He sits down on the bed he slept in for nineteen years. It feels exactly as he remembers.
Stuart's got big lumps on his face. Gene frowns, and tries to remember what he knows about the disease. He had it young, so it's hazy. But he's pretty sure it's the glands that are supposed to swell up, not the cheeks and mouth. Not leave bruising all over the back, and what he knows perfectly well are welts from a belt.
He sighs, and rubs a hand over his face.
'Don't know why you brought me here,' he mutters. 'Nothing I haven't seen before. Or had meself.'
But he hadn't seen it, had he? He's four years old, over there in the doorway. And yes, he remembers knowing that if you weren't quiet around his dad - or even if you were, sometimes - you tended to get a smack. But not like this.
'Sorry,' Stuart says again, and their mother sighs.
'Nothing to be done, Stuey. You just lie here and get better.'
'Yeah, but...'
'Enough.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Gene sees his young self's head raise at the exact moment his does. Both surprised, but the lad actually flinches. Their mother is scowling, sponging Stuart harder now, enough to make him whimper.
'You knew very well that if you cheeked him, he'd do this. And you knew very well I'd get it too. You keep doing this, Stuart, he'll start on Gene as well - is that what you're trying to do? Pass it on to your brother?'
'No! No, I didn't-'
'Well, it's going to happen anyway. Bloody young idiot. Stop saying sorry, and start bloody behaving yourself.'
Gene feels the blood draining out of his face. He doesn't remember this conversation, but it's not like he couldn't have heard it. Maybe he was too young. But he knows now, and it feels like a punch in the solar plexus. For a second, it's hard to breathe.
In his world, his mother is...his mother. Even since he found out the truth, he barely questioned his version of her. But if this is the reality - this woman, looking more pissed off at the thought of what's going to happen to her, than having sympathy with her beaten son - then it's nothing like the woman he knows is living back in Manchester.
'Shit,' he says, under his breath. It's mainly to mask the twist in his chest.
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Stuart's got big lumps on his face. Gene frowns, and tries to remember what he knows about the disease. He had it young, so it's hazy. But he's pretty sure it's the glands that are supposed to swell up, not the cheeks and mouth. Not leave bruising all over the back, and what he knows perfectly well are welts from a belt.
He sighs, and rubs a hand over his face.
'Don't know why you brought me here,' he mutters. 'Nothing I haven't seen before. Or had meself.'
But he hadn't seen it, had he? He's four years old, over there in the doorway. And yes, he remembers knowing that if you weren't quiet around his dad - or even if you were, sometimes - you tended to get a smack. But not like this.
'Sorry,' Stuart says again, and their mother sighs.
'Nothing to be done, Stuey. You just lie here and get better.'
'Yeah, but...'
'Enough.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Gene sees his young self's head raise at the exact moment his does. Both surprised, but the lad actually flinches. Their mother is scowling, sponging Stuart harder now, enough to make him whimper.
'You knew very well that if you cheeked him, he'd do this. And you knew very well I'd get it too. You keep doing this, Stuart, he'll start on Gene as well - is that what you're trying to do? Pass it on to your brother?'
'No! No, I didn't-'
'Well, it's going to happen anyway. Bloody young idiot. Stop saying sorry, and start bloody behaving yourself.'
Gene feels the blood draining out of his face. He doesn't remember this conversation, but it's not like he couldn't have heard it. Maybe he was too young. But he knows now, and it feels like a punch in the solar plexus. For a second, it's hard to breathe.
In his world, his mother is...his mother. Even since he found out the truth, he barely questioned his version of her. But if this is the reality - this woman, looking more pissed off at the thought of what's going to happen to her, than having sympathy with her beaten son - then it's nothing like the woman he knows is living back in Manchester.
'Shit,' he says, under his breath. It's mainly to mask the twist in his chest.
'Shit, shit, shit.'