What was once a picturesque cabin by a lake surrounded by a forest of deciduous and coniferous trees alike, was now a dry and barren landscape of death. The grass had turned brown, the leaves from the trees scattered on the ground, dry and brittle. All signs that winter was on it?s way. But what didn?t make sense was the now non-empty lake, it?s once muddy floor now dry and cracked.
A tear in the fabric of reality appeared over the dock, and a split second later a duffel bag fell out of it. Stuffed full of apples and other essentials, such as spare clothes, it landed heavily on the planks with a dull thud the probably echoed eerily in this now so very empty place. A set of fingers reached through the tear to grab the edges and pull the seam wider apart, until Salvador could squeeze the rest of the way through.
The words I?m leaving for a while had tipped him off on precisely where to look. A brilliant glow lit his rusty eyes up in the dark so fiercely that they might have illuminated part of the scene. ?Well then,? he commented quietly to himself. Then with a swipe of his hand he closed the Way through the Veil to keep anything else from coming through.
Smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin in the clearing and the only bit of light visible from the windows was a faint glow from what was, presumably, the fire. It was quiet. Eerily so.
Salvador approached the cabin silently, with the kind of practiced ease of a feral mountain cat. Even with the laces removed from his boots, he knew just how to avoid the twigs and rocks and move like a ghost when he wanted to. Only a lingering chill left in his wake to mark his passing.
However, he had no intention of startling the Cajun. So when he actually got to the cabin itself, he made sure to let the thunk of his boot soles be heard. Maybe the hinges of the door needed oiling too. He looked around, assessed the mess. The clock from the wall lay in pieces on the floor, surrounded by tipped table chairs and a lamp. The small writing desk from the corner was on it?s side and broken glass littered the floor by the far wall.
Salvador set the duffel bag down by the door. He rummaged through it for a pad of blank paper and a stick of graphite.
The Cajun sat on the floor, leaning against the couch in front of the fireplace; In one hand he?s grasping the neck of a whiskey bottle -- and it appears as though he?s well on his way through it. In the other hand he held the fire iron.
The Spaniard didn?t say hello or anything at all to announce himself. He only quietly moved around the room, risking the bleed over of memories by actually touching a few things when he lifted them to set them aright. The table and a lamp. He righted one of the chairs near enough to the fire to somehow stay shadowed but in Cane?s peripheral.
He sat, still said not a word. He opened the paper pad to a blank page, set the graphite to work, and started sketching. Apart from the crackling fire, the scrape of the stick along the paper and the smudge of his fingers to work in the shading -- maybe even Cane?s periodic liquor glugging -- were the only sounds.
?I made a mess,? Cane said as Sal down. From the sound of his voice, he?d been drinking a while. The tip of the iron fire poker gets scraped across the floor as it was lifted and tipped in Sal?s direction. ?****. Ya jes gon? sit dere? Wait til I explode ?r dissolve inta tears?? Snorting, Cane guzzled down another few swallows of liquor.
?It looks like you already exploded a little, mi amigo.? A little! Making that quiet comment did not at all hinder his progress with his drawing. The point of the fire iron turned at him, however, did. His eyes ticked up to stare at it a moment.
?T?rowin **** aroun? ain? da same as explodin?.? The fire iron swung away from the Spaniard, back to the floor with a dull twang. Then, as if to demonstrate it for Salvador, Cane drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle and flung it into the fireplace. The glass shattered against the brick. He laughed. The Cajun?s head tilted to finally look over at his friend. ?My lake?s gone.?
?I noticed.? Salvador had immediately relaxed the moment the fire iron was turned away from him, and looked back down at the paper to resume working on the picture he was drawing. He didn?t even spare a glance to the shattering of the bottle. Drunk as he was, likely Cane hadn?t even noticed that very minor moment of panic that had been. The Spaniard radiated a dull calm, really. He was just there, sketching.
He lifted a leg and bent it at the knee, then rested his arm on top of it. Salvador wasn?t even paying attention to him, so the Cajun rolled his eyes and looked away.
