Chapter 9
Denying
Disclaimer: No, I don't own them.
Rating: R for language and implied sexual situations.
Summary: The dreaded morning after.
Author's Note: This is another very dark chapter. I didn't intend for it to be that way, but that's how it turned out. I guess that's what happens when you step inside Sands' head. You just never know where you'll end up.
And thanks again go to Melody, my beta, for sticking with me, even when Sands threatened her with bodily harm. You rock, girl.
****
Waking was strange. And a little frightening.
Someone was in bed with him.
The last time that had happened, it had been the fair Agent "I'm his daughter" Ajedrez lying next to him. The last time that had happened, he had been short a few bullet holes, and in possession of his eyes.
The next alarming realization was that this was not his bed. This was not his room.
And then the truth tumbled in. This was El's room. This was El's bed. And that was El lying there next to him, sound asleep.
Oh shit.
Sands bit back a groan. He hadn't. They hadn't.
But his memory, never his best friend, tossed out random selections, reminding him in no uncertain terms that oh yes, they surely had.
It was much harder this time to stifle the groan.
He was lying on his right side, the sunglasses digging into his brow and temple. He had his back to El, which was not good, not good at all because it would be harder to defend himself, should El try anything. Fortunately the mariachi was deeply asleep, breathing with that thin nasal whistling Sands hated.
Slowly, wincing at every movement, Sands rolled over onto his back.
El did not stir.
Okay. He had to stay calm. No freaking out. Not until he was well away from El.
So then. Last night. Was it such a bad thing? There had never been a moment when he had not been firmly in control, and that, ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors, was what really mattered. And true, he had gotten some pleasure out of it, which was all he had ever sought from sex. Fucking was nice, but it was not the be-all end-all of existence, as so many people made it out to be. He had found he was always willing to take sex when it came his way, but when it didn't, oh well. No big loss.
So here was an interesting question. Would sex be coming his way more often now? What, pray tell, would El, the most uptight mariachi in all the world, have to say about this?
It occurred to Sands that now might be a good time to figure out where the closest gun was. A very good time.
He knew beyond a doubt that last night was the first time El had ever been with a man. The mariachi had been rather touchingly bewildered and shy, unsure of himself or what to do. Although he was no expert himself, Sands had reveled in the chance to take charge for once, to be the leader to El's follower. Yeah, it had been good. He couldn't deny that.
The question was, what would El do today? If the mariachi felt his manly pride had been offended, might he not feel compelled to do something about it?
He wouldn't.
Yeah? You want to bet on that one? I think we better get out of here before he wakes up and decides those holes in your face look pretty interesting.
Shuddering, Sands sat up, pushing the sheet down with his feet. As much as he hated that voice, he had to admit it had a point.
And then he suddenly realized that last night he had not heard the voice. Not once, the whole time he and El had been, well, doing what they had been doing.
Which was very interesting.
He moved as slowly as he could, not wanting to disturb El. There was no question of staying here. He had to get out. Now. He had to be far away from here when El woke. If he was lucky, he could make it to his own room, get showered and changed, and when El woke up, the mariachi might think it had been nothing but a dream.
Then a new thought struck him. What if Chiclet got here early again, and found them like this?
Sands leaped out of the bed.
Immediately he wanted to cringe. It had to be early morning, judging by the air temperature and the way it felt on his very naked skin.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
The instant his feet hit the floor, he started forward. He had to get out of this room, and fast. He took two steps, picking up speed as he went, and then his foot struck a tangle of quilt that had puddled on the floor. He flailed for balance, arms pinwheeling madly, and went down with a curse and a thump.
The bedsprings creaked. El sat up. "What…Sands?"
"Oh shit," Sands said.
****
"Sands?" El sounded sleepy, and a bit confused, but not pissed.
Sands remained where he was, sprawled sitting on the floor, miserably aware of his nakedness, yet stubbornly refusing to cover up. Let El stare. Sure. They might as well get on with the ugliness. No point now in trying to pretend it had never happened.
The bedsprings creaked again, then stilled. El made a slight sound.
Hurts, doesn't it? I warned you last night, but you said you didn't care, you wanted it. Bet you change your tune today, buddy.
He had not, after all, been terribly gentle last night. He remembered the little gasps of mingled pain and pleasure El had made, the way the mariachi's hips had arched off the bed.
After that single sound, El said nothing. It occurred to him that the mariachi probably had not the slightest idea what to say. Waking up with another naked man was undoubtedly pretty low on the list of things El had ever imagined doing.
The image of that wide-eyed bafflement on El's normally dour face made Sands smirk. He relaxed a little, letting his knees spread, giving El a good look -- if the mariachi was feeling brave enough to stare this morning. "So," he drawled, "shouldn't you be asking how I like my eggs?"
"What?" The word was jerked from El's throat.
"You mean you're not going to make me breakfast?" Sands asked, trying hard not to laugh. Was it possible he had been worried about El's reaction? Scared, even? In hindsight, it seemed ridiculous to think he had felt such things. Why, he was fine. This was nothing. Nothing at all.
El made an annoyed grunt. "Get it yourself," he snapped. The covers were flung back, and the bedsprings squeaked as El got to his feet. He padded out of the room, barefoot and bare-assed.
