kyleās always been the pretty boy. the one birds fawn over at the pub, and in the cereal aisle at the shop, and on the midnight train after the captain bullies him into going home and getting some well-deserved rest. old ladies coo at him, waitresses draw hearts on his cheques, his own teammates tease him, for fuckās sake.
āmaybe if kyle bats his eyelashes at āem, we can slip past before they notice us.ā
āthe only way youāre cominā out with us tonight is if you were a fuckinā bag over your head. i never get laid when youāre around.ā
āprice might fall for those eyes, but i wonāt. paperwork on my desk by noon, garrick.ā
even when he was young, his maās girlfriends would laugh about how much trouble heād cause, all the hearts he was bound to break, when he grew up. he still remembers how his sisters made fun of him come prom season, when he couldnāt decide which of the dozen invitations he received to accept.
kyleās always been the pretty boy ā until an untimely explosion melts the entire right side of his face into something unrecognizable and, in his eyes, horrific. gone is that heart-stopping grin, his silken skin, and quarter-deep dimples. no more of the cheesy winks he loved to throw around, what with his lack of an eyelid.
no-oneās swooning over him anymore. rather than the blood rushing to a handsome someoneās cheeks when he says hello, it drains from their face completely. no-one will look him in the eye nowadays. the pretty single mum down the street who he once had lunch with now goes out of her way to cross the road when she spots him, shielding her childrenāsā eyes like the mere sight of him might traumatize them. the grandmas who used to compliment his warm eyes and soft curls stare at him blatantly, piteously, whisper behind their hands when he passes but wonāt dare to address him directly. his favorite bartender turns his flirtations to johnny, who, uncharacteristically, doesnāt even have the heart to poke fun at him for it.
but he should be grateful, right? he couldāve died. heās lucky to even be here. to be walking, talking, his limbs in tact, heart still beating. it could be worse.
thatās what he tells himself every time a toddler wails at the sight of him standing behind them in line at the coffee shop. whenever price gives him that look, full of worry and self-loathing. it could be worse, he tells himself, the first time he sees his mother after the explosion, and she gasps like she canāt recognize her own goddamned son. but he should be grateful.
he damn near throttles laswell when she suggests that he check out a local support group, saying that he needs to talk to someone since he clearly isnāt going to talk to them. talk about what, he wonders. it isnāt as though thereās anything that can be done about it. itās beyond fixing, the doctors said so themselves. talking about it will only make him out to be some shallow, self-obsessed little prick, who obviously cares more for his vanity than his life.
he knows what he is. he certainly doesnāt need anyone to point it out.
the flier collects dust on his kitchen counter, gets lost in all of his junk mail and get-well-soon cards, damned to oblivion. he forgets about it ā for a while at least, until his oldest sister forces her way into his flat and starts cleaning, claiming that their mother would have his head if she saw what a mess heās made. she tacks it to the fridge, where kyle has no choice but to see it.
āwhat harm could it do, ky? youāve been hiding from us for months ā weāre worried about you.ā
thatās what finally convinces him. not because he thinks he needs it, or believes itāll do him any good, or even because he wants to soothe their spirits. simply because he wants them off his back, wants to be allowed to wallow in his misery, in peace, just for a little while longer.
so, he goes. he surrounds himself with a bunch of war-torn veterans, with stories so gruesome that even his stomach churns, he sits alone and speaks to no-one, doesnāt look anyone in the eye, and he listens.
he listens to them talk about their dead friends, their battles won, and their loves lost, about their journeys back to health, and their wisdom hard-earned.
one man ā pushing eighty and missing both legs ā says something that sticks with him.
āyou can be mad, you can curse god, you can spend the rest of your life thinkinā āwhat ifā, but it aināt gonna change shit. you either grow a pair and get over it, or you donāt ā if you canāt make peace with that, youāre better off dead.ā
he goes again the following tuesday, and the next, until itās become a regular part of his routine. he sits alone, still, he doesnāt talk much, to anyone, but they come to expect him. they recognize him. they smile when he walks in. no one flinches at the sight of him, no oneās pitying him, no oneās demanding answers heās not ready to give. they accept him without expecting anything tangible in return, sans his company.
it doesnāt necessarily make him feel better, it doesnāt make him hate the man in the mirror any less, but it gets him out of his flat. it gives him something to tell the team about when they check up on him on sunday nights.
then, about two months into his newfound routine, he spots you, sat on the opposite end of the room, holding space like itās been yours all along.
the last time your paths crossed was in boot-camp. a lifetime ago, it feels like. before the 141, before the incident. he was somebody else back then. and so, it seems, were you.