Silly Cajun. Of course he was paying attention. Just because he wasn?t looking at you didn?t mean you were being ignored. ?It?s going to rain,? Salvador said, sensing a lull. All that lake water had to have gone somewhere, after all.
?It always does,? he sighed, now watching the floor where he was scratching marks into it with the tip of the poker. ?It?s da perfect time ta completely lose it,? and suddenly he was chuckling again. ?Da rain?ll jes? put out my fires for me. Fat lotta good Harlow was, huh? Tried ta help--ha! I done told her I wasn? no good at learnin?. Dis old dog can?t learn new tricks.?
The very existence of that iron in his proximity was still a little unsettling, but Salvador kept playing it cool. ?No amount of rain could possibly ever extinguish all your fires, guapo.? He smiled sly, just a little bit. ?And I wouldn?t say that.? He tipped his head to look at what he was drawing from a slightly different angle. Continued to work in the shading. ?If I remember now, there?ve been at least two instances between us both saying ?that?s new? on one occasion or the other, no??
?A good **** ain? gonna keep me from burnin? da place down, is it.? Statement, not really a question.
?I?m not here to give you a good ****.?
?I don? wanna **** you, either.?
?I didn?t say I didn?t want to **** you, Cane.? Sal lifted his hand from the paper, rolling the graphite stick between his fingers, and looked at the Cajun directly. ?That?s just not why I?m here.?
The Cajun?s head lolled clumsily on it?s way back to looking over at Salvador. ?Ya here ta save me, Salvador??
The Spaniard shook his head.
?Good!? Barked Cane, gaze shifting once more to the fireplace. ?I don? wanna be saved.? I can?t be. Slowly, he leaned forward until he was on his hands and knees, still gripping that fire iron. Then he shuffled around so he could use the edge of the couch to help him up onto his feet.
Grunting quietly with the effort that had taken, he stared down at Sal with a frown creasing his face. The iron was swung up to rest over his shoulder like it was a baseball bat. ?What da **** ?r ya doin? here, den??
Salvador kept an intensely wary eye on the fire iron the entire time. There was the barest perceptible flinch that might have gone unnoticed when the Cajun swung it around haphazardly to prop on his shoulder. It took him a good long, hesitant moment to realize he was being questioned and should probably answer. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and forced himself to look at Cane?s face.
?I?m here because?? You need me and won?t admit it, just like I needed you and wouldn?t either. ?...because I want to be.?
?I?m fine,? was his exasperated reply. ?You--? he?d tried taking a step, but found the task a little troublesome. Stupid boots were untied and he was standing on the laces. ?****.? The fire iron was flung aside haphazardly and Cane collapsed onto the couch so he could kick off his boots without falling over. ?I don? need anyone. Jes? go away. I?ll be back in a few days.?
Thank God in heaven. There it went, the loaded gun (or fire iron) out of the Cajun?s hands. Salvador exhaled some relief and looked over to watch his friend struggle with his boots, frowning. ?Say it again and I will.? Those words probably sounded familiar, just entirely lacking the accent of the man who had previously said them before the Spaniard citing them now.
That got a left boot flung in Salvador?s direction. Drunks had terrible aim. Salvador probably didn?t even need to lift his arm to defend against a sailing boot, but he had made a swipe at it anyway.
Canaan didn?t tell him to go away. Instead, he sank against the back of the couch so he could stare at the ceiling. Everything was numb now. He?d cried several hours ago. Evaporated the lake when the pain became unbearable. Messed up the cabin as anger set in. And now he felt nothing, which was due, in part, to the sheer volume of alcohol in his system. It?s a wonder he could even form a coherent thought, let alone sentences.
Looking down at the sketchpad, Salvador brushed his fingers over the spiral binding in consideration. No, he wasn?t going to ask. Last time they?d broached this subject he had said they didn?t need to talk about it. So even now he didn?t press by putting voice to any curiosities or questions he might have.
Salvador unwound from the chair and stood up, paper pad in hand, and shoved the graphite pencil into a pocket before crossing over the short distance to settle onto the couch next to Cane. The sound of tearing paper might draw his attention if not all that chill that the Spaniard always brought with him, even with his team?s hoodie on, still.
