In a Thousand Words Chapter 4: Hallelujah, a degrassi fanfic

Haha hello again? Yes, I died quite literally. I've been gone for well over several months. Mostly because all I've been doing is either not writing at all due to "meh" or because I'm only working on projects that I don't want to post til later. The to-do list is so large. But I'm finally getting on the ball somewhat. Expect a JaSB, Reunion, and Reckless chapter pretty soon. ATG maybe if I can swing it. Busy busy. In the meantime I'm just reposting some lj stories onto This one and the next are both old, but the last is new. So...I will see you all soon. Hopefully. Cross your fingers. I hope this tides you over for another god knows how long.

I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do you?

When Dylan was little he remembered early Sunday mornings. The days when he was stuffed into stiff and uncomfortable clothes and his grubby face was rubbed clean in a most gruff manner by his mother with a wet tissue. Thousands of this same routine acted out over and over again every weekend.

As a six year old he didn't have any respect for the practice. All he really cared about was the fact that he had been woken up entirely too early if he did say so himself, and that he was forced to sit through three hours of some guy called "Rev" talk about coats of many colors and water being turned to wine (which is the icky blood looking stuff his mommy drank)

It wasn't until he was twelve years old did he finally come to a full realization of what this Sunday ritual really was. What it meant to him. And at that age he started to actually listen for the first time.

Now, six years later, he found it odd that it should come back all the sudden for such odd reasons.

In the end, it was all about Lazarus. The fateful man who was given a second chance at life, who had his very essence breathed back into himself, to walk another day. It had always been Dylan's favorite miracle of them all, as he had avidly told his Sunday school teachers in, what had once been his very squeaky voice.

'It was just like those zombie movies' he would exclaim in childish excitement. A man, a corpse, brought back to life. It had never once scared him before, he remembered. The very idea of the dead walking and breathing and moving about like everyone else had fascinated him to no end.

No, it had never bothered him at all. Until Marco.

It goes like this

The fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Dylan didn't really think about boys that often.

Again, it was probably all that religion getting to him. All those Sunday mornings being told that homosexuals were basically wrong. A sin. He had always wondered what a "homosexual" was during these sermons…but he easily forgot when the cute boy beside him asked what page they were on.

Sure, later, the implications of all this hit him square between the eyes like a ton of bricks. And now, finally after all this time, he was learning to deal with who he was and what that meant for him.

He knew he was gay, he knew when someone that constituted as a "looker" passed by. He didn't need anyone to tell him what was attractive and what was not. After all, he was still a teenage boy, complete with his teenage boy hormones and every bit as stupid as the rest.

But the fact still remained that he was more or less blind to his own sexuality. He flirted, did traveling eyes, bedroom voices...it didn't matter. He never really meant it after all. It was all one big joke after another.

Then a small, little Italian boy walked into his life. Marco had been cute beyond imagination, with his perfect hair and big, dark brown eyes. He was short, childish looking, open and easy to laugh, even easier to blush, such a beautiful sight to behold really. He stood out from everyone else. He held a different tune in his walk than anyone else, though the boy never acknowledged it himself. Then again, there was another thing to add to his perfection.

While Dylan didn't really think about boys that often, he most certainly thought about Marco. As frequently as possible. Little abstract thoughts as his day progressed. Sometimes Tom would smile at him in history. That same whimsical and predatory smile the teen always wore...but somehow Dylan always looked right through it, saw a row of silver lined teeth winking up adorably instead.

Mrs. Ripley would ask him about an Italian Renaissance artist and Dylan would distractedly wonder if Marco could paint. Sometimes even the stupidest things like a pencil or a bird, or even one odd occasion, Paige's nail polish would cause him to make quick circular links in his mind straight to the other boy he seemed to have become so very enamored with.

Before Dylan cared to acknowledge it, two months of his life had passed before his smitten and clouded eyes, and still the infatuation stood, stronger than ever before, like a glorious, irritating itch that could never be scratched in his position.

Relief, he knew, only came in one form, and that was to have Marco smiling at him, not because he had made a joke like he was wont to do in the younger boy's company, but because Dylan had kissed him, had whispered in his ear. He wanted to have this boy pour out his soul, both willingly and honestly, simply because he found comfort in his arms of all people.

It was such a confusing thing to think about. On one hand, he wanted this more than anything. Growing up a spoiled child, getting every single thing he asked for with a few tears or well placed words, he now found himself in a predicament that couldn't be solved with easy inveiglement. Now…he had to win over someone honestly.

But the fact still remained. The time to ask had come. That much was apparent.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

He thought about it a lot. This asking out business. He didn't kid himself. He was a brave person by nature, easily taking people up on dares and getting into all kinds of trouble without batting an eyelash in the face of cruel punishment or disappointment. However, he would be the first to admit that when it came to Marco…things were always a little different. Always.

Oh, but he thought about it. Thought about the way the Italian boy would smile that bashful smile, how his eyes would light up the same way they did when Paige talked about movie stars she liked with him. He'd imagine the stray lock of hair falling over one eye, hiding that shine he thought about at nights when sleep didn't come.

He thought about holding his hand, brushing soft circles over the back. Pressing kisses all over him. Because it was those silly thoughts that kept him from running. Kept him from backing down from the daunting task completely.

It was the idea of the amazing sigh of relief that made him consider.

Your faith was strong but you needed proof

In the end, phenomenally enough, it had been Spinner who had given him the jump he needed, the spark into action he so craved. Within that same day he somehow found the guts to do it.

Dylan didn't think he'd ever forget it.

