{Cary}

Cary's mother tapped on his door early Sunday morning. He rolled over and frowned at the clock. After five days stuck at home it took a second for him to figure out what day it was, and what he was supposed to wake up for.

He showered, dressed in his church clothes and went to his mother's room. She was sitting at her vanity table, applying mascara. She capped the tube and frowned at him.

"Ciaran darling, when was the last time you ran a brush through your hair?" She got up and pressed him down on the stool. He held still while she brushed his hair. Her fingers felt cool on his skin.

"There." She stepped back. "Very handsome."

Cary looked up. His father's face looked back at him in the mirror; his father's dark hair waved back from his forehead. His eyebrows drew together and he got off the stool. He didn't look at the mirror again.

"I'll just get my purse, and we can go."

"Liam's not coming with us?"

She smiled. "No, the nanny has him. Isn't that lovely?"

Cary didn't say anything. He didn't like the idea of a strange woman touching his brother. On the other hand, both his parents were happier when they weren't jumping at Liam's every cry.

Beverly's church made Jon's church building look like a parking garage. A few Sundays a month she made time to step into the large, ornate building with stained glass windows and a sweeping stone ceiling. The pews were two-thirds empty. Cary figured it was because they were so uncomfortable. He tried to shift his weight off his bruises then held still, his hands braced next to his legs.

He was practised at rising and kneeling next to his mother for readings and prayers. The words of the service ran together like a river of noise, making as much sense to him as the sound of water. At the end, the minister held up a small round wafer. His words rang on Cary's ear, different than the rest:

"On the night he was betrayed, the Lord Jesus took the bread and broke it saying, 'This is my body broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.'"

Cary watched the people file out of the pews and shuffle to the front of the church for a mouthful of wafer and wine. He frowned. This was about the story of Jesus dying. He hadn't put that together before.

His mother went forward. When she slid back into the pew beside him she folded her hands and closed her eyes. He looked at the tips of her manicured fingers, which had just held Jesus' body. When the service was finished and they were settled in the leather seats of her sedan, he asked:

"What is the cracker and wine for?"

She laughed, as if she was startled by the question. "It's the Eucharist, Ciaran. We do it every Sunday."

"Why do you do it?"

She brushed a strand of hair off her face, stalling. "It's a way to say sorry," she said finally.

"For what?"

"For things that we've done."

Cary looked out the window, thinking. "Can I do it?"

"Take communion?" his mother asked. "What for?

"To say sorry," Cary said.

She laughed a little. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

Cary didn't reply. He felt her remember; her stillness made the air freeze and she didn't answer his question. Cary lifted his aching shoulders. Of course he couldn't do it. No amount of sorry would be enough.

 ///

Cary's mother dropped him off at Jon's house after lunch. Pete answered the door. His smile looked guarded. "Cary, come in. I think Jon's in his room."

Cary stepped in, taking the temperature of Jon's house without thinking. The main floor rumbled with the noise of Jon's sisters playing, and loud pop music about God poured out of the kitchen. Nothing threatened its happy din—except perhaps him.

He lifted his face to Jon's father, the way Conall liked. "Thanks for having me."

Pete nodded, but he didn't really look at him.

Cary went down the hall to Jon's room. Jon got up, his face brightening. "Hey, you're early."

"My mom's church finished early."

"Oh." Jon was obviously surprised. Cary could practically see the questions popping out of his skin. Cary let his face relax, amused by how hard it was for Jon not to just say everything he thought. Jon's house felt good.

The templates were spread on the floor with everything they needed to cut them out and assemble them. Cary hunkered down and pushed his sweater sleeves up to his elbows. "Nice work."

Jon laughed. "Yeah, well you did them."

"Knife?"

Jon passed the utility knife into his outstretched hand. "You doing okay?"

Cary flicked him a look. "Yup. You?"

Jon lifted his shoulders. "I got my dad in trouble. A bunch of people wanted to talk to him at church today."

"What for?"

Jon made a face. "It's all blown out of proportion: the fight, the locker searches. Whatever. One of the youth group kids told me that 'a pastor's kid isn't supposed to hang out with kids who do drugs.' They don't know anything."

Cary hunched his shoulders. That's why Jon's dad looked angry with him—because he was. "I shouldn't have come over."

Jon glared at him. "Yeah, you should have. You're my friend. And I don't want to fail this project."

Cary's laugh was almost silent. "Thought so. Using me for a better grade."

Jon grinned. "Definitely."

Cary finished cutting the shapes out of one sheet of cardstock and stacked them to the side.

"I saw Todd today," Jon said.

Cary looked sharply at him.

