I Left My Heart In Paris [Inactive]

"Fair enough. You have let me into your life to some degree, and I suppose I owe you the same," Damien sighed, looking over at the pale red headed boy who was grimacing at his beer. How did he tell his story without seeming so privileged? Without his own miseries looking pitiful and pale in comparison? He didn't, and he knew this. This innocent teenager before him dealt with so much, dealt with knowing his own demise was not so far off, and yet he was quite possibly one of the most genial and polite people around. Damien was not the kind of person to deal with that situation in that way, and he admired Merriell for being able to be like he was. Especially with the family he had to deal with. He owed this kid his story, so long as it was being asked for.


"I grew up in France, if you can't tell. My parents were very happy. We did not have much to want for. I grew up being dressed in suits and placed at tables, like an accessory to my family, a pet they would show at dinner parties. It still was not bad. I had anything I wanted, almost. And I learned so much. I had a very good tutor, and I traveled with my father sometimes. I went to England and Germany and all over Europe. Over there all of the countries are so close, so it is not very hard. But of all of these places, France was my home.


"When I was eleven, we were in our rural house in the countryside of France. There is a river that ran past that house. I woke up that morning and there were shouts and flashing blue lights... When I went outside there were police everywhere and I- I looked over to the bank and there were her slippers," he murmured, his voice choking. He could see them there, sitting on the river bank, light pink. The little strands shaking slightly in the light breeze. For him they symbolized everything he lost that day. "When they found my mother, they confirmed she caused her death. She filled her bathrobe with rocks and stepped into that river. It is a funny thing about those slippers. She took the time to take them off. As if she was worried about ruining those slippers. I think I- I hate her for that. She cared so much about what happened to those slippers, but did not care about what would happen to us when she was gone.


"Not very long after, my father tells me he is dating a woman. She is Kate, an american. I hated her. She tried to be my mother. She called me poor thing and wanted to do the things with me that my mother did. She would cook me american food, talk about her home. And I hated her for it. Then they married. But I had my home, I had my father, and I had my company. So I bear it. Then we move. My father says it is for the company, but it is for her. Before, in France, I had my tutor. Here he put me in school. And I was angry and upset because I had lost my home, and I got bad grades. And he would get mad at me for that. And I longed for my homeland, but I had my father and my company, so I bore it.


"Tonight I was riding on my horse. For hours I was gone. I used to do that with my mother. When I got back into the stable he was there and he told me we were having dinner and I came inside and changed and when I sat down at that table I knew. It was sickening. The way they looked at each other. The way he held her hand. I wanted them to die. I want them to die," Damien snapped, his jaw clenching as he turned a steely gaze onto Merriell, as if daring the other boy to correct him, to say this wasn't true. But as quickly as this anger had risen within him, it was gone and replaced with the same deep sadness which had earlier plagued him. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, attempting to shield himself from this vulnerability. "Kate is pregnant. My father managed to start completely new. He has replaced his home, his wife, and now his child. I do not have my father any longer, and I only have half of my company ahead of me. Half of what I grew up knowing would be my destiny. I am not good enough at anything else to have any other life. For me, this is my only option. It is all I have left, and it is slipping away too."


He could feel that his breathing had grown ragged, and by the tightness of his throat he knew that the urge to cry was once again upon him. But instead, he laughed. And perhaps this was worse. It was a tired, bitter laugh, the kind that belonged to someone who had truly given up expecting things to turn out alright.


"I knew this day would come. And yet I had hoped and somehow convinced myself that it would not."
 
"It's ok. It's going to be ok." the red head whispered, his brown eyes filling with tears. 'If you can't cry, I'll cry for you.' Was Merriell's last thought before he threw his shaking arms around the hunched shoulders of Damien. How cruel Damien's life has been! How can a parent treat their pride and joy, their flesh and blood like an object!? The red head couldn't fathom it.


As tears fell down his alcohol pinked cheeks he drew back, not wanting to soak the frenchmen's nice clothes. "I'm sorry you have had it so rough. I can't imagine your suffering. Your mother and your life ripped from you...someone as special and bright as you deserves the very best." He murmured as he rubbed at his arms, his finger tips being rubbed raw against the thick linen of his collared shirt, "If it's any consultation, I don't know what to do with my life either. I'm lost and I'm afraid I'm not to terribly good at any particular thing, but my life is a bit happier now that I have you as a friend."


With that said Mer turned back to his beer and sipped at it, willing his emotions, he wore so readily on his sleeve, under control.


~.~.~


Gene let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding at Merriell's words. Everything he wished he had the knowledge, the compassion to say to his friend, Mer just said. It was freeing to know that Damien was comforted, even the tiniest bit. How precious his red head was.


With eyes clenched tight, the Cajun brought a thin cigarette like finger to Merriell's back and dragged the barest tip of it down his spine in thanks. 'I hope you understand...' He prayed as his eyes tightened even further, 'I hope you know, Damien, that my thoughts echo Merriell's.'


When his hand hit the scratchy texture of the bottom of the red head's sweater vest, he pulled away just as quickly as he began. His face bore his usual bored look, his lips tilting up, a whisper of a smirk.


"On second thought, one beer fo' me Craig." The Cajun slurred, his hand catching into a groove of the bar's wooden surface as his finger scratched at the table.
 
"Special? I am not special. I am a selfish arrogant man who has had everything handed to him all his life so that when I hit a rough patch I know not what to do with myself. But I am thankful for all of you, to have some sort of break from my life," Damien whispered softly, looking over at Merriell with a thin-lipped smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "At least we can all be lost together."





Craig looked over at Damien and frowned, his brow creased with worry and his eyes somber. "Boy, I think I might've been mistaken. Sounds like you could definitely use a few more if you're up for it." At the frenchman's slight nod, the bartender refilled the glasses with the same foul liquid as before. There was some degree of worry creased on the barkeep's face as he looked at the young group at the counter, but he turned away and let them be. It wasn't his business, nor his place. He wasn't their parent.


"Ce soir, c'est une bonne nuit pour se saouler,"* he proclaimed, looking over at Gene before raising his glass to his lips and downing it quickly, his mouth quickly tightening into a grimace as he coughed and shook his head. The warm feeling spread through his body and he let it take him. And how badly he wanted to lose control of himself, to get so drunk he couldn't even remember what had happened earlier. How badly he wanted to just stay at this bar forever, to never return back home. And yet he was a man, and he had to be more responsible than that. He would have to face his father sometime. Why not at least get drunk beforehand? Let his father see what a ruined state he had become. Let the man grow uncomfortable looking at his own song. Let his father be embarrassed of him.


