warning/notes: themes of drug use, sexual assault, male gender socialization, gaslighting, victimblaming, and everything everything everything... angst & hurt/comfort :( english isn't my native language, not proofread.
scott doesn't want to be a hypocrite, so he's consistent in his hatred of himself for everything that's happening.
he's to blame for everything that's happening, and no one else.
"holy shit, dude, you're so lucky with your stepmom," one of his friends says. they're playing basketball in scott's backyard, and elaine, dressed in some short sundress, seems to be deliberately hovering near the basketball court, tidying up the terrace, something she never usually does -the housekeeper does it for her. her hands aren't made for housework - that's what she says. "does she always dress like that? i'd be drooling."
scott doesn't even look in her direction. the bile rising in his throat tastes bitter.
"yeah. constantly." sinking the ball straight into the hoop, scott says dryly, while his friends keep staring at elaine. and she endlessly fusses about, bends over, and then throws them a glance - so innocent, as if she's only just noticed them and realized how inappropriate it is to be parading around in front of high school boys in her short sundress, smiles at them and waves.
"scotty! don't your friends want something to eat? or maybe i could bring you boys some iced tea?" she calls out, her voice so sickeningly sweet that scott feels like he might actually vomit bile right now. he pats his pockets. he needs to pop something. needs to, needs to, needs to, or he's going to be sick.
scott is to blame for everything that's happening. he's always blamed the girls his friends took advantage of - they were easy, they didn't say no, they could have clawed their faces with their sharp little nails, gone to the police, done anything- if they'd wanted to, but since they didn't do anything, that means they actually liked it, and now, suffering, shedding tears, they're just playing the victim, but really they're nothing more than attention whores.
scott thinks the same thing about himself.
but his thoughts, tangled and anxious, only get worse, because he has you.
"if i slept with a girl, but i didn't want it, does that count as cheating?" as if in passing, scott asks in the locker room after practice. his jaw is tight, muscles twitching.
"slept with her but didn't want to? was she ugly or something?" his friend cackles, but scott doesn't laugh. "relax, man. it happened, it happened. just don't blab to your girl and make sure the other one doesn't spread it all over school."
absolution from a guy who's quite possibly a carrier of countless venereal infections doesn't do much to reassure scott, only confirms his own deep-seated wrongness.
sometimes, he wants to tell you everything. hint at it somehow or ask you. you're better than him, and he reaches for you in blind hope that you'll pull him out of the swamp he's sinking into. you're against drugs and he hides from you that he uses, calling his comedowns exhaustion from practice.
you're not an idiot, but you like scott. he seems sweet to you. it's just that his father pays no attention to him, only if his behavior isn't harming his future star-athlete-on-a-sports-scholarship status, he's going through his parents' divorce, his mother is somewhere far away, exams are coming up, there's so much going on - of course he's tired. it stings that he can't trust you with everything.
"you know i'm here for you, right?" you murmur. you're sitting under a huge maple tree, its sprawling branches shielding you from the midday sun. his head is in your lap and you're stroking his hair, bleached by the sun. you can see that scott's mind is somewhere far away, drifting somewhere you can't enter without his permission. he smells of sweat and antiperspirant, under his puffy eyes lie hints of bruises from lack of sleep- elaine came to him last night and afterwards he sobbed like a child, locked in the bathroom, hating himself for everything: for his weakness, for the tears, for not being able to say no again, for the fact that after an ice-cold shower and pills he sat down at his desk and started scribbling a new love letter, which he slipped to elaine in the morning after his father left for work.
and now he lies here, under the maple tree in the park, and you're stroking his hair, and you're truly here for him, always: you're at every one of his games, you're in the hallway after every practice, you're with him in the evening at the park or at your place, because he can never bring you to his. "it just won't work out. sorry, okay? i'll definitely introduce you to my dad, just later, he's really busy right now, and it's a madhouse at home," scott justifies himself sharply and even angrily every time. it hurts you that he doesn't want to introduce you to his father and to elaine, because your parents know scott, and they think he's a sweet boy too, and they're happy to see him in their home, and the way the warm, welcoming family atmosphere differs from the one reigning in his house makes him hate everything that's happening even more.
"scott?" you repeat his name to pull him out of the clouds he's drifting in. "is everything okay?"
he turns his head in your lap and buries his face into your lower belly. his rough, calloused fingers wrap around your wrists, and he presses your palms harder against his head. maybe you can pull all this shit out of his head?
