Author's apologies: Okay. Three things. First of all, this chapter is . . . a little dark and a little unpleasant. There is a lot of violence and I hate it. Second of all this chapter is long even by my admittedly flexible standards. Sorry, it really didn't want to be split. Thirdly, in this book Roald Dahl's wonderful book 'Matilda' is quoted from fairly extensively. (Which, incidentally I do not own and use entirely without permission.) It was the book I was thinking of when I first came up with this chapter, a very long time ago, and, if asked, I would have sworn before judge, jury and Anne Robinson that it was one of his earlier ones. It isn't. It was in fact published in 1988 which is clearly far too late for it to be read by Danny and Rusty as children. So I can only apologise for the anachronism and pretend that we live in a world where Roald Dahl wrote it, oh, fifteen years earlier shall we say? Sorry. I really do try to keep things time appropriate, but in this case choosing another book would have involved altering many things I had no wish to alter. Anyway. Those are my three public apologies for today.
Timeline
1. 'In the beginning' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 13 and 14) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
2. 'Neverending Conversation' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 15 and 16) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
3. 'Matilda and the Werewolf' (Chapter 23) Rusty is nine, Danny is eleven.
4. 'Something more than it should be' (Chapter 10) Rusty is ten, Danny is twelve
5. 'The humiliation of Norris Carrol' (Chapter 20) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
6. 'Four Day Interlude' (Chapter 5) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
7. 'Remember the first time' (Chapter 4) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
8. 'Sunshine, smiles and sweet, sweet words' (Chapter 17) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen.
9. 'View from the outside' (Chapter 12) Rusty is eleven, Danny is fourteen
10. 'Walk before you can crawl' (Chapter 2) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
11. 'Other Nightmares Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 8 and 9) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
12. 'The more things change' (Chapter 1) Rusty is thirteen, Danny is fifteen
13. 'Words and Silence' (Chapter 22) Rusty is thireen, Danny is sixteen
14. 'Six months of roses' (Chapter 18) Rusty is thirteen/fourteen, Danny is sixteen
15. 'Two stories with some understanding' (Chapter 21) Rusty is thirteen, Danny is sixteen. Falls within time of 'Six months of roses'
16. 'Life Lessons' (Chapter 7) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen - falls within time of 'Six months of roses'
17. 'The lies we live' (Chapter 3) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen
18. 'If the fates allow' (Chapter 19) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
19. 'This is our decision (to live fast and die young)' (Chapter 6) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
20. 'Such a perfect day' (Chapter 11) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
The graveyard was bathed in the silvery light of the full moon. The old, creaky trees were casting twisted shadows across the headstones. The wind was howling incessantly - or at least something was. And the woman crept across the screen, agonisingly slowly, and her flashlight was gradually going out and every so often she jumped – flinched – and looked round wildly, as though she'd heard something someplace he couldn't see. And Danny was almost certain that he was safe, curled up on the sofa, cushion hugged to his chest, but he still didn't quite have the nerve to turn off the movie and go to bed. Because there might be something lurking in the shadows, just waiting for him to put his feet on the floor . . .
A floorboard creaked upstairs and he jumped and immediately scolded himself. It was fine. There was no-one in the house except him. And if he was half as clever as he pretended, he would have gone to bed early, instead of staying up to watch the late night horror movie. But he'd wanted to wait up for his mom coming in, and by the time she'd phoned and told him that she'd be working all night and wouldn't be back till late tomorrow, he'd already been engrossed in the movie. He didn't mind that she wasn't coming back tonight. It wasn't like he was some baby who had to have his mommy hug and kiss him goodnight. He was eleven, and more than capable of managing on his own for a night. Hell, half the time he was asleep before she came back anyway. And she'd probably forgotten that Dad was still away on that business trip to D.C. Just like Dad forgot that he'd promised to take him bowling that weekend. He set his mouth firmly and reminded himself – not for the first time – that, really, he was lucky. At least his parents weren't . . . there were always ways that things could be worse.
He turned his attention back to the screen and watched, wide-eyed and horror-struck, as the thing with the tangled, matted fur, and the blood staining its snout, made its first appearance and stalked silently after the woman, flitting from shadow to shadow, impossibly fast. Its paw, or hand, or whatever, reached out towards her throat while she just stood and screamed and the claws were gleaming in the moonlight, and Danny's heart was in his mouth and when the soft knocking came at the door he nearly leapt out of his skin.
Leaping off the couch, he turned the TV off, and stood by the living room door and clutched tighter at the pillow and chewed on his lip and waited in dreadful silence until the knocking came again, even fainter than before. Okay. There were four things he had to remember. If he could just keep this in his head, he'd be fine. First of all, werewolves didn't tend to knock on doors. Second, even if they did, they'd probably do it louder. Third, werewolves didn't actually exist. And finally, and most importantly, there was a silver letter opener on the rack in the hall.
He dropped the cushion onto the floor and padded noiselessly out into the hall. Difficult to imagine who'd be at the door at this time of night. Perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to ignore it altogether. But the problem with that was that it was difficult to imagine who'd be at the door at this time of night. As he walked past his hand closed over the silver letter opener. It was sharp enough. And better to be safe than sorry.
The knocking came again, and this time it sounded more like fingernails scratching on wood. And that did nothing to reassure him.
With a deep breath, and the little knife firmly in his hand, Danny wrenched the door open. He barely had time to register the smile and the blood and the pain, before Rusty fell forwards towards him.
He is as warm and comfortable as he can hope to be. It is summer and still there's a draught in his room and he's wrapped as much of himself in the blanket as he can. The flat is dark and empty. He hasn't seen his parents today and almost, almost he is happy.
Squirming a little on the mattress as his hip comes into contact with the hard slat, he falls asleep and does not dream.
The door explodes open and for a terrified, sleep-befuddled moment he wonders if the house is falling down. Then he is aware of the shouting, aware of the anger. Hands bunch around the neck of his jumper and he is ripped from his bed, torn from safety, and this isn't fair. They never come into his room, or hardly ever. Lying still and silent in the dark, when they can't see or hear him – that's as close to being good as he can get.
The knife fell to the ground with a clatter as Danny leapt forwards. And he didn't really have a chance of actually catching Rusty, but he managed to make sure that when he hit the ground he was cushioned. Protected, as far as Danny was able. Working automatically, he pulled Rusty further inside and kicked the door closed. Then, heart racing and trying not to think too hard about what he was doing, he knelt up and eased Rusty over. His eyes were closed and his face was pale, but when Danny brushed a thumb over his cheek he gave a sort of gasp and leaned into the touch in a way that he never would when he was awake. And Danny couldn't decide whether that was comforting or not, but Rusty was passed out in his hallway, a mess of blood and bruises, and there was more blood than Danny had ever seen in one place before, and he had to figure out what to do.
With a grimace, and a fervent hope that Rusty wouldn't wake up, he struggled to his feet, hauling Rusty up with him. And his arms were wrapped tightly around Rusty's waist, and he could feel the sticky warmth of blood soaking through Rusty's clothes, beneath his fingers, and for a second all he could manage to do was stand there, biting down on his lip as hard as he could, and then he stumbled through to the living room, half dragging and half carrying, and somehow he managed to get Rusty lying down on the sofa.
He looked down for a long moment. At the face that he knew better than his own, and that now was almost unrecognisable. Bruised, bloodied and swollen. Danny had no idea where one injury ended and the next began. The bastard hadn't held back this time. And he needed to know the rest, and the bloodstains were worst at Rusty's left arm, so gently – very, very gently – he eased the sleeve up and caught sight of the damage and had to work so, so hard not to scream or cry or swear or do anything so unhelpful. The cuts were deep and still oozing, and the dried blood was thick and the tiny shards of glass glinted in the light and it wasn't fair and it hurt.
