Date: Sat, 16 Jun 2007 18:59:36 -0300
From: Duncan Ryder <duncanryder@hotmail.com>
Subject: Everybody's Wounded Chapter 5

This is my first story, and thanks to all of you who've dropped me a
line. I appreciate the feedback enormously.  duncanryder@hotmail.com.

If you'd like to be added to the update list, just drop me an email at the
above address.

Ok, the fine print.
This is a work of fiction. The characters exist only in the author's
imagination.  This is a gay love story and contains explicit
descriptions of sex between consenting men; if this offends you, is
illegal where you are, or you are too young, don't read it. This story is
copyright by the author; please don't copy or circulate it without my
permission.



Everybody's Wounded
Chapter Five


I'm not a guy who spends a lot of time thinking about my face.  I mean, I
look ok, you know?  Brown hair, grey eyes, regular features – well, except
for the nose, which is a little crooked from multiple breaks.  Overall
though, ok. Whatever.

But when I looked into the mirror the next morning, even I had to admit
that I looked like a horror show.  Two black eyes.  Swollen nose.  Cheek
bone starting to scab.  It meant a lot of stares everywhere I went. I was
just glad my Mom couldn't see me.

My first lecture was Poli Sci, and all the way across campus I was aware of
this little surge of anticipation.  Luc wasn't there yet, but I settled
over by the window where we usually sat, and put my backpack on the seat
next to me to save it for him.  He didn't come in until the prof was about
to start speaking, took a seat at the back, and was gone before I could
make it to the door.

The same thing happened that afternoon in our Economics lecture, and again
in International Relations.  And the next day in Peace studies.  I couldn't
even get him to look at me.  I tried to stay focused on the lectures, but I
couldn't.  I had to keep watching him, seeking out the intensity of those
Siberian eyes.  But as soon as I'd catch his glance, he'd look away
immediately.

He had also disconnected from class.  He never said a word in any of the
discussion periods.

He didn't answer his cell, didn't return any of my messages.

I tried not to take it personally, but fuck it was almost impossible.  Was
it just two nights ago that we'd shared the sweetest kisses in the
universe? How could he be acting like I didn't exist?  He offered me
nothing: not a smile, not even an acknowledgment of friendship.  Just a
bowed head when I managed to catch him watching me from across a crowded
lecture hall.  Josh had said he was scared; I knew he was scared.  I did
not know why.  All I did know was that if I wanted to know him better – and
I did, very much – then I would have to be prepared to be patient.

He was worth the care, I told myself.

I reminded myself of how I had felt, sitting on the floor beside the piano,
listing to his heart pour out through the keyboard, connected to him by
sound and his fingertips and the warm touch of my elbow against his thigh.
I thought of sweet kisses in the fog, his hands on my wrists, the fire of
that connection.

So how was I supposed to pretend that the way he was acting now was
anything but regret and rejection?  How was it supposed to not hurt?

To make matters worse, I couldn't even take out my frustrations seeking
revenge of Jase Petrov's sorry ass.  The trainer had mentioned my nose to
the team doc, who had insisted on checking it out. He'd sidelined me for 72
hours.  Not only was I not permitted to practice with the team, I wasn't
allowed to run or hit the weight room until the worst of the swelling was
down.

I felt like a fucking fuse, lit and about to explode.

***

Josh met with his thesis supervisor every Wednesday afternoon.  We'd fallen
into the habit of grabbing a quick coffee together between my last lecture
and rugby practice, but that day I was cut off from getting muddy and
sweaty on the rugby field, and had the rest of the afternoon to kill. I
told him that when we arranged to meet me at the Timmy's just off
campus. (For those of you who aren't Canucks, that's Tim Horton's, Canada's
ubiquitous coffee and donut chain, named for a dead hockey player and more
common than Starbucks in Seattle. Timmy's is the quintessentially Canadian
version of the cafι, totally mediocre, elevating unpretentious to a form of
high art.)

I hadn't seen him since the last Rainbow pub on the previous Friday night.
The night he'd told me Luc was gay...

The night he'd kissed me.

What a strange, strange night that had been.  My brain had kept turning
over the information about Luc, while my body had been totally attuned to
Josh.

He'd just kissed me, I told myself. That's all. Just the once.  Quickly.
Softly.  It didn't mean anything.  It couldn't mean anything. It was just a
kiss between friends.

So why couldn't I forget it?

Could there ever be just a kiss between Josh and me?

Fuck.  As I headed across campus, I didn't want to think about that.  I
needed to talk.  About Luc.  I was hurt and angry and frustrated, and Josh
was someone I trusted, someone I could talk to.  At least, that's what I
thought when I headed over to meet him.  But when I saw him, I wasn't so
sure.

