Ghosts of The Heart -- Ch. 8 is up.

I'm an updating MANIAC! w00t. Man, I feel productive! If this shit keeps up, I'll ahve the 3rd chapter of Carnival done by the end of the night, and the 7th chapter of Gray finished by this time tomorrow. Good lord! Yay for my writer's block finally breaking! Ahahahahahahahahahaaha. I feel awesome right now. I am dominating the 1st page of Original - Misc > -Slash - Male/Male. *snickers*

Anyhoodles, I'm excited as hell about the way things are progressing. I'm already starting the next chapter, because that one's completely mapped out in my head. It should be up very soon, but I'll be updating Carnival first.

So! Read and REVIEW because you love me!

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Deacon awoke with a start, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He looked around his sunlit room, his hands clawed in the bed sheets, his skin slick with sweat. He sat up, his head swimming, his heart racing, and swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold against the soles of his feet, and he put his face in his hands and tried to calm his breathing a little. He realized he was shaking.

When his heart had finally slowed, he stood up, his knees buckling for a moment before they decided to hold his weight. As he showered, he realized he that he felt as though he hadn’t slept at all. He couldn’t remember what he’d dreamed of, he rarely did. As he washed his hair, he thought about last night. He knew that whatever it was he was feeling, this crawling, sick thing in his chest, he had to make it stop. But the only way he could see himself doing that was to change everything. He knew, deep down, that the feeling was guilt, was regret, and he hated it. Even more, he hated the fact that he could wake up one morning and realize just how totally fucked everything in his life had become.

He rinsed soap out of his hair and steeled himself against what he knew would eventually be the right choice. It scared him, it downright terrified him, that he’d almost convinced himself to do what he was going to do.


He got out, toweled off, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He brushed his teeth, and as he stared at himself in the mirror, he realized that he didn’t recognize himself. He didn’t like it. The thought made his resolve that much stronger. Things would be different. Starting now.

As he exited the bathroom, he nearly ran face first into Jess. He apparently scared her bad enough to make her scream and jump back, the cardboard drinker carrier she was holding flying out her hands and hitting the floor. The lids of the two cups of coffee in the carrier both popped off and coffee when spraying everywhere.

“Jesus Christ!” he shouted as hot coffee hit his shins and burned. “What the hell!?”

“I’m sorry!” Jess shrieked, and bent down to pick up the carrier. “Wow, what a mess!”

Rolling his eyes, Deacon stepped back into the bathroom and grabbed a used towel out of the hamper. He dropped it onto the puddle of coffee on the floor in the hall and started mopping it up with his foot. “What are you doing here?” he asked her, harsher than he’d meant to.

“I came by earlier, and you were still asleep, so I went and got coffee for us.” She stood up, carrier dripping in her hands, and looked at him. “Are you okay? You look terrible.”

“Nightmare.” He muttered. “Shouldn’t you be at work? What time is it?”

“Almost two. I called in today.”

“In the afternoon?” she nodded, and he picked up the towel and threw it back into the hamper. He stomped into his room, and she followed.

“I thought we could spend the day together.” She told him, dumping the carrier and the cups into the garbage can by his easels. He grabbed some clothes, the first things his hands landed on, from his armoire. “We could go to lunch?” she asked, and he glanced at her. She was smiling anxiously, her hands knotted together against her stomach. “My treat.”

He dressed quickly; black jeans and a green and black striped tee shirt. “Why aren’t you mad at me?” he asked her, sitting on his bed and searching the floor near the alarm clock for his cigarettes. He found the pack, but it was empty.

She dug through her pockets. “Why would I be mad at you, sweetheart?” she asked him, holding out a fresh pack. He took it, a little wary, and ripped the cellophane off with his teeth. “What happened at theater, you mean?” he nodded and lit a cigarette. “It was a joke.”

He nodded again, expecting his. “I thought you would say that.” He sighed. “Jess, it wasn’t a joke.” He almost bit off his own tongue; that’s how hard it was to get these words out. He knew what it would put in motion, and he was suddenly terrified again. He’d been ready to do this, he just hadn’t expected it to be five minutes after he’d decided on it.

