Made To Be Broken

When You Say Nothing At All

“I don't know what it is you got
But it's plain enough to see
Whatever it is sure
Means alot to me, oh yeah
I try to turn and walk away
But it does no good, I've gotta stay
This feelin' that you give
Won't let me be, oh no.”

- Without Your Love, JOE COCKER

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It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. He refused to believe it was more than an absent, subconscious scribbling.

So why did you keep it – rather than throw it away with the rest of the trash?

Noble sat on the end of his bed, shirtless, wearing soft red flannel pajama pants, his bare toes flexing against the thick, soft beige carpet beneath his feet. A mild pain throbbed in his thighs as his elbows dug into the muscle and he leaned forward. The scarred Styrofoam cup twisted slowly in his fingertips, making full circles and coming to a stop each time on the ragged heart encasing his roughly scrawled name.

“It doesn't mean anything.” he whispered, disturbed by the audible ache in his voice. “And it wouldn't matter if it did.” A sudden tightness squeezed his words, straining with a quiet, raw anger that bordered on bitterness. His hand started to clench around the cup, intent on crushing it, but as the container began to crack, he thrust it away. Too light to truly propel, it dropped to the soft carpet a few feet away, unharmed, rolled a half circle and came to rest – the gouged image staring back at Noble.

His hand went to his mouth, squeezed, his fingertips and thumb pressing hard into his cheeks. A stinging burned his eyes and his breath scraped up his throat.

Get a grip. Stop this shit right now. You're just going through a battle. You're not queer.

A bitter laugh erupted out of him and his head dropped into his hands, his fingers shoving through his hair. “Yeah.” he groaned miserably. “You're no fag. You just spend every waking minute fantasizing about fucking the man.” He straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck fiercely. “But no – that don't make you queer. Not at all.”

He raised his head and stared at the cup on the floor. If he'd just wanted to screw the guy and get it out of his system...maybe he could somehow chalk it up to fleshly lust and find a way to convince himself he wasn't attracted to Jonah with anything more than his body. That still wasn't acceptable, and it terrified him, but it didn't mean he wanted to truly be with another man. It was like any other sinful lust. He could repent for it. God knows, he would be truly sorry.

The crudely drawn heart gripped his gaze. But in his fantasy, when Jonah asked him what he wanted...he didn't say sex.

I want you to love me.

He rubbed his eyes. A pulsing throb thumped in the center of his forehead. That wasn't true. He didn't want the man to love him. He didn't want Jonah to want him at all.

Then why did it turn your heart inside out when you saw the cup? Why can't you throw it away?

There was no reason. He stood up quick, stepped forward and scooped the cup off the floor, again intent on crushing it in his fist. But again, he hesitated. Just do it, dammit! It's just a fucking cup!

A strangled growl tore up his throat and he smacked the cup down hard – but not too hard – on the night stand. His hand swept through his hair and he gripped a fistful, squeezing.

“What is wrong with you?” he choked, fear and irritation battling for control of his emotions. His chest rose and fell with a quickness that impaired his breathing. Why had he started to get angry when Rebecca dismissed Jonah's story, as well as the man himself? Why did it matter what she thought of her step-brother? It had nothing to do with him. Nothing. He didn't care.