"At church." Jon worked at assembling the pieces while Cary waited. "I never did anything, you know? To make him hate me. I wanted to make friends." There were deep, unhappy lines around Jon's mouth. "There was just something about me he didn't like—something wrong with me."

Cary's eyebrows snapped together. "There's nothing wrong with you."

Jon sat back on his heels, looking at him with that unhappy smile.

"You're good," Cary said. "Todd's the kind of asshat who likes to break good things."

Jon took a breath, and some of the tension went out of his body. "Oh. Thanks." He bent over the house again, raising the walls and pressing them into place. "Cary? Why does your dad—get so angry with you?"

Cary didn't say anything, cutting with steady pressure along the lines he had drawn.

"Does he drink?"

"No," Cary said shortly. "That's not why." His head buzzed. There was a room in his head he never went into, unless he was prepared to bleed.

Jon's forehead wrinkled as he looked at him. "There's nothing wrong with you either. There's no reason—"

"Shut up and leave it Jon."

Jon looked down. The silence was tense between them. "I just hate it," he said in a low voice.

Cary held the door of that room shut tight and put his weight against it. "Everything mends," he said.

Jon bent his head. "Right." He swore softly and jumped to his feet, turning his face so Cary couldn't see it. "I'm going to go get us some snacks. You hungry?"

Cary watched him, frowning. "Sure."

When Jon was gone, Cary straightened, stretching carefully. He took a slow breath, asking his muscles to unlock. He was safe here; that was hard to get used to.

He sprawled on his stomach on Jon's bed and pulled Jon's Bible onto the blanket beside him. There was a ribbon marking where Jon had left off, and Cary opened to there. He flipped through the pages, backwards then forwards. Jesus was all over them, speaking and doing stuff. His words were like hooks, catching on his skin and pulling him close. He flipped the book shut and pushed it away. A second later, it was stashed in his backpack.

Jon returned with a plate of sandwiches and a couple glasses of juice. Jon stretched his legs out on his bed, his sock feet dangling off the edge as he ate. Cary leaned on the edge of Jon's desk, polishing three sandwiches off in as many minutes. He was finishing his juice when Jon said,

"Everything doesn't mend. You have scars."

Cary set his empty cup on the desk. He tugged his sweater sleeves over his wrists without looking at Jon.

"Was any of that skateboarding story true?"

Cary was silent a moment. "I broke my wrists. They put pins in."

"Are you going to tell me what really happened?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Jon's forehead wrinkled. "I guess because you're my friend. And those scars are something that happened to you."

Cary held still. He thought he could say it—Jon kept his secrets. "My father threw me down the stairs to the basement. The floor down there is concrete, same as a skate park." He didn't mean to tell the rest, but once he started it just came out. "He left me down there and locked the door at the top. I climbed back up and I couldn't—" His hands closed. He flexed his wrist just to feel it work the way it was supposed to. "Anyways, that was a long time ago."

Jon slid forward and his feet thumped on the floor. Anger came off of him like heat. "That never should have happened to you. Your dad should have protected you. He should have loved you."

The room suddenly felt too small. Cary watched him sideways. "So he didn't. I don't feel anything about that shit. It would be stupid if I did."

Jon curled on the edge of his bed. He ducked his head and all the fight went out of him. "It wouldn't be stupid," he said in a low voice.

Cary shrugged. His body was trembling, remembering. But he didn't feel anything on the inside. All his feelings were in his skin and bones. He bent to cut the last pieces out of the cardboard.

Jon dragged his sleeve over his face, sighing. He lowered himself to his knees to adjust the walls of their project, pressing his lips in a thin, sad line. Cary glanced at him, frowning. He guessed Jon felt a lot of things inside and that's why he cried so much. How come he had nothing inside? He had the memory of kneeling at the top of the stairs, trying to open the door. It had hurt then, but it didn't hurt now. There was just a blank, like a whole chunk of himself had been erased.

*Trigger warning: blood. You are safe, lovelies, you are loved.*

His hands were sweating so he couldn't keep working with the knife. He put it in his pocket. He felt like he was suffocating.

"I'm going to the washroom," he said.

Cary ducked out of Jon's room and into the bathroom in the hall. He locked the door and thumbed the knife blade up.

He stripped his sweater off and did it, quickly.

He dropped onto the edge of the tub and watched the blood go out and run down the drain. He could catch a breath again. He shut his eyes, one breath catching after another. Maybe crying felt like this, like washing something toxic out of your body forever.

His hand was numb. Cary cleaned up the tub and put his sweater on. He didn't look for bandages. He didn't care if he kept bleeding.

"I gotta go," he told Jon.