He stumbled backwards and reached for the phone on the wall. Time he came to his senses. Enough was enough, Rusty was unconscious and even though the bleeding had slowed, Danny was sure he'd lost more than he should. (He shouldn't have lost any.) With shaking hands he lifted the received and dialled, and he'd only dialled '9' and '1' when he heard the tiniest of noises and looked round.
Rusty was awake, propped up on one arm and looking at him, and his eyes – or the one that he was capable of opening, at any rate - were pleading and beseeching.
"I have to," Danny told him, and felt a strange feeling of déjà vu. "It's serious, Rus'."
Rusty continued to look at him and Danny wavered.
"What do you want me to do?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea how bad you look right now?"
And Rusty looked away and Danny saw him tense and clench his fists, and he dropped the phone and hurried over and realised that they weren't going to solve this problem with doctors. He brushed his hand through Rusty's hair in silent promise, and Rusty looked back up at him and smiled slightly.
"If there's anything worse . . ." he trailed off and shrugged. "If I say we're going to the doctor, we're going to the doctor. Okay?"
Rusty nodded his agreement, and Danny could accept that.
Then he frowned, and played the conversation back through in his head. And slowly, ever so slowly, new fear and confusion wound their way through his soul. "Rus' . . .?" he began uncertainly.
And Rusty looked up at him, jaw tense, rigid and scared, and Danny closed his mouth.
"Never mind," he said with a forced quirk of his lips.
Then Rusty frowned, and rubbed at the bloodstain where he'd been leaning on the upholstery and looked up at Danny and there was fear and apology and it was unbearable.
Danny bit the anger back. "Not exactly what's important right now, Rus'."
In answer, Rusty glanced over to the doorway nervously and Danny understood.
"She's out right now," he told him immediately. "Working. She said she'd be back tomorrow. I'll turn the cushions over. Mop the floor. She'll never know."
The tiniest hint of exhausted amusement in Rusty's eyes said that he thought Danny was being a little over-optimistic, and Danny was inclined to agree, but there was something that was worrying him more. Because sure, his mom had said that she wouldn't be back till tomorrow night. But it wouldn't altogether surprise him if she turned up first thing in the morning. And that would probably be a good thing. Probably, she'd take one look at Rusty and she'd insist that he go straight to the hospital. Probably she'd even drive them herself. Probably. But if she didn't . . .
If she didn't, she still wouldn't let Rusty stay. If, as she had before, in the face of everything, she still insisted that her own little view of the world was correct, then she'd drive Rusty back to his parents. And forget what everyone said about needing to trust your parents, about honouring them and respecting their decisions. Danny couldn't let that happen. Not in a million years.
He glanced up to see Rusty watching him carefully. "Just thinking," he said, with a reassuring smile, and he watched Rusty relax by the barest fraction. "I think we need to get you upstairs."
Rusty pondered this for a few moments and then nodded slowly.
Danny walked over and made sure the doors between them and the staircase were open, and he tried not to look at the bloodied footmarks in the hall where he'd dragged Rusty through, until he suddenly stopped and thought about what he wasn't looking at. Footprints. Bare footprints. For the first time he realised that Rusty wasn't wearing shoes. He turned back and knelt down beside the sofa and gently reached out and turned the soles of Rusty's feet towards him, and beneath the dirt and the blood he could see cuts and blisters and bruises forming. And he thought about Rusty walking all that way barefoot, and it was one more jarring note of wrongness and it reminded him of the other thing that had been nagging at him. Because Rusty didn't own any nice clothes. That was a given, that was as much a fact of their life as the rest. But Danny had never seen him wearing anything quite so obviously too big for him, and certainly nothing with quite so many holes. His eyes flickered across the ratty grey jumper and the thin cotton pants and, the realisation suddenly dawned that Rusty was wearing his night clothes. And he thought about what could have driven Rusty, bleeding and in his pyjamas, to seek him out, and he wondered, dimly, over the blood roaring in his ears, if murder was always wrong.
When he felt he had himself under some degree of control, he looked up to see Rusty staring at the carpet, and he could see the embarrassment and he could see the humiliation and he always, always hated it. "Not your fault," he said firmly. "Never your fault.
Rusty seemed to shrink in on himself, and there was something more here than the usual.
"Rus' . . . ?"
But the only answer was a quick and fearful shake of the head, and Danny suppressed the grimace and reached out his hand. "Come on."
With the slightest look, Rusty claimed indignantly that he could walk on his own, and even as Danny doubted it, he found his lips twitching.
"Humour me," he said, with the barest hint of grin. "Because I'd hate to sprain something picking you up off the floor."
Rusty blinked, and half grinned, before he let Danny take his arms and pull him up. And Danny did his very best to be careful and gentle and considerate, but he still was aware of every wince of pain that he didn't see.
"I'm sorry," he said, inevitably, and he acknowledged the exasperated look that Rusty shot him. "I know, I know. I just hate hurting you." More exasperation. "I know it's not my fault. Doesn't make it better."
They walked out the room and Danny watched Rusty's face grow more impassive with each step, and he wished he was grown-up so he could just carry Rusty up the stairs. And he wished Rusty was grown-up so that people wouldn't hurt him anymore.
He is dangling helplessly in the air and the fists are at his throat and he chokes and struggles to breathe and looks up into his dad's face.
"You stupid, selfish piece of shit!" Dad rages. "You fucking, pathetic waste of space!"
His feet scrabble frantically in the air as Dad shakes him back and forth in time to his words. More than anything right now he wants to kick out, wants to struggle and hurt and escape and run and never look back. And that just goes to show how wrong and bad he really is.
Desperately he thinks back over the last few days, trying to figure out what he's done wrong. He can't think of anything especially awful. He and Danny had a good couple of hauls last week, so it's not even as though he's been eating too much food, and he's hardly been here to be too noisy.
His head is thrown back as Dad punches him, once, twice, again, and the pain blooms in his mouth, his cheek, his eye. The blood runs down his face and he can taste it on his lips.
Finally Dad drops him and he falls to the floor. He tries to get up, he really does but the boot that catches him in the jaw is unexpected and vicious and drops him immediately.
Whatever he's done it must have been really bad.
The stairs took a while. Step by painful step and by the end, Danny was supporting both their weight. He didn't mind. They staggered into his room and automatically Danny started to take Rusty towards the bed.
Rusty froze.
Danny could feel him tense under his arm. Could feel him shaking. Couldn't bear it.
Without even hesitating he took a step towards the sofa and got Rusty sitting down on it. And Rusty knew that he'd noticed the fear, Danny could tell that by the way he wasn't looking at him. And Rusty was hunched over on the sofa, exhausted and shaking with cold and more-than-cold, and he was trying not to lean on anything, as if everything would hurt. As if everything did hurt.
Desperately, Danny wanted to say that it was okay. He wanted to say that everything was going to be fine, that nothing was going to hurt Rusty anymore, that he wouldn't let anything hurt Rusty anymore. "I'm here," he said instead, and he felt stupid and inadequate. "I'm here."
And Rusty looked up and there was wonder and gratitude in his eyes and Danny could howl with the misery of it all and he saw Rusty's hand twitch, as if he wanted, and quickly Danny reached out and clasped Rusty's hand in his and for a long moment they simply sat together and the silence was comfort.
Eventually he stood up and looked down at Rusty. "I need to see. If we're going to do this ourselves, I need to see."
Rusty's lips were tight and he shook his head.