*Tonight is a good night to get drunk




~~~*~~~

​



"F*ck man, that's rough," Peter mumbled, ashamed she'd though of his issue as no big problem before hand. This was clearly a big deal for the frenchman. Normally he would have never compromised himself in such a way; he was too proud. This man before her was not the same arrogant proud teenager. He was hollow and sad and miserable, and she felt for him. He truly seemed to feel alone in the world, and she couldn't begin to understand or appreciate what he went through. What he was going through.


"We should all get drunk together," she advised, her face completely serious. "It's not in good manners to let someone get drunk all on their own." She'd had her fair share of worries about getting drunk with the guys, but she felt it was right. Damien was clearly trying to get himself there and seemed to be succeeding. Merriell would probably get there soon whether he liked it or not. She was going to guess he was a serious lightweight, given how thin he was and not used to alcohol. And Gene could use the calories that getting drunk would provide. Besides, Peter had a good grip on herself when it came to alcohol. She could handle herself when she was drunk, and right now she was pretty sure that even if she got drunk with them she wouldn't do anything stupid.
 
"Une bonne nuit à oublier.*" Gene mumbled as a large pint of black stout was placed in front of him by Craig's large hands, bits of foam slide down the class's side from the force against the bar surface. With a lazy gesture, the Cajun gripped the mug tightly, eyes widening slightly at the shock of cold the beer emitted. With a sure hand, he lifted the glass to his chapped lips and took a few long gulps of the thick amber liquid before placing it back on the bar top.


'I hate this full feeling...' He thought to himself, his hand clutching at his stomach as it twinged and pulsed in pain. Gene truly hated eating. He loathed it. In itself it was boring and


time consuming. You had to find it, cook it, chem it, almost as if it were a never ending cycle. And it always left him feeling tired and in pain, his body burning too much energy at once as it digested the calories he had willingly introduced to his system. Above all, he never quite knew when he would get a chance to eat again, so why bother with all the pain of knowing the taste of food every few days or so.


With a heavy sigh, he lifted the glass once more and continued to drink. Peter was right, you don't leave a friend to get drunk on his own, not if you could help it anyhow.


A good night to forget.*


~.~.~


"You know-you know what I think? I think you are bright, bright as a star in the sky. Jus'-jus' sooo nice..." Merriell slurred as he swayed in his seat, a hand lifting and failing to connect with Damien's shoulder, his empty beer bottle long forgotten in front of him, "I would like another my good man!" He hollered, his voice ending with a tenor light giggle.


"I think ya' had 'nough cher." The red head heard Gene rumble in his ear directly to his left.


"You know what I tink-think, I think that you are a rude boyfriend Eugen Shel-Shelton." Merriell cried as he spun around to face his accuser, the movement too quick for his drunken state, and proceed to fall face first into the cajun's bony chest, "Mmm, you smell good. Like wood, an' sunshine, and Gene."


'When did the world become so fuzzy?' He asked himself as he nuzzled into Gene's threadbare shirt, smacking his lips a few times before letting out a small hiccup, Gene's stiff, scared frame going unnoticed.
 
The last glass had been downed and the alcohol had worked its magic. His previous sadness was all but forgotten, lifted away from him as if it had never been caused in the first place. Damien sat on his stool, stretched out over the counter top, a sloppy grin on his face. His sharp cold eyes were softened and dulled by the alcohol, and he altogether looked rather jovial. It was like he'd completely flipped personalities from just a few hours ago. He opened his mouth as if to talk, but hung there for several beats instead, snickering to himself.


"I think.... que je vais appeler mon père,"* he muttered in between breaths of laughter. When he spoke English his already prominent accent became thick and slurred, not its usual proper cadence. "'e will be so angry at me..." Damien again chuckled and clumsily fumbled at his pocket, reaching for his phone. He gripped its cool surface in his hands and dialed his father's number, snickering all the while. The phone, put on speaker, crackled as the dark deep voice of his father emanated from the tinny speakers.


"Damien? Where are you?"


"Bonjour, Père," he replied, turning to his comrades and silently laughing, biting his lower lip as his shoulders shook up and down.


"You are drunk. Vous êtes vachement irresponsable. Juste parce que quelque chose ne plaît pas, vous ne signifie pas que vous pouvez piquer une crise et se saouler. Avez-vous le respect de soi?"**


"Mais c'est exactement ce que j'ai fait. N'est-ce.... pas ce que cela signifie que je peux faire?"*** Damien's smile began to adopt a harsher more dangerous edge after a moment. "Besides, you are a f*cking c*nt. I 'ate... I 'ate you, I 'ate your wh*re... I 'ate ze piece of shit that's growing inside 'er. I'm only 'alf sh*t, but- but your new kid? Full... full sh*t. You're sh*t and she's... sh*t so your child is one big sh*t."


*That I will call my father.


**You are so f*cking irresponsible. Just because you don't like something doesn't mean you can throw a tantrum and get drunk. Don't you have any self respect?


***But that's exactly what I just did. Doesn't that mean that I can do it?
 
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"Je ne pense pas que ce soit une bonne idée, mon frère-*" Gene began as he tired to place Merriell in the most comfortable an least compromising position on his chest, but his words were drowned out by the deep slurring words of Damien.


Suffice to say, Gene burned bridges, in fact he was the king of burning bridges before they were even built with just a withering glare thrown in someone's direction, but Damien was different story entirely. Sure, Gene was free to do as he please at any time, free of all master's save for himself, and yet he was alone and homeless, a fate he didn't wish to place on Damien's already heavy shoulders. Yet, here they were, with each word spoken, the bridge allotted to the Frenchmen slowly burned right before his eyes until he was placed in the same boat as the Cajun. A small piece of plywood as a raft in the river just below where the once strong bridge stood and a storm brewing just on the horizon waiting to strike you at your darkest hour when you thought you couldn't possibly sink any lower. It was physically painful to listen to, though it could be contributed to the thick beer that filled his empty belly.


As the damage was dealt, unable to prevent it, his mind flickered to what the drooling, hiccuping red head had said previously. 'Boyfriend? Eugene Shelton didn't have boyfriends, or girlfriends for that matter.' he sniffed to himself, as be batted away Merriell's clawing fingers, as he tried to maul him, or kiss him depending on how you looked at it. He was almost positive that he was incapable of being in a loving relationship. It wasn't in his nature.


I don't think that is such a good idea, my brother.*


~.~.~


"You tell him Damien! You jus' tell him, ok? Wait tell him what...I love it when you speck-you speak french Gene. I want more beer!" Merriell cried as he flailed about, his tunneled vision centered on Gene's over-bite, his chapped lips looking particularly bitten this very fine evening, "I want to dance. Can we dance Eugene? I like it when you call me cher."