Cane had swung his gaze over to Salvador the second he sat down, catching a glimpse of the drawing before it was torn from the pad and froze almost immediately.
When Nash?s spell had worn off, all of Canaan?s carefully constructed walls built to protect himself came crashing down. What little foundation was left, the few bricks still intact around his raw and bleeding heart, completely fell away as Salvador handed over that drawing. The Spaniard had captured perfectly the exact moment Canaan realized he loved Jeremy. This wasn?t even a memory he?d had captured in a photo back home. Until now, it had lived only in his mind?s eye.
After clearing his throat, Salvador murmured, ?You said you didn?t have a picture.? So he offered the one he had just drawn over, a photo perfect memory done in grayscale, removed from the sketchpad.
Cane, unable to will any words out of his slack-jawed mouth, took the paper with a shaking hand. Once it was in the Cajun?s grasp, Salvador let go of it. The Spaniard withdrew his hand and set the sketchpad aside.
The sudden rush of tears came too swiftly to stop. That didn?t mean he didn?t try. The all too familiar sensation of drowning overwhelmed him and Cane didn?t fight it this time, because maybe if he could stay quiet, Salvador wouldn?t know just how much he was hurting. The Cajun clamped his mouth shut, lips quivering as hot tears rolled down his face. He?d fight it, tooth and nail, muscles taut and with almost no store of air in his lungs. The tears he couldn?t do anything about, except to maybe angle his face away from Salvador.
This was the moment in which Salvador was torn. A part of him wanted to throw his arm around Cane?s shoulders and offer him the same comfort the man had given him just a day before. Someone to be there. Just be there, and hold him while he cried. Had the Cajun not turned his face away, maybe he would have. He understood, though. They shared that in common too. Not wanting to cry in front of other people.
Swallowing, the Spaniard shifted, cleared his throat, and grabbed the notepad on his way up off the couch. ?I?ll just be outside,? he whispered, before stepping away.
?No, don?t.? The breath he?d taken to gasp the plea was enough to break him. Tired of putting off the pain, Canaan gave himself over to the hurt and let the sob that was building in his chest fill the room. Crying was never a pretty sight, but this time he didn?t care. Pain demands to be felt. Sometimes the only way around it is to let love do it?s work, so Cane let it hurt.
Salvador did stop the very moment he heard the N in the no. Might not have even needed a second syllable to stall him. He set the notebook aside on the chair he?d previously been seated in, then turned back to slide onto the couch where he?d been. This time, he touched his hand to Cane?s shoulder. A hesitant warning in case the man wanted to change his mind and tell him to **** off after all. Barring that, he put his arm around the Cajun?s shoulders.
Somehow, in the midst of tears and the crushing weight of heartache that threatened to suffocate him, Canaan choked out a few worshipful thank-you?s, whether for the drawing or for staying or both, he didn?t specify. Poor Salvador, having to witness the condensed version of eighteen months worth of mourning, sorrow, loss, hatred, anger, and bitterness.
It should be noted that Salvador was not complaining. He had come here of his own free will, and pretty much had a good idea of what to expect. Perhaps even before he set foot on the dock.
He wasn?t one for soothing words or lullabyes, but he could certainly be here. He hugged Cane?s shoulders with the one arm and leaned back on the couch. The fingers of his other hand sifted back through the Cajun?s hair. Though the man didn?t have a lot of it to comb and toy with as he enjoyed doing to other people, it was enough to get his finger through and maybe help comfort him with little touches. That was the best he could do. He?d wait until Canaan had worked through all the grief, as much as he was currently able, or even until he passed out. Whichever came first.
As for the thank you?s? ?You don?t ever have to thank me, mi amigo guapo,? Salvador said quietly. ?You only have to ask.? He?d stay. He?d be here. He?d come when he was needed, because that?s what friends do. Even the ones that **** sometimes.
Grief comes in waves. The first one?s like a tidal wave that sweeps you clean off your feet and knocks you into yesterday. It takes a while to get back to where you started and by that time, the next wave comes rolling in. That one hits hard, too, but you?re a little more prepared.
Someday the water would merely lap at his feet, but tonight Canaan needed to weather the storm.