I got there first, and had taken my coffee to a table in the corner where I
could watch for him. As he got in line, he flashed me that familiar smile,
and I felt a little thrill.

"That smile's for me," I thought, and when I smiled back, Josh held my
eyes. It was one of those perfect little moments in time where everything
is ... balanced. My heart leapt, and suddenly I just wanted to let it all
go.  The confusion.  The hurt.  The rejection.

Especially the rejection.

Josh just looked so good standing there, waiting for his coffee.  So calm,
so self contained.  He was older than the other students I knew, and didn't
really look like a student anymore.  He was more polished, more ... I don't
know.  He actually had a style, ...reflective of who he was.  Like he'd
figured actually that out. He had this great profile, long and lean --
narrow black jeans, black leather jacket open over a black fine sweater,
black boots, and a red cashmere scarf wrapped a few times around his neck.
When he walked towards me, every movement smooth and elegant, I couldn't
take my eyes off him.

 "You really need to get another hobby, Big Guy," he said, dropping neatly
into the chair opposite me and studying my battered face with those
unreadable green eyes that took in everything and gave nothing away. "That
is definitely not a good look for you." He reached out and touched my arm.
"Christ, Scott, that's got to hurt."

For the first time, I felt the full force of my attraction to this man, and
it was almost overwhelming. The effect of even his most casual touch – his
hand lightly on my arm -- was powerful and immediate. It was like his
fingers had some sort of direct circuit to my cock.  It made my breathing
quicken, my butt clench nervously, my cock harden.  I knew I was flushing
slightly.

I shifted in my chair, trying to ease the constriction of my jeans which
were suddenly way too tight. Josh just continued to study my battered face.

He had this capacity for stillness that sometimes made me nervous. Did he
know what he was doing to me?  Did he know about that little jolt of
electricity that seemed to connect his fingers to my cock?  Did he know why
I was shifting so uncomfortably?

His face remained calm, controlled, impassive even.  But he left his hand
on my arm for what seemed like a million heartbeats.  Then he withdrew it
slowly, down the length of my jacket.  His fingers lingered across my hand
for just a second and his green eyes stared steadily into mine.

And that's how I knew he was aware of everything I was feeling, that he was
as acutely aware of me as I was of him. Someone watching us would have seen
nothing but two guys engaged in earnest conversation.  But somehow I had
the feeling that there were two completely different conversations going
on, one in words, the other in a touch that only looked casual.  The touch
seemed to me to be like a promise that he could take me places I had never
been, learn things about myself that no one else could ever teach me.  The
thought of it made me a little crazy – and scared the hell out of me.

I was so confused.  How could I feel like this about Josh when I wanted so
badly to connect to Luc?  And were my perceptions about Josh even real, or
was I reading meaning into his actions that wasn't really there?

Even if Josh knew the effect he had on me – did he want to? Did he mean to?

I thought of that night I'd spent in his arms, how he'd comforted me
through the pain of David's betrayal, offering the comfort of his warmth,
his touch, until finally, after all those sleepless nights, I had finally
been able to sleep.  His calmness, his control, had been so soothing.  He'd
just held me, refusing to make any demands, to take advantage.  Apart from
a light kiss to my shoulder and what I knew was just the pure physical
reaction of his cock against my ass, he'd made no overtures to me at all.

And if I was honest with myself I had to admit that even the kiss that had
fucked up my mind so much a few nights before had been really been nothing
but that. A kiss. Quick and fleeting.

Now he was talking to me about something but I couldn't concentrate.  I
closed my eyes.  I could still feel it, that quick touch of his lips on
mine.  It had been so fast.  There hadn't even been time to react.  No time
to open my mouth to him, to taste him, even to just stop, stand still,
savour the moment.  A fast little kiss that had ended as soon as it began,
too fast to make a promise, or even a suggestion.  A fast little kiss that
had wreaked havoc with me, and left me totally confused.

"Scott?"

I felt his fingers on my hand, a quick tap, skin on skin, demanding
attention.  I opened my eyes, met that cool green gaze.

"What's up, Big Guy?  You're in another world."

I shook my head.  I couldn't talk to him about Luc.  Not now.  Not when I
was in this strange cloud of physical awareness.  He's warned me about Luc
and I had listened.  I just thought I could handle it.  I was wrong.  I'd
kissed him as gently, as non- threateningly as I knew how.  He moved me so
deeply. His cool Siberian eyes haunted me.  And despite my very best
efforts, he was running from me, just as Josh had said he would.  Running
from something that hadn't even begun yet.  Just like Josh had said he
would.