This was the most fun he had ever had, ranking above the four of them looking at his favorite bird book over lunch one afternoon while Gene was snoring softly on his shoulder. His movement was cut short as calloused, tanned fingertips brushed his cheeks as they fixed his lopsided breathing tube that had become a bit unhinged with his nuzzling. "You-you take such good care of me..." He mumbled, a yawn stretching his mouth, smacking his lips a few times before settling his full weight against Gene, his head resting snugly in the crook between the cajun's head and shoulder.
 
"Juste la fermer, Damien. Vous êtes en état d'ébriété. Nous allons parler quand vous êtes sobre. Maintenant dites-moi où vous êtes pour que je puisse venir vous chercher la baise,"* Francis crackled over the speakers, his voice dark and angry. Damien chuckled until a firm hand was placed on his shoulder. He looked up to see the face of Peter looking down at him, face disgusted.


"Damien, give me the phone. You've done enough damage already. You shouldn't be talking to him like this," Peter cautioned, holding out his hand for the phone. The teenager's mouth was in a tight frown and looked more than disgusted. He looked annoyed, perhaps even angry, and for some reason sad. For the life of him Damien couldn't figure out why, but because of the sadness in the other teenager's eyes, he didn't find this funny.


"No. I did not do damage. 'E did.... damage. I can talk to 'im 'ow I want. When 'e is your fazer you can choose not to... 'ow to talk to 'im," Damien replied, shifting away from Peter clumsily and turning back to the phone, where he could hear the impatient angry breathing of his father.


"Who is there with Damien? Tell me where he is so I can pick him up."


"I might not like what he's saying to you, but that's for his sake, not yours," Peter scoffed. "How he is right now is your fault, and I have no sympathy for you. I just don't want him losing what little he's got left. So no, I'm not going to shove him back into your care. Just hang up." The teenager then tried to reach past Damien and snatch the phone, but the frenchman pushed him roughly aside, casting him onto the floor with a smirk.


"Good luck with zat. For someone.... someone who talks so big, you are ver-... very easy to knock over."


"Gene I changed my mind. He's a f*cking irresponsible piece of sh*t like this. If we get drunk with him who the f*cking hell knows what will happen," Peter growled, getting up off of the floor and glaring at Damien. "You're f*cking lucky Craig's in the backroom otherwise he'd have thrown you out by now. And then where would you go? At the rate you're going at, you're not gonna have a home to go back to. Or friends, for that matter. You're an ugly drunk, Damien."


*Shut the f*ck up, Damien. You're drunk. We can talk when you're sober. Now tell me where you are so I can pick you the f*ck up.
 
"Come on cher, let me up so ah' can help Peter off da' floo', huh? Ok?" Gene murmured as he slowly placed Merriell's half asleep form onto the bar top, a groan emitting from Mer's lips as his pale arms made grabbing motions towards Gene's torso, "Nah, ya' jus' go back ta' sleep."


With another quick hand through thick red fringe, Gene was able to finally appease the grumpy, drunk Merriell, and began to lower himself to the dirt streaked floor of the bar. "Peter's right Damien, need ta' get yo' self some sleep. Ya' ok there?" His thin arms heaved Peter's light frame from the floor, placing the teen's body against his right side, "How da' f*ck we suppose ta' get dem' otta here?" The Cajun asked, brows furrowed. He didn't know how to drive, and even if Peter could drive Damien's car, it would be a tough squeeze to fit them all in that ting two seater.


"Yo' ass think ya' can drive dat' damn thing D calls ah' car? Ya' can take both dem' drunks ta' yo' place ta' sleep it off, an' I can jus' walk home." Gene suggested, steadying Peter on his feet before checking him over for any lingering damage.
 
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"Yeah, I'm fine. Just hit my head a little bit, but that's not too bad," Peter mumbled, looking up at Gene as he picked her up. What she wouldn't have given to stand that way just a while longer, held close against his side. Tonight was not the night for such things, though. They had two drunks to deal with, one of which was completely irresponsible and reckless, the other a glorified sack of potatoes. She rolled her eyes and sighed, looking over at Damien still sitting beside his phone. Thank god his father had finally hung up. She swore, it was like the man wanted Damien to say something horribly offensive, wanted an excuse to throw the teen out.


"This would be a lot easier if I was drunk and Damien wasn't. You and him probably have the most muscle," she sighed, crossing her arms. "We could get Craig to help. I don't know if he'd want to leave the bar unattended, though. Maybe we could drag them out? You could take Damien and I'll take Merriell? I can definitely drive, but I have no clue if I can drive his car. Fancy ass piece of sh*t." She shook her head and inhaled sharply, trying to think.


"And I'll need help getting them into my house. My family would kill me if I woke them up. Thank f*cking god for silent cars. You're gonna have to come with me. I think since the seats are so laid back we could have Merriell and his tank by the foot of the seat and then you and Damien could sit beside each other on the actual seat," she theorized. "Hell, if I thought just three hours ago this is what I was walking into..."
 
"Don' ya' worry now Peter, I'm all da' muscle ya' need. I'll jus' need two trips, as long as ya' got da' driving, mon ami." Gene smirked, with a quick wink. Before Peter turned away, his rough hand yanked on the of Perer's, pulling the teen towards him with a critical eye. His fingers went and ran through Peter's hair, pressing and prodding every so often. "First though, tell me if anythin' hurts ya', ok?"


With a small laugh that crinkled the corners of his owlish eyes, he clapped his hand onto Peter's shoulder before turning back to Damien. "Come on big fella, it's time ta' go." The Cajun took a deep breath, holding it, before he bent his knees and lifted the Frenchman from his seat before carefully walking his way to the front doors, "Why da' hell ah' ya' so gosh damn heavy?" Gene cursed, his voice labored and raspy, sweat beading his brow as he propped the drunk man against his car.


With a quick flick of his wrist born from practice, Gene grabed Damien's keys from where they resided deep in his coat pocket. The car door now unlocked, the Cajun maneuvered Damien into the passenger seat, right up against the gear shift.


Gene trudged back into the bar, his body humming in pain. "Come on cher, need ya' ta' wake up fo' bit." He whispered into the pinked and freckled ear of Merriell. A moan was his only answer as he heaved the frail boy against his side, his other hand reaching around to grab the boy's tank and headed back to the door.


When he approached the car door once more he called out to Peter, "Ya' figure out how ta' use dat' thing yet?" He then placed the tank as close to the passenger side door as possible. With another deep breath he lifted the deathly white boy into a bridal hold, carefully sliding in next to Damien, placing the red head on top of both himself and the Frenchman before placing the green tank on the floorboards between his legs to make sure it stayed in place for the passed out Merriell. "Dis' how dem' sardines feel, ain't it?"
 
Damien was vaguely aware of his friend lifting him up. The alcohol had fully work its way through his system, and he found himself barely able to stand and frighteningly dizzy. He grunted as he was put into the seat and looked over at Gene, his mouth trying to search for words, his brow furrowed. The small body of Merriell was placed on top of him and he shifted slightly in his seat, mumbling something about being uncomfortable.


"Just... tell 'im... do not wreck my car," he muttered towards Gene, and rested his head against the seat, closing his eyes, his brow knit in discomfort.

