To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)

Slate wakes up before both the sun and Gray in a startle, feeling phantom pains in his missing finger. Having stayed uninfected, it’s actually healing better than the huge scar on his side. It still aches down to the bone sometimes, but the stump is completely healed over and is now a purple scar, fading slowly to pink and then white over time. He has still bandaged it to go in public, feeling like, for his younger siblings especially, the sight of a bandaged finger is more tolerable than facing the reality that their brother has permanently lost a part of his body. He’d already been disfigured gruesomely on his face, he could never and will never be able to hide that.

Today though, he decides to ditch the bandages for good. It has only been ten days since he returned home, but he has had many conversations with his brothers explaining, in different levels of complexity, that he was hurt very badly while he was gone and it’s taking a while to heal. He’s seen them most every day, with the exception of one or two days where he was desperate for a reprieve from the…act that Gray accused him of upholding. He wouldn’t characterize it as such, but he’d certainly been guarding them from the harshest truths.

The fingernails seem to be healing slightly faster than a human rate and he ditched those bandages a couple days ago. The sensation of holding something or pressing down on something is still uncomfortable, but not usually painful. His side has scabbed over enough that it’s no longer raw, but still quite painful to the touch and sometimes the feel of his shirt against his skin is almost too much to bear, but he’s learned to sit in it and let it fade out.

The scars on his face and the scar on his side are both mementos of gruesome events, but to Slate, his face represents healing and penance in equal measures. The scars gave a young, traumatized boy closure enough to break the cycle his father tried to perpetuate, Slate is sure of it. The act of righting some kind of unfairness that had obviously been eating at him for years had started the process of healing. And Slate had had control over it. It had been his choice.

The scar on his side, however, is a memento of a complete loss of control, something that was exacted upon him against his will. It will forever be a memory of his failure to keep his family from pain and anguish. He doesn’t care that he hadn’t been able to protect himself, he cares that his failure to retain some measure of control over his face meant he hadn’t protected them from the effects of it.

The thought of it itches at him. It claws at his subconscious when he has a moment of silence. Slate has never craved noise before, but now he does. Sometimes at least. The same way he craves light. Just more evidence of his failure.

Shaking himself out of his dark musings, Slate carefully unwinds his fingers from Gray’s and painstakingly lifts himself out of bed. His ribs still creak sometimes, like they hadn’t healed quite right. They’d been broken more than once at the hand of his torturers, often not having the enough time to heal all the way before they were assaulted again and again.

Once his feet are solidly on the floor and he has managed to straighten to his full height, he pads down the hall to the kitchen to make breakfast. He decides to make the breakfast casserole Sara loves so he and Gray can eat her fill and they can bring the rest to Sara and Jason, who has the day off of work today.

He moves slowly, his bones taking a while to warm and loosen up. He has wondered privately if his ability to heal has been permanently stunted. Not enough that he functions like a human would, but slower than he used to.

Just when he’s taking the casserole out of the oven, he hears Gray start to stir in the bedroom. Perfect timing. He lets the dish take the remaining time to set and firm a bit, sagging against the wall with his head tilted back and eyes closed, enjoying the quiet of the morning and the sounds and knowledge of someone else in the house. Someone special. Gray.

He straightens just when she’s coming around the corner rubbing her eyes cutely until she focuses on him and gives him a look. “You were supposed to be sleeping.”

“I never sleep long,” he admits to her.

“You were supposed to be resting,” she amends sternly.

He shrugs. “The sun’s awake, so I’m awake.”

The reference takes a second to click, but once it does, Gray cracks up. “Slate, you can’t be funny this early. My brain is still mush, I’m incapable of coming up with a snappy retort.”

“I didn’t know your internal clock was so dysfunctional,” he tells her with a carefully blank face.

“What do you mean?” she frowns.

He shrugs again. “Just that you seem to think it’s early at all points of the day.”

She squints, mouth twitching with mirth and offense both. “Are you trying to tell me I’m always incapable of snappy retorts?”

A toothy grin is his only response.

She walks over and smacks him on the shoulder before making to sniff out the casserole, but he snags her around the waist and wraps his arms around her warmly before she can step away. She makes a small surprised sound before positively melting into the embrace. She sighs happily, “Your hugs are magical.”

“At all hours of the day?”

She thinks. “At all hours, but especially in the morning.”

He hums back, kissing her hairline before releasing her. Or attempting to release her. She pulls him back by his shirt and wraps her arms around his shoulders firmly. “Not yet,” she murmurs. “Let me stay here for a little longer.”

They do.

:::::

After eating breakfast together, Slate tells Gray she’s welcome to anything in the house, but he has an errand to run. She narrows her eyes, but lets him have his secrets and goes straight to Sara’s house bearing casserole sans two extra servings besides the two Slate and Gray had eaten.

Slate plates the extra food and wraps it in tinfoil before setting out, leaving Gray with a parting kiss on the forehead. On his way to his destination, he slowly puts up his usual barriers. Standing straight, face placid, pace regular, voice prepared to come out simply, firmly, plainly. This is not a conversation that Slate needs to contribute his own roiling emotion to.

He knocks on the Holts’ door hoping he has remembered correctly and that Zander doesn’t have class until the afternoon. He already knows Aria is on Winter break because she’s on the same schedule as Sage.

Zander opens the door in a rumpled shirt and gym shorts, looking tired and somewhat disgruntled. It is, admittedly, pretty early for a college student and high schooler on break at eight o’clock in the morning, but he told Raven and Sage they could walk the rows of apple trees today to make up for some of the Saturdays they had missed.

