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Elliott woke to violent thrashing and the sound of a squeaking mattress. Eyes wide open but seeing nothing in the dark, Elliott felt around for the cold metal of his lantern.
“Alex? What are you doing?”
A muffled moan. The sound awoke Elliott’s arousal until a foot landed hard against his hip, causing him to grunt and start to think that something was truly wrong. He finally succeeded in filling the cabin with a dim light and reached to unearth Alex from a mound of tangled blankets and sheets.
“No, no, no…” he was mumbling, followed by a string of words Elliott couldn’t make out. Alarm seized him and he shook Alex’s arm. “Alex… Alex. Alex!”
With a gasp, Alex’s eyes flew open. Elliott could just make out the worrying pallor of his skin and the feel of cold sweat from where he was still clutching his wrist. “Are you…” Alex gaped. “Who—”
His heart twisted. “It’s me, darling… Elliott. Can’t you remember?”
He grasped Alex’s cheek and begged for the animal fear in his eyes to abate, if only slightly.
“I think so—God, sorry,” Alex bit out between shallow breaths.
Elliott shook his head. “No need. Just—tell me how to help you. Do you need some water? A little fresh air? Whatever it is, just say the word.”
“Fresh air? But the rain is coming down… I’d like water though. Please.”
Elliott’s alarm subsided upon hearing Alex’s response; when he was upset, he tended to close himself up like a clam and hide away. On those days, he would avoid even his grandparents. For now, Elliott needed to keep him open long enough to discover what was troubling him.
Handing him the water, Elliott sat carefully in front of Alex on the bed, less than a foot away. Alex eyed him as he drank the water. “Thanks,” he said belatedly. “You know—we don’t have to talk about this. If you don’t want to.”
Elliott refused to accept evasions this time. He wasn’t the one who always ran away from serious conversations. “Yes I do; you know perfectly well I do. Don’t look away from me,” Elliott snapped, and Alex flinched.
Just like that, his anger vanished, replaced with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately.
Alex shook his head mutely.
A few second passed before Alex spoke again. “You’re different.” A pause. “With you, it’s—it’s different.” He sounded lost.
“Hm?” Elliott murmured, and dared to skit his thumb across the palm of Alex’s hand, starting to rub gentle circles into his skin. He didn’t know if he was trying to reassure himself or Alex. It’s safe here. You’re allowed to talk about this. “What is, darling?”
“Before,” Alex answered. “When I, uh. Whenever you get pissed off at me—and I can tell it’s not just you being annoyed or doing that pouty thing to get my attention—I look at your face and I know you’re mostly just frustrated. Or sometimes worried, I guess.”
Elliott didn’t contradict him. It was true, he was sometimes frustrated by Alex’s reticence, but he had never once hurt him, or even wished to do so. That was… unimaginable.
Echoing Elliott’s thoughts, Alex added, “And… you’ve never hurt me.”
Elliott wasn’t stupid. He heard the unspoken emphasis—you never hurt me. Disgust rose in his throat like bile, coating his next words in acid. “Who has?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
He had wanted Alex to talk about it for a long time now; Elliott didn’t want to make assumptions about his life based on idle rumors, half-heard through wafting smoke and raucous laughter at the saloon.
Alex paused. When lightning struck, the room flashed a brilliant white, and for a split second, Elliott could see everything written on his face—there was pain there, and shame.
It was a crime, Elliott lamented, that nothing he had to offer—a warm bed, the calming lilt of the sea, fresh bread and cheese—could ease Alex’s pain. You’re safe here, Elliott wanted to say. I wouldn’t let him hurt you again. But to what purpose? Even while he was safe, in Elliot’s home, in his bed, Alex was still being bombarded by flashbacks of that man’s abuse in his sleep, horrors which took his breath away and robbed him of his voice. What more could he do?
Alex’s eyes bored into his. “They told you.”
Elliott nodded. “They did.”
He sighed. “I figured. It’s fine. He wasn’t a nice guy, and he wasn’t super great at hiding it, either. People would talk. They still do, I guess.”
Elliott waited for him to say more, wishing he could banish tonight’s nightmare and every one prior from Alex’s memory.
“To be honest, it’s humiliating. What he did to me. What I let him do,” Alex said, voice strangled.
Elliott frowned. “Alex, you didn’t let him do anything. You’re embarrassed, and that’s okay, but-”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Alex cut in, drawing his hands away and burying them in his hair, knees curled up against his chest. Elliott allowed him to withdraw, edging away in case he needed space to breathe.
“I’m—I…” Alex huffed. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t—I just hate talking about it. But you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Elliott asked tentatively, wondering if he was encouraging Alex’s delusions in doing so, wondering if this conversation was helping him at all or just hurting him more.
“My… my mother. Sometimes he would hit her too, but not in front of me. He liked to tell me I was the only one he couldn’t stand, because I was bad.” Alex chuckled humorlessly. “I guess seeing him treating her the exact same way would have ruined the illusion.”
“But once…” Alex continued, eyes locked on the lantern’s pale glow—Elliott looked at it, too—“Once, I caught him screaming bloody murder at her. She just stood there taking it, until he started getting close, towering over her.”
A shaky exhale. Elliott couldn’t look away from the light now even if he wanted to. He couldn’t bear to see Alex’s expression. “I should have done something about it. All I had to do was walk in the room. I knew I would’ve gotten into trouble for being up late, and that should’ve been enough to get him mad at me instead.”
The bed creaked, and Elliott was suddenly reminded of where he was—inside his house with someone he loved, a rainstorm beating down from outside. He had very nearly forgotten. “But you didn’t do anything,” he breathed.
Alex shifted to look at him. His cheeks were flushed red, eyes glassy and far away. “No,” he answered slowly. “It was like I couldn’t move. I watched him hit her over and over again. He just wouldn’t stop.”
When Alex’s breathing started to quicken, Elliott reached to pull him against his chest, and he held Alex as his shallow gasps filled the cabin, accompanying only the thick patter of rain on the roof.
“There was nothing you could do,” Elliott whispered in his ear, hoping beyond hope that Alex would listen to him for once in his life; if there was nothing else he needed to hear, that was it. “It wasn’t your fault. You were young. You were scared. No one would have wanted you to do something like that—no one. Especially not your mother. It’s okay,” Elliott promised, and closed his arms tighter around Alex, hoping his own voice was louder than the one in Alex’s head.
Slowly, his shoulders began to shake, and Elliott realized Alex was crying. It was barely audible, made silent from years of abuse, but Elliott felt it anyway, the soft tremors in his limbs, the warmth radiating from his face. Elliott massaged his head, fingering through the short hair, back and forth, gentle but firm. “You know I’m right,” he purred. “When have I ever been wrong?”
Alex shook his head, but he was smiling as he recited, “As often as the sun sets in the east.”
Elliott kissed his earlobe. “That’s right.”