Danny sighed. "Rus', you're hurt. You need help."
Another second of denial.
"Please," he said quietly. "It's only me."
And Rusty looked up at him sharply and somehow, Danny understood very clearly that he was never going to be an 'only'.
He bit his lip and ignored the chorus of emotion that echoed through him. "Please, Rus'," he said again and Rusty looked at him for a long time and then he bit his lip and carefully, clumsily started to take his jumper off.
After a couple of seconds Danny couldn't bear to let him struggle and he stepped forwards and quietly helped pull it over his head.
And he saw what was underneath.
Since he'd met Rusty, he'd often wondered if there was a trick to it. Some quality, some ability, some knowledge he lacked. Something that made people able to see the unending stream of injuries – a black eye here, a split lip there, bruises and bloodstains and pain – something that made them able to see all that and not fall into the dark place of anger and outrage. It passed his understanding; it always had.
Rusty's chest and stomach were smeared with blood and he could see the layers of dark bruises underneath, and he could see the couple of open welts that weren't nearly enough to account for all the blood. He moved round slightly to get a look at Rusty's back, and he saw the scores etched into Rusty's back, the bleeding, weeping lashes.
This was what happened. This was what Rusty was supposed to endure and Danny was supposed to ignore.
"Rusty," he whispered, and his voice was choked, and Rusty looked up at him sharply as if he was trying to be reassuring, but his eyes were clouded and he was still trembling.
There was a moment when it felt as if they shared the simple knowledge that this wasn't right, that this wasn't what life should be, could be.
He feels his dad stamp down on his shoulder blade and the fire shoots all the way along his arm. His fingers curl desperately and his nails scratch into the floorboards. The next kick catches him under the ribs and his breath vanishes and he's lifted bodily into the air. He takes the advantage of the momentum, manages to roll over and get his feet under him and before his dad can react he's on his feet and he's running for the door, running as fast as he can. Running is bad, but he's always bad anyway and he'd rather survive.
With a deep breath, Danny stood up. "Right. Right. I need to go get stuff."
He waited, a little hopeful, but there was no answer. Rusty was still sitting on the sofa, his jumper crumpled in his hand. And Danny could see he was still shaking, could see the pain that was still screaming just below the surface.
He swallowed hard and turned to head into the bathroom and was stopped by the smallest noise, the lightest moan. Blinking his eyes clear, he turned back and Rusty was looking at him and there was unguarded misery.
The breath caught in Danny's throat and he hurried back and lightly brushed his hand against Rusty's less-damaged cheek. "I'm not leaving you," he assured Rusty and his voice was horrified. "I just need to . . . we need to get you fixed up, Rusty."
This time he stayed and he looked into Rusty's eyes until he saw the understanding and the agreement and then he darted into the bathroom. Right. Flannel. Hot water. That was straight forward enough. He carried them back carefully and laid them next to the sofa. Rusty's arms were wrapped round himself and he barely seemed aware that Danny was there.
"I'll just be a couple more minutes, okay?" he soothed mindlessly, and after a second Rusty nodded tightly.
His parents' bathroom next. The medicine cabinet. He retrieved sticking plasters, bandages and antiseptic cream. The tub said it was soothing and healing. Good. Good, that was what they surely needed. Carefully he checked the little bottles of prescription medicine, hoping for something that he understood, hoping there was something that would help. Nothing, and he sighed. Tylenol then. With a frown he checked the back of the packet. Not suitable for children under 12. Oh, that was helpful. He stared at it for a couple of seconds, but they needed something and he added it to the pile. What else? A pair of tweezers and he thought that was everything.
He carried it all through and suddenly realised what else. "One more thing, Rus'" he promised. "Then I'll be back and I won't leave."
Rusty didn't look at him and Danny was back in the room with a glass of water practically before the door had managed to swing shut.
He knelt in front of Rusty with a pill and the glass of water in his hand. "Here," he said gently and with an effort Rusty managed to choke the pill down with a mouthful of water. He held his hand out and, grimacing, Danny fished another pill out of the bottle. "It says not suitable for children under 12", he pointed out.
With a shrug and a subsequent wince of agony, Rusty managed to suggest that he'd taken them before and nothing catastrophic had happened.
Danny sighed and passed the pill over.
Rusty took another drink of water and his hand was shaking and the water spilled on the floor. Danny grabbed it quickly and set it down.
"We should get you cleaned up first," he said ignoring the second of embarrassment.
He took wet flannel and made to get the blood off Rusty's face and Rusty immediately tried to take it away from him.
"I know you can do it," Danny agreed frustrated. "Let me. Please." Rusty could, because Rusty was stubborn, but it would be difficult and it would take longer, and it would hurt, and Danny wanted – needed - to do something to help.
Rusty looked at him for a long moment and Danny had no idea what he was seeing. But he let go of the flannel and tilted his head back for Danny to see what was there.
"Thank you," Danny whispered. He was as gentle as he could be, and he knew how much it hurt Rusty, and he knew how much it hurt him, as he cleaned the blood away to reveal the bruises and the swelling and the cuts and grazes beneath. It hurt to watch the water in the basin turn red. It hurt each time Rusty stilled and clenched his fists and didn't make a sound. It hurt. They were hurt.
"Okay," he said at last. "Your arm next, I think."
Rusty looked up at him and grimaced.
Danny nodded. "Yeah." He wasn't looking forward to it either. He thought for a moment. "We need light."
He looked round the room and finally dragged the lamp from his desk over. The cable just stretched enough. "Think you can hold this up so I can see?" he asked and Rusty nodded and held the lamp aloft.
Danny looked at him thoughtfully. "Don't you normally stand in front of Manhattan?"
The smile was faint. But it made Danny happy.
He looked down at Rusty's arm. The glass shards shone in the lamplight. A moment and he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and dreamed a thousand wishes. Then, with a steady hand, he took the tweezers and got a firm grip on the largest piece of glass and pulled.
The sound Rusty made broke his heart and he had to look up, had to apologise and the words fell off his tongue, because he never wanted to hurt, didn't understand how anyone could ever want to hurt, didn't understand why no one else saw, didn't understand why no one else cared.
Rusty was looking straight back at him and they were together.
He took a deep breath and continued.
Glass bottle. It had to be. Vodka bottle probably, that was what he'd seen littering the floor the few times he'd been at Rusty's place. Rusty didn't let him come over too often. Said it wasn't safe. Probably it wasn't. Vodka bottle then, and Danny imagined Rusty's father – mother? Father, probably, Rusty had always said his mom was mostly easy to dodge – Danny imagined the bottle being brought down on Rusty's arm.
Easy to dodge.
A memory stirred. Several memories. But last month had been the most recent. The shop on the corner, down from the bridge. The shopkeeper who had been yelling at him. Insisting they'd been shoplifting. He'd taken a step towards them and Rusty had stepped in front of Danny and before Danny could react, the man had stepped closer and Rusty had thrown his arm up in front of his face, trying to protect himself, and Danny had come to his senses and grabbed Rusty and they'd ran and hadn't stopped running until they were at least ten blocks away. Rusty had thrown his arm up to protect himself.
"He was aiming for your head," he said aloud and the fury was roaring in his ears.
Rusty looked at him and there was nothing in his face that denied it and nothing that suggested that it mattered.
Danny looked down at the mess Rusty's arm was in, at the force, at the brutality. "He was aiming at your head," he repeated and if the bottle had hit, if it had broken on Rusty's head as hard as it had broken on his arm, Danny wouldn't be talking to Rusty right now. Rusty would be dead.
Rusty could be dead.