“Yes. It was.” She said firmly, and he realized she was very close to tears. “You joke around a lot like that. I’ve always known that. It’s okay.”

“What about what I said?” he asked. “About Johnny being-“

“A joke.” She insisted.

“It wasn’t.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. After a moment, she tried again. “Deacon, I know that you and I have problems, every couple does.” He stared at her as though she’d gone insane. “We can work through those problems, together.” She smiled at him, a panicky sort of smile that almost made him afraid of her. “Everything will be okay.”

“Jess, listen to me. You need to listen very carefully.” He stood up and put one of his hands on her shoulders. “Can you do that?” she nodded, and he spoke very clearly and very calmly. “I’ve been fucking your brother for almost six months.” Her entire body tensed, and her eyes took on a flat, dead look, but she kept talking. “I don’t think that’s the sort of thing we can just work through.”

“Yes, it is.” She insisted, but her voice seemed to have lost all of it’s emotion; she sounded like a robot. “All you have to do is stop. Then we can get back to being happy.”

“When have you been happy with me?” he asked her, getting angry. “Please, Jess, remind me of this magical time when our relationship wasn’t completely fucked up.”

“I love you, Deacon.” She told him, and her fingers bunched into the front of his shirt.

He grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away gently but firmly. “I’m sorry, Jess. I can’t do this with you anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.” She told him, shaking her head. “Everything’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m done, and you need to-“

“I don’t care about it.” She shook her head again, furiously. “If we aren’t in the same room together, you can do whatever you please. I don’t mind, really. If you’re happy, then-“

“I’m not happy.”

She started to cry. It wasn’t sobbing, just huge tears rolling down her cheeks. “What did I do?” she asked him, sounding miserable and desperate, and suddenly Deacon felt so guilty, so sick of himself, that he thought he was going to throw up. “Please, Deacon, just tell me what I did, and I’ll fix it.”

“No, it’s not that.” He let go of her, and she grabbed on him instead. “I can’t. You need to go.”

“Keeping fucking him.” She said, and Deacon’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t care. Just… just don’t do this to me.”

“Jess.” He pushed her hands away, and when she reached for him again, he backed away. “Go home.”

“No.” she whispered. “No, you can’t do this. I love you.”

“Goodbye, Jess.”

“Why?” she asked him. “Why now? If it’s because of Johnny, why did you wait all this time?”

“Because it’s not about Johnny.” Deacon admitted. “It’s about…” he trailed off, closing his eyes. “I just can’t be who I am anymore. I have to fix it. And I’m starting with you. I’m doing the right thing, Jess, can’t you see that?”

“No. You’re leaving me, and I love you. How is that the right thing?” she sounded angry now, and her hands balled into fists at her sides. “If you want to make this right-“

“I don’t.” he told her. “I just want it to end.” He turned away from her, moving towards his easel. He could hear her, her high, shrieking breaths, but eventually, she left. Eventually she walked away, and for that, Deacon was grateful. When he heard the door downstairs shut, he laid down on his bed and wrapped his arms around his head, blocking out the light, blocking out everything but his thoughts.

“You’re alone now.” Astor said from the door, and he sat up slowly. She stood in front of her brother, who had his arms wrapped around her waist, his head resting on her shoulder. They watched him, as though he was a particularly gross and interesting species of bug. “You drove her away. For what?”

“I needed to.” He told them, and they exchanged a quick, confused look. “I can’t be this anymore.”

“It’s nice to hear you say that.” Lex said, unwrapping from around his sister and coming over to sit beside Deacon on the bed. “But it won’t last.”

“It never has.” Astor sat down on the other side. “You’ve done this before. Tried to change. You can’t. You’re just like us.” She held out her arms to him, and he went into them without thought or hesitation. “Deacon, darling, why do you do this?”

“He’s a masochist.” Lex told her, running his hand along Deacon’s spine. “He wants to feel this way. Don’t you?”

