Chapter Seven

 

 

 

Carter moves behind him, pulling back and crossing the room. Scott hears the sink run, the swish of paper towels - Carter cleaning himself up. Scott should do the same, he knows, but...he can’t quite make himself move. Not yet.

Carter still hasn’t said a word, though, and that makes Scott nervous. He hitches his pants up and turns around stiffly. Carter’s zipping up, composed already. Scott drags his eyes up to look at Carter’s face, but he can’t read the expression there. He bites his lip, takes a deep breath, and asks, “You...uh, you believe me, right? I really wasn’t looking at...I mean, I was, but I didn’t...I really don’t want anyone else. I never have. Only you.”

Carter’s eyes flicker to meet Scott’s, and his lips curve into a small smile-one that leaves his jaw tense, that doesn’t reach his eyes. The rest of his face stays blank. “Of course, baby.”

Scott opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t know what to say. Before he can think of anything, a sharp knock comes through the door, and a voice calls out that they need Carter on set again. The sudden intrusion makes Scott jump, but Carter just goes to the mirror and gives himself a quick once-over before heading for the door.

He can’t just let Carter leave. Not like that. Not when everything feels so wrong.

“Carter!” His voice is desperate. Small. Scared.

Carter stops and looks at Scott over his shoulder, waiting, but Scott still doesn’t have the words, can only stare back and hope Carter can see what he’s thinking written on his face. The moment stretches, frozen, and Scott holds his breath. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Carter just keeps walking, leaves him here all alone. He doesn’t have a place to live, a car, a job...he doesn’t have anything without Carter. Things can’t be wrong. They can’t.

Finally, Carter turns gracefully on his heel and crosses the distance between them, sweeping Scott up in his arms and pulling him in close. He leans in, going for a kiss, and Scott arches up for it, wanting it desperately, the affirmation of it, the connection. But at the last moment, Carter stops, as if he’s just remembered the makeup on his face, the camera waiting outside for him. Scott wishes he hadn’t.

But even without the kiss, it’s good, it’s better. Carter’s arms are around him, and his breath is warm on Scott’s face, and Scott lets himself melt into Carter’s solid weight.

He wants Carter to tell him that everything’s okay, that he believes Scott when he says he doesn’t want anyone else - won’t ever want anyone else. If Carter doesn’t believe he can be faithful...he doesn’t know if he can believe it himself. Carter has always pushed him to do more, be more, be better than he ever thought he could be on his own. He’s not sure what’s left if Carter doesn’t believe in him any more.

Slowly, Carter reaches up and cradles Scott’s face in his hands, wiping the tears from Scott’s cheeks with gentle swipes of his thumbs. “Don’t cry, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t cry.”

He looks like he might want to say more, but the knock comes again, the voice more insistent this time, and Carter straightens up and pulls himself away. His hands linger on Scott’s face for one moment more, and then he’s gone, back out into his world of cameras and spotlights. The center of his own created universe. Where he was born to be.

The door swings shut again and Scott stands there, staring at it, for a long time, half-expecting Carter to come back. But Carter’s busy, and Carter has that pretty dancer, and why would he come back to the dirty, fat guy in the bathroom. Scott’s gut twists painfully and he drops to his knees, clutching his stomach. He breathes hard through his clenched teeth and looks back up at the door, at the damp spots about waist height. He did that. He’s disgusting.

He feels sick, even though he hasn’t eaten anything-he didn’t even drink that coffee, he thinks mournfully. He drags himself over to the toilet stall and hugs the bowl, resting his cheek on the cool plastic seat. It does little to calm him, but he can already tell that nothing’s going to happen. He can keep working himself into a panic, but he doesn’t have anything to throw up, and it won’t make him feel better. He moans pitifully, trying to release some of his frustration, and pushes himself back out of the stall to scoop up the scattered change and wedge his wallet back into his pocket.

With a shaking breath, he gets up and walks to the mirror, wincing when he catches a glimpse of his reflection. He’s a complete mess, eyeliner dripping down his face in weaving lines, spit drying on his chin, hair a hopelessly tangled bird’s nest. He looks like exactly what he is - fucked.

That’s only the surface mess, though. Temporary. The kind that washes off. Underneath it, his eyes are sunken hollows, bloodshot and deadened, and his throat is shadowed with the beginnings of bruises. He doesn’t know how he’s going to bring himself to leave the safety of this room, the lock on the door, how he’s going to face all those people. He watches his fingers come up to trace the bruises on his throat, turning his head this way and that, seeing how they change with the light. He presses in with one fingertip, watching the skin change colors under the pressure, and then he lays his hand firmly at the base of his throat and squeezes, just a little, just enough to bring back the dull throb of the bruise.

The thought comes wandering through his head almost lazily, like it’s been floating there all along, just under the surface, just where he couldn’t quite see it.

Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped.

In the next moment, Scott’s eyes go wide, and he snatches his hand away as if from something burning hot, something dangerous. It’s definitely, definitely time to go. Even out there is better than in here, trapped with his own fucking head and its treacherous thoughts.

He cleans himself up quickly, paper towels rough against his face and his belly. There’s really not much he can do about the spots of come on his jeans, and he settles for pulling his hoodie down as low as he can, hands settled heavy in the pockets, hoping it covers them. It’s not much, but it’s as ready as he’ll ever be.