There was anxiety in Rusty's eyes as he stared at Danny and the concern was obvious and Danny almost laughed. "Oh, I'm fine," he assured Rusty. "And I guess you're fine too, right?"
Rusty's lips quirked slightly but he nodded seriously.
"Yeah," Danny said, and funny was difficult. "This is what fine feels like."
He took the lamp from Rusty and carefully shone it over his arm. Nothing glinted. Even when he wiped the blood away, didn't seem like anything else was in there. "Think that's all of it?" he asked.
Rusty nodded and his head was hanging low and the exhaustion was an almost tangible force.
"Not that much left," Danny said gently, and Rusty smiled his thanks for the lie.
He bandaged Rusty's arm as best he could, considering that he really had no idea what he was doing. The bandages ended up thick and unwieldy and probably uncomfortable, but at least he thought it would stay together. Silently he took the opportunity to apply antiseptic and plasters to the cuts and welts on Rusty's face and chest. "There," he said presently and hesitated. "Just your back now."
Rusty nodded and made no move to move.
Danny sat down on the sofa beside him and leaned in as close as he could. It was stupid and ridiculous. Rusty was the one that was hurting and Danny needed the comfort of him being close.
"Need to get it done," he said presently. "Then you can rest and I'll stay right here."
It was all he had to offer. He wished there was more.
A hand grabs his hair and he is slammed into the wall and then the hand pulls his head back and his face is smashed against the wall again and again and again, and there is blood in his eyes and no matter how much he blinks, he can't bring the world back into focus.
Dad lets go and he falls into a helpless heap.
"Trying to run away. Just like that fucking slut you call a mother."
He sits still and concentrates on breathing and being invisible.
"Look at me, you little shit," Dad sounds angrier than Rusty has ever known him and he looks up carefully. "On your feet," Dad snarls and he scrambles to obey. He tries to ignore the unquenchable spark of anger and defiance that burns inside.
He keeps eye contact. "I'm sorry, sir," he tries, his voice quiet and respectful and above all steady and he can feel the blood dripping off his lip as he speaks.
"You think this is funny, you little shit?" Dad takes a step towards him and Rusty flinches back and cannot hide it and Dad stares at him with contempt.
This isn't funny. Bugs Bunny is funny. The Pink Panther is funny. This is not at all funny. "No, sir," he says and he isn't entirely surprised by the series of punches that are driven into his chest and stomach, that leave him gasping, leave his arms wrapped around himself like he's trying to hold all the hurt inside.
Rusty looked at him through a haze of pain and darkness and Danny hated that the fear hadn't faded away. Then he sighed and nodded and Danny moved aside and Rusty lay on the sofa, his face buried in his arms.
His back hadn't got miraculously better in the past hour. Danny felt sick looking at it. So many open wounds. As if Rusty's back had been sliced open again and again and again. So much pain. And Danny didn't know how and he could never hope to understand why, and he saw the bruises underneath, saw the shape of bootprints ground into Rusty's body and he wanted to scream.
He took the tub of antiseptic cream and started at the shoulders. Slow and careful and gentle and Rusty tensed up with every touch, and it was about pain and it was about memories so vivid that Danny could almost feel them.
"I thought you were a werewolf when you first knocked," he began casually, and Rusty lifted his head slightly and fixed Danny with a puzzled, glassy stare.
"I know, I know," Danny agreed and his fingers smoothed along a wide and angry gash. "No such thing as monsters."
Rusty smiled and laid his head back down and Danny's voice was helping, he knew that.
"Was watching this movie before you got here. It was good. Scary. There was this man and he was . . . not very nice. Was angry a lot. He hit his girlfriend and she left him." He winced and hurried on to the next bit. "Anyway, he went walking in the woods, late one night, and he heard something following him, and then this thing leapt out at him from behind a tree. It was all hairy and had huge teeth."
Rusty made a slight sound.
Danny sighed, exasperated. "No, not the tree. The werewolf. Anyway, it cut away but you were meant to assume he got bitten. In the meantime, his girlfriend had moved in with her sister and her two boys." He paused. "Actually, I think only one of the kids was hers. It was quite difficult to tell though. They acted like brothers." He thought of some of the kids at school. "They acted like brothers should act," he corrected himself.
"Anyway, she's living there, and they start to find dead animals around the outside of the house, all torn to bits. And they start to hear this howling at night, and claws scratching on the door."
Rusty shifted his head slightly.
Danny smiled. "No, it didn't knock."
There was a thoughtful pause.
"You're right," Danny agreed at last. "Would be a better way of getting in. Guess it wanted them scared." He finished Rusty's back and sighed. "Rus'?"
Quietly Rusty slid off his pants and Danny looked at the welts and gouges and cuts that covered Rusty's bottom and thighs, and nodded to himself. This was what they were supposed to ignore and endure. Rusty's face was buried in his arms and Danny was well aware of the feelings of helplessness and humiliation, and he hurt and he hated.
He resumed rubbing the cream in and carried on with the story. Places other than the real world were best. For both of them. "Anyway, she went walking late at night, and she heard something following her so she decided to take a short cut through the graveyard."
Rusty was decidedly sceptical.
"I don't know why, guess she didn't watch that many movies. Anyway, she can hear the thing behind her and her flashlight starts going out and suddenly the screen is full of this thing's paw, and it reaches out towards her and she's just standing there screaming . . . " He trailed off.
He knew the question. He didn't really know the answer, but he knew the question.
"No, she doesn't die," he said definitely. "Because suddenly the two boys arrive, right? And they have this silver knife that they took from the visiting professor and they have this little bag of magic herbs. And the herbs slow the werewolf down and the boys stab him and he dies." He paused for a stunned second. "He dies," he repeated, and bit his lip hard before continuing.
"And everyone is so happy that the werewolf is gone that they give the boys his house and his stuff. And it turns out that he was rich, and so the boys have all this money and they don't need to rely on anyone anymore, so they live together for the rest of their lives and they spend all their time having adventures, and helping their friends and having as much fun as possible and they never have to be alone anymore because they have each other."
Rusty was looking at him.
Danny looked away and didn't meet his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, that didn't really happen."
He sighed and there was silence for a couple of minutes. "All done," he said at last. "Stay there, I'll get you something to wear."
He dug around in his drawers until he came up with a pair of pyjamas. With a slight smile he brought them over to Rusty.
Rusty unfolded them and the look on his face when he saw the duck holding the baseball bat was priceless. He looked over at Danny and Danny smiled at the half grin.
"My aunt got them for me," he explained. They were quite frighteningly cute. They were also incredibly thick and warm and somewhat too small for him. But most importantly, they had made Rusty smile. Even if the smile was a little disbelieving and a little mocking. "I don't think she likes me very much," he added pensively.
Rusty smiled some more and Danny helped him struggle into the pyjamas. The shivering had lessened. The pain had faded, although Danny had a feeling that was mostly due to the drugs.
"You want to stay on the sofa or you want to lie in the bed?" he asked gently and Rusty curled in on himself fractionally and Danny hated the answer that he had.
"It's okay," he assured quickly. "We can stay here as long as you need."
Rusty looked at him.
Danny scowled. "You think I'm going to go sleep in the bed while you're here? Not going to happen, okay? I'm staying with you."
There was a pause. Danny sighed. "Because I want to," he said quietly and he didn't examine the simple truth that he couldn't do anything else.
Rusty nodded and his eyes were closed and his head tilted until it had fallen onto the arm of the sofa.
"Just a minute," Danny suggested and he pulled the blankets and the pillows off the bed and worked on fixing them so that Rusty could be as comfortable as possible.
The smile he was awarded warmed him in a way that nothing else ever could. "I'm full of good ideas," he pointed out lightly.