Deacon buried his face against Astor’s neck, smelling her perfume. He shuddered, and Astor pulled him down to lay between her and her brother. “I don’t know.” He whispered. “I don’t understand anymore. Everything’s different.”

“It wasn’t different two days ago.” Lex said. “It won’t be different two days from now. You’re all wrapped up about that Lucas, aren’t you?” they both laughed. “You know you can’t have him. You can’t, not even as a friend. He’ll see you, eventually, and it’ll ruin everything.”

“Right now, you think you can change, so he’ll like you, so he’ll approve of you.” Astor kissed his forehead. “You can’t. You’ll stay here, with people who accept you and appreciate what you really are.”

“You’ll go back to normal, and the Archers will welcome you back with open legs and open hearts.” His sister giggled at this, and Deacon felt the sudden urge to sit up and spit in her face. He hated them suddenly, hated the way the things they said, the way they thought. He hated that it was just like him. Looking at them was like looking into a twisted double mirror.

And yet he needed this; their closeness, their touch. He’d always needed them to say these things, to say it was all right to be who he’d always been, to say it would all go back to normal, because deep down he’ never wanted to change. He’d always needed it because it was safe, but now things were different. He was different. Now he needed it because it was like fuel to the fire.

So he burrowed between them, let them cover him and console him. He let their words sink in, taking them in, relishing the bitterness he felt, loving the hatred in his heart for them. They were everything he wanted to tear out of himself, everything that made it difficult to look in the mirror. He needed them now more than ever, no longer as safeguards against his conscience, but as living examples of everything he’d no longer have to be.

He smiled against Astor’s throat, closed his eyes, and thought of what it would be like to be a good person.
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Lucas stared into his wine glass, very carefully avoiding looking at Anna. She sat across from him, her fingers wrapped so tightly around her own glass that it was a wonder it hadn’t exploded. Behind her, through the window, the sun was setting. Patrick had left half an hour ago; Lucas was on his sixth glass of wine.

“Where did you go last night?” Anna asked him, breaking the half an hour long silence. Her voice was very loud to Lucas, and he almost winced. “Where did you get the painting?” her eyes flickered to the canvas leaning against the back of the couch.

“I spent some time with Deacon.” Lucas said softly, and took a long drink of his wine. “He gave me the painting. I slept at the theater.”

“Deacon?” she frowned, and he waited for her anger, for her judgment. It didn’t come. Instead, she asked, “Do you think he’s David’s?”

He looked at her. “Yes.” He nodded. “In my heart, I’m sure of it.”

Anna sighed and sipped her wine. “That’s trouble.”

“Is it?” he asked. “Why?”

“Well, that means I’ll have to call him.”

Lucas frowned. The sentence made no sense to him. “Why would you call-“ he stopped, realizing that she hadn’t meant Deacon. For a moment he could do nothing, he just sat there with his mouth hanging open. She watched him carefully, her eyes guarded, her shoulders tensed. “Anna.” His voice came out in a croak, and he licked his lips and tried again. “Anna, what are you talking about?”

Anna stood up and fished her cell phone out of her pocket. She flipped it open and hit a speed dial number, knowing he would be at work, and the phone would be off, knowing it would go straight to voice mail. He held the phone out, and Lucas took it and pressed it against his ear, shaking.

“Hey, this is David Johnson.” Lucas made a low, miserable moaning sound. “Leave your number, and your message. If you’re calling to place an order, please call….” Lucas dropped the phone, not hearing it bounce off the table top and hit the floor. He felt sick, sure he was going to pass out. He looked up at Anna, who had remained standing, and saw the sad, guilty, and yet somehow justified look on her face.

“I’m sorry, Lucas.” Anna told him, sounding like she meant it. “I’m sorry I’ve never told you.” He couldn’t say anything, and apparently she didn’t expect him to. “I’ve been in contact with David. I never stopped. We talk once a month, sometimes more frequently.” She bit her lip, frowning. “I know that I should’ve told you, but-“

Lucas threw his wine glass at the sink, and it hit the edge and shattered, spraying glass and wine everywhere. Anna screamed and flinched away, and Lucas was on his feet before she could recover. He was around the table in three steps, and his fingers clamped down around her upper arms, digging into her skin so tightly she whimpered.

