HIDING - every scar has a story

7. Blood to Pay.

*Trigger warning: physical abuse, self-harm. Take care of yourselves lovelies and read somewhere safe and cozy.*

{Cary}

There were cars in the curving drive of Cary's house. Cary slipped in the house through the garage entrance and stood in the boot room, listening. He heard the sound of cutlery tinkling and conversation punctuated by his father's voice. His parents were entertaining tonight. Probably he should have remembered that. He went into the kitchen through the door off the hallway to forage for food.

The caterer was there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, looking bored. Cary kept the man between himself and the doors that swung into the dining room. He had a plate full of roast beef scraps and scrapings from the mashed potato container when the doors slapped open.

His father saw him and his face flushed.

"More gravy sir?" The caterer lifted the gravy boat from Conall's hands.

Cary escaped to his room.

He spent the evening working on the drafting project, finishing the drawings with dark, sure strokes. He heard his mother running a bath while the conversation below rose and fell. The house didn't quiet until after eleven o'clock. Cary pulled off his headphones to listen. His father was treading up the stairs. The footsteps stopped outside of his room.

His father's hand swung the door wide and Cary held still, looking at him from the middle of the drawings spread on the floor. The smell of wine and pipe smoke wafted into the room. Conall's dark hair tumbled over one ear as if he had run his hand through it multiple times that evening.

"I told you we were hosting my students this evening." His father's voice was soft. "I expected you to understand that your presence was required."

Cary looked down at his drawings. He heard the words under the words and the back of his neck prickled.

"What is this." Conall swept up two of the drafts.

"It's a project—"

"More cartoons." Conall tore the pages down the middle, and Cary lost his breath. He scrambled away and put his shoulders on the wall as Conall shoveled up his work, Jon's work, and tore it all to pieces.

"My god you shamed me tonight slinking around in that piece of shit jacket like you came to rob the place."

Cary's hands curled on his knees. His father was right above him, and he could feel the weight of his gaze on his bent head.

"Stand up."

He got to his feet. There wasn't enough room for him; his shoulders bumped against the wall. This close, the smell of alcohol was like a physical presence between them. Cary took shallow breaths.

"Look at me." Conall's hand caught his face, tilting it up. Cary braced himself, his fists against the wall. The line of Cary's eyebrows mirrored Conall's own.

"Look at you. This face – my face." His father's fingers tightened, digging into Cary's cheek. Cary was on his toes, straining to relieve the pressure of his grip. Conall's mouth twisted. "All you have to do is walk in the room and my failure is written on you for anyone to read – here." He gave Cary's face a shake. "You don't have to say a word."

Cary bit his lips shut, shoving everything out of his head and locking the door. He was nothing. He felt nothing and nothing mattered except he must not make a sound.

Then his father's face caved in and his fingers loosened. He opened his hand on Cary's cheek, soft as a caress. "My son." His fingers rested in the corner of Cary's jaw, where Cary's pulse would have beat if his heart wasn't stopped. "I loved you. I tried." His father's voice was hoarse with unshed tears.