches.
He isn't sure how to broach the subject, but he decides he needs to. "Jeff, do you want to talk about what happened?"
Jeff shrugs and stares at the screen. His voice is flat again. "Is it really that obvious?"
"I'm a little hyper aware about cuts," he admits quietly. "And scars."
Jeff nods. "Look, most people aren't. Unless you've got scars on yours arms, and maybe your thighs, where they're expected, no one processes what they're looking at. You can have butterflies or names. You can have pen marks. You can wear a fucking rubber band. It doesn't matter. Scars are supposed to be white and they're supposed to be on your arms." The blond shrugs out of his sweatshirt and undershirt, and traces a finger along his shoulder blade. It looks like Wolverine decided to scratch the blond's back, with his claws out. "People see these. Multiple people see there. And they don't know what they are. And that's how I like it."
"But if you're having a …" He starts to insist on intervention, and then chokes on his words. He has secrets that he wants kept. "Why do you like it?"
Jeff shrugs. "A single act of violence. Because that's what happens when someone gets angry. There's violence that has to be dissipated. And, this might seem worse, because it leaves a scar. But, I promise, its not. I've done other things… before… worse things. Things that didn't leave a mark so no one would know when things were bad."
"But there are …" His voice trails off, thinking about his nightmares.
"Yeah, there are fucking better ways to deal, mate." Jeff agrees with the words that have not been said. "But punching a fucking pillow… it doesn't help. It's like I'm on a fucking journey. Have you ever taken a road trip?"
He shakes his head. He's taken plenty of cross-country journeys, a few even on the highways and byways, but never a proper road trip. His sisters aren't exactly the driving type, and there were special regulations about taking foster kids out of state.
"Shit me, we're going once you're sprung. They're epic. …But epic road trips aren't the point." Jeff forces himself to focus. "Okay, well, sometimes, you hit a crossroads, and you have to make a choice. Like going into Chicago, on the loop. It's a fucking nightmare. There are eight lanes across and everyone is driving too fast and you have to make a split second decision. I mean, yeah, you can come back sometimes and make the choice again, but if you pick wrong, you're gonna spend a couple of hours and some gas going back. Well, it's fucking like that. I'm at an intersection, and everybody is whipping past and I'm fucking scared that if I fuck it up, I'm gonna get in an accident by going to fucking slow, but I'm also gonna get lost, so I stay in the lane, and I just don't move. … Only the fucking lane I'm in, it's the one that pushes me over the fucking edge. And then I can't stop until I've gone all the fucking way."
"So, why not turn off and go someplace else?" He suggests, running with the metaphor. "Like… running or punching a pillow or something? Something not violent against yourself."
Jeff turns to face him, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his leg so that his still-bare spine rounds up into a ball. Jeff laughs, and the sound is hallow, empty, and as dark as a stormy day. "Punching a pillow… it doesn't help. I just feel stupid. And running? Running is fucking violent, mate. 'Cause if you let me, I'll run, run, fucking run until I fall over because I'm so tired. … Have you ever been treated for exposure, mate? 'Cause I have. Three fucking times. 'Cause I'll run until I can't run anymore and then walk and then crawl and then there's no one there to carry me. I'm fucking alone." Jeff starts to shake, and his lip trembles. "And I fall and then I end up asleep in the fucking woods or once, by a fucking ocean. And then I get wet, and cold, and … it all goes downhill. So, no, I don't fucking run, because its more fucking dangerous but it doesn't show."
He's good at superficial interaction, bad at the deep stuff because he's never had to learn, but even he knows what needs to be done. He shifts so he can be as close to Jeff as possible without disrupting his hip. He manages to get a hand on Jeff's arm, and rub in gently.
Jeff is like a cat, responding to touch. He crawls up along the bed, and collapses against his friend.
"I can't fucking run." The blond's voice wobbles. "And Nick notices if I use the lighter. And it hurts him. It fucking hurts him, Hunt. And it hurts me. In a bad way. It makes things worse, brings up the intersection quicker and I can't fucking handle it. And I need to go do something so I can relieve my hurt so I can go help him."
His hospital gown is wet with Jeff's tears as the Aussie presses his face into his shoulder.
"I know people stop for their boyfriends!" Jeff sobs, tears and snot wetting his friend's hospital gown. "I know so many fucking people who can just … stop. Because their love is so strong. Shit me, I stopped for a while. And, I love Nick! I love him with everything! But, I can't stop this. I need thing… I need this… I'm a fucking failure, Hunt. I'm a fucking failure and I need this!"
He sighs. He wishes he could ask Jeff to stop for love and for Nick or for friendship or for his own sake. He wishes he could tell Jeff that he's strong, and make the blond believe it. Because his friend is strong and brave and successful. But, right now, Jeff is tired and scared and he isn't listening.
The blond starts shaking, shaking and sobbing. He rubs Jeff's back in careful circles until the shaking and sobbing stops. And then he turns off the TV, even as the Golden Trio creep through the dark halls of Hogwarts. He turns off the light and prays that Jeff won't move much during the night.
But, even though he's exhausted and struggling with the drugs in his system, he can't sleep. For the first time in a long time, he's honestly worried about a problem outside himself. Well, he worries about Jon. And he used to worry about Hunter. And sometimes Sarai or Lara, but that's the kind of quick, superficial worry that he gives all sorts of things. The weight of Jeff's confession catches in his chest, and leaves his body feeling heavy and cold.
He tries to think through the confession logically. Jeff can't stop. Jeff doesn't want to stop. It doesn't matter. Jeff thinks he needs it, so he needs it. He remembers watching Hunter drink a root beer every day, and swear that it gives him energy, until someone told him that it was caffeine free. The power of belief can beat physiology. Maybe it can defeat better judgment and psychology.
There's also the fact that if Jeff gave this up for Nick, it might endanger their relationship. Nick could turn into a token. Jeff could end up feeling dependent. He's seen more than his fair share of couples in dependent relationships, and while it works for some people, he's pretty confident that Nick and Jeff wouldn't be happy that way.
He won't help Jeff harm himself. He won't help Jeff hide it. But, he also won't tell Nick, and won't encourage Jeff to ask his boyfriend for help. It's something the Aussie needs to grow into himself.
He sighs, and settles himself again. He says a short prayer to whatever bit of the universe is listening that (1) Jeff not bump his leg and (2) the nurse don't wake the Aussie, and then lets out a contented sigh and goes to sleep.
A/N: Another chapter close to my heart. … Blame all sorts of things for this. I want to put out the disclaimer once again that this is not intended to represent everyone's experience or feelings about self harm. Nor do I want to say that the choice to harm or not harm based on a relationship is good or bad. But, for this Jeff and this Nick, I think I'm more afraid of a co-dependent relationship than I am of anything else.
This chapter is dedicated to about five people and a dog (in no particular order): Marie, Steph, Hannah, Lyra, Isabel and Allison.
And, because I didn't manage an author's note last chapter, serious thanks to everyone who is sticking with this story as it continues to descend into the realms of "What the hell emerges from the muse's mind!?". Shout outs to Pi-on-a-skateboard, PenMagic, NiffAreForever, Youdontknowme06, B00kw0rm92, and Eraman.
Comments, questions, concerns, critiques, or suggestions about what I should put up at my new desk are all welcome! –C65