“You fucking bitch.” He whispered, and she saw the furious, terrible hurt in his eyes. “You stupid, lying cunt.” She flinched at the last word, and for a moment she was sure he was going to hurt her, really hurt her.

He left her go so abruptly that she stumbled and would’ve fallen if she hadn’t caught the counter with one hand. A shard of glass slipped into the palm of her hand, and the little flare of pain was enough to get her going. She burst into tears.

“I’m sorry.” She told him, and he let out a loud, mocking laugh that made her skin crawl. “Lucas, I fucked up.”

“Oh yes you did.” He nodded. “You fucked up good and proper this time, didn’t you?” he stepped backwards, his hands shaking, ands he knew from the look on his face that he was moving away to keep from hurting her. “You’re sorry? Is that what you said?”

She nodded. “I am, I really am so sorry. I never meant to-“

“Hurt me?” he finished for her. “You never even considered me.”

“I did!” she shouted, sobbing and cradling her bleeding hand to her chest. “He wanted to come back, Lucas! He wanted to talk to you, to try to fix things. You were too hurt, too confused, and he just kept getting worse. If I hadn’t kept talking to him, telling him about you, convincing him that you weren’t ready, he would’ve come back.”

“And now?” he asked her, his voice so calm and quiet that it terrified her. “After all these years?”

“He would ruin everything.” She wiped at her cheeks with the hand that wasn’t dripping blood down the front of her shirt. “After all the things we’ve done, after how well you’ve been doing, I couldn’t just let him show up and ruin that! You’ve gotten over him, you’ve-“

“Says who?” he asked her, but she didn’t seem to hear him.

“-started to move on. He hasn’t, Lucas. He’s not even trying. I can’t let you go through that again!” she shook her head. “Don’t you get it? He wanted to come back. HE wanted to try again. You couldn’t handle that, and now it’s too late. It has to be too late.”

“You’re insane.” He told her, and she sobbed and looked away from him. “You’re completely nuts. I’m not a child, Anna. I don’t need you to-“

“Yes you do!” she screamed. “You need me!”

“I need to get away from you. I need to stop listening to you. If I stay, I think something very bad is going to happen.” He bent down, picked her cell phone up off the floor, and turned to leave. She screamed his name, begged him to stay, to come back, but he ignored her. He shut the door very gently when he left.
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Deacon pulled his helmet down over his head, wincing as it rubbed against his aching jaw. Johnny had one hell of a punch on him. He threw one last look over his shoulder at the huge white Archer house. He missed Johnny already. He also knew that this was best.

When he got back to the loft, he parked his bike in it’s usual place and pulled his helmet off. As he hid, he glanced at the theater without really thinking about it. It seemed that he had perfect timing; Lucas was unlocking the big glass doors in front. Deacon knew it was closed Sundays, which meant Lucas would be alone. He smiled and jogged across the street.

“Hey, Lucas.” He greeted, and the older man turned and squinted at him. Deacon realized he was very, very drunk. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fantastic!” Lucas shouted, not meaning it in the slightest; his voice was so full of sarcasm it made Deacon flinch. “Life is wonderful!” he managed to get the lock undone and shoved the glass door open. He stomped inside, and after a moment’s hesitation, Deacon followed. He dumped his helmet on the ticket booth beside the door and hurried after Lucas, who was already halfway across the lobby.

Lucas stopped so abruptly Deacon almost ran into him. He spun on one heel, wobbling, and glared at Deacon. “You can call Anna and get David’s phone number. Call him, see if he’ll get a paternity test. She’s been talking to him all this time. Fucking whore.”

“I have his phone number.” Deacon told him, ignoring the jab of pain Lucas’s words shot through him. Lucas was drunk, he didn’t mean to sound like a total asshole, or poke at the one sore spot that Deacon had. “The internet’s a marvelous invention.”