Sands stayed on the floor for a little, chuckling to himself, feeling just fine. After a little bit he rose to his feet. He wanted his clothes back, but he would be damned if he got on all fours and searched for them. He could demand them back from El later. With his right hand held in front of him, testing the air for unseen obstacles, he made his way out of El's room.
Water was running in the bathroom on the right of the hall. Despite the covering sound, Sands was certain he could hear the mariachi muttering to himself.
Laughing, Sands walked down the hall and turned into his own room. He shut the door behind him.
The moment the door latched, he stopped laughing. He took a single step forward, and the world was enveloped in a gray blur of sound. He sank gracelessly to the floor.
He was cold. Christ, when it had gotten so cold in here? Shaking, he crawled across the carpet to the bed. He reached up with one hand and pawed at the quilt, tugging on it, pulling it off the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders.
What were you thinking? screeched the voice. Jesus Christ, do you know what he could have done to you? What the hell am I even doing here? If I had known you liked it all those times, I sure as hell wouldn't have hung around. What the fuck is the matter with you?
"No," he whispered. He leaned against the side of the bed. He could not stop shaking. "No, I didn't like it. I hated it."
Yeah, right. You can't lie to me, you know.
"I didn't," he said again, louder this time. He ducked his head, wrapping his arms about the back of his neck, hiding. Hiding, so no one would see him, no one would know he was there.
The voice just laughed. It hated him, it always had, even while it had protected him. The voice hated him for the same reason he hated himself, for being weak, for even needing protection in the first place. The voice urged him to take control, to find the balance and keep it, to do whatever it took to make sure he was always, always on top and in control.
You liked it. That was what Uncle Tommy had said, just before dying. Just before the bullets had slammed into his body, he had stopped snivelling and whining, and found some backbone. You liked it, you little slut, don't tell me you didn't.
He had not said anything. He had let the guns be his only answer. The roar of the guns, and the balletic way Uncle Tommy's body had swayed from side to side with each hit before finally collapsing in the front hall. No, he had never liked it.
But last night had been different. Last night he had initiated the touching, and he had been in charge. Last night they had laughed when their chins bumped, and he had smiled when El had made a low groan of satisfaction. Last night had been about pleasure, not pain.
It doesn't matter! shrieked the voice. You can't trust him! Anyone can be nice at first!
True. Very true. Hell, Ajedrez had liked to snuggle afterward, and she had sometimes played with his hair. He had told her to stop it, that he didn't want to be treated like a baby, but deep inside, he had liked it, and he had never really protested too much.
And look how she had turned out.
Oh wait. Can't look. No eyes. Sorry, my mistake.
Sands bit down on a whimper. No. No. Last night the voice had been quiet. Last night had been his decision, his choice. Last night while the mariachi's hands had explored his body, he had felt not trapped or panicked, but whole. He had felt good.
Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, chanted the voice.
"Stop it," he moaned. "Stop it, just stop it, can't let you me alone for once? Can't you let me have this?"
The voice laughed.
"Stop," he begged. "Stop, just stop, please."
A loud knock sounded on the door. A voice called his name.
His head jerked up. His heart hammered with panic. Uncle Tommy had found him! He was going to do it to him again, and he couldn't get away.
"No," he whispered. "No." He lowered his head onto his knees.
The knock came again. The door was opened.
Sobbing with shame and fear, he stayed where he was. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.
And the voice, his only friend and protector was gone.
Someone knelt beside him. He cringed back, falling against the bed. He gripped the quilt as tightly as he could, trying to cover himself.
After a long time, he felt himself being pulled forward. Arms wrapped about him. He didn't fight. Why bother? Fighting only made it hurt worse, and last longer. If he was quiet and still, sometimes it wasn't so bad.
The arms held him close. They rocked him back and forth. A voice began to sing. It was a deep voice, a kind voice. No one had ever sung to him before.
Deep within, in the lone portion of his mind that still retained a semblance of lucidity, he recognized that voice. He knew that voice. It belonged to strong hands, hands that had touched him so gently last night, as if they had feared he would break under anything harder.
And they were gentle now as they held him while he cried, not for himself, but for the innocent boy he had once been, and all the things that boy had lost, never to find again.
****
The dream is not nice. Most of his dreams aren't.
It is early September. The first day of school, in fact. He is eight years old now, having observed his birthday over the summer. Observed, not celebrated. There was no cake and ice cream, no gifts. He invited himself to a party, but then forgot to show up.
He walks to school more eagerly today than he ever has. Uncle Tommy went back to California two days ago, and he will be in school all day, spared the terror and boredom of the house.
Life is good.
He sees the other kids clustered together on the playground, and his step quickens. He doesn't like most of those kids, and they don't like him, but at the moment they seem like angels sent from heaven to rescue him. With other kids he'll be safe.
One of them points. "Hey, it's Shellll-don," the kid sing-songs in a sickly sweet voice. His name is Marcus Allen, and he likes to wear football jerseys. The jersey today is red and white and has a big 3 on it.
His steps falter, and slow.
The kids on the playground turn to look. They see him. They laugh.
