3 – Used to the Pain

I'd like to believe in the healing hands of time
But the truth is I really can't say if
I'm getting better or just used to the pain.

Another day, another black eye, he thought bitterly. If only his mother would learn to not antagonize his father, unintentionally or otherwise. But he couldn't blame his mother, not really. Her heart was in the right place, usually. How was it her fault that her attempts at making peace always backfired? He couldn't hold her accountable for his father's lack of compassion.

Wes reached into his secret stash of pilfered makeup. He was lucky that he and his mother shared the same Casper the Friendly Ghost complexion, so it was easy to hijack a half-empty bottle here and there without raising alarm. As he dug through the assorted bottles looking for the concealer, weariness settled over him. How many times had he stood like this, hurting and lost, staring into one mirror or another, looking at that same, battered face? Hating it, the bruises, and himself?

"Fuck it," he muttered, shocking his inner censor with his choice of epithets.

Roughly, he shoved the bottles littering his bathroom sink back into the bag he'd pulled them out of. It just wasn't worth it, so why should he bother? It was only a matter of time before his father lost his temper yet again, lost his job, and forced them all to move on the fly. Rinse and repeat.

He was done with pretending, done with trying to appear like his home life was normal, happy, loving. Wes was tired, plain and simple. Who cared if the kids surrounding him saw the purplish discoloration ringing his left eye? Or the Dr. Frankenstein-like stitches dotting his lower lip, courtesy of his mother's trembling hand? What would they say that he hadn't heard a hundred times before? It wasn't like there was anything they could do, honestly. Truth be told, he'd looked worse. He'd taken worse beatings, the most recent of which being the cause for their sudden move to southern California.

There was no amount of makeup that could hide the truth. Eventually someone would figure it out and the police would come, or a social worker. They'd play the perfect family, laughing at the accusations leveled at his father. 'Dad' would playfully rub his head, acting the part to the fullest, fooling everyone but his ill-treated family. The same old song and dance, again and again.

Wesley Mitchell was done hiding, finished playing dangerous games. Pretending had gotten him exactly nowhere. Maybe honesty was a better road to follow?

"Dude. Who'd you piss off? The Hulk?"

Wes looked up from his health homework and into the swirling depths of Travis Marks' slate-colored eyes. He looked away quickly, afraid to get drawn in again. Terrified to start wanting what he couldn't have. Emotions weren't safe, they were weak. They caused you to make stupid mistakes, like confessing the horrors of your home life during a lull in second period. "It's nothing." Nothing that anyone can stop anyway.

Sinking heavily into his seat, Travis leaned over, touching the tips of his fingers to Wes' jaw. "Don't look like 'nothing' to me, man. You get in a fight?" He turned the blonde's face side to side, assessing the damage done. Cataloguing the injuries. Black eye, split lip.

Shrugging, Wes struggled for nonchalance. "Something like that, it's not important."

"The hell it isn't. Did you start it? Wait, did someone jump your preppy ass? Do I need to go beat some punk down?" Travis had leaned forward, invading Wes' space, searching for answers.

Wes retreated as far as the confines of his desk would allow. "I don't need you to defend me, stand up for me or protect my honor, okay? I said it wasn't important and it's not. Let it go."

Travis sat back into his chair, studying the injured boy beside him. Protect his honor, indeed. There was something in the way he held himself, the deflection of his concern, that led him to believe that Wes wasn't telling him the whole story, that it was much more than 'just a fight'. That much was obvious to anyone who paid even the tiniest bit of attention to this lost soul. What Travis wanted to know, needed to know, was why was Wes blaming himself for whatever it was? How was such a straight laced kid responsible for the obvious beat down he took?

Self-hatred was plastered all over blondie's manner, from the way he refused to meet Travis' eyes to the way he deemphasized his injuries. Defensive posture, self-deprecating dialogue, deflecting. Classic signs of abuse were everywhere if you knew how to look. Travis knew. "You can tell me, you know."

A flicker of blue eyes under golden lashes, followed quickly by a frustrated sigh. "I don't want to talk about this. Or to you. Especially not to you about this. Understand? Can we just… let it go, please?"