Lucas laughed and tugged at his ponytail. “I need to go upstairs.” He said calmly. “I’m not nearly drunk enough.” He turned, wobbling, and headed for the stairs. Again, Deacon followed him.

In the office, Lucas dug through a filing cabinet drawer and found a bottle of champagne. “Anna bought this.” He told Deacon, who had sat down on the couch and put his helmet between his feet. “She said we’d open it when we made our first…” he trailed off, frowning. “I don’t remember.” He said finally, and ripped the gold wrapping off the cork. “Fuck her.” He muttered, and pushed the cork out. It was so loud in the tiny office that Deacon jumped. Lucas collapsed onto the couch beside him and took a long drink.

Deacon pried the bottle away from his fingers and took a drink. The bittersweet bubbly liquid hurt his throat a little, but he swallowed it and kept the bottle; it was obvious Lucas had been drinking for a long time. “Are you going to be okay?” Deacon asked him.

Lucas shrugged and held up his hands. “Let’s see.” He made a weighing gesture with his hands. “Life going good.” He wiggled his left fingers. “Now, life is pretty much fucked.” He wiggled his right. “Give me that.” He tried to snatch the bottle from Deacon, who held it out of arm’s reach. “You aren’t old enough, you can’t have it. It’s mine.”

“You’ve had enough.” Deacon insisted, and set the bottle aside. “Tell me what happened.”

“Why?” Lucas asked. “Who cares? Poor fucking pathetic Lucas, fucked over again.” He shook his head and scrubbed at his eyes with his fists, like a child. “Old news.”

“Not to me.” Deacon told him, and put his hand on the back of Lucas’s neck. “You’re upset. Talking about it usually puts it into perspective, even if it doesn’t help.”

Lucas sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He muttered. He studied Deacon carefully. “The likeness isn’t perfect.” He said.

“No, I guess not.” Deacon shrugged. “I’m sorry that I look like him.”

“Don’t be. You’re…” he stopped and bit his lip.

Deacon smiled. “Thank you.” He said, knowing that Lucas would’ve complimented him if that huge, oppressive conscience of his hadn’t gotten in the way. “So are you.” He threaded his fingers through Lucas’s hair and let it slip through his knuckles like silk. “But I am sorry that I look like him. It hurts you. It makes it hard to be your friend.”

“Only because it makes me…” he gestures, unable, or unwilling, to articulate just what it did to him. He leaned closer, studying Deacon’s face. “In the dark like this, you can’t really see the things that are different.”

“That’s good.” Deacon told him. “Now tell me what happened.”

Lucas found that he was able to tell him everything. He went on and on, his voice getting hoarse, and Deacon handed him the bottle. He took a long drink, his head swimming, and continued. He told him about what had happened all those years ago, about what had happened tonight. By the end of it, he didn’t even care that Deacon had wrapped his arms around him and pulled him against his chest. He liked the warmth of him, the comfort, the feel of his fingers in his hair. He didn’t cry much, just a few tears near the middle. It surprised him.

“Everything’s falling apart.” Lucas muttered against the softness of Deacon’s tee shirt. “Everything’s different now. I don’t like it.”

“Nobody likes things to change for the worse.” Deacon told him. “You’d finally found something like happiness, why would you want that to go away?” he sighed and played with a strand of Lucas’s hair. “Still, you have to look at it this way; not everything is bad.”

“How do you figure?” Lucas asked, and sat up, pulling away so that he could take another drink of his champagne. The bottle was half empty already. He didn’t remember drinking all of that.

“You’ve got me, don’t you? I’m your friend. I’m here for you now, and that’s not nothing.”

Lucas smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re here.” he admitted. He leaned back against the couch, his eyes closed, and worked his way to the bottom of the bottle. Deacon sat beside him, smoking, and said nothing.

By the time he was finished, Lucas was feeling mostly asleep, his head so heavy it was a serious effort to keep it up. His eyes kept slipping shut. “Deacon?” he mumbled.

“Hmm?”

“Why do you keep coming around?”