~~~*~~~

​



Peter's breath was caught in her throat as Gene pulled her to him. How cruel he was without realizing it. The gentleness with which he addressed her, the way he ran his hands through her hair.... it almost seemed like maybe he had cared for her. Almost. But she knew he didn't, and that was the part that hurt. The way that for a second she could actually believe that he cared for her- that anyone cared for her like that, only to have it blatantly shoved in her face that it wasn't the case. "I-I just have a bit of a headache, is all. And my neck hurts. But I'll be okay."


Gene softly mumbled words into Merriell's mouth, and she couldn't help but feel an awful ugly pang of jealousy in her gut. Why Merriell, of all people? For Gene? Gene was like her, edgy and rough around the edges. Merriell was sweet and kind and gentle and probably more feminine than Peter ever would be. He was so innocent he was like a child in some ways, and Gene chose that over her. Not that Merriell was a bad person; he was a far better person than she was. It was just how so terribly unlike the cajun that he didn't seem to fit. And yet the tenderness with which Gene picked up his little redhead told her that they really fit all too well. She was the one who didn't.


She walked up to the car and opened the door, sliding herself into the driver's seat. After a moment of looking around, she nodded and turned to Gene. "Looks like it's a manual. That's fine. I can drive it," she replied, smiling thinly and putting the car in the ignition. "And Gene, if my mom... if she says - or calls me- anything weird, just don't pay attention to it. She's f*cking nuts."


The car pulled out of the parking lot of the bar and sped down the streets. At first it was jarky, due to Peter not being used to its acceleration patterns, but she started to get more used to it as time went on, and it went smoother. Not as nicely as it rode with Damien, and she was sure that to anyone who knew anything about driving sports cars probably would have raised a brow as they passed by, but it was enough to get them all to her house. It was a nice enough house, a white typical suburban home. She pulled into the driveway behind the two other cars and turned off the car, nodding to Gene.


"Well... we're here."
 
"Ya' got dem' white picket fences, huh? Never would have pegged ya' as one of dem'." Gene murmured over both Merriell and Damien, his voice low and his eyes downcast as he struggled under the weight of the two teenagers. It was an odd thought, that Peter had a home and a family outside the times he saw him. He was such an enigma, and so guarded that he believed he just appeared places magically, or maybe even living on the road like himself, Peter certainly had the gruff personality and world know how to do so. Yet here he was, Gene Shelton, at Peter's home, about to meet his parents, and lord knows how Gene was with parents. The last one he met, he promptly punched him in the face. "I'll try ta' be on mah' best behavior, no promises though. Ya' mind gettin' sleepin' beauty off ah' me?" He hissed, nudging at Damien's head that was currently digging into his collar bone painfully.


'Come on, reel in your pride and say thank you.' The Cajun thought to himself, nuzzling his nose into Merriell's hair for comfort before maneuvering around his small frame to open the door. "Hey, Pete, thanks fo' dis'. I ain't too comfortable in acceptin' help, ya' know?" he called over his shoulder quickly as bent himself in half trying to place Mer's tank on the ground beside the vehicle while trying his best not to jostle both Damien and said red head who incidentally was as clingy in sleep as a koala. "Yo' weak ass think ya' can carry in Mer while I get D outta da' car?"


The tank securely on the concrete ground of Peter's drive way, he lifted both himself and Merriell out of the car, the pale, sweater clad body clutched tightly in his arms. "I don't want ya' ta' get in trouble, ah' ya' sure we can crash here?"
 
"That would be because I'm not one of them," Peter answered, a small smile on her face. "Believe me, I was never invited to the backyard barbecues." In fact, there had been more than a few times when her parents had been invited but they had gone out of the way to tell her parents that it was 'an adult only' sort of thing. Making sure that she was left out, with her brother as collateral. There were more than a few times that her parents had been advised to send her to a christian camp, more than a few times when she overheard conversations about how hard it must be to be her parent. It didn't bother her anymore, just made her sad at the ignorance of others. Now that he was bringing her friends into her house, she was up for a whole new kind of problem. It wasn't a rare occasion that her mother would pointedly call her Petra, and Lucas often did it teasingly. Whatever happened, she was sure what she was doing right now was the right thing to do.


"It's okay, I get it. Taking help often feels like taking charity, but Gene... you're not weak. I know you can take care of yourself. But getting help every now and then doesn't mean your weak. I know for a fact that you're one of the strongest people I've ever met. You might not, but I do," she replied, walking over to Merriell and taking him in her arms, shuffling backwards slightly as she did so. The red topped head flopped against her chest and she shifted to grab him deeper under his arms.


"Honestly, I doubt they'll be pleased, but they don't really care what I do anymore, so long as nothing gets broken. And it's not like we don't have space for them. We have a big sectional in our living room. More than enough room," she replied, shuffling backwards towards the stairs, Merriell's heels dragging on the ground and his air tank clattering beside him. When she got to the stairs she lifted the air tank up a step first and then dragged him up a step. Lifted up the tank, lifted up him. She repeated this until she got to the door, which she leaned up against, resting for a moment. Peter held her breath as she unlocked the door, pushing it open gently, trying not to make a noise. Honestly, she had no idea if she'd get in trouble or not. Her mom would undoubtedly get her panties in a bunch about her sleeping around a bunch of guys. Unfortunately. Just hopefully she'd keep her goddamn mouth shut.


Peter dragged Merriell over to the couch and sighed when she looked down. There, splayed across the couch, was Lucas. The blonde was in his full glory- drooling out of his mouth with his phone still in his hand, neck at an awkward angle beside the couch cushion. She dragged Merriel a few feet farther down the large couch and lifted him onto it, finally relieving herself of the weight. She placed the air tank in the corner beside the couch and nudged her brother until he lifted his head and blinked in a very confused fashion.


"Lucas, my friends are over and-"


"Holy f*ck, Petra... is that kid dead?"


"No, no, no, he's just really drunk and is sleeping it off. I need you to shut up and go up to bed, though. There are more coming."


"You're not having a party, are you?"


"Seriously? While our parents are sleeping right above us? No, I'm not that stupid."


"Are they all... y'know... guys?"


"God, you sound like mom. Go the f*ck upstairs, Lucas," she hissed, and he sluggishly retreated to go upstairs to his room. She exhaled and shook her head, plopping down on the couch beside Merriell's head.


"God f*cking damn I'm so beyond f*cked at this point. There's no way this is going to hold up with them in here," she muttered quietly to herself, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. "I mean, there's almost no point now."
 
"Who needs backyard parties when ya' have beer and good company? Who needs suburban zombies anyhow..." The Cajun muttered under labored breathes as he yanked on Damien's arms, slowly pulling the muscular body towards the passenger side door, "Allez Damien, travailler avec moi ici*."


With another tug the frenchman's body fell to the driveway with a thud. Gene winced in sympathy as he rushed to the floor to Damien's side, checking his head and neck as he went. "Ya' ok D?" He asked, his arms going under the other teen's arms to prop him up before heaving him up with gritted teeth.


As he wobbled towards the front door of the quaint, cookie cutter house, the weight of Damien causing pain to shoot down his spin, he called out to Peter, "What evah' ya' say Pete, I warned ya'."


He couldn't remember precisely the last time he asked for help. Most likely when he was 16, trading services for food or a dry place to sleep, taking residences in the back of bars and cars. It was during this time he decided to hitch his wagon on fate and hitchhike across America in search of something worth living for. He ended up in Ravensdale by pure chance and a deep ingrained craving for some cigarettes. The greyhound had stopped in town for a quick refueling and after Gene's latest bout of chain smoking out the window, he to needed to replenish his stash with what little money he had saved during his stay in the red district of New Orleans. Sitting outside the corner store that day on the hot pavement, smoke in hand, he just decided to stay. It was as good a place as any, and he was tired of moving, or traveling. He just needed to rest and start a new. Somewhere dry and seemingly safe. It wasn't long after he found his safe haven at the lumber yard.


Gene found himself passing the threshold to Peter's house spying said teen sitting against the couch, while Merriell was snuggled deep into the soft cream colored leather just to his right. "You doin' ok Peter?"