He curled on the far side of the sofa and watched Rusty drift towards sleep.
"Eventually we're going to have to talk about the fact that you're not talking," he said quietly.
Rusty didn't say anything.
Dad brandishes a piece of paper in his face. He only manages to focus on it for a second, but he's almost certain it's in Mom's handwriting. "You drove your mother away, you pathetic, selfish little bastard. She's gone."
"When will she be back?" he asks quietly, because Dad without Mom is harder to deal with.
Without warning Dad punches him in the face again and his head hits back against the wall. "She's not coming back! Moron!" His hand is around Rusty's throat and he leans in close, and Rusty can feel some long-forgotten part of himself crying inside. "She got so fed up of having to look after you all the time that she upped and walked out."
"No!" For a second he doesn't even realise he's spoken, until he's backhanded across the face, and he remembers that he's not supposed to argue with his betters.
"You're such a useless, pathetic, needy burden that your own mother couldn't be bothered with you," Dad continues and his tone demands no arguments.
Rusty keeps his mouth shut. Dad punches him in the stomach.
He watched Rusty sleep out of the corner of his eye and relaxed slightly as gradually the trembling faded and some of the tension left Rusty's face. Sleep was healing; Danny just wished it was a little more peaceful. Wished Rusty wasn't constantly turning over and over and stilling with each little movement. Rusty was in pain. Even while he was sleeping, Rusty was in pain and somehow, in some way, that hurt Danny too.
Rusty wasn't talking. And Danny didn't know why. Because if Rusty just wasn't willing to talk about what happened, they could work round that. They'd had to a few times before; there were always painful places. Danny thought of one of the times that he had been over at Rusty's place, and Rusty's mom had been sitting at the kitchen table, dressed only in her underwear, lighting matches and dropping them onto the floor, watching them burn with empty eyes. She hadn't even seemed to see him and Rusty when they crept into the kitchen to get some food, though he'd followed Rusty's example and kept well out of arm's reach. They'd never talked about that, but Danny had squeezed Rusty's hand tightly as they walked to the shops and a couple of Fudgsicles had fallen into his pocket for later.
But this was different. Larger, and Danny could feel the shape of the pain that was overshadowing them. Something too much for Rusty to shrug off the way he always had in the past.
It had never been this bad before. Not anytime Danny had seen. Not anytime Rusty had implied. And Rusty wasn't talking to him and that made Danny so scared. And it made him think they were doing the right thing handling it by themselves. Even if he did look at the physical and feel like screaming, even if he did want to drag Rusty to the doctors and make them look and make them do something, they had to rely on themselves. Because Danny didn't know what would happen if the authorities found out, but he thought that maybe they'd say that Rusty was crazy and maybe they'd take him away and lock him up someplace, and Danny knew how that would destroy Rusty. Knew how that would destroy them.
They were on their own. Like always.
Cautiously he reached out a hand and rested it in Rusty's hair being careful not to wake, not to startle. He needed the comfort.
It was only when he woke up a couple of hours later that he realised that he'd fallen asleep.
He was woken by Rusty falling on the floor with a moan of pain and frustration, and instantly Danny was on his feet, cursing himself. He shouldn't have drifted off. Not even for a second.
"You should have woken me," he scolded gently as he helped Rusty to his feet, and he winced as he realised the depths of pain and exhaustion. "What were you doing, anyway?"
In response Rusty glanced over Danny's shoulder towards the bathroom, and Danny realised that the silence hadn't passed yet. "You should have woken me," he repeated in a quieter voice. "Think you can manage - "
With a glare, Rusty nodded and stepped away from him. This time Danny was in time to catch him before he fell.
"I'll walk you there," he said firmly. He could see that Rusty couldn't put any weight on his feet. Could see that the mere fact of being awake was tiring him out. Could see the dull trembling in Rusty's limbs. He sighed. "Come on."
They hobbled across the floor and Danny waited just outside the door until he heard Rusty struggle with the flush and with a grimace, he stepped in and helped. Then he froze.
"Was that blood I saw?" he asked, fear in his voice.
Rusty shrugged in a way that meant yes, and leaned on the sink to wash his hands.
"We need to go to a doctor," Danny insisted. "That's not right."
There was a pause and Rusty turned to look at him and Danny could see the unconcern and the resignation and the acceptance. It had happened before. Rusty was used to it. "Oh," he said quietly. "Does it hurt?"
Rusty grinned. Right. Right. Compared to what?
He clenched his fists. "Fuck," he breathed in a voice that trembled. It was the worst word he knew. "I hate that bastard."
There was a second and he saw Rusty retreat, watched the animation vanish, the life fade. He watched Rusty shrink in on himself, saw the doubt and the uncertainty and the blame. He could almost hear the silent voice. I was bad. I got what was coming to me.
"You think there's anything in the world you could do that would make this okay?" he asked and his anger spiked. "You looked in a mirror lately, Rus'?"
Rusty's eyes stayed resolutely away from the bathroom mirror and the hand that gripped the edge of the sink tightened and trembled. Guilt hung in the air.
"You think this is about punishment?" Danny demanded. "He likes hurting you."
A quick turn of his head and there was anger on Rusty's face and none of it was directed where it belonged.
"I. Don't. Care," Danny hissed in a whisper. "Don't care what your parents say, don't care what my parents say. I wouldn't care if everyone who ever lived came here, right now, one by one and told me that you deserved it. They'd still be wrong and I'd still be right."
Rusty was staring at him.
Danny wouldn't be stopped. "If it was me, Rus'. If it was me. If my dad decided one day to hit me and hurt me until I couldn't walk across the floor, is there something that would make that alright with you?"
He watched the emotion play across Rusty's face, and for a moment he thought that Rusty would cry and then Rusty was sitting on the edge of the bath and Danny's arms were around him, holding as tight as he could without risking hurting. "I'm sorry," he whispered and he wasn't just apologising for what he'd said. "I'm so sorry."
They stayed like that for a moment and then Rusty carefully pulled away and Danny sighed and they stood up and stumbled back to the sofa.
"You need anything?" Danny asked, and Rusty shook his head.
Danny thought more carefully. "You want anything? More painkillers? Glass of water? Hot chocolate? Something to eat?"
Rusty didn't offer any kind of response, but Danny was aware of the flicker at the hot chocolate. "I'll make some for both of us. Think we still have some marshmallows."
Rusty smiled at him.
Pain explodes behind his eyes as the fist crashes into the side of his head.
"She got so fed up of you bothering her, talking all the time, annoying her, that she abandoned you, even though it meant leaving me. You understand that? You ruined her life. My life. You ruin everyone's life!"
He nods. He knows he did. Does. He's heard the story before.
"Your mom was a stupid little slut who got pregnant at fourteen. And I stood by her. Because that's what a real man does. Not that you'll ever know anything about that. Useless little sissy. That's right, we got you! A fucking, pathetic, crying piece of shit! And your mom's had seven years - "
" - nine," Rusty corrects stupidly because he knows how old he is, and the blow to his kidneys makes him curl tightly round the pain.
"Years of putting up with you. And now she's gone. Trying to get a better life for herself, and she's dumped you with me like the worthless trash you are. You got any reasons why I shouldn't just leave you too?"
His eyes are on the floor again and he wants to look up, wants to scream and shout that he is too worth something, that if he tries he can make people like him, that he could be good if he was given a chance, that he has Danny and Danny likes him, and that is more wonderful than Dad can ever imagine. "No sir, I don't" he whispers instead.