So let it hurt, let it bleed
Let it take you right down to your knees
Let it burn to the worst degree
May not be what you want, but it's what you need
Sometimes the only way around it
Is to let love do it's work
And let it hurt
A tear in the fabric of reality appeared over the dock, and a split second later a duffel bag fell out of it. Stuffed full of apples and other essentials, such as spare clothes, it landed heavily on the planks with a dull thud the probably echoed eerily in this now so very empty place. A set of fingers reached through the tear to grab the edges and pull the seam wider apart, until Salvador could squeeze the rest of the way through.
The words I?m leaving for a while had tipped him off on precisely where to look. A brilliant glow lit his rusty eyes up in the dark so fiercely that they might have illuminated part of the scene. ?Well then,? he commented quietly to himself. Then with a swipe of his hand he closed the Way through the Veil to keep anything else from coming through.
Smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin in the clearing and the only bit of light visible from the windows was a faint glow from what was, presumably, the fire. It was quiet. Eerily so.
Salvador approached the cabin silently, with the kind of practiced ease of a feral mountain cat. Even with the laces removed from his boots, he knew just how to avoid the twigs and rocks and move like a ghost when he wanted to. Only a lingering chill left in his wake to mark his passing.
However, he had no intention of startling the Cajun. So when he actually got to the cabin itself, he made sure to let the thunk of his boot soles be heard. Maybe the hinges of the door needed oiling too. He looked around, assessed the mess. The clock from the wall lay in pieces on the floor, surrounded by tipped table chairs and a lamp. The small writing desk from the corner was on it?s side and broken glass littered the floor by the far wall.
Salvador set the duffel bag down by the door. He rummaged through it for a pad of blank paper and a stick of graphite.
The Cajun sat on the floor, leaning against the couch in front of the fireplace; In one hand he?s grasping the neck of a whiskey bottle -- and it appears as though he?s well on his way through it. In the other hand he held the fire iron.
The Spaniard didn?t say hello or anything at all to announce himself. He only quietly moved around the room, risking the bleed over of memories by actually touching a few things when he lifted them to set them aright. The table and a lamp. He righted one of the chairs near enough to the fire to somehow stay shadowed but in Cane?s peripheral.
He sat, still said not a word. He opened the paper pad to a blank page, set the graphite to work, and started sketching. Apart from the crackling fire, the scrape of the stick along the paper and the smudge of his fingers to work in the shading -- maybe even Cane?s periodic liquor glugging -- were the only sounds.
?I made a mess,? Cane said as Sal down. From the sound of his voice, he?d been drinking a while. The tip of the iron fire poker gets scraped across the floor as it was lifted and tipped in Sal?s direction. ?****. Ya jes gon? sit dere? Wait til I explode ?r dissolve inta tears?? Snorting, Cane guzzled down another few swallows of liquor.
?It looks like you already exploded a little, mi amigo.? A little! Making that quiet comment did not at all hinder his progress with his drawing. The point of the fire iron turned at him, however, did. His eyes ticked up to stare at it a moment.
?T?rowin **** aroun? ain? da same as explodin?.? The fire iron swung away from the Spaniard, back to the floor with a dull twang. Then, as if to demonstrate it for Salvador, Cane drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle and flung it into the fireplace. The glass shattered against the brick. He laughed. The Cajun?s head tilted to finally look over at his friend. ?My lake?s gone.?
?I noticed.? Salvador had immediately relaxed the moment the fire iron was turned away from him, and looked back down at the paper to resume working on the picture he was drawing. He didn?t even spare a glance to the shattering of the bottle. Drunk as he was, likely Cane hadn?t even noticed that very minor moment of panic that had been. The Spaniard radiated a dull calm, really. He was just there, sketching.
He lifted a leg and bent it at the knee, then rested his arm on top of it. Salvador wasn?t even paying attention to him, so the Cajun rolled his eyes and looked away.
Silly Cajun. Of course he was paying attention. Just because he wasn?t looking at you didn?t mean you were being ignored. ?It?s going to rain,? Salvador said, sensing a lull. All that lake water had to have gone somewhere, after all.