With a few more staggering steps and heaving breathes he placed Damien's body on the couch, before falling to the floor next to Peter as he tried to regain his strength, wiping at the sweat on his brow.


Come on Damien, work with me here*
 
Peter looked over as a soft thud sounded nearby her, signaling that the frenchman had made it onto the couch. Gene sat beneath her on the floor, breathing heavily with small beads of moisture just surfacing on his tanned face. She looked down at him with a pained expression on her face before sliding down off the couch and landing on the floor with a thud, her mouth pressed into a hard line. Inside her heart was racing, pounding in her ears as she gritted her teeth. Better he find out this way than by the mouth of her mother.


"Gene, I- I haven't been... entirely honest with you. With any of you," she started, looking down at her hands which were knit in her lap, knuckles turning white from the tightness as they gripped each other. She felt like she was going to puke. "And I know this seems like the timing sucks, what with the sh*t going on with Damien, but all of you being here... I don't have another choice. It's best you hear it from me than my family. You're my best friend, Gene, and I know- I know I'm probably the one you're the least connected to in the group, what with Damien being your right hand and Merriell being your... whatever he is to you. But you're the easiest one for me to talk to, so I guess I'm lucky that they're the ones who are pretty much passed out." She paused and took a deep breath, gritting her teeth and looking Gene dead in the eyes.


"Gene, I'm- I'm a girl," Peter whispered softly, and even as she spoke those words they didn't feel right to her. "My name isn't Peter. It's Petra. I'm sorry for lying to you, and I understand if you're angry with me." She bowed her head and sighed, closing her eyes. Everyone had left her when she'd started calling herself Peter. What few friends she did have abandoned her. She thought she'd be more accepted by the boys, but all they did was laugh. The parents didn't want their children around her. It was like she was a monster. And now she didn't care about that anymore. They were f*cking morons, and she could appreciate that, but this was different. These were her friends. Good real friends.


"It was hard to tell any of you because, well... it seemed like I was the low one on the totem pole, you know? I was just expected to be there. And I always was there, but all of you are tied together in a way that I'm not part of. You and Damien are best friends, and Merriell is your... thing and he's got some kind of this caged-animal-sympathy thing going on with Damien. And I have no problem with that, I'm not bitter, because believe me I don't need to cry on any shoulders, but maybe- maybe that will help you understand why I didn't tell you. Why I still wouldn't tell you if not for these circumstances. When it comes down to it, I'm the one who's texted near midnight and is expected to show up, not the one who gets a ride in Damien's car."
 
The cajun's eyes narrowed, his head cocking to the side as he took in Peter's face. His spindly fingers reached up slowly to run over sharp cheek bones, and slanted cat like eyes. With teeth gritted, his soft caress turned harsh and rough as he gripped Peter's chin, his face moving up into her personal space, his nose brushing that of Peter's, while his eyes turned into steely slits, nostrils flaring. "F*ck you." Gene growled, voice breathy and low. The hand clenching Peter's sharp chin shoved her aside with a sneer.


Trust in Gene's world was almost a foreign concept. It wasn't given freely. Ever since Katrina. He trusted the cops to give food and protection, yet what they, what he got, was meager scraps as he fended off sexual advances from sleazy men. He trusted his father to provide for him, instead what he got was broken promises and the smell of whiskey on his father's breath when he told him it was time to move on to the next mold and grime infested motel that rented by the hour to unsavory patrons. He trusted his mother to come home to him, and look how well that turned out. This was why he put up barriers against himself and others. To protect himself. It was as if he had been shot. Never again.


"F*ck you, boo." With another growl, he stood to his feet, his body staggering slightly as his mind tried to catch up to his jerky movements. As he reached the door, his eyes clenched tight as he fought his bodies instincts to turn around and sit back down next to Peter, or Petra now. Say it didn't matter that she was living a lie, that he forgave her, but he felt too betrayed to give in. Heart over mind he supposed.


When the cool night air hit his anger heated face he allowed himself to choke out a weak cry before hurrying down the street, hands thrown deep into his pockets, eyes glued to his scuffed and worn shoes. Maybe he wasn't meant for friends, for life in general. It was getting to be too hard. Maybe his hunger would finally take him, or the rain. His mother was just waiting on the other side. Dark curly hair, almond eyes, pale skin, long slender neck, dainty wrists. The living embodiment of one red head in particular. They were so alike in so many ways. It made it almost physically impossible to not stand by his frail side and protect him from everything, like he failed to do with his own flesh and blood. That's probably why he never took a chance with Peter. Once upon a time he thought about it, but they were too similar. Too much.


As the streets began to blur together, he finally took into account of where he was. It was dark and damp, dirt splattered the buildings, windows and doors boarded up. Every town had one, a bad side of town, a wrong side of the tracks. And here he was, smack dab in the heart of the under belly. "Where ya' goin' son?"


Gene spun around to see a group of five or so, drunk from the way they stood about, eyes unfocused. "I ain't here to cause trouble, jus' makin' mah' way home." He mumbled, hunching his shoulders to try and appear smaller, less of a threat. If there were two guys, he would be on the offensive, however, this situation did not demand a hero.


"Why don't change give us all yo' money an we call it even." The leader drawled, as he took a step closer.


"I have no money." He muttered, his feet echoing that of the leaders, taking a step back for every step forward.


"Somehow I don't find dat' entirely true." The man growled as Gene's back hit the brick wall behind him.


With a deep breathe, he drew up his usual smirk to his face, eyes hooded with feigned arrogance. "Come search me then, I dare ya boo."


Searing pain shot from his cheek down towards his toes as a fist conected to his face. "Let's see how tough ya' feel after a beatin'."


Gene cackled as he stood up to his full height and stared into the thugs eyes, "That's all ya' got? Need ta' try harder if ya' gonna break me."
 
For a moment Peter actually thought he understood. Gene's thin fingers touched her cheek softly, almost curiously. But how wrong she was. His grip tightened and he drew to her and in his eyes she could see that he had no sympathy for her at all. Those cold eyes of his seemed to hate her. The cajun tossed her away like she was trash, her back falling roughly against the couch. She sat there for a good while, listening to him leave her house and then feeling the silence that was his absence. She wanted to wallow, to hate him for shaming her when she finally let him in, to never get up from where she was again. But that wasn't who she was anymore. She was strong. And she would be damned if she let him walk out of her life that easily.


Peter grabbed her jacket and went into her garage. She threw up the large metal door and then mounted her bike, gritting her teeth as she kicked it to life. That f*cking little f*ck. Ignorant little sh*t. Can't listen to me at all. I'm still the same damn person. Her thoughts were scrambled, but she focused them on angry ones. She couldn't deal with any self-loathing bullsh*t right now. This area went from suburban to bad fairly quickly and to get to Gene's lumberyard he would wind up going right through it. She told herself that was the only reason she was pursuing him, but she knew it was because she couldn't stand to let him go. Not like this.