It hurt.  I hurt.  I mean – what the fuck was wrong with me?  I was a good
guy, am a good guy.  I'd loved David, and he'd thrown it back in my face.
I'd been as tender with Luc as I knew how to be, and that didn't seem to be
good enough either.

All I wanted...all I wanted...hell, all I wanted was someone to love,
someone to love me.  I know how corny that sounds, but was it really too
fucking much to ask? It's what Ben and Ry had always told me to wait for.
They'd warned me that I'd meet a lot of guys were hugely promiscuous, just
because they could be.  They warned me to stay away from that scene.  They
said it would change me in ways that could never be healed.  I could
honestly say it had no attraction for me.

I knew I didn't want an empty, heartless fuck.  I knew I needed more than
that.  And I was afraid that was what Josh had to offer.  He talked a lot
about picking up guys; at least, he had when I'd first met him, though now
that I thought about it, I realized that he hadn't talked about cruising
since Thanksgiving.  And I'd never actually met anyone he'd been with, at
least not at Rainbow.

Fuck, this was confusing.

"Scott?  Is everything alright?

I shook my head.  I wanted to tell him about Luc, but someone how I
couldn't.  I hurt, and I didn't understand it.  I didn't know how to tell
him.

"I don't do broken hearts," he'd told me that night.

Sitting there that afternoon, the bright lights of Timmy's holding back the
bleak November afternoon sliding into dusk, I couldn't help but wonder what
he did do.

 ***

The next day, Luc and I had two lectures together: Poli Sci in the morning
and Economics in the afternoon.  When he pulled his late arrival / early
disappearing thing again in Poli Sci, I knew that he was perfectly prepared
and perfectly capable of shutting down and locking me out permanently.  I
also realized that I was not prepared to let that happen. Not yet.  Not
without exploring what could be between us.  The connection I felt to him
was too strong. The need I felt in him was one I wanted to explore.

Besides, I liked him too much.

That afternoon I put a stop to it.  I didn't go in to the economics
lecture.  I waited for him in the hall.

"Sit with me," I said when he tried to walk past me, eyes firmly focused on
the floor.

He shook his head, and my heart sank.

"Luc," I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. I could hear the hurt in my
own voice.  "Please. Just sit with me.  It's ok.  I promise."

He bit his lip for a second, then sighed and nodded.  I gave his shoulder a
bit of a squeeze.  I felt him shiver, and I wanted to ...

I smiled and he tried to smile back.  He didn't quite make it.

He didn't say anything to me after we sat down.  Didn't even look at
me. But the lecture was good, and in the twenty minute class discussion
that followed, he allowed himself to participate, and so did I, and the
familiarity of our classroom debate slowly reasserted itself.  That, at
least, was re-established between us.

A small group of us – mostly our study group – stayed on after class for
over an hour, talking to the prof. She was great, a recent PhD who was as
high on teaching as she was on research.  When we told her we'd started a
study group, she asked if she could stop by some time.

Yes! I thought.  That's why I'd chosen this school! It was about debate,
about engagement, about the interaction of ideas and intellectual
discipline.  I'd been promised real dialogue between professors and
students, and this was it, this was real.  I was so excited at the prospect
that I found myself grinning widely at Luc – who was grinning widely back.
It had nothing to do with the two of us.  It just had to do with whole idea
of being here, learning what there was to learn.

I belonged here.  So did Luc.  It was the right place for us in so many
ways.

As people started walking off, Luc tried to slip away, but again I wouldn't
let him.

"No," I said, and I put my hand on his shoulder again.  "We're gonna talk."

Those beautiful eyes closed for a second, the lashes impossibly long,
impossibly dark against pale skin.

"There's nothing—"

"Yeah, babe," I said softly.  "There is."

He winced at the endearment, as if I'd hit him.  Fuck.  Josh was right.
What was I getting myself into? Was he really prepared to reject me after
those kisses in the fog? Could they really have meant nothing to him?  Was
I really just a romantic idiot, reading everything into – nothing?

But then his eyes opened, and met mine, and dropped to my mouth, just
staring.  He ran his tongue over his lower lip. My heart felt it – and so
did my cock.  I knew I had to take the chance.

"Come on," I said, and I led him out into the cold afternoon.

"Where are we going?" he asked from behind me.

I glanced back.  "To my room.  It's all right." Fuck, I seemed to say that
to him constantly, it's all right.  "We can talk there in private."

He stopped dead, and a strange look, half terror, half prayer, played over
his face.  I took a stop back and reached for his arm.  "That's all we're
gonna do." I assured him.  "Just talk."