He stops walking. Suddenly he hates them all. These kids have not spent the summer hiding in their own house, running from grabbing hands. They have not had to listen to a tearful mother say that there were just some things you did not talk about, not ever. They are not pale and nervous. They have spent the summer playing in backyards with friends, making crafts at camp, getting suntans and skinned knees.
Sullenly, he walks onto the playground. The bell rings, and the school day starts. A thin kid with glasses walks up to him and says hi. This kid is the only one who has ever showed any friendliness to him.
"Fuck off," he snarls, and shoves two girls aside in order to get into the classroom ahead of everyone else.
Their teacher this year is named Mrs. Hawthorne. When she reads the roll, she looks up at each boy and girl and smiles. When she reaches his name, she stumbles a bit, surprised by his name. There is pity in her smile when she looks at him, the pity of a teacher for the student she knows will be singled out by every bully in her class.
He glares at her and decides he hates her.
The first thing Mrs. Hawthorne does is ask them to write a page. What I Did On My Summer Vacation. She passes out paper and pencils to those kids who are so stupid they forgot they were coming back to school and left their supplies at home. Everyone else takes out their notebooks and begins laboriously scratching words down.
He stares at the blank paper. What I Did On My Summer Vacation.
Fuck them. They don't know anything, observes the voice in his head.
He sits up a little. It still seems a bit amazing that no one else can hear that voice. Only him. It is his secret. His protector. The voice doesn't have a name, but he thinks it is a little like Jim Phelps, on Mission: Impossible. A secret agent, a spy. So clever and smart no one else knows it exists.
He becomes aware that he is almost crying. What can he write about? The day he hid in the closet and Uncle Tommy slapped him for trying to pull a smart one? The day Mrs. Johnson quit, and gave him such a pitying look that he threw his fork at her? They have to read their essays out loud in front of the whole class. How can he tell them about the way the water in the bathtub turned pink from his own blood?
Let me handle it, says the voice.
But this is school. This is no place to doze off. The voice can take over at home, but not here. He resists. "No."
You'll fuck it all up, and get it wrong. Let me do it.
"No!" he shouts. He snaps his brand-new pencil in half.
At her desk, Mrs. Hawthorne looks up, startled. "Sheldon, is something wrong?"
He throws the halves of the pencil at her. "Fuck you! You can't make me do this!"
The class draws in a single, astonished breath. Mrs. Hawthorne's eyes grow very wide. Two spots of color blossom on her pale cheeks.
She points to the door. "To the principal's office. Now."
He snatches up his sheet of paper and wads it into a ball. Before he does, he sees that at some point he has written, "I hate you," at least ten times.
He has no memory of doing this.
He leaves the classroom, and slams the door behind him. He walks down the hall, a free man. He thinks he will become a secret agent like Jim Phelps, like the voice in his head. Then he will be the spy, and no one will ever know he is there.
He is grinning as he slips out the front door of the school. He likes the idea of being invisible. He likes it very much.
****
The sound of voices brought him back to consciousness.
"What happened?"
Immediately he realized two things. The first was that he was still on the floor, cradled in El's arms.
The second was that beneath the quilt he was still horribly naked.
"A bad dream," El said. "Why aren't you in school?"
"I didn't want to go," Chiclet said.
Did El know he was awake? The mariachi was sitting against the bed, leaning on it for support. His head was on El's shoulder. He must have moved when he came awake; surely El knew he was not still asleep.
"You should go," El said.
El knew. He heard it in the mariachi's voice. El knew, and was protecting his secret. The thought filled him with both weak gratitude, and a dim anger. Neither emotion was very strong, however. He simply didn't have the strength for it right now.
"I want to stay," Chiclet said stubbornly.
"All right," El said. "Turn down the bed."
"SÃ." The bedclothes rustled.
El's arms tightened about him and he tensed. But El just picked him up and laid him on the bed, quilt and all.
Immediately, although he had meant to just lie there like the sleeping person he was supposed to be, he curled on his side.
"Oh, he's awake!" Chiclet said.
"No." Something rustled, then the bed sagged to his right as El sat down. "Did you lock the front door behind you?"
"What? Oh!" Chiclet sounded startled. "I'll go check." His light footsteps hurried out of the room.
Sands sensed a hand approaching, and he tensed. The hand brushed the side of his face, then reached up and removed his sunglasses.
He had to bite his lip to stay silent.
Something touched his face. The soft black cloth he used to bind his eyes at night. He dutifully turned his head so El could position it just right. The mariachi knotted it at the back of his head. "Too tight?"
He gave a short shake of his head.
Chiclet came trotting back. "It's locked," he said breathlessly.
"Good," El said, his voice low.
The boy got the hint. "Is he asleep?"
"Yes," El said. The bed sank a little more, then lifted as El stood up. "We will let him sleep. He needs to rest."
"Will he be all right?" Chiclet asked, his voice tense with anxiety.
El did not answer this right away. At last he said, "I don't know."
They walked toward the door. Chiclet obviously wanted to linger, and there came the sounds of El hurrying him out into the hall. The door was quietly closed.
Sands lay very still.
After a long time, he fell asleep.
******