She slowly puttered through the streets towards Gene's home, looking out for a short tanned boy walking on the side of the road. He couldn't be that far away. But she was still going without a sight of him. She had been trying to veer away from the darkest part of town, figuring he'd at least have the sense not to venture in there when it occurred to her that given it was Gene she was looking for, that was undoubtedly where he was. Right smack dab in the middle of trouble. Christ, Peter, isn't this exactly what you were talking about not long ago? Even when he doesn't want you near him you're right there to try and help him. There's so much wrong with you right now.





Going through the streets here she was more cautious and thus went faster. Though her bike wasn't new it was cleaned up nice, and she saw to that. Now she wished it looked a little more ugly and a little less shiny. People stood smoking on the corners, watching her pass with dull eyes. The houses stood behind them, falling apart and damaged, often windowless or boarded up, some with tarps replacing part of the roofs. She tried not to look any of them in the eyes, just scanned the streets quickly for Gene. And then, finally, she saw him. He was pinned against a wall by a large gentlemen who was surrounded by four lackeys. Suddenly she wished she had a gun.


Peter stopped the bike beside the sidewalk, stepping off of it and staring at the man who seemed to be the ringleader. What the f*ck do I do now? What if he has a gun? He wouldn't even need it given that he's picking on two scrawny-ass kids. Two scrawny kids who don't even get along anymore.





"He's got nothing for you. Just look at him. Don't you think that if he had any money he'd have spent it on food right now?" she snorted, coming forward and hoping to god they couldn't smell the fear that hung on her like the odor of death around a corpse. She felt like her knees were shaking. Calm yourself. "What do you want? I'll give you what you need so long as you let my friend go." She couldn't look at Gene. Whenever she thought of him all she thought about was that sneer as he tossed her aside.
 
"Feel like givin' that sass up boy?" The thug leered, his face rubbing up against the scruff that lined Gene's own jawline. Gene laughed once more, bits of spittle and blood flying from his mouth to land on the leader's face from his split lip.


"Not even close." The Cajun wheezed, blood dripping from a cut above his left eyebrow and another one high on his right cheekbone. The street around him began to sway, or was it his head that seemed to be moving. He felt his face swell to laughable proportions as another fist landed to his stomach, or what felt like through his stomach and to his spine.


"Jus' shut up ya' damn punk!" was hissed in his ear, before another punch to his already black and blue face, lights flashing behind his eyes at the force. A familiar rumble reached his ears, and the only thought he could muster up was, 'Please lord don't let that be Peter, she shouldn't get involved.'


When another punch didn't arrive as he expected, he cracked open his one good eye to see what could only be a blury Peter straddling her bike. "Don't pay attention ta' dat' whelp, dis' is between da' two of us." The Cajun slurred, taking a swing at the back of the ring leader's head, his fingers cracking with the impact.


With a cry the leader fell, while two of his lackeys fell to his side to pull up their fallen comrade, as the other two began advancing on Peter. The Cajun stumbled about as he tried to regain his bearings before he threw himself onto the back of one of the thugs backs, knocking him flat onto his face, his hand flung in the culprits hair, knocking his face into the hard cement a few times before clamoring to the other thug. "Don't touch her!" He growled as he tossed his full meager weight against the man's knees, his center of gravity dispersed unevenly at the blow as he fell to his knees. As the attacker fell, his head connected with that of Gene's, sending his body and head reeling in the opposite direction.


His ears picked out the sound of the leader getting to his feet, followed by the tell-tale click of a pocket knife being opened. "Get outta here Peter!" Gene coughed as he turned from his back to his stomach, his head lolling from side to side, the street spinning in front of his eyes before a foot conected with his chest, flinging him back onto his back, his finger clawing at his own throat as the breath was knocked out of him.


With the last ounce of strength he could muster, Gene began crawling his way towards Peter's bike, his hand shooing her off. His only drive was to protect, and if it was her or his life, he would choose her everytime. Girl or boy, Peter was family.
 
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Before the thugs could even say anything, Gene had started an all-out brawl. Peter watched with horror as the short teen swung a fist towards the leader's face, connecting and dropping the man hard. Suddenly it was a scrambled mess of violent bodies. She had no clue what to do. She'd held her own here and there when creepy old men in the bar said things about liking little boys, but these people wouldn't go down from one of her punches. She was slender and thin, with not much muscle covering her body. But she had to try and get him out.


"Don't touch her!"


After all of that, he was fighting for her. When it came down to it, they were both still on the same side. Her by finding him, him by protecting her. She stepped forward towards one of the thugs but he was tackled by Gene. The cajun went from one to the other until he knocked heads with a lackey and fell to the ground. She would have run to him if not for the leader who'd drawn a pocketknife, which she eyed warily until one of the men kicked Gene. Then she reacted on pure instinct. She grabbed the man's head and brought it hard down onto her knee, shoving him backwards reeling into the rest of them. Then she grabbed Gene's hand and pulled him behind her onto the bike, quickly turning it on and pulling away as the gang started running towards them.


"Holy f*ck," she breathed, glancing in the mirrors and watching the group grow small behind them. For a moment she was quiet before she started to speak again. "Do you want me to take you back to your place? You can come back with me, but I know you're still angry. Hell, now I'm angry. My intention was never to hurt you, Gene. I was just being stupid and selfish and I was afraid to let you in. And believe me, I'm sorry for that. The last thing I want is to lose you because of my own problems. And at least now you know. There's not really anything to me besides that, and I'm still the same person."
 
'Am I flying?' He sighed to himself, wind rushing through his ears. Maybe he was finally dead, but that was a funny thought. Why was he flying? He should be falling through the earth while flames licked the tips of his feet. Yet here he was instead, light headed, nuzzled into soft leather with the comforting white noise of air ringing throughout his abused and beaten body. He felt safe.


The Cajun moaned in displeasure as his pillow moved. "Why-why da' ya' have-have ta' talk. Jus' sshhh." He mumbled, wincing in pain as the split in the middle of his bottom lip opened that much wider as he spoke. As his eyes squinted open, or eye as the case may be, the other being completely swollen up, his face scrunched up, the dried blood on his face cracking in what felt like zig zag patterns. "I need ta' sleep."


His hands found their way across narrow hips to lace in front of the body he clung to, squeezing tight for a moment before falling back into oblivion. His head was throbbing too much to stay conscious enough to register his surroundings.


~.~.~


Merriell stretched out on the couch like a cat, his long arms flung out above him, back arching while the right side of his face was smothered in what smelled like leather. His memories came reeling back, a movie in his head played on fast forward, until he came across the last thing he remembered. Throwing himself onto the rail thin body of one Eugene Shelton. 'What an idiot! I'm never drinking again!' He thought to himself, as he pushed his tired, weak body into a sitting position, swinging his arms about to untangle himself from his breathing tube that had become wrapped about his body.


Limp hands came up to rub at his weary eyes, attempting to rub away his aching head as well. When he felt he could, he opened his eyes and took in the warm, lived in living room he could only assume belonged to Peter. However, the young man was no where to be found. And neither was Gene. A quick scan of the room only provided the where-abouts of a passed out Damien, hair pushed up at awkward angles thanks to sleep.