Deacon’s laugh was low and rumbling, and it made Lucas think of David. “I thought I made that pretty obvious.” He said. “Are you going to fall asleep?”

“Maybe.” Lucas shrugged halfheartedly and rubbed his face. “I’m tired.” He groped around on the couch, his eyes still closed, until he found Deacon’s hand. “Thanks.”

Deacon let him touch his hand, and used his other to trace a line up the side of Lucas’s thigh. “That’s it? Just thanks?”

“Mmm?” Lucas didn’t open his eyes, but he tilted his head towards the sound of Deacon’s voice.

“I think I deserve more than that.” Deacon said softly, and leaned forward until his mouth was half an inch above Lucas’s. “Lucas…” he hesitated, unsure as to why. Lucas made a questioning sound in his throat, and Deacon closed the distance, pressed his lips against Lucas’s gently.

Lucas made a sound, somewhere between a protest and a whimper, and his hand around Deacon’s tightened. Deacon ran his tongue along Lucas’s bottom lip, the hand on Lucas’s thigh sliding up. Lucas parted his lips, his eyebrows knitting together. But when Deacon touched their tongues together, Lucas pulled away.

“What…” Deacon lowered his head, almost immediately finding just the right spot on Lucas’s throat. Lucas moaned almost inaudibly, his entire body going limp, and Deacon crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs and pulling gently at the elastic band in Lucas’s hair. It snapped under his fingers, and Lucas sighed at the release of pressure on his scalp. His hands came up, and even though the tiniest part of him, the only part sober enough to really realize what was happening, was screaming, he found himself wrapping around Deacon’s body, his hands sliding up his spine. Deacon fingers slid down his shoulders, his lips and tongue still torturing that delicious spot on Lucas’s neck, and started fumbling at the buttons of Lucas’s shirt.

Lucas froze, his hands tightening in the fabric covering Deacon’s back. “No.” he whispered, but Deacon apparently hadn’t heard him. “No.” he said again, and Deacon lifted his head. “Wait. I can’t. David…” he stopped, confused.

Deacon smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his lips, his fingers still pushing at his shirt. “That’s all right.” He whispered, rocking his hips against Lucas’s and making the older man moan. “You can call me whatever you want, if it makes this okay.”

Lucas let his head fall back against the couch, frowning. Most of him was past the point of listening to his brain, all it wanted was the warm skinned, talented boy on top of him to do whatever he pleased. But there was another part of him that kept screaming to make him stop, that this was probably the worst idea ever. He tried to say something, tried to explain what he was feeling. He didn’t get much more than an “I” out before Deacon’s mouth was against his, his tongue sliding between Lucas’s lips. The taste of him, mouthwash and cigarettes and barest hint of champagne, was so painfully familiar than Lucas reacted before he thought about it. He grabbed two handfuls of Deacon’s shirt and pulled until they were flush against each other, his hips lifting and pushing up against Deacon’s obvious erection. Deacon moaned, burying his hands in Lucas’s hair, and the sound was even too familiar for Lucas’s alcohol hazed mind to handle. His body kept trying to convince his mind that it was David above him, David’s hands, David’s mouth. That was a good thought, a safe thought, because David was what he knew, what he wanted. His mind shut down, letting his body do as it pleased.

He opened his mouth wider, slanting his head to give the man above him the right angle, and he took full advantage. Lucas filled his hands with the man’s skin, worming his fingers under the shirt and touching as much as he could. It’d been so long, and he felt so good…

Lucas’s drunk, confused mind supplied him with an image; Deacon, climbing off his motorcycle and pulling his helmet off, the way he’d first seen him, in his school uniform. Lucas made a strangled, shrieking noise against Deacon’s mouth and pushed him away. He got up off the couch, panting, and made for the door.

“Lucas, wait!” Deacon called, but the long haired man had already ripped the door open and literally ran. Deacon almost got up and went after him, but then that sickening crawling feeling in chest returned, and he really thought about what he’d just done. “Fuck.” He whispered, and buried his face in his hands. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he asked the empty room.

”So much for changing.” Astor whispered inside his head, and felt like crying.