he remembers you as an over-eager, overly-confident recruit, like he, himself, was. youāre older now, battle-weary, weathered by war, grief, and the world itself. you sip your coffee through a straw because your hands tremble too fiercely to hold a mug. an angry, red scar cuts your face in two.
you arenāt new around here, that much is made clear by the way they greet you, with hugs and well-wishes. how longās it been, he wonders, since you got out?
sammy, who runs the group, goes down the line one-by-one, like she always does, asking all the right questions. elijah saw his grandbabies this weekend. codyās been cleared for active duty ā heāll return to the front lines next month, for better or for worse. oliviaās met somebody, she thinks sheās found the one. kyle listens, but pays especially close attention when it gets to be your turn.
āhow was your trip?ā sammy asks, and you laugh, albeit nervously.
āweird.ā you admit, profoundly. āfirst vacation iāve ever taken in my whole fuckinā life, yāknow? i tried to enjoy it, butā my friends wanna go swimming with dolphins, and tan on the beach, and, whole time, iām thinkinā that iāve got no goddamn business flouncing around in a bathing suit, looking the way i do. i just couldnāt wait for it to be over, honestly.ā
and, fuck, he gets it. he knows. itās the very thing heās been grappling with for the past year. nobody likes to talk about that part, the doubt, the insecurity. but you do, honest and unapologetic, and he wonders if this is what making peace with it looks like.
and then, sammy looks to him. āanything youād like to share with us today, kyle?ā
usually, heād wave her off. offer her a tight-lipped smile and shake his head. he almost does, if only out of sheer habit. but he catches your gaze from across the circle. your eyes brighten with recognition, and the hard set of your brow softens. you smile at him, a little crookedly, as if youāre eighteen again, unburdened, naive as to what awaits you.
you might as well have grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him around, the way that smile knocks loose all of the things heās allowed to fester in his heart. for the first time since he started attending the meetings, kyleās honest. not only with this motley community he has infiltrated, but with himself.
āi had to take all the mirrors outta my flat. couldnāt stand the sight of myself.ā
āi always wanted kids, but nowā now, iām scared theyād think me the fuckinā boogeyman.ā
āi dunno who i am anymore.ā
his lungs feel tight, his palms slick with sweat, cheeks warm with an awful, feverish sortāve heat, but he feels lighter than he has since his brothers dragged him from the wreckage. the old man from that first meeting, colby, lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
no one scoffs at him, or calls him petty, or reminds him of how lucky he is. sammy smiles, soft and empathetic. āsometimes, the man who comes back from the war isnāt the same man that left for it. itās okay to mourn him, kyle.ā
youāre waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk outside, stiff with an indefinite, inescapable ache, but smiling still, when itās time to leave. he hesitates only momentarily when you open your arms for a hug ā heās careful, weary of whatever injuries you mightāve sustained on the field, but you grab him tight, like you know how desperately he needs it.
āsāgood to see you, garrick. sābeen a long time.ā
āfuck, has it.ā he laughs, and it sounds foreign in his own ears, before sobering. āitās good to see you too. really. i didnāt know you were ā¦ā
āyeah,ā you help him out before he can start floundering. he isnāt the smooth-talker he once was. āa couple years ago, now. sāa long story. one iām much too sober to tell today.ā
āanother time then,ā he offers, wryly. he understands. he doesnāt like to talk about it either. talking about requires thinking about it, which isnāt good for anyone involved.
you soften, and he watches the scar on your face stretch as your lips pull down. itās been years, but he still thinks you lovely. āyou havenāt been out long, have you?ā
ānot long enough, no.ā
āhm.ā you nod, like you understand, but you donāt say youāre sorry, or tell him that itāll get better. he appreciates that more than you know. āfateās a funny thing, aināt it? whatāre the odds,ā
āitās a small fuckinā world,ā he murmurs, and your laugh thaws the ice in his chest. āyou live close by?ā
ājust a couple oā blocks, not too bad.ā
āi could walk with you, if you want. or we couldāā he stops, swallows hard, trying valiantly to find his nerve. it used to be so easy for him to ask a sweet someone out, he hardly even had to work for it. hell, heād flirted with you plenty, back in the day. āwe could go get that drink,ā
itās soft, uncertain, timid in a way that kyle garrick is not. you simply stare at him for a moment, as if considering him, your gaze painfully soft, before, finally, āiād like that.ā
āyeah?ā he murmurs, hopeful.
you laugh, but it isnāt mocking, or cruel. itās mirthful, almost flattered.
ālead the way, pretty boy.ā
