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One of the great things about being a rockstar is that pretty much everyone you sleep with is too drunk or too high to give a fuck about the scars that cover your thighs. Glenn knows this from intimate experience. Old cuts run in all directions over every inch of skin, the scar tissue so commonplace that there’s no real ‘raised’ scars - all of the skin is scarred, meaning that all of it has a layer of tissue, filled with lines over lines over lines of marks. The scarring is over forty years in the making, from when Glenn was sixteen, all the way up until just before Faerun.
During Faerun, Glenn couldn’t find an opportunity to self harm. He’d tried with a knife a few times, little knicks to his wrists to test it out, but the cut wasn’t quite the same as a shitty dollar store razor. It’d hurt during the cut, blood pooling out right away, which wasn’t what he craved. He needed to rub the razor sideways on his leg, frustrated at the lack of pain, then watch in awe as the cuts suddenly made themselves known through miniscule red lines that slowly, achingly welled with blood. He needed to dab at it with shitty toilet paper, soaking it through, then stand shakily and smile as his blood flow circulated down, down, down through him, forcing more of the stuff to leak from the cuts and dribble to his knee.
That’s what he’s doing now, anyway. Watching as blood leaks from his thigh and catches on the swell of his knee. It collects there, considers spilling along the curve of his kneecap, before becoming too much all at once and spilling over the top, running into the hair of his shin.
He can barely remember why he started cutting. He’s currently attending a party at the Oak-Garcia household and everyone is here.
Ah. Including Jodie and Morgan. That makes sense.
The buzz of alcohol and weed did nothing to calm his nerves when he saw the two of them holding hands. Within seconds, he’d walked away from the conversation he’d been having with Henry and Samantha, ignoring as they called out to him and stalking to the upstairs bathroom. He’d fumbled around in the sink cabinet until he found a razor, then pulled his pants down to dump on the floor, sat on the toilet, and let himself rip.
While some of the blood catches on his shin, some of it gathers at another section of his knee. He watches, fascinated, as droplet after droplet of red hits the white tiled floor. Tiny splatter marks splash away from the main pool.
The music screaming from the earbuds jammed in his ears is thumping along with the beat of his heart. If his head wasn’t spinning and his leg wasn’t aching, he’d jump along to the bass, maybe dish out a fucking awesome guitar solo for an imaginary audience, silