Date: Tue, 11 Feb 2014 17:31:07 +0700
From: Robert Glass <robxglass@gmail.com>
Subject: Marc and Luke chapter 6

All right reserved. Any unauthorized use is prohibited. This is a
fiction. Any resemblance to people and/or events is coincidental. If
reading this deemed illegal to you, I implore you to stop. If it offends
you, please do not read on.

Donate: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html


CHAPTER 6: Save Me from This Misery


"Have you found it?" he asks. I knew he's going to ask that again.

I didn't distinctly notice him asking me that question the first four times
in the first four weekends. I thought he was just asking me if I found
something I was looking for in the fridge or in my closet. Last week he
asked again, it awakened my inner scientist; I saw a pattern.

How could I missed it? Everything that he does is a cry for help.

"Yeah," I reply.

We've been pretty tight lately considering all the drama. Things kick
started two weeks ago when he swept me off my feet, he said he loved me,
and he gave me the most amazing sex I have ever experienced. Sex with Luke
is... damn! He went from a novice to one of the best sex partners I ever
have.  Two weeks.

He has also been opening up more since. It's relieving and it's great but
at the same time I'm scared that he'll fall into one of his
episodes. Talking about feelings takes a lot of his energy. I don't want
him to be the victim to his demons. I see him as many times as I could; I
have to make sure that he's okay. Usually it's me who goes to his place,
but I take him to mine every weekend. I want him on my watch during the
days of minimum activity.

This Saturday I'm prepared with an answer. However, I'm not prepared for
the answer. The thing that I found devastates me. He's struggling with it
probably his whole life. I feel a churning pain in my chest as I recall all
the stuff he began to reveal to me ever so slowly since his emotional
breakdown. He told me about a childhood that was filled with his parents'
high expectations, ignorant-based homophobia in his family, conservative
church, falling in love with many straight men, having a boyfriend that
only loved him only when he was happy, and bullying throughout his studying
years because he was known as the 'faggot'.

How many times have I used the word 'faggot' to my subs without even
thinking twice? I even said it to him during our many Dom/sub sex. I'm
ready to hate that word. Why didn't he say the safe word then, or discuss
it with me before or after our rougher sex?

What pains me more is how he told me. He ridiculed his struggles as whining
too much. He's not, in his words, 'living in poverty,' or, 'a war
survivor,' so he thinks he doesn't deserve to complain so much. He feels
guilty for 'fussing about slightly uncomfortable period' or 'not too fun
childhood'. When I said that his insecurity goes deep, I was wrong. His
insecurity is just a front, or a side-effect.

"You're depressed," I say. It's a question fashioned as a statement. I look
back at all the patterns: he doesn't sleep well, he overeats, he
contemplated suicide, and he keeps a smile all the time when I know he's
mostly gloomy. I know that he smokes but I didn't know that he's a hardcore
smoker instead of a social kind. It must be depression.

"I'm afraid I am; that means I'm mentally ill. Then again I'm probably just
a lazy loser with a stone cold heart." He laughs. He's doing it again,
discounting his suffering.

"You don't have to act so tough all the time."

"I'm a fag, Marc, I'm not tough. You saw me cry like only a little fag
could." Ugh, that word again.

"You know what I mean," I say. I try to be as sympathetic as I can.

"I know." He smiles in the most charming way. Fuck, he's the king of all
façades! "I tried to reach out to you but I felt so ashamed. I really
don't want you to see me as this kid who doesn't have a hold on his
life. So I try to stay in the middle, never too happy or sad. If I don't
stay there, the consequences will not be pretty. I guess I've shown you
that." He's referring to that breakdown. His thick skin hurts me.

"Luke..."

"Marc, I know you're worried. I just want to warn you before you go too
far. I might be having this. I'm offering you a way out."

"I'm not leaving you," I reply promptly. I knew he would go there. After
all, he loves me. He doesn't want me to suffer with him. I love him too; I
don't want him to suffer alone.

"I feel like I'm troubling you too much," he says.

"You're not."

I still don't know how to navigate through his self-deprecation. He thinks
that everything was his fault; no, he believes it. Whenever he falls, he
always gets up and walks on as though nothing happened. Who knows what
happens inside him. He probably have multiple fractures or organ failures,
yet he never lets anyone come close to him. Everyone is a man with scalpel
to him, never a surgeon. God, I hate the metaphor he started.

"Is that what your ex did to you? Leaving you when you said you have
depression?" I ask.

"Simon? I didn't even tell him that I might be depressed. He was gone
before I had the chance to talk about it. I mean it wasn't like I was going
to tell him anyway. I guess he was right for leaving me; I couldn't even be
honest with him. I couldn't tell him about this," he said. "You're
literally the first person that I told."

"You... you trust me that much?" I asked.

"Don't make this all about you." He looks at me and smiles. I feel like
shit. He laughs. "I'm sorry, it was a joke. I didn't mean to..."

"Don't sweat it." I pull him to me. I want to kiss his forehead and hold
him close to me. He had enough shit in his life. Not anymore, not on my
watch. "Have you sought professional help?"

"No," he says.

"You should."

"I'd like to."

"Go on, then."

"Okay."

I take his hand and kiss the back of his hand. He sighs when I rest his
head on my chest. Yes, his sighs always hurt me.



I'm mad at Luke. I get it if he didn't try to find help two weeks ago; it
was the final leg of his thesis.  However, he was free after that. He
buries himself in the stress of his internship, his part-time job and the
search for an actual job. He was jeopardizing himself and made me watch him
do it. I confronted him several times in those couple of weeks. He stayed
mum. He was burning my patience. I've had enough of it. He made me chase
him tirelessly after we first met. He was always cryptic when I tried to
get to know him. Now, when he already suspects that he's suffering
depression, he doesn't want to fix it and doesn't tell me why. I'm getting
sick of him.

"Luke, I can't help you if you don't want to help yourself," I say at some
point. He's still quiet. "It's bad enough that we argue all the time about
this but worse that you don't do anything about it. I am fucking tired
seeing you battling inside and leaving me on sidetrack. I don't know if I
can do this anymore."

"I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't even look in my eyes.

Oh my fucking God. I hate it when he can only say that. I hate the stench
of cigarette in his apartment. I hate the way he shut me out again. I hate
all of this. "You know what, I'm done with this. I can't be doing this
right now. I have a research to do and I have to graduate. I can't invest
my time on you, Luke, not when you don't give me anything back."

"Yes," is his only reply.

"For fuck's... Luke, I'm done with you. I love you but I'm done."

"I'm sorry," he says with his head still low. Finally he slides off his bed
and walks to his door and opens it for me. "I'm sorry, and thank you for
everything."

He smiles. I'm leaving and he smiles. AND he opens the door for me. I'm
totally done. "Fuck this!" I mutter. He isn't even going to fight for me to
stay. I storm out.

My stomping the stairs must be audible from his room. I need that, I have
to let go of my boiling anger.  Luke is so fucking tiring. It has all been
one sided for most of the time. I opened a floodgate, he trickled. I want
all of him so badly yet he's lukewarm to the idea. Lukewarm. Not the time
for a pun, Marc! I hate myself sometimes.

I hate myself even more the second I got out of the building. I yelled at
him. I yelled at my possibly depressed boyfriend. He has a history of mild,
under the radar, but infinite abuse. He's damaged. I yelled at that guy. I,
the man who confessed that I love him and vowed to never leave him, left
him. I am an unreliable old piece of shit!

I run back inside and upstairs. Without doubt I open his door. Inside, I
find him already smoking again.  His hand is shaking. He always trembles
that violently when he's holding back tears. I saw him acting like this
several times. He has always been distressed but he took an oath never to
cry; he's avoiding that dark vortex into emotional breakdown every moment
in his life. I'm sending him there.

"I... I forgot... to lock the... the door... it seems." His comment kills
me. He is distracting himself with all his might.

I slam the door shut and run to him. The struggle he gives as I yanked the
cigarette off his hand breaks the stick in two. I throw it into the ashtray
and I hug him as tightly as I can. "Luke, I'm so, so sorry," I whisper.

And he breaks. What have I done?

"Just leave me, Marc. Please... Just leave me... You don't deserve this,"
he says between sobs. "Please, just go."

I cannot say a word. What am I going to say anyway? That I'm not going to
leave him? I told him that long ago and then I left him a few minutes
ago. Nothing I could say will soothe him. My embrace is my only
offering. That embrace is a long and excruciating one. He cries for I don't
know how long while he keeps on requesting me to flee. I broke him
further. I broke my Luke.

Please, Luke, stop crying. I can't bear to see you suffer like this!

I lie down on his bed and bring him to lie on top of me. I want him to be
comfortable and protected. I could've met his every word with apologies but
he needs more than that; he deserves more than that from me. My hands are
constantly stroking his hair and back. His tears pour less with each
stroke. It eases me as much as it did him. I didn't realize how much his
turmoil troubles me.

"Luke? Do you want me to get you water?" I ask some time when he stopped.

"No, thank you. Don't let me trouble you." You don't have to be so formal,
Luke. "I'll get it myself."

He takes off to his pantry, which is merely 15 feet away. His stride is
strong and swift; he's already wearing that mask again. I'm scared for
him. He offers me beer, I ask for water instead. I need to be completely
free of intoxication for this. I have to get through to him.

"Why didn't you leave, Marc?" he asks before I could say anything.

"I can't. I was pretty sure I was going to leave but I can't leave you. Not
like this. Not when you need me the most."

"So, pity then?" As long as I know him I realized that everything that
comes out of his mouth is either a slap on my face or a step away from
me. That one was both.

"No. Love," I say.

"Such a shame. You should have left." Again, both.

I try to be calm. He doesn't need another yelling from me. "Don't you still
love me?"

"Does it matter now, Marc?" he says. "You already love me less."

"Why? Because I left? Luke, I'm sorry for that. It was shitty, I know. You
didn't deserve that. I sh..."

"No Marc, you don't deserve this." He makes a gesture that presents himself
for me. "I understand why you left. We don't communicate well. You keep
reaching for me, I keep on holding back. I can't tell you everything, Marc,
at least not now and maybe not ever. This shit has exhausted your patience
several times; it even made you leave. I know you love me less every time
this happens because you can see that I'm not the same guy you fell in love
with. This is going to continue happening in my life, and you will love me
less and less, and you will leave again. Don't waste your time and energy
on me. Please."

His self-deprecation is so fucking hard to navigate through.

"Sit next to me," I implore, he complies. I take him in my embrace
again. Perhaps he needs it. I knew I need it. "Do you like my pasta?"

He finally looks at me, although it's of bewilderment. Who cares about the
motives? Point is he looks at me! "Yeah, sure," he says.

"I love making pasta and I'm pretty good at it. I don't really love the
idea of making pasta in my apartment back in New Orleans. New Orleans is
pretty hot and humid, especially in the summer, and the A/C in my apartment
back then wasn't working so well. I feel icky and sweaty, not the best
feeling when you're cooking. But I love doing it so much that I go to my
Mom's house. Everything works there and the air is cool. I like how
everything turns out when I cook there, and most of all, I loved doing it."

"I see where this is going." Luke is smart after all.

"I love you Luke. Even with all the shit-storm, I still love you. I know
that things aren't going so well in your life but we can make it better. We
just have to keep you in a better, happier place. We can find you help and
you'll be okay."

"Okay," he says.

"You know, you said that the first time we talked about this but you
didn't," I say to him. He sighs again.  I know he's not going to give a
straightforward answer.

"I can't, Marc." I was right.

"Why?"

"I just can't, and I can't tell you why."

I squeeze my eyes shut. He was right about my patience. "Luke. I know
you've been hurt before. I know people open you up just to leave you
bleeding. I know all that. But I'm not those people. This is me. You can
always trust me. I will never leave you hurting."

"This is not that at all, Marc."

"What, then? Please, tell me." This bargaining and pleading that happens
all the time must have torture him as much as it does me. It must be!

Silence. If he doesn't want to tell me then I give up. There must be a huge
reason for him not to tell me. I knew how he is with trusting people. He's
afraid and I understand. He has to do it slowly and he has to do it in his
own term. That is why finding him actually speaking is more than
surprising.

"I was on scholarship, Marc. My insurance didn't cover mental illness. My
part time job doesn't give me that much money and my internship is
unpaid. I can't afford it. I know you're rich and I know you love me;
that's exactly why I couldn't tell you. I know you will want to pay for me
and I can't have you do that. It would feel like I'm using you even more
than I am now. I can't let you do that and I won't."

Oh... Okay...?


___

A love story between an impatient man and a depressed man. This chapter is
especially tough to write.  This whole story is actually tough to write
because I (stupidly) decided to write from Marc's perspective when Luke is
actually the main character. I should never do this again.

Write me an email. Visit my blog. robxglass@gmail.com and xglass.tumblr.com.

Cheers!