Merriell allowed himself a small raspy giggle, before crawling over the few inches to where Damien's form laid sprawled up right on the couch, careful not to pull at his green tank, giving his shoulder a quick shake. "Damien, I can't find Peter or Gene. Damien wake up!" He whispered, his mouth pulled down into a frown that looked more comical than sad.
 
"Great. You're not even conscious. Well, I guess it's my place then," Peter muttered to herself, leaning forward slightly so that Gene's weight was pressed firmly up against her. She didn't want him falling off. The bike rumbled down roads, getting out of the boarded up homes of the underground, through the shabby areas of the semi-poor surrounding area an finally back into the suburban neighborhood scene. It weaved through the labyrinth of streets lined by identical houses and white picket fences, the turns soft so as not to accidentally knock her cargo off. Every now and then she'd readjust his arms against her so that he was kept on. Finally they came to her house, the garage door still hanging open as she rode the motorcycle slowly inside it. She kicked out its stand and shuffled off the bike, her arms holding Gene so that he wouldn't fall off.


"Sh*t, I can't carry him in. I'm going to need Damien," she muttered to herself, looking up at the stairs that led back inside. She pulled the thin teenager towards her and off of the bike, setting him back on the ground. "I'll be back to you in a minute, Gene."

~~~*~~~

​



Damien was woken by a shake to his shoulders and the urgent whisper of one redhead. He sat up quickly, panicking for a few seconds before he looked around and found himself in some strange house. He'd never been here before. It was nice enough, with a large couch and a television. He looked back at the frowning freckled face of Merriell, his brows raised. Suddenly he felt a rising sickness and he pulled himself urgently from the couch and staggered into the kitchen where he vomited into the sink. This definitely was not his proudest moment. He stood there for a few moments, his arms on either side of the sink, supporting him as he tried to think through this situation, tried to figure out what had happened. With no luck, he washed the vomit down the sink and rinsed his mouth.


"I have no clue where we are. With any luck this is some pretty girl's house," he joked, though his voice was tired and weary. He had a killer headache and wanted to go back to resting. "Are there any pictures on the walls? People usually have family pictures somewhere." Damien started to nose around, going quietly back towards the living room and turning on a light switch as he did so. There on one of the shelves was a family photo, two adults and two kids. Perfect American family. Suburban home, one boy, one girl. As he stared at the photo he recognized the children. They were in Peter's home. The picture showed a little girl and a little boy. Who knew Peter had an older sister? Or as a little boy he had blonde hair? Both of the children had fairly similar features, but the little girl looked more like today's Peter than the boy did. Strange.


"It's Peter's house."

~~~*~~~

​



Peter burst into her house, walking quickly over to the living room, where she was surprised to see Merriell and Damien awake. She walked over to them and looked quickly at the picture that Damien was holding. Sh*t. This is why she didn't take people to her house. This was one gigantic ridiculous mess she couldn't believe she was currently involved in.


"Damien, I need you to help me bring Gene inside. He walked into a bad district and he's not awake. I can't carry him in," she said urgently, and narrowed her eyes as Damien turned around laughing.


"You are not able to carry him? He is tiny!" the frenchman snorted, brushing past her and walking into the open garage door. On the floor his friend lay with several bruises and spots of blood. He looked sharply back at Peter. "What the f*ck happened?"


"Some guys got to him. I don't want to think what would have happened if I hadn't gotten there in time," she muttered, walking down towards Gene's head and crouching there. "Hey Gene, I've got Damien. He'll take you inside."


~~~*~~~

​



Damien shook his head gravely and walked down to Gene, lifting him underneath his arms and pulling him upwards so that the other teen's weight rested on his body. He turned the unconscious teen so that they faced each other and kneeled, letting Gene fall onto his back. Then holding one bony arm in his hand and his friend's leg, he stood up. Damien walked slowly up the stairs and through the door back into the house, turning and ducking slightly to make sure that his friend wasn't hit on the way in. It looked like he'd been beaten enough today.


"Merriell... your boy toy is a little broken.... right now," Damien muttered, walking over to the couch and resting Gene back onto it softly. "Your father is a doctor, no? Should we wake Gene up or let him sleep?"
 
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Merriell fell backwards to avoid Damien's rush to the kitchen, his nose scrunching at the unmistakable sounds of retching. "You ok there Damien?" He called as he struggled to right himself back into a sitting position on the couch, rolling about like a turtle who had been flipped on its shell. He blamed the drink on lack of coordination.


With his head awkwardly propped against the back cushion, he looked about the nice cream walls of the living room, taking into account the nice family portraits that lined the walls. It was as if the walls had hands that longed to welcome whoever entered a strong and loving embrace. It was safe and homey. Unlike his own gilded cage. Everything pristine and centered. Dust-free and gaudy in the classic designs most readily seen in the late 19th century deep in the south. Almost as if the home were a museum, a quick look into what plantation homes might have looked like when slavery was at it's all time peak. He spied smiling faces looking out at him behind glassy frames. A loving family, complete with two kids. He sighed deeply as he listened to the slurred speech of the Frenchman who wondered the hallway between kitchen and living room before he heard him declare it as Peter's house.


"It doesn't seem as if Peter is in any of these pictures though." He mumbled as he stood up slowly on shaky legs, his tank in hand as he rolled it across the room to dissect the people in the photos just to his right. The young boy could not in any way be the Peter they knew and cared for, which left him to contemplate the older female that graced most if not all the pictures the home had to offer. Eyes were similar and cat like. High cheekbones, sharp chin. 'It couldn't be...could it?' He asked himself before he was startled out of his thought by Peter bursting through the front door.


"What's going on?" Was almost out of his mouth as he tried his best to herd himself through the living room and too the front door without falling over, but was cut off when Damien flew through the house as out the door. With a furrowed brow, he let himself sprawl across the couch once more, fiddling about with his tank, low with air, until it reached the correct pressure once more.


"Merriell... your boy toy is a little broken.... right now."


'Broken? How is that possible-what? Gene is the strongest person I have ever known...' His thought swirled about him in a whirlwind fashion before his eyes were met with Gene's body. Gaunt and broken, just like Damien said. Broken. That distinctive face bloodied and swollen in purples and blues, a bit of green and yellow could be seen in splotches around one of his eyes. "Gene..." He breathed, as his eyes widened with fear. Air suddenly had a hard time getting through his burning throat as if he had been screaming. His heart beats stuttered every few moments as tears pooled just under his lids. 'It can't be possible....' he cried, his eyes scrunched tight, as if to erase the sight in front of him. When a pained moan sounded from the cajun's lips, he finally allowed himself to cry, tears falling freely from his closed eyes.
 
Damien sat beside Gene's feet, his mouth clenched as he stared ahead. The Cajun wouldn't want them seeing him like this. Hell, Damien didn't want to look at him when he was lying there like that, marbled with deep purple bruises and swollen. It just wasn't right. Gene was thin but strong with an arrogant attitude and a scrappy way of fighting. The frenchman had been on the receiving end of his punches, and though Damien had ultimately ended the fight looking better off, he could testify that the Cajun could pack a hell of a punch. If he knew anything about Gene, it was that he hated seeming weak. And right now that's exactly what he was. He was helpless and all his friends were here to see that.


"I want to find whoever did this to him. I want to at least make them look worse than he does now," He muttered angrily, but knew it would do no good. Peter would never let him leave to go do that. Still, he felt almost like he was required to. Hadn't Gene done the same for him? Back when he first got his car and his father came in and hit him, Gene had stood up. He probably would have killed his old man had the guards not stepped in. And here Gene was laying, having had to deal with much much more, and Damien was incapable of doing anything.


"Je suis désolé, mon ami, mon frère. Vous ne savez pas combien j'ai envie de tuer les hommes qui ont fait cela pour vous,"* growled the frenchman, looking out the window at the beginning light of early morning. "Un autre jour, et nous pouvons le faire ensemble."**


*I am sorry my friend, my broter. You do not know how much I want to kill the me who did this to you.


**Another day and we can do it together.