The 'pretend like I don't look like I've just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson' was left unspoken. But Travis knew it was there. He'd been down that road once or twice, back in the days when that one foster mom refused to believe her precious son-by-birth could ever be responsible for the random, unexplainable bruises that were appearing more and more regularly on her temporary charges. "Okay, buttercup, I'll leave you alone for now. But, you change your mind and…"

"Travis, I won't." He was firm, voice steady. He almost had himself convinced. The thought of letting go and just telling someone… it was a temptation too good to resist. But it was also a trap. He'd learned that one the hard way. Maybe things could be different here in California? No…

Travis held up his hands, signaling a temporary surrender. "All right, but the offer remains open, use it or not."

Stupid, stupid, stupid! It seemed that this latest beating had addled his brain. How could he even think he could get away with not covering up his father's handiwork? Maybe he could get home, sneak into his room, and repair the damage before anyone noticed. Maybe.

But Travis had noticed, hadn't he? Wes had a sinking feeling that his new classmate was not going to let this go, no matter how much he begged. Marks played the fool, but he was much more observant than he let on. He'd proved that in spades earlier today.

On the other hand, it had felt good when he offered to personally thrash whoever was responsible for his injuries. So. Damn. Good. It'd taken every ounce of self-control to keep from melting into a puddle at Marks' feet. There wasn't anything to be gained by going down that alley for sure. If he thought the beating he got last night was bad, it'd pale in comparison to the one his father would dole out upon hearing he was falling for another boy. Not a pretty thought.

But still. Travis had offered. How'd that saying go? It was the thought that counted.

Wes had managed to keep that secret from everyone so far, not that he'd ever really had any friends to confess something so serious and personal to. The fewer people that knew about his inadvertent crushes on his male schoolmates, the better, he figured. If there were no witnesses, did it really happen? It helped that he never got close enough to anyone for his latent attraction issues to become a problem.

Until now.

Until meeting the irritating, aggravating, obnoxious, and so gosh-freaking-darn-sexy-that-it-hurt Travis Marks. Travis had thrown everything into chaos and it hadn't taken him more than five minutes and one toothy smile to do it in. A heart breaking world record.

Despite the way he annoyed Wes with his constant teasing and overly put-on bravado, Travis was intrinsically charming. And well, if he was honest with himself, a bit funny, too. He was a hormonal accident waiting to happen, and Wes had to steer clear. No matter how handsome or amiable he might be, Wes absolutely, positively could not fall in love with this boy without boundaries.

And yet… thoughts of that very same boy continually crossed his mind. In class. While studying. At dinner. Dear god, did they ever keep him occupied during meals…

Wes was screwed. So very, very screwed.

If I'm going down, he thought warily, you're going with me, pal.

If asked, he'd deny it, emphatically. But here, alone in his room, looking out the window at a cinder block wall, Travis couldn't refute it. The boy had gotten under his skin in a serious way. He didn't know how or why, but he needed to get Wes to come clean about his situation, ASAP, before he did something utterly stupid – like kissing that badly stitched lower lip until it was all better. And then kissing it again, for good measure.

Because that was just what Wes Mitchell needed, right? A good and thorough kissing, to cure what ailed him.

His math homework called to him, but he ignored it. He'd long since given up trying to concentrate today. After seeing the state of Wes' face this morning, he'd been unable to think of little else. Travis couldn't think of anyone in the school that would have singled him out so quickly for a beat down. Yeah, he could be a conceited, know-it-all prick, but he was also rather good at becoming invisible when he needed to. Unassuming, he thought the word was. Smiling, he thought he'd ask blondie about that tomorrow.

He needed answers and he needed them fast. Travis also knew that this wasn't going to be easy. Blondie's lips were sealed tighter than that fine ass of his was… which was pretty tight, from what he could discern. He welcomed the challenge, however. Wes had issues, that much was obvious, but somewhere underneath that tightly-wound exterior, there was a desperate boy waiting to get out. Looking for an escape route.

Travis could help him.

Travis had to help him.

He had no idea why, just that he needed to save Wes from himself and soon. Help the boy first, sort out the reasons why later. Much later. Preferably while curled up beside his pale, preppy self, drowsing in the afternoon sun.

He just knew that Wes didn't deserve the beating he'd taken. No one deserved that sort of treatment, no matter how much of a tight ass they were on occasion.

His attention wandered back to his abandoned math book. Travis sighed, flashing that patented panty dropping smile he was known for and apologized to the empty room around him. "Sorry algebra II, it's over. It's not you, it's me. So, I'll see ya around, right?"

Tossing the book from his desk to the vicinity of his backpack resting on his bed, he left his room – and his schoolwork – to their own devices. He had more pressing things on his mind right now.