?It always does,? he sighed, now watching the floor where he was scratching marks into it with the tip of the poker. ?It?s da perfect time ta completely lose it,? and suddenly he was chuckling again. ?Da rain?ll jes? put out my fires for me. Fat lotta good Harlow was, huh? Tried ta help--ha! I done told her I wasn? no good at learnin?. Dis old dog can?t learn new tricks.?
The very existence of that iron in his proximity was still a little unsettling, but Salvador kept playing it cool. ?No amount of rain could possibly ever extinguish all your fires, guapo.? He smiled sly, just a little bit. ?And I wouldn?t say that.? He tipped his head to look at what he was drawing from a slightly different angle. Continued to work in the shading. ?If I remember now, there?ve been at least two instances between us both saying ?that?s new? on one occasion or the other, no??
?A good **** ain? gonna keep me from burnin? da place down, is it.? Statement, not really a question.
?I?m not here to give you a good ****.?
?I don? wanna **** you, either.?
?I didn?t say I didn?t want to **** you, Cane.? Sal lifted his hand from the paper, rolling the graphite stick between his fingers, and looked at the Cajun directly. ?That?s just not why I?m here.?
The Cajun?s head lolled clumsily on it?s way back to looking over at Salvador. ?Ya here ta save me, Salvador??
The Spaniard shook his head.
?Good!? Barked Cane, gaze shifting once more to the fireplace. ?I don? wanna be saved.? I can?t be. Slowly, he leaned forward until he was on his hands and knees, still gripping that fire iron. Then he shuffled around so he could use the edge of the couch to help him up onto his feet.
Grunting quietly with the effort that had taken, he stared down at Sal with a frown creasing his face. The iron was swung up to rest over his shoulder like it was a baseball bat. ?What da **** ?r ya doin? here, den??
Salvador kept an intensely wary eye on the fire iron the entire time. There was the barest perceptible flinch that might have gone unnoticed when the Cajun swung it around haphazardly to prop on his shoulder. It took him a good long, hesitant moment to realize he was being questioned and should probably answer. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and forced himself to look at Cane?s face.
?I?m here because?? You need me and won?t admit it, just like I needed you and wouldn?t either. ?...because I want to be.?
?I?m fine,? was his exasperated reply. ?You--? he?d tried taking a step, but found the task a little troublesome. Stupid boots were untied and he was standing on the laces. ?****.? The fire iron was flung aside haphazardly and Cane collapsed onto the couch so he could kick off his boots without falling over. ?I don? need anyone. Jes? go away. I?ll be back in a few days.?
Thank God in heaven. There it went, the loaded gun (or fire iron) out of the Cajun?s hands. Salvador exhaled some relief and looked over to watch his friend struggle with his boots, frowning. ?Say it again and I will.? Those words probably sounded familiar, just entirely lacking the accent of the man who had previously said them before the Spaniard citing them now.
That got a left boot flung in Salvador?s direction. Drunks had terrible aim. Salvador probably didn?t even need to lift his arm to defend against a sailing boot, but he had made a swipe at it anyway.
Canaan didn?t tell him to go away. Instead, he sank against the back of the couch so he could stare at the ceiling. Everything was numb now. He?d cried several hours ago. Evaporated the lake when the pain became unbearable. Messed up the cabin as anger set in. And now he felt nothing, which was due, in part, to the sheer volume of alcohol in his system. It?s a wonder he could even form a coherent thought, let alone sentences.
Looking down at the sketchpad, Salvador brushed his fingers over the spiral binding in consideration. No, he wasn?t going to ask. Last time they?d broached this subject he had said they didn?t need to talk about it. So even now he didn?t press by putting voice to any curiosities or questions he might have.
Salvador unwound from the chair and stood up, paper pad in hand, and shoved the graphite pencil into a pocket before crossing over the short distance to settle onto the couch next to Cane. The sound of tearing paper might draw his attention if not all that chill that the Spaniard always brought with him, even with his team?s hoodie on, still.
Cane had swung his gaze over to Salvador the second he sat down, catching a glimpse of the drawing before it was torn from the pad and froze almost immediately.