"sorry, baby, i'm just really tired." he doesn't say why, same as always. the last few days have been especially hard.
as it turns out, training after the pills he's popping in increasing amounts, and while high, is very difficult. as it turns out, his body can't handle the loads he used to call light, after all this cocktail. as it turns out, the coach wants to talk to his father, because he's seriously concerned about scott's condition, because "you're very sluggish, son, and you're lunging at everyone on the field like a chained dog, but it's not helping you, it's hurting you." as it turns out, elaine doesn't hear the word "no." and as it turns out, he doesn't control anything at all that's happening.
"i get it. tomorrow's saturday, want to stay over at mine? my parents won't mind," you offer gently and lean down. you turn his head so you can rub the tip of your nose against his. you want him to laugh. he loves it when you do that. "you'll stuff yourself with greasy lasagna or poutine, i don't know what mom's making, and her pecan pie, and we'll lie around belly-up watching the x-files."
scott would agree to spend the night in a dark alley with junkies and homeless people, just so long as he doesn't have to go home.
"of course," scott agrees.
elaine doesn't like it when scott goes for sleepovers, and it's happening more and more often.
"don't you think he's gone overnight too often? scotty has become very irritable and kind of pale," elaine whispers to martin like a snake. "he should be sleeping at night, not wandering around god knows where."
"scott is lucky to have such a caring overseer," he answers half-jokingly, kissing her palm. "we'll see. let him rest this weekend, and starting next week i'll deal with it."
the atmosphere at your house is nothing like the one scott had at home even before his parents' divorce. your parents truly love each other and it's visible in every gesture, every word. no shouting, no irritation or passive aggression. scott remembers playing tag in the backyard with his friends as a child, but he kept glancing through the glass doors, behind which the outlines of his arguing parents were visible, and that discontent, like poison, saturated the whole house and, worst of all- after their fights they treated him differently too, even though he had nothing to do with it. their resentment toward each other found its final outlet in scott.
"you're very pale, scott. let me give you some more poutine and vegetables," your mother says caringly, when you're all sitting together at the table having dinner.
"no, no, thank you, ma'am. i'm saving room for the pecan pie."
"pie goes straight to the heart, not the stomach, son, so a little more poutine won't hurt. did you have practice today? you need more carbs," your father claps scott on the shoulder familiarly, squeezes it, and with great pleasure devours his own poutine, as if setting an example.
scott smiles weakly. every time, he wants to cry when he's here. boys don't cry, but he really, really wants to cry - or pop a bunch of pills, get high and forget himself- because he's never had what you've always had. he's not angry at you, he doesn't even envy you, because he truly loves you, and most of all he's grateful that you so easily welcomed him into your family, that your parents accept him and surround him with care, sincere and warm, the kind he's never felt from his own family.
once, he broke a glass at your house. you asked him to pour some cola, he went to the kitchen, but he was terribly nauseous and dizzy after practice, and when he picked up the glass, it slipped from his hands and shattered.
"i didn't do it on purpose. your glasses are slippery. what the fuck do you wash them with?" scott bristled when you came running downstairs. he was gathering the shards with his bare hands. "or you don't dry them properly, i don't know."
"it's fine, everything's okay," you weren't even thinking of scolding him, and scott had clearly expected it. "don't pick those up, i'll sweep. it's no big deal."
that stuck in scott's memory very deeply. how calmly you reacted. you weren't afraid that your parents would scold you because he broke a glass. you weren't about to yell at him that his hands grew out of his ass. you just took it as a minor hiccup you forgot about a minute after throwing away the shards.
after dinner, you and scott washed the dishes, and now you're lying in your bed watching the x-files recorded on tape. through the slightly open window you can hear the chirping of cicadas. you've made yourself comfortable, pressed against scott's side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, he's absentmindedly stroking your shoulder, and his other palm rests on your knee - your leg is draped over his thighs, and he's just tracing circles with his fingers. your cheek lies on his chest and he leans down to kiss you.
he feels so good here. he feels so awful that he can't stop what's happening to him. can't stop falling down this rabbit hole - you're only able to slow the fall, but not stop it completely.
"i love you," scott whispers into your hair and kisses the top of your head. he squeezes his eyes shut, as if he's said something horribly indecent, vile, dirty. the weight of these words, like stone slabs, pins him to the bed. he shouldn't be saying something like that to you with his mouth-he needs to wash his mouth out with soap and bleach first, to get rid of the taste of elaine on his tongue. and only then talk to you about love.
you smile, lift your head and rub your nose against scott's nose. he laughs and you kiss him.