"No," Dad agrees. "No, and you know why? Because there aren't any. And I'm going to stay anyway, because a real man takes responsibility for his mistakes. Even though you're soft and useless and bad and you're never going to amount to anything. I'll stay even though you're the worst mistake the world's ever seen. Now what do you say?"
"Thank you," Rusty mutters, and he's almost knocked off his feet by the punch.
"For . . . ?" Dad prompts.
He thinks furiously about everything that he'd be grateful for if he wasn't the awful person Dad says he is.
"Thank you," he swallows and hates this, hates himself for saying it even as he hates himself for not feeling it. By any measure he is wrong. "Thank you for looking after me and letting me stay here even when I don't deserve it."
"And for giving you the punishment you deserve," Dad insists.
He stares at the floor and watches, fascinated as the blood drips onto the floor and forms a pattern.
"Say it, you little shit."
He hurts.
After a couple of false starts he managed to find a pan and stuck the milk on to heat. Outside he could see the beginnings of sunrise. A new day. Didn't feel like it. And that meant Mom could be home in the next few hours, and if the house still looked like the set for a horror movie, it wasn't completely unreasonable to think she might get upset. Not just for the upholstery.
With a sigh he left the milk and went and mopped the blood off the floor. Rusty's blood. It made him feel sick to think of it. Cleaning took a while, and then he remembered to turn over the cushions on the sofa in the living room. Looked a little misshapen when he'd finished with it, but he didn't think anyone would notice. And on the plus side, the living room carpet was dark enough not to show the blood. Somehow he doubted that had been his parents' rationale when they bought it.
As soon as he stepped back into the kitchen he was aware of the smell of something burning. Oh. Fuck. The milk had boiled over, boiled dry, and was generally completely incapable of being made into hot chocolate. And the pan was probably incapable of ever being used again. Sighing, he dumped the whole mess in the sink and started over.
He is knocked to the floor and he doesn't even know exactly where Dad hit him. After a while the pain melts together.
Surprised, when no more blows fall, he looks up. Dad is more angry than he's ever seen him. "Take your clothes off," Dad orders while he takes off his own belt.
Rusty shakes his head and tries to get to his feet and when that doesn't work he crawls towards the door. Dad grabs the back of his jumper, pulls him to his feet and hauls the jumper over his head. He goes to pull Rusty's pants off and Rusty bites him in the arm.
He sees the fist coming but he can't dodge and for a while the world is painted in shades of grey and he is helpless.
It was another twenty minutes before he managed to stagger back upstairs to Rusty, laden down with two mugs of hot chocolate, a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a bag of marshmallows.
Rusty looked a little amused as he nudged the door open with his foot.
"Practising to be a waiter," Danny explained ."Or a room service guy."
Rusty frowned.
"You know, like in hotels? With the trolley? You've seen them on TV."
He watched the understanding bloom and he smiled and pressed one of the mugs into Rusty's hands. "More painkillers?" he asked gently and he didn't wait for the answering nod before he grabbed the bottle, shook a couple of pills out and passed them over. "How's your back?"
Rusty shrugged painfully and Danny figured that meant "It hurts and I'm not showing you."
He sighed and accepted. "We can put some more of that cream on in another couple of hours. You think that'll help?"
Another shrug and this one seemed to signify vague agreement. Least something was helping.
He looked closely at Rusty. The pain was still sharp but the exhaustion had lessened and he didn't think that Rusty would be going back to sleep immediately. And he didn't want there to be silence, thought, somehow, that silence would be a very bad idea, but he didn't want to be sitting here, coming up with stupid, positive things to say that didn't demand that Rusty talk to him before he was ready.
Considering, he wandered over to his bookcase and grabbed the first book he saw that he was positive Rusty hadn't read. He hadn't read it either. It had been a birthday, present, a couple of years back. From the same aunt who gave him those pyjamas, actually.
Book in hand, he carefully settled on the couch, close enough to touch and not actually touching and he pulled the duvet up and over both of them.
Rusty was laughing at him. He resisted the urge to stick out his tongue, opened the book and started to read aloud.
"It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful."
He managed to resist the urge to laugh. Or cry.
He is stripped and dragged to the bed. Dad drops him over the edge, and he tries to get up, tries to run, (and he wants to run to Danny, wants to see the way Danny looks at him, as if it matters, as if it all matters)
There is a crack and a line of pain rips into his back where the belt tears into him. He is horrified to hear himself cry, a noise of pain and shock and hurt and bewilderment.
This has never happened before. Dad is about the immediate; Rusty does something wrong he gets punched or kicked or slapped as soon as the thought is in Dad's mind. This is different punishment and it hurts and he is afraid.
"Fuck, boy, no wonder your mom left. You're such a cry baby." He cringes at the justified disgust in Dad's voice and clenches his fists at the satisfaction. He will not make another sound, he resolves. He will not cry and he will not whimper and he will not scream. Not because he wants to act tough or because he thinks it will make Dad happy. Not even because he understands that noise brings more pain – and as if in answer to the thought the belt comes down on him again and again and the pain burns deep into him.
No. He will not make a sound because he chooses not to.
He read. "Occasionally one come across parents who take the opposite line, who show no interest at all in their children and these of course are far worse than the doting ones. Mr and Mrs Wormwood were two such parents. They had a son called Michael and a daughter called Matilda and the parents looked upon Matilda in particular as nothing more than a scab. A scab is something you have to put up with until the time comes when you can pick it off and flick it away. Mr and Mrs Wormwood looked forward enormously to the time when they could pick their little daughter off and flick her away, preferably into the next county or even further than that.
It is bad enough when parents treat ordinary children as though they were scabs and bunions but it becomes somehow a lot worse when the child is extra-ordinary, and by that I mean sensitive and brilliant."
Pausing and ignoring the thoughts and the echo that rippled through him, he realised that Rusty was looking at him.
"Sorry," he said, and he made sure that Rusty could see the apology was genuine. "Never read this before. Seriously, Rus', I wasn't trying to make some secret point about your parents. It's just what the book says."
Rusty continued to look at him, and his expression . . .
Danny's lips set in a thin line. "It is not about me," he snapped and they both froze as they heard the front door open.
In terrible silence they listened as Danny's mom walked up the stairs and neither of them so much as breathed until they heard her walk past Danny's door and into the master bedroom.
Danny sighed with relief. "She'll be going to sleep for a few hours and then she'll wake up and head into work," he explained. "Probably about eleven, that's what's happened the last couple of times she was gone all night. If we're careful and quiet, she'll probably leave again without ever noticing us."
He picked the book up and Rusty was looking at him again. "It's not about me," he insisted. "They don't treat me like . . . they're busy, is all. Both of them. They've got lives and they're busy and every time I get in trouble, or whatever, it takes them away from what's important. Can't blame them for being upset."
He looked down at the book but the words blurred in front of his eyes. "It's not the same, Rus', really. Anyway I'm not some helpless little kid like her." He waved the book vaguely.
There was a second of hurt, and he got it instantly. "Of course I don't think you are," he protested indignantly and the thought had never crossed his mind. Rusty was the toughest person he knew. "It's a different thing, is all. And when it's just about being ignored or whatever, it doesn't matter in the same way. No-one's hurt."
He avoided Rusty's steady gaze.
"This coming from you?" he demanded instead. He sighed. "It's different, okay?"
Rusty nodded and leaned back against the arm of the chair. He closed his eye and Danny could see the pain dulling him.
"Besides," Danny went on lightly with only the barest pause. "How come I get to be extraordinary?"
Rusty's eyes snapped open and Danny's breath caught in his throat as he saw the answer in them; straightforward and matter-of-fact and overwhelming.
"Oh," he said in helpless wonder and Rusty smiled at him.