Slate plans to nag Forrest until he gets up to come with them as well, he misses that kid. Though he and Asher share the middle sibling titles, he’s really the true middle child with Sara, Slate, and Asher being born within three years of each other. Slate tries to make sure he’s not overlooked, but sometimes he isolates himself as a defense mechanism and the last couple weeks have been tough for everyone.

Zander grunts a hello and Slate nods his head. “Do you have a minute to talk?” he tries to ask non-threateningly.

For all Slate’s efforts to be especially approachable for Zander, the young man seems to be programmed to be intimidated by everything Slate does and says. His eyes widen a bit and he has to clear his throat before he says, “Sure, yeah.” He opens the door wider. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” Slate steps in the door and finds Aria just passing the threshold into the kitchen that the front door opens up to, rubbing her eyes just like her older sister.

“Wha’s goin’ on? Why’s someone here so early?” she complains, voice rough with sleep.

Slate’s mouth twitches in an aborted smile. When Aria finally looks up to see it’s Slate at the door, her jaw slackens a bit. “Oh. Hi. Um, how can we help you?”

“I’d like to sit down and talk about something if that’s okay.” Then he offers the plate of food. “I brought breakfast.”

“Oh, um, okay, we can put that in the fridge and talk first. If that’s okay?” Zander says/asks after a moment, looking unsure. When he gets a nod, he looks no less unsure but motions for Slate to follow him into the family room all the same. “We can sit in here.”

Aria trails behind them, betraying the fact that she and her brother are bond communicating by the sharp look she sends him and the small, furtive shrug Zander offers back. If it was Slate and Asher, they’d be able to communicate it all through the bond.

“I won’t be long,” Slate assures them, trying to assuage any nerves he may have accidentally incited.

Aria, seeming classically unable to stay silent for too long, is the one who answers. “No problem, we have time.”

She seems more confident than Zander. Perhaps that talk all those weeks ago really did some good. The thought is heartwarming.

Slate picks the recliner to sit in so neither of the siblings has to feel pressured to sit next to him. Without further ado, he begins, looking both of them in the eye alternately. “I’d like what I’m about to tell you to stay between us. Only your sister knows this.”

Zander and Aria comically make the same expression, eyebrows flying up dramatically and leaning back slightly. “Okay, sure,” Aria says, sounding curious, almost excited.

“Of course,” Zander adds.

Slate looks away for a minute and takes a deep, centering breath. He tells them, “When my mom died,” their eyes widen so Slate can see the whites, “I was the only one in the room, besides the midwife–did you know she died giving birth to Raven?”

They both nod. Slate nods back.

“She knew before I even came into the room that she was going to die. I didn’t notice it at first, but I figured it out pretty quick.” He takes a moment to pin each of them with his eyes, hoping to impress the importance of these words on them. “As she was dying, she reassured me that everything would be okay, that she would be okay.”

Aria can’t seem to stop herself from whispering, “She lied?”

Slate feels a pang on the inside, but nods his head calmly on the outside. “She lied.”

Zander almost flinches at the honesty. “Why?” he asks.

“I will never be certain,” Slate says, “but I’m pretty confident it’s because she didn’t want to hurt me in her dying moments. She was trying to make my last moments with her hopeful instead of dreadful.”

They exchange looks. Aria boldly ventures, “Isn’t that kind of…”

She searches for a word and comes up with nothing, so Slate mercifully interjects. “It was hard for me to hear, to handle. She was lying to my face on purpose, for her own benefit.” He can’t make himself say the word selfish, but he doesn’t let the hesitance bleed into his voice or body language. He is all purposeful and level.

He continues, “I never got closure, never got to talk to her about what she did or why she did it. I was angry at first, and confused. I trusted my mom implicitly and she had betrayed that in her dying moments. But I came to peace with the fact that she was only human, that she was in immense physical and emotional pain, and she was desperate for any reprieve. It wasn’t about me, about hurting me, it was about her. Maybe that sounds worse, but it helped me realize that she loved me til the end, that she wasn’t punishing me on purpose.

“But still, in the end, she died before I ever got to have answers, before I could ever tell her I forgave her. I will never have that chance, I will never get to see her laugh or smile or cry or sing or dance. It’s all gone.” Slate pauses. “Do you understand?”

The two kids exchange glances. Slate sees an inkling of understanding in Zander, but Aria still looks confused. She looks emotional and overwhelmed. Zander’s eyes fix on the floor in front of him for a moment before looking up. “This is about…” He doesn’t finish.

Slate nods, waits a beat, then stands up and says, “Thank you both for listening. Promise me one thing.” Zander tilts his head, which Slate takes as an affirmative, and Aria nods. “Just think about what I’ve said. I’m not forcing you to do anything about it, but please think about it. Okay?”

“Okay,” they chorus. Aria adds, looking more sure of herself, “Yeah, I definitely will.” Then she mumbles to the floor, “And, um, thank you. That was…just, thank you.”

“Aria.” Slate waits until she meets his gaze again, smiles genuinely. “You’re welcome.”

She gulps, but looks proud of herself, nods, elbows Zander and jerks her head at Slate, who huffs a laugh. Zander startles out of a brief stupor and bravely looks Slate in the eye as he says quietly, “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

Slate smiles again, tips his head. “You’re welcome.” He pins both of them with his eyes again. “You can talk to me anytime. I promise to always listen.”

Aria smiles shyly and Zander nods, for once looking comfortable under Slate’s gaze.

“I’ll let myself out,” he says, and leaves them to their thoughts.