Jon looked up from the nearly finished house, puzzled. "I thought you were staying for supper."

"Can't," Cary said and left.

{Jon}

Jon finished the house alone. When it was complete, he sat back on his heels to survey their work. He didn't feel proud. He felt like crap.

He stretched on his bed and put his arms over his face. He had been so stupid to ask Cary questions about his scars, like his friend wanted to chat about climbing the stairs with broken wrists. Like there was anything Jon could say that would make him feel better.

There was a knock and his door opened. "Supper time," Pete said.

Jon swung his legs over the bed without looking at his dad.

"You okay?" Pete asked.

"Yeah I'm fine." He used to be able to smile when he lied.

"Did you and Cary have a fight?"

"No. We finished early. He had to go."

Pete crouched next to the model, touching the sharp crease of its roofline with a finger. "Wow son. This is pretty impressive."

"Don't be patronizing," Jon muttered. "I'm not four."

Pete's smile tucked in at the corner. "I'm not. This is really fine work."

"Cary did most of it."

Pete looked closer. The roof was cut away so you could see the rooms laid out inside. "You've got rooms here for everyone?"

Jon had forgotten about the labels above the doorways. There was a big room for 'Cary~Jon~Liam'; another for 'Tabby~Bea' and a third bedroom with nothing above the door. They hadn't talked about it; the writing was in Cary's hand. Jon didn't give anything away. "Yeah, I guess."

Pete got to his feet with a smile. "Suppertime."

Jon followed him silently out of the room.

 ///

Jon let his sisters carry the dinner conversation. He was full of things he couldn't say to his parents; it was easier if he just kept quiet. He finished first and began washing up. His father joined him, taking up the dishtowel to dry. When the girls ran out to play, Jon's mother began gathering up the food to put away. "The guys got this," Pete told her with a smile.

Jon was washing the last dish when Pete dried his hands and rustled through the perpetual mess of papers next to the phone.

"I picked this up on my way home today." It was a do-it-yourself guide to building a garage. Jon's eyes widened and he looked at his dad.

Pete smiled. "When we moved here, I said I wanted to put in a garage. The ground is thawed now. I could use a hand—a couple of hands."

Jon's face lit up. He'd dreamed of the day he would be old enough to use his dad's power tools. "I got a couple of hands."

Pete took the guide back without looking at him. "Do you think Cary would be interested?"

Jon grinned. "Yeah. That would be great."

They put away the last dishes in a hurry and went out to the backyard to look at the open space where they would lay the concrete pad and build the garage. Jon couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"When can we start?"

Pete was pacing off the dimensions of the garage. He looked up, his eyes crinkling in a smile. Sun sparkled on the red in his hair and beard. "How soon can you free up your busy schedule to head to the hardware store?"

Jon answered a little too quickly. "No youth group, no worship practice—my schedule's all freed up."

Pete looked down again. Jon didn't think he appreciated his humour.

Jon kept talking like he didn't notice. "Cary's really good at this stuff. I'm glad you're asking him to help."

"Can you answer a question honestly, Jon?"

That stung. "Yeah."

"Is Cary involved with anything that I wouldn't want in my house?"

"No." Jon took a breath. He needed to answer this well. "He smokes. But so does Grampa White." Pete was sitting on his heels in the grass, watching him. Jon met his dad's look across the thick evening light filling the yard. "I know you don't get why we're friends, but dad—you don't know what it was like when we moved."

"Tell me what it was like," Pete said evenly.

Jon stuffed his hands under his arms. "Nobody at school would look at me. I thought it would just take a few weeks to make new friends, but when Todd started— nobody wanted to get in his way. He would be pushing me around and nobody cared." Jon tried to smile. "Remember in Sunday school how, like, every lesson you taught us was about making friends with the kids who didn't have any friends?"

"Huh." A smile ghosted over his father's face. "That was years ago."

Jon lifted his shoulders. "When we moved—I was that kid. And Cary was that friend when I never expected it. He didn't need to be partners with the loser new kid. Everyone at school respects him because he's tough, you know?" He could see his dad's worried expression deepening. Wrong words. "And I know you don't agree with him punching Todd, and I know I should have told you about Todd sooner so that never happened and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Pete straightened with a sigh. "Thank you for apologizing son. I forgive you."

Jon's shoulder bumped his father's arm as they walked back to the house.

At the door, Pete said. "Jon? Please ask Cary to leave his knife at home. I would hate for the girls to get a hold of something like that."

That touched off a little spark of anger in his chest. As if Cary would be that careless. Jon ducked his head. "Sure." He didn't speak again.

2897 words.