My room was, as I told Luc, a single, which means it was a 10 foot square
concrete cube.  It had come with a built-in desk, dresser and bookcase, a
desk chair, and a single bed that was much too short for me. Laura lived on
one side of me; on the other was a computer engineering dude with whom I
shared the small bathroom that sat between our two rooms, with access from
both.  I'd hardly ever seen the guy—the computer geeks live in a whole
other universe.  I think personal contact is against their religion or
something; those guys only seem to talk to one another, and only via
computer interface.  But he kept the bathroom tidy, and never messed with
my stuff, which is about all you can ask for in a bathroom mate.

To the basics, I'd added the obligatory brightly coloured Ikea bedding and
Poang arm chair, a fridge that also served as a printer stand, and a
selection of prints and photographs.  The prints were mostly Picasso, early
political years.  The photographs were mostly family.

Pushed to the back of my desk, there was one picture of me with Ben and Ry
the day I left for university.  It as my favourite picture of the three of
us: Ben was in the middle, with his left arm around Ry and his right arm
around me, and we were all grinning like idiots into the camera.  Actually,
David was in the picture too, but I'd blocked him out with a small photo of
my sister.  When I'd put away all my pictures of him, I couldn't bring
myself to include that one because it was such a great one of the three of
us.

And that, of course, was the picture that Luc picked up and examined.

"My uncles," I said.  "And yes, they're gay.  They've together for over
twenty years."

"This one," he said, pointing to Ben, "could be your father."

I looked affectionately at the big bear of man, the brown hair, the
familiar grey eyes.  "Yeah," I admitted.  "We get that a lot.  He's my
Mom's baby brother."

He nodded.  "And this?"

"My sister Emily."

He nodded again, and touched the photo I'd tucked into the frame lightly
with his forefinger.  It fluttered to the ground.

And then I just felt like crying, because underneath was David, laughing
into the camera, with my arm around his shoulder exactly as Ben's arm was
around Ry.

"Fuck," I said.  I couldn't believe how much it still hurt, even now.  And
how much it hurt to have Luc look at it.  I slumped down on my bed and
buried my head in my hands.

"I'm sorry, Scott," he said quietly, picking up Em's picture and covering
David's image again.  He returned the picture carefully to my desk.

Neither of us said anything for while.

"Um, maybe I should go," he said.

"No!"

He was just standing there, watching me uncertainly.  I knew I owed him an
explanation.  Why was this so hard?

"That's David," I said finally.

"You don't have to tell me."

"Yeah," I said. "I do.  He's my ex.  We were together for eight months, and
he dumped me when I went home for Thanksgiving."

Luc didn't say anything, so I took a deep breath and continued.

"No, I wasn't expecting it.  Yes, it broke my heart.  And I've no idea if
I'm over him, probably not.  But it is completely over, he's with someone
else, and I know there is no going back."

Luc sat down on my desk chair and rolled it over opposite me.  "I'm sorry,"
he said.

I looked across at him.  "Really?"

"That he, um, broke your heart?  Yeah."

Another long silence.

"But otherwise?" I asked finally.'  "I mean, are you really sorry that I'm
not with someone else?"

Fuck. I had to push it.

He stared down at his knees.  His hands were resting on the tops of his
thighs, clenching and unclenching.  I held my breath.

"No," he said finally.  "I'm not sorry about that.  Even though it would
make things for me a lot – easier."

"Easier how?"

"Easier altogether.  Then you and I could be great friends."

"And now?"

He swivelled around in the hair and stared out the long, narrow window.  I
waited.

Finally, he turned back, and met my gaze.  I just let the question hang
between us.  He pulled himself to his feet.

"Scott – I'm not ready to talk about this yet, ok?"  He reached out his
hand and pulled me to my feet.

"This is – new to me.  Hard for me.  It – it scares me.  I don't know how
to find words yet. I don't know what it means. I don't know how I feel. But
--" He reached out with both hands, and touched my upper arms lightly.
"Would you – would you kiss me?  Like you did?  Just – just kiss me again?"

Those pale Siberian eyes were wide with uncertainty, and they took my
breath away.  I nodded slowly, not really trusting myself to speak, and
reached up and ran my thumb over that beautiful, beautiful mouth.

And then I lowered my mouth to his, in a tender, closed mouth kiss.  His
hands dropped from my arms to my wrists, and then to my hips where they
fluttered uncertainly.  I kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids, until
he was trembling in my arms.  Then, daringly, I tasted him, a quick flick
of my tongue on his jaw. He groaned and clung to me. I kissed his mouth,
gliding my tongue along it, nipping gently at his lower lip.

"Open your mouth babe," I whispered, teasing his lips with the tip of my
tongue. "Let me in."

And slowly, cautiously, he did.