WAKE (Wattpad edition)

57. Pride.

Soundtrack: 'All I need' -  Joy Williams

{Jon}

The fierce itch of his cuts woke Jon early, when the morning light was still pale through his curtains. Still half-asleep, Jon rubbed his palm over the padded dressing to try to relieve the itch, then kicked his blankets off and scrabbled at the edge of the tape to tear the bandage off. He stared at the smooth skin of his stomach underneath, then rubbed it hard with his fingers, like it was a trick. Five thin pink lines crossed his skin—healed.

He took a sharp breath, covering them with his palm, remembering the heat in his hands in the dream with Jesus. He checked his hands, back and front. They were the same shape and size as usual, too big for his body right now. Blood had dried and stained the skin between his fingers. His fingernails were black where he'd torn at the cuts, digging deep to obliterate both the nightmare and the real-life memory of Kurt's face, hurt in his eyes before he'd carefully reassembled his expression and moved on.

Jon put his fingertips to his lips, closing his eyes. Taste and see. He swallowed, expecting self-hatred and revulsion to rear up in his head. There was nothing except his caught breath and the coppery taste of his fingers against his lips. There was nothing disgusting about that kiss. He couldn't hate himself for wanting Jesus' warmth and life and love as close as skin. There was nothing better.

His nose stung, and he tipped over to bury his face in his pillow again. This wasn't the healing he wanted. He could still feel his yearning to be held by a guy, to take a guy's face in his hands and kiss him. The only thing that had changed was that he didn't feel like he had to tear his own skin open and bleed for that. Incomprehensibly, Jesus loved him completely, and he couldn't muster up hate for someone Jesus so clearly loved.

Jon sighed long and shakily, brushing his fingers over his skin again. The scars were so smooth he could barely find them. He thought at Jesus, What do you want me to do with this now? He was out of practice at listening—he couldn't tell if the answer was be you or be mine. Or both.

He got up and opened his door, nearly falling over Pete's prone body stretched on one of their camping mats across his doorway. His dad was deeply asleep, but even sleeping and unguarded, his face was lined with worry. Jon's heart squeezed a little, looking at him. He wanted to take his thumb and smooth those lines right out of his dad's forehead. Was there a way to start again?

He went to one knee to shake Pete's shoulder, and his dad came awake with a sharp intake of breath. He caught Jon's face in both hands, his eyes black with pupil as they tried to focus on him. "What is it?" Pete's voice was hoarse. "Are you all right?'

Jon put his own hands around his father's, feeling Pete's calloused fingertips press his cheeks. "I'm fine." He swallowed guiltily, realizing how many times he had said that in the past and been lying. "For real, Dad. You can go back to your own bed."

Pete released his face, pushing up to squint down the hall at the clock in the kitchen. "Sun's up—I'm up," he said, and got stiffly to his feet, gathering the mat up with him.

Jon listened to the sounds of his dad in his room getting ready for the day while he waited for his toast to pop. Jon's hands were sweating—he was pretty sure there wasn't a better time to try to talk to him. Cary was in the city today—if the sky rained fire and he had to get out, Jon could bus to the shelter and stay with him. Self-hatred had tied him up and shoved a gag in his mouth, and now that it was gone, Jon felt tentatively okay in his own skin—and like he didn't want to expend all the effort it took to hide from his parents anymore. He was going to need every scrap of energy he had to recover from an opes addiction and start at a new school and figure out how to love himself the way Jesus clearly did. If he stopped playing a part for his family, was there a chance the real Jon White could still fit with them?