When Nash?s spell had worn off, all of Canaan?s carefully constructed walls built to protect himself came crashing down. What little foundation was left, the few bricks still intact around his raw and bleeding heart, completely fell away as Salvador handed over that drawing. The Spaniard had captured perfectly the exact moment Canaan realized he loved Jeremy. This wasn?t even a memory he?d had captured in a photo back home. Until now, it had lived only in his mind?s eye.
After clearing his throat, Salvador murmured, ?You said you didn?t have a picture.? So he offered the one he had just drawn over, a photo perfect memory done in grayscale, removed from the sketchpad.
Cane, unable to will any words out of his slack-jawed mouth, took the paper with a shaking hand. Once it was in the Cajun?s grasp, Salvador let go of it. The Spaniard withdrew his hand and set the sketchpad aside.
The sudden rush of tears came too swiftly to stop. That didn?t mean he didn?t try. The all too familiar sensation of drowning overwhelmed him and Cane didn?t fight it this time, because maybe if he could stay quiet, Salvador wouldn?t know just how much he was hurting. The Cajun clamped his mouth shut, lips quivering as hot tears rolled down his face. He?d fight it, tooth and nail, muscles taut and with almost no store of air in his lungs. The tears he couldn?t do anything about, except to maybe angle his face away from Salvador.
This was the moment in which Salvador was torn. A part of him wanted to throw his arm around Cane?s shoulders and offer him the same comfort the man had given him just a day before. Someone to be there. Just be there, and hold him while he cried. Had the Cajun not turned his face away, maybe he would have. He understood, though. They shared that in common too. Not wanting to cry in front of other people.
Swallowing, the Spaniard shifted, cleared his throat, and grabbed the notepad on his way up off the couch. ?I?ll just be outside,? he whispered, before stepping away.
?No, don?t.? The breath he?d taken to gasp the plea was enough to break him. Tired of putting off the pain, Canaan gave himself over to the hurt and let the sob that was building in his chest fill the room. Crying was never a pretty sight, but this time he didn?t care. Pain demands to be felt. Sometimes the only way around it is to let love do it?s work, so Cane let it hurt.
Salvador did stop the very moment he heard the N in the no. Might not have even needed a second syllable to stall him. He set the notebook aside on the chair he?d previously been seated in, then turned back to slide onto the couch where he?d been. This time, he touched his hand to Cane?s shoulder. A hesitant warning in case the man wanted to change his mind and tell him to **** off after all. Barring that, he put his arm around the Cajun?s shoulders.
Somehow, in the midst of tears and the crushing weight of heartache that threatened to suffocate him, Canaan choked out a few worshipful thank-you?s, whether for the drawing or for staying or both, he didn?t specify. Poor Salvador, having to witness the condensed version of eighteen months worth of mourning, sorrow, loss, hatred, anger, and bitterness.
It should be noted that Salvador was not complaining. He had come here of his own free will, and pretty much had a good idea of what to expect. Perhaps even before he set foot on the dock.
He wasn?t one for soothing words or lullabyes, but he could certainly be here. He hugged Cane?s shoulders with the one arm and leaned back on the couch. The fingers of his other hand sifted back through the Cajun?s hair. Though the man didn?t have a lot of it to comb and toy with as he enjoyed doing to other people, it was enough to get his finger through and maybe help comfort him with little touches. That was the best he could do. He?d wait until Canaan had worked through all the grief, as much as he was currently able, or even until he passed out. Whichever came first.
As for the thank you?s? ?You don?t ever have to thank me, mi amigo guapo,? Salvador said quietly. ?You only have to ask.? He?d stay. He?d be here. He?d come when he was needed, because that?s what friends do. Even the ones that **** sometimes.
Grief comes in waves. The first one?s like a tidal wave that sweeps you clean off your feet and knocks you into yesterday. It takes a while to get back to where you started and by that time, the next wave comes rolling in. That one hits hard, too, but you?re a little more prepared.
Someday the water would merely lap at his feet, but tonight Canaan needed to weather the storm.
So let it hurt, let it bleed
Let it take you right down to your knees
Let it burn to the worst degree
May not be what you want, but it's what you need
Sometimes the only way around it
Is to let love do it's work
And let it hurt