~~~*~~~

​



"He's not dead guys, c'mon. He's okay, he'll get through this," Peter said gruffly, standing above Gene and looking down at her friends. "We need to get him water and ice. We're not going to help him by crying or seeking revenge. He's here right now, with us. The best thing we can do is to try and heal his wounds. So water, ice, and then I think he could do for some ibuprofen as well. There are glasses in the cabinet to the left of the sink and ice in the freezer. I'll get the ibuprofen."


Peter walked stiffly away from them, painfully aware of the family photos that her friends had been looking at. This is what had gotten Gene hurt. It made her realize that either she should have told them from the get go or she shouldn't have told them at all. It was too late now. Today was the shittiest and the longest day. Damien had gotten some horrible news and she'd dealt with the brief but blatant hatred for her from her own best friend.
 
'That's nice.' Gene sighed as his tired yet flittering mind whirled about before settling on one memory in particular, long fingers carding through his matted hair. He was suddenly a young boy again, eyes too big for his face, curly hair untamed, framing high protruding cheekbones that stood out against the layer of baby fat that surrounded his jaw, still too boyish and young to have the chiseled appearance of today. All in all, like his mother always said, he looked like a little lutin* scurrying about, causing mischief. His head pillowed softly in his mother's lap. Hear her soft lilting voice as she carded long pianist playing fingers through his mess of locks as she sang him french children's songs or told folklore tales of french and Cajun decent while the savory scent of stew cooking on the stove wafted through the air and tickled his nose. He was home.


Coldness hit his face and he hissed, his wounds throbbing as he tried to move away, his mind crying not to leave his mother's soft hands once more, yet instinct told him to protect himself in his weakened state from this painful assault. His body and mind were quieted once more by soft shushing sounds cooed in his ear. Another moan of displeasure graced his lips as he allowed what could only be an ice pack to be placed back onto his sore face.


God, he was tired. He just wanted to sleep, though he knew this feeling well. Street brawls were a common occurrence when he lived from day to daunting day and night to nightmarish night in Louisiana. The tale tell signs of a nasty concussion. He could recall sitting up a few nights every other week after defending his spot of shelter, his food, his body from assault, forcing himself to stay up and make sure he didn't need to limp his way to that open clinic a few blocks away. If he were to die, it wasn't going to be thanks to some idiot. It was his choice and his choice alone.


"Vous devriez voir l'autre type.**" the Cajun was able to mumble, as he fought his way to consciousness.


Lutin*- a mischievous hobgoblin found in french and Cajun folklore


You should see the other guy.**


~.~.~





Peter was right. He was out on his own now, his father was a doctor, he had the displeasure of forced check ups his entire life. Spent hours passing the time reading his father's old medical texts and journals. He needed to use what little knowledge he had retained and help. If he wished for people to stop treating him like an invalid, he needed to stop acting like one. It was his time to fly.


The burst of adrenaline caused by the sight of a beaten Gene cleared his head alcohol induced haze he was still under. He let himself scoot over towards the slumped form of of the Cajun, and lay him down flat on his back, his head pillowed in his lap. "Come on Gene, you need to get up now. I need you to wake up." He enunciated slowly, his fingers making their way through matted curls. A moan was given as his answer, as the thin body on top of him wiggled from side to side, eyes flickering quickly behind closed eyelids. His white linen button down became seeped with dark red spots as he brushed the cakes blood from the other teen's face to better see the damage of the cuts. 'Superficial wounds at best. Skin just cracked. No stitches needed. No fractures either.' He listed, mumbling under his breath before letting his hand quickly move to his eyes, opening them with light finger tips, 'No blood vessels broken. Pupils in good condition, no serious trauma to the brain.'


"Over all, besides one heck of a headache, he should be fine. Do you have any butterfly bandages by any chance Peter?" Merriell asked as his hands returned to their previous task of running through Gene's hair, massaging at his temples every few strokes.
 
Damien looked up towards Peter and nodded, removing himself from Gene's side and walking into the kitchen. After some searching in the cabinet beside the sink, he retrieved a plastic cup and filled this with water before resting it on the counter and going towards the freezer, where he found an ice pack. Gather both of these items in his hands, he walked back to Gene's side and splashed the cold water on his face.


"Damien, I didn't mean for you to splash that on his face," Peter said dryly, looking at the frenchman with one brow raised. "I meant for him to drink it." She rolled her eyes and took the ice pack from his hand which she rested gently on Gene's forehead.


Damien shrugged and looked down at Gene's form smiling in relief when the Cajun opened his mouth to try and speak. Damien laughed at the words that his friend spoke, grinning broadly. Even though he knew Peter was right, that Gene wasn't going to die and perhaps this wasn't such a huge deal, but seeing his friend in such a weak position was disheartening. Even some small sign that he was getting better brought Damien great solace.


"Je parie que vous lui avez donné l'enfer,"*


*I bet you gave him hell




~~~*~~~

​



Peter smiled as Gene said something in french and nodded to Merriell. As soon as she'd stepped off the soapbox, she was surprised to find that the redhead had nearly done a complete 180. Those tears dried from his face and he slipped into an intelligent and logical mode. He clearly knew a lot about the medical profession, which wasn't terribly surprising giving that he had a serious condition and a doctor for a father. No doubt in those long years stuck at home he'd read some of his father's books out of sheer boredom.


"I think I do. I'll get those along with the Ibuprofen," she replied, and left the room to climb quietly up the stairs. She felt herself tense at every creak she made, and when she finally got to her parents' door she held her breath and slowly pushed it open. Inside she saw the forms of her parents under the covers, their breathing gentle under thick covers. She rushed quickly past them into their bathroom, turning on the lights with some hesitance and opening the cabinet doors which resided under their bathroom sink. Inside was a tray filled with various medications. It had been like that since she was little. Even though both she and her brother were old enough to take adult medications, there were bottles of children's strength medicine that had to be at least six years old. Shuffling through them and cringing as the bottles rattled against each other, she finally found a white bottle of the desired pills and a box of butterfly bandages. These she grabbed, closing the cabinet doors and standing up. She turned off the light and quietly left her parents' bedroom, thanking her lucky stars that they hadn't woken up.


When she got back downstairs, she had the Ibuprofen and the bandages in hand.


"Here you go, Merriell," she whispered, handing them over. "It's starting to get light out. We should be quiet unless we want my whole family down here. As it is I got pretty close to waking them up earlier."
 
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