"Stupid little shit!" Dad's voice comes from above him and the belt buckle tears into him again and again and again, "I'll make you sorry for driving your mother away."
He is sorry. He's very sorry. And he never meant to.
"You're always whining about something. Always wanting something. Christ, you never shut up. Can you blame her for wanting nothing to do with a snivelling brat like you? Fuck, boy, can't you just learn to be good?"
There is nothing but pain and Dad's voice, and maybe he is wrong, maybe Danny is wrong, maybe Dad just wants him to be better because the anger is real and so is the frustration and if he could just be good . . .
Rusty fell asleep again, shortly after they heard Danny's mom get up and leave for work. For once, Danny didn't pretend not to notice Rusty's anxiety or the way he tensed or the way he shook, and instead he put an arm over Rusty's shoulders and whispered again his certainty that Mom would leave without ever coming in to see him. He was right. That didn't make it easier.
The fact that Rusty was afraid of Danny's parents was another one of those painful places that they didn't choose to confront. Danny knew perfectly well that it had little to do with his actual parents and far more to do with Rusty's instinctive, awful fear of all adults. Even the ones they liked and Danny trusted. He thought of a couple of weeks ago and the cake that Mabel had made for Rusty's birthday and Rusty had been so happy – shining – and Danny had thought he'd never believe Mabel when she insisted that the cake was for him, and then, once that had sank in, he'd thought Rusty would never stop thanking her. He'd been so wonderfully happy. And still when Mabel, beaming with an uninhibited joy of her own, had reached out as if to pull Rusty into a fierce hug, Rusty had cringed and flinched back out of reach, and Danny had needed to think quickly and had loudly burst one of the balloons to cover the moment. And that had been Mabel and Danny's parents were very much not.
But Rusty was more afraid of Danny's parents than he was of other adults, and it had taken some time for Danny to figure out why and longer still for him to accept the reason. Because, yes, there was the fear that Rusty had in general, the simple acceptance he'd acquired throughout his life that anyone could turn round and hurt him any time and for any reason, and there was nothing he could do about it. But there was more than that.
There was a sound, a gasp, a whimper and he looked round sharply to see Rusty huddled in on himself a little tighter, and he could see the trembling, the jerky movements, he could see the nightmare.
"Wake up, Rus'," he said, gentle and insistent, and he reached over and laid a hand on Rusty's shoulder. "Wake up. It's okay. You're safe, I promise. I'm here."
With a muffled cry, Rusty sat straight up, away from Danny, and he looked frantically, stared anxiously at Danny, studying every inch of him, and there was fear and panic and confusion, and it took Danny a few seconds to figure out the why.
"Oh, Rusty," he sighed. "I'm fine, okay? No-one hurt me. No-one laid a finger on me. It was a dream."
Rusty's eyes were wide and he didn't look convinced.
Danny cursed himself for his stupid words earlier. Should've known better. Because Rusty was more afraid of Danny's parents than he was of other adults, and it had taken Danny a long time to realise that while Rusty was afraid that one day they'd turn round and hurt him, he was terrified that one day they'd turn round and hurt Danny.
"No-one hurt me," he repeated and with everything he didn't feel, he made his tone light. "Really, Dorothy, it was just a dream."
Rusty smiled slightly and relaxed a little, and really he was still asleep, he'd never woken up properly at all, and Danny reached out an arm and wrapped it round Rusty's shoulders and drew him close and he was asleep again in a instant, and probably he'd never even know that he was lying in Danny's arms, his head snug against Danny's chest. Safe. Warm. Cared for.
Dad stops at last, decades later, and he turns and leaves the room without a word. Rusty slips onto the ground and with Herculean effort he drags himself under the bed by his fingertips and curls against the wall, making himself as small as possible, being invisible.
He hurts. He hurts so much.
Danny was warm and comfortable and so deeply asleep that when the door crashed open at first, confused and befuddled, he wondered if the house was falling down. Then the yelling started and he realised that he must have been asleep for hours, for long enough for his mom to finish work and get home.
"Daniel! The pan in the sink is completely ruined. When will you learn to take more care . . . "
Suddenly she stopped, staring at them and Danny became aware that Rusty's head was resting in his lap, that his hand was tangled in Rusty's hair, that his other arm was wrapped round Rusty's chest, and Mom was staring at them and he didn't understand the look on her face.
And Rusty was awake, had in all probability woken up when the door slammed open, and he was tense and frozen, (like he was afraid the werewolf had found them) and when Danny looked down his eyes were blank and empty and Danny's heart clenched. His eyes went back to his mom, still stopped in the doorway and he didn't look away, even as his hand moved up, even as he gripped Rusty's shoulder, even as he offered silent reassurance, he met her gaze and didn't blink.
Then Rusty sat up quickly and Danny knew the sudden movement was painful, and his arm was around his ribs and his breathing was harsh and ragged and Danny's mom was staring at his face, and she couldn't see much, she couldn't possibly see too much, just the bruises, the worst was all safely hidden.
After an unbearable second, Mom turned back to look at him and there was no emotion on his face and he didn't even fully understand the challenge he was offering, but she flushed and left the room without saying anything else.
That was what he wanted. What they wanted. And so he really couldn't explain the terrible feeling of betrayal that overwhelmed him.
He turned and smiled at Rusty. Everything was fine. Everything was just fine.
After time has passed and nothing has happened, he creeps out from under the bed and pulls his clothes back on. He needs to get out of here. Needs to. Needs.
He puts his ear to the bedroom door and he can't hear any noise coming from the living room so he quietly opens the door and sneaks, limps, towards the front door. Towards away. Every step is pain and he is concentrating so hard on not making a sound that he doesn't even see his dad until the man is in front of him, swaying, a bottle clutched in his hand. Drunk, where before he was sober.
"Look at you," Dad's voice is full of disgust and contempt and he can only be happy that Dad doesn't seem to see the flinch. "Fuck, you're pathetic. Just like your fucking mother. You think she's going to find that better life? Think she can survive without me? She'll be back scratching at the door, begging me to take her back. Think I'm going to? Fuck, I'm better off without that bitch. Just wish she'd taken you with her, that's all."
Rusty isn't going to say anything. Isn't. He's going to be good. And he thinks that maybe if he opens his mouth, even for a second, he'll scream and scream and never stop.
Rusty slept for most of the rest of the night and every time he woke up Danny would offer whatever combination of painkillers, ointment, food and drink seemed appropriate. The bandages on Rusty's arm bled through a couple of times and Danny changed them as best he could and he knew how it hurt. At least Rusty's back seemed to have stopped bleeding. Mostly. As long as he didn't move around too much. But the wounds were ugly and painful and everytime Danny looked at them he felt an overwhelming mixture of helplessness and fury.
It had been more than a day, and he was coping with the silence. It was surprising what you could live with. And he didn't want Rusty to be anymore afraid or uncomfortable than was inevitable, didn't want to pressurise Rusty into anything, didn't want to hurt, didn't want to make anything worse – but deep inside, this was killing him. Of course it was. They'd always been able to talk to each other. Right from the start, and that was a lifetime ago, they'd lived in constant communication. There was always something to say. Always some thought to be shared, some joke to be made. Words were to comfort and to hide behind and if that wasn't working, Danny was frightened. Danny was very frightened.
They drank hot chocolate. He read.
"'Of course she did it,' Miss Trunchbull boomed. 'And I'll tell you what. I wish to heavens I was still allowed to use the birch and belt as I did in the good old days! I'd have roasted Matilda's bottom for her so she couldn't sit down for a month!'"
There was a change in the atmosphere. Rusty shifted uncomfortably against the sofa.
