Hurt

Remy buried his head under the covers, fighting the wakefulness seeping into his mind; eyes tightly shut, he clung to the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness. He wasn’t ready to face the world again, not yet, but even his own mind was betraying him, refusing to hold onto the nothingness he craved.

Pushing the covers aside with a frustrated groan, Remy squinted his eyes against the late afternoon sun pouring in through the unclosed blinds and reticently rolled out of bed, yanking his sunglasses off the nightstand and settling them gratefully over his sensitive eyes.

Stumbling down the stairs to the living room, he settled on the couch with a sigh and drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. Letting his mind wander, he idly picked at the half-healed cut just visible under the ratty sleeve of his sweater, smiling ruefully as the cut was reopened, blood dripping onto his jeans.

It hurt, but not nearly bad enough…not enough to convince him that he was still capable of feeling; truly feeling. Ever since he had returned home, maybe even before, he had felt numb. His emotional resources had been used up in his fight for survival and he was empty…only able to feel the hate and anger of his former friends, and not even that now, their painful emotions blocked out by his impenetrable mental shields.

Getting up from the couch, Remy shuffled into the boathouse’s disused kitchen. Pulling open one of the cabinets, eyes closed against the blinding sun coming through the kitchen windows, he reached out blindly, hand falling on the object of his search on the first attempt. Clutching the battered box, he returned to the living room, settling on the floor with his back against the couch.

Opening the battered box, he selected one of the wickedly sharp razor blades and set the rest carefully on the floor by his side. Sighing, he pushed up the left sleeve of his ratty, oversized sweater and turned his hand palm up, baring the tender flesh of his forearm. Smiling sadly he ran the fingers of his right hand over the myriad of cuts from elbow to wrist – each in a different stage of healing – and selected a suitable spot.

Holding the blade as firmly as he could in his shaking hand, he drew the blade across his wrist, pressing hard enough that he was forced to sink his teeth into his bottom lip to stifle a cry of pain. Letting the bloodied blade fall from his hand onto the hardwood floor, Remy let out a sigh of relief. It had hurt. He had felt it, truly felt it.

Letting his head fall back against the couch, Remy held up his bleeding wrist, studying it as the blood dripped onto his sweater. He had felt it, he really had, he could touch the bleeding cut and feel the pain if he wanted to. His soul wasn’t dead, not yet, just sleeping…hibernating in the cold of Antarctica.

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Logan watched surreptitiously from the corner of his eye as Remy picked at the food on his plate, not eating, just pushing everything around halfheartedly. The kid looked horrible…exhausted, pale and way too thin. It was the first time Logan had seen him in over a week; the boy never bothered to come to dinner anymore, or any other mealtime for that matter, and was only present at this gathering because Ororo had insisted.

There was something not right about the kid, other then the obvious sickliness of his appearance. The boy used to be a social butterfly, happiest when he was surrounded by people, but tonight he hadn’t said a word and had put as much space as possible between himself and everyone else at the table. And there was something else Logan couldn’t quite put his finger on; the kid smelled wrong and Logan was sure he smelled blood.

Watching the boy, Logan could almost feel the tenseness in the kid’s muscles, the boy looked like he was ready to fight…or run. Casting a quick glance around the table, Logan noticed that no one else appeared to have noticed the boy’s strange behavior.

Looking back, Logan was startled to notice that Remy had abandoned his seat at the table and was heading out the kitchen door, his departure seemingly unnoticed by the rest of the group. There was definitely something going on with the kid, something big, and Logan was more than willing to put money on it having to do with the boy’s unexpected return from Antarctica.

If there was one thing Logan knew, it was what it felt like to be abandoned, left alone without even a single friend in the world, and he was damned if he was going to let the boy suffer. The kid had already suffered more abuse and neglect than anyone should ever have had to deal with; he didn’t need to add one more betrayal to that list.

Shoving his chair back from the table hard enough to make every set of eyes at the table snap around to stare at him, Logan stalked out of the room, leaving the rest of the mansion’s residents to stare in shock at his retreating back.

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Settling back on the couch, Remy dug into the pocket of his well-worn jeans, pulling out his favorite lighter, and grabbed a cigarette out of the half-empty pack on the end table. Lighting it with shaking hands, he inhaled deeply, the familiar habit steadying him.

Closing his eyes, Remy imagined that he was dead, not at all surprised to find that it didn’t feel much different than being alive. He could already feel the confidence he had gained earlier in the day slipping away, the numbness seeping in to replace it. He felt detached…empty.

Shaking his head to force the thoughts away, he roughly shoved the sleeve of his sweater up and squeezed his wrist roughly, relieved when the pressure ruptured the scab covering his most recent cut and started it bleeding again, the pain sharp…real. Letting out a shaky breath, he closed his eyes in relief, letting his head fall forward, overly-long bangs falling in front of his eyes.

Grabbing another cigarette from the quickly diminishing pack, Remy lit it from the smoldering butt of the first. Taking a grateful drag, he absentmindedly charged the butt of the previous cigarette, tossing it into the fireplace where it exploded with a burst of sparks, setting the logs it had been thrown on top of burning.

