you wear the crown but you're no princess...
xx
"I love you."
"You don't mean it."
"Babe, of course I do."
"Ian you're drunk."
Every word coming out of Quentin's mouth stung. He hated himself for going back to Ian. Quentin could remember the last confrontation he had with drunk Ian and it was far from lovely. There was a lot of yelling and terrible things being said. Ian was drunk a lot though, more often than not. Quentin sometimes wondered if it was whiskey that ran through Ian's veins instead of blood.
There was a time before the alcohol. Oh yes, Quentin could remember it clearly. Ian in his military uniform, a handsome young man with closely cropped blonde hair and oceanic blue eyes. He would leave for months to fight and protect the country, while Quentin had to pray that Ian would come home safely. He did for a while, they were so in love that they even adopted a little boy.
It all went wrong soon after. Something had clearly happened to Ian while he was away. He began lashing out randomly at Quentin, yelling, insulting, even hitting. He began drinking heavily, while Quentin was reduced to hiding their young son away at Quentin's mother's house. Quentin didn't want the six year old exposed to the violence, the pain, or the fury.
Quentin didn't dare try to talk to Ian when he was in a mood, or even worse, when he was drunk. It always ended badly, all those years in the Air Force had built Ian up to the peak of physical fitness. Instead, Quentin sat alone on the stained couch in Ian's apartment, milling over their last conversation. Did Ian still love him? Questions whirled through Quentin's mind, each one propelling him further and further, before he realized he was at Ian's bedroom door. The wooden door was shut, as always.
With a few shaky breaths, Quentin slowly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Papers littered the floor and desk of Ian's room and Ian lay still on his bed. He seemed to be asleep, a lazy half-smile gracing the young man's face. It was the first time in months Quentin had seen anything close to Ian's infectious grin.
Quentin picked up one of the papers. It looked like a newspaper from one of the middle-eastern countries. Ian's picture was blown up on the right side of the paper and a long article followed the picture. Quentin rooted through more papers, only to figure out that they were all foreign newspapers. Discomfort settled into Quentin's stomach. He hadn't been in Ian's room since Ian started drinking and shut himself away.
Quentin could feel the truth to Ian's madness against his fingertips, just a grasp away. The computer blinked invitingly and Quentin rushed over. He turned the monitor on, dismayed to find another foreign newspaper article. Quentin sat in front of the monitor, desperately wanting to know what the article said. The scattered newspapers and articles all had something to do with Ian becoming closed off.
Quentin needed to know, not just for himself, but for Ian and their son. He knew that the real Ian was inside there somewhere. Quentin just had to peel away the layers.
Two hours later and Ian was still out cold, snoring lightly. The time left Quentin to dig through stacks of newspapers and articles and handwritten letters. They all had common words and phrases, and it was driving Quentin mad. Angry tears were in his eyes, not just out of frustration, but out of hurt. Whatever happened to Ian had to be bad enough for him to torture himself for months. After coming up empty handed yet again, Quentin gave up.
Ian started to stir, mumbling incoherently. Quentin was determined to get Ian's secret, no matter what happened. It didn't matter how much physical or verbal abuse Ian used, he would learn what was haunting Ian for so long.
"Quentin, what the hell are you doing in my room?"
"This room used to be our room, we used to read books to each other and make love, do you remember that?"
Quentin whispered softly, trailing a finger across the oak desk.
"That was a long time ago." Ian said with a sigh, rubbing his jaw.
"We could do that now, we could be so crazily in love and I wouldn't have to have my mother raise our son because you would be here and not drinking and you'd be okay again. Ian, what happened to you?"
"Absolutely nothing. I'm fine. I'd be a lot better if you left though, I have a fucking killer headache and I don't need you pressing to talk about things we shouldn't talk about."
The hot, angry tears were starting to flow. "What things? Like your verbal abuse? Your physical abuse? Our son being afraid of you? These fucking newspapers that ruined you? Those things? Ian please, talk to me."
"No. There's absolutely nothing to fucking talk about." Ian said, his tone as cold as ice.
"Yes, there is. Don't you dare fucking blow this off like nothing has happened. You ruined our family! You ruined us!" Quentin's voice had escalated to an agonizing scream.
Ian pulled at his hair, blue eyes cracking. He stumbled towards the door but Quentin blocked his path. Ian was breathing heavily, a distressed look on his face. In a split second, He brought his hand up and smacked Quentin across the face. His head snapped to the side with the shock of the blow, but his feet stayed where they were. With a final attempt, Quentin yanked a paper out of the stack and shoved it towards Ian. He grasped the flimsy paper, slowly sinking onto his knees.
In a broken tone, Ian finally whispered. "I was in Iraq. My friend, Max... He was killed by a terrorist. He was only 18, fresh out of high school. He had so much to live for. You know he had a girlfriend? He was amazing at football too, the best I've ever seen. I was so mad that I killed the terrorist. I didn't care that he had gone into the town square, where civilians were just minding their business. I didn't care that the grenade killed 12 other people. I was all over the fucking news."
"Ian... I'm so sorry."
Sobs wracked Ian's body and Quentin noticed how torn and frail he looked. Ian clung to Quentin's legs as if they were the only thing anchoring Ian to reality. Quentin realized they were.
"N-no... I'm sorry. I-I'm sorry for destroying everything. I love you."
"I love you too. I'm gonna help you through this. I'll be right by your side."
"I'm sorry. I just thought it might have been better left unsaid. I was wrong."
xx
written by ana (bajancanadians)