Danny froze in sudden revelation. A picture formed in his mind. Long cuts and welts. Red, livid, bloody. Leather and metal raining down pain on the vulnerable, the defenceless.
Rusty stared at him anxiously.
"He hit you with a belt," Danny said and he barely recognised his own voice. "He hit you with a belt."
Rusty's eyes were clouded with pain and memory, and still Danny could see the beginnings of attempted denial, the claims that, really, it wasn't such a big deal after all.
"Rus'," Danny shook his head and held back the angry, frustrated tears by an effort of will. "He shouldn't. It's wrong. He whipped you. It's wrong." He didn't know any words big enough for how wrong it was. Didn't know there were any. Didn't think that there was any way of explaining how this tore him up inside, how he wanted to be able to protect Rusty, how he wanted things to be different, how he wanted to make things different.
Rusty looked away from him and Danny reached out to grip his hand and Rusty pulled it away with an angry gesture.
"No!" Danny was adamant. "Listen to me, Rusty. You're . . . you're my friend. And that means I care about what happens to you. I . . . I care about you. And this is wrong, you understand that? Tell me you understand that."
Rusty was shaking his head, not exactly in response to what Danny was saying.
"I don't know all the details?" Danny echoed the thought incredulously. "Rus', there is nothing you could do that could make this all right. And I already told you, there's nothing that'll convince me otherwise."
There was a flicker of something in Rusty's eyes, and, encouraged, Danny pressed on.
"It wasn't your fault, Rusty," he promised. "I don't need to know what happened to be able to tell you that. And I don't care what they said to you. It wasn't your fault."
He watched Rusty consider that and then it all got locked away, and he could see the moment that followed, the moment when Rusty needed, wanted, and he waited for a hopeful second, in case Rusty made the first move, but even as he watched that too was locked away and Danny had to act quickly and he leaned over, brushed his shoulder against Rusty's, comfortably, comfortingly,
"It wasn't your fault," he said again.
Rusty didn't answer. But he laid his hand on the book and, with a smile, Danny picked it up and started reading again.
"Miss Honey turned and walked out of the study feeling depressed but by no means defeated. I am going to do something about this child, she told herself. I don't know what it will be, but I shall find a way to help her in the end."
Dad leans forwards and Rusty jumps back and trembles and he can smell the alcohol and he wants to be far away from here. "You mother's a stupid slut, boy," Dad confides. "All women are. She'll be off rubbing up against anyone who'll take her in for the night, you'll see." His voice is pleased and he holds up the bottle. "Want a drink?"
Rusty shakes his head. No. Definitely not.
Dad doesn't listen or doesn't care and he forces the mouth of the bottle against Rusty's lips. It burns him and the combination of blood and alcohol almost makes him gag.
"Fuck, you're worthless," Dad says and his voice is wondering. He turns away and Rusty seizes his chance and takes a couple of steps back, closer to the door.
Dad turns back and sees him looking, sees him leaving. His expression turns ugly. "You don't leave," he snarls, and he swings the bottle hard towards Rusty's head.
Rusty barely manages to get his arm up in time to protect himself and the glass shatters and falls around him like rain.
Danny leaned against the window and the glass was cool on his face. He was so tired. He didn't think he'd ever been this tired in his life. And the sun was rising and it was another day.
"Mom left."
The voice was quiet and came out of nowhere and Danny froze and even as part of him rejoiced, wanted to shout with happiness, he was moving on in his mind to what was important. There was nothing but sympathy on his face as he turned round. No surprise. No elation. Nothing to suggest that Rusty talking was in any way unusual.
"Oh, Rus'," he sighed and he sat back down on the sofa.
"It was my fault," Rusty said quietly, not looking at him and before Danny could say anything he continued. "She said so. She . . . she was fed up of looking after me."
'When did she ever', Danny wanted to ask, and he winced as Rusty glanced at him and frowned.
"She does," Rusty protested. "She buys food and she writes notes for school when I get too hurt. And she must have done other stuff once. Before I got old enough to look after myself."
Danny sighed. "That isn't - "
" - I used to talk to her, Danny," Rusty said, as if he was admitting to some terrible secret. "I knew it annoyed her and I'd do it anyway. And she got fed up and she left and Dad was angry with me."
"And he hurt you," Danny stated, feeling the cold fury burn deep inside him.
"He woke me up and he hit me a couple of times, and then he got his belt out." Rusty stopped and shuddered and Danny could feel the pain and the misery. "He got his belt out and he . . he . . . " Danny watched as Rusty shook his head and got himself back under tight control. "I drove Mom away and now he's stuck with me. Can't blame him for being angry."
Danny's fists were clenched. "Rus' . . . "
Rusty looked at him, sharp and desperate. "I deserved this, Danny. I did."
"You don't have to put up with this," Danny tried.
Rusty seemed to find that almost amusing. "What am I going to do?"
There was a pause and then they both spoke at once, voices overlapping and the only thing that mattered was making the point.
"He hits - "
" - he never wanted - "
" - you think that - "
" - I'm not exactly - "
" - I'll never - "
" - he's got every right - "
" - there's nothing - "
" - he hurts me, Danny." There was a pause and the admission hung in the air. "He hurts me so much," and Rusty's voice was a whisper and then he turned away and his shoulders were shaking and with a stab, Danny realised that Rusty was crying.
He'd never seen Rusty cry before. Not once.
Gently he leans over and he pulls Rusty back, into his arms, and he holds him close and lets him cry and he whispers the only words of comfort he has.
"I'm here, Rus', I'm here and I'm not going to leave you. Not ever."
Dad is momentarily off-balance and Rusty ignores the pain and the feeling that he's bleeding more than he ought to and he runs for the door, fear and need letting him do just a little more than should be possible.
"You tell your friends about this, you make sure you tell them you had it coming!" Dad shouts after him and Rusty rejoices that he isn't being followed.
The landing is cold and he pauses, shaking and already exhausted, at the top of the stairs. He is being watched and he turns round just in time to see Mrs Garcia slam her door shut hurriedly. Fair enough. He hates the way she looks at him anyway.
He wants to sit down and knows he can't, because if he lets himself rest right now he'll never be able to get up again. Hurts too much to think about resting. He staggers downstairs, leaning on the wall and leaving a little trail of bloodied handprints on the paintwork.
Danny, he decides. He will go to Danny and he feels proud of himself for making it sound as though he had a choice.
Right now he craves the comfort that Danny is, the warmth and affection that no one else will ever offer him.
He will go to Danny.
And eventually he will tell Danny the truth. That he had it coming.
Hours had passed and Rusty hadn't said another word. And that was all right. It was.
From downstairs he heard the front door opening and closing and he smiled in genuine happiness. Dad must be home at last. Eagerly he started towards the hall and as soon as his hand was on the door, he heard his mom's voice.
"Oh, look what the cat's dragged in. Do you have any idea what that son of yours has done now? He's completely out of control and - "
As the shouting began, Danny turned away from the door.
Rusty was asleep on the sofa, sprawled out on his stomach. He looked peaceful. He looked young. Danny's heart ached.
Downstairs the argument raged. Danny closed his eyes and, impulsively, brushed a kiss against Rusty's cheek.
When he opened his eyes Rusty was staring at him, wide-eyed and without even the beginnings of understanding. His fingers traced over his cheek where Danny had kissed him.
And Danny thought about trying to explain, thought about trying to put into words what he felt, but he didn't understand that himself.
Instead he dropped to the floor in front of the sofa and leaned his head back, and he could feel Rusty's breath against his hair.
There was angry screaming below them and they sat in silence and Danny wondered about a world where the werewolves won.