Marco had been so unaware, so very naïve and bashful. It had been wonderful. He'd put in his best words, smiled his smile, all while his stomach had turned to ice, or worms, or butterflies, he had been too nervous to describe it. But in the end, the very same smile he had imagined made it's bright and shining appearance, even more dazzling and even more perfect than his mind's eye could ever wish to recreate.

It was a smile, that in times to come, would appear more and more less often, and become worth its weight in gold, become the most precious commodity he had ever had.

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty

In the moonlight

Overthrew you

She tied you

To a kitchen chair

She broke your throne

She cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

And then it all fell apart.

It was…on our anniversary sadly enough. Of all the influential days that tragedies could happen…why did the fates grace us then I always wonder? And a Sunday of all days! After a most uplifting morning of mass and the prospect of kissing Marco goodbye that night! It was like the proverbial rug being pulled from beneath your feet.

Outside of Marco's house in my Sunday best I heard Italian shouting from inside, and unable to think of a more appropriate way to deal with the situation I went to the back of the house where the Del Rossi's back door stood wide open to let in the warm spring air and a window stood bare and inviting.

Curious as the cat…I stealthily peaked inside and watched…listened…with baited breath.

And what I saw….

The Italian boy I had come to love more than anything else in the world stood in the middle of his immaculate kitchen eyes downcast and shoulders looking as if the world itself sat there.

His hair, oh how I had always loved his hair! It was the very epitome of style and grace, even on its worse days. Perfectly in place and soft to the touch and framing his face like nothing I had ever seen.

But it was gone…nothing but a short and choppy mess lay atop his head…chunks of his once beautiful locks lying strewn across the floor like pieces of a broken heart.

Mr. Del Rossi was still screaming, spittle flying, and Marco only continued to look down, reaching up with shaking hands, removing his earrings as the onslaught continued. As he lifted his head slightly to better remove them his face came into my view…glistening tracks of tears catching the light.

My name came up several times in between the harsh Italian. I cringed each and every time.

Marco never said a word.

I stayed during the entire speech, watching him be belittled again and again, cuffed aside the head, his now short hair being pulled when he "wasn't listening". And I stand by my thoughts that day…you think you could never survive if something like that happens to you…

It's even worse when it happens to someone you care about.

Maybe I've been here before

I know this room, I've walked this floor

I wish sometimes that I could show him…could tell him…I was there, that I knew his pain…but I've never gotten as far.

I wish sometimes that I could tell him what my hockey mates used to say when I was ousted…what bile they used to continually hang over my head. The death threats, the beatings, the words…

But then…I don't think it even comes close. He was your father. He was everything you needed and everything you couldn't have. So I stay silent.

It pains me that you do as well.

I used to live alone before I knew you

I've seen your flag on the marble arch

Love is not a victory march

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

After that momentous day I had every flighty high ideal of love that I had ever harbored from my mother ripped away before my very eyes. It was never all roses and satin sheets, sea breeze and moonlit walks. There was this darker side to it all that everyone had forgotten to mention.

That their pain…ultimately…became yours as well.

There was a time you'd let me know

What's real and going on below

But now you never show it to me do you?

I've hated your father with a passion for years now. After your parents divorce you were in shambles…crying in my arms for weeks to come and it killed me Marco. Did you know?

Did you never wonder why I cried with you?

You've gotten better in recent days to the point where you can talk about it more freely. But there is always this great overwhelming sense of hesitancy in you. I try daily to make you understand how much I love you…how stupid your father was…how much your mother loves you.

And I know without a doubt that I have gotten that through your head often enough for you to believe it…just some nights you forget.

Those are harder to live with.

Remember when I moved in you?

The holy dark was moving too

And every breath we drew was a hallelujah.

Tonight…you finally told me. You finally told me everything about that sad Sunday so long ago. Told me about the hair cut…where you were thrown into a kitchen chair and your mama was forced outside.

It had been about church. The sermon had been on homosexuality. You had been caught. You had been found out.

And you paid so dearly.

I myself told you I had watched. And you hated me for a week after that. I don't blame you. But I can also swear that it was the worst week of my life…being away when you felt so horrible. I can only guess what terrible things were crawling through your mind in my absence.

Remember when I moved in you?

The holy dark was moving too

And ever breath we drew was hallelujah

You came back seven days later with an ultimatum. I was never to lie to you again and you promised to do the same. It was a breathtaking thing…feeling you in my arms again, you're now long hair (oh how I had missed it) brushing my throat and hesitant fingers curling into my shirt and I can't remember ever holding my breath as long as I did in that never ending moment.

We mad love that night. But it was nothing compared to the embrace so many hours before it. The simple fact to have you back somehow outweighed everything else I had ever held dear.

I suppose that's what love was all about in the end.

You were a broken person. And by God I saw it! I knew it! I saw you with this odd cloud hanging over your heart every day of your life. You were jaded, and miserable, and distrusting…

And I loved you anyway. In complete honesty…I loved you so very much more for it.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe there's a god above

And all I ever learned from love

Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

It's not a cry you can hear at night

It's not somebody who's seen the light

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.

So…I'm one of those who was dealt the less than story book picture of romance. My hand was full of heart break, and tyrant fathers, and nightmares, and fallen locks of hair.

Marco cries in his sleep some nights. He's not a better person from what he's gone through…he's not some inspired person driven on with their life away from the pain in their past.

Marco lived for me. Lived for love and what little that could give him.

I don't deserve. I know that much. I've spent many nights battling with myself…wanting him to venture into the wide world and fine someone who could calm his shattered heart better than I.

But then that would mean letting go of something.

Letting go of the one hurt that I wanted to feel.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

And you know? He's still here.

We went to mass this Sunday with his mom.

Remember that smile of his?

He still smiles it.

He smiles it every damn day.

And he smiles it for me.