Remy basked in the heat of the newly creatire,ire, his shaking eased somewhat by the warmth. It wasn’t that cold out, he knew that, but he couldn’t convince his body that that was the case. Scooting off the couch, he settled on the floor in front of the fireplace, staring into the fire, mesmerized by the flickering flames.

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Remy was startled out of a fitful doze by the sound of someone insistently knocking on the boathouse door. Paralyzed with indecision, he sat perfectly still, trying to decide if he wanted to face whoever was on the other side of the door. His visitor certainly wouldn’t have come because they actually wanted to see him…more likely they just remembered something else they wanted to yell at him about. But ignoring the world wouldn’t make it go away, no matter how much he wished that weren’t the case; better to just get it over with and go back to sleep. Getting to his feet with a weary sigh, Remy shuffled to the door and opened it without bothering to see who was outside first.

“Hey, Gumbo,” Logan said softly. He didn’t want to startle the kid since it looked like Remy wasn’t altogether there at the moment; the lights were on, but nobody was home.

Unable to answer, Remy stared in shocked silence. Logan was the last person he had expected to see, but it stood to reason that he would have to face him eventually.

Seeing that he wasn’t going to get an answer, Logan forged ahead. “Can I come in?”

Nodding, Remy stepped aside, unsure of what to say. Returning to his spot in front of the fire, he pulled a cigarette from the now empty pack and lit it. Pointedly ignoring his visitor, he charged the empty package and tossed it into the dying fire, sending a shower of sparks across the floor as it exploded with a pop.

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Logan stood transfixed as the fire flared, the influx of light picking out the copper highlights in the boy’s tousled hair and making his eyes glow a fiery red before the flames died down. Shocked, he stood in silence. He had, of course, noticed that Remy was undeniably attractive before, but in the light of the fire with his hair mussed and that soft scowl on his face he was breathtaking; all attitude and deadly beauty.

“Ain’t seen ya nd tnd the mansion lately…” Logan said softly, moving to sit down on the couch behind the sulking boy.

“So? Ain’t no rule says I hafta be dere,” Remy shot back without turning around, shoulders tense in a classic defensive posture.

“Yeah, that’s true. Just wonderin’ what you’ve been up to, that’s all,” Logan replied easily, not allowing himself to be riled by the boy’s hostility.

“Get to de point, Logan. What do you want?” Remy snapped, finally turning to look at the other man.

“I told ya, already. Just wanted to come see ya, find out what ya been doin’,” Logan answered lightly, looking the boy straight in the eyes.

“Yeah, well, I don’ want you here…don’ want anyone here,” Remy huffed, staring at the burning tip of his half-smoked cigarette.

“Ya know what I think?” Logan asked seriously, not expecting a response and not getting one. “I think you’re not really mad at me…you’re scared.”

Logan could see Remy’s eyes snap up to meet his under the cover of long bangs, head still bowed. “Know how I know that?” Logan asked softly, never breaking the boy’s stare.

He had the kid’s attention now; Remy hadn’t moved, but his breathing had slowed almost to a halt and a look of guarded curiosity had crossed his face. There was no turning back now. “I know ‘cause you’re a lot like me, kid, and I know it’s a hell of a lot easier to pretend that no one can hurt you than to admit that you’re human…and that you’re scared, that you’re vulnerable…” Logan continued, knowing that he was getting through to the boy.

“Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared, kiddo. I been scared more times than I can count,” Logan said softly, knowing that the boy had been raised to never show weakness in battle and recognizing that this was a battle.

“Everyone gets scared sometime, Rem…even me,” he continued, noting the disbelieving look the boy was giving him.

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Startled, Remy held his breath and replayed Logan’s last statement in his mind. Rem…Logan had called him by his real name. That was all it took, that little act of kindness; he could feel the hot tears tracking down his cheeks and then the dam broke, all the pent-up fear and pain hitting him all at once, and Remy was shocked to find that he was sobbing…childish, uncontrollable tears…and even more shocked to find that Logan had moved from the couch and gathered him up in his strong arms.

It felt good…wonderful, like being home again, sheltered from the world by the warmth of his father’s arms. To hell with being strong, he’d stood fast against the pain for as long as he could and just couldn’t do it any longer. Surrendering gratefully to the flood of emotions, he clung to Logan, overwrought and unashamedly terrified.

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The kid was asleep, sprawled on the floor in front of the fire. Logan had debated carrying him upstairs and putting him to bed, but decided that he didn’t want to risk waking him and that it would be easier to keep an eye on him this way.

Retrieving a battered patchwork quilt from the back of the couch, Logan stooped to cover the sleeping boy. Tucking the ratty blanket around Remy’s shoulders, Logan stopped, catching a brief whiff of the coppery scent of blood just noticeable over the salty scent of the boy’s tears.

Careful not to disturb Remy’s slumber, Logan gently lifted the boy’s wrist and slid the sleeve of his sweater up, a look of pain crossing his face as he examined the cuts lining the inside of the boy’s forearm. Lightly, Logan ran the tips of his fingers over the cuts, gauging their severity, mindful of the pained whimpers the boy made as he touched the freshest ones.

Gently replacing the boy’s hand on the floor, Logan finished tucking in the blankets and brushed the overgrown bangs out of the boy’s eyes, then settled on the couch, staring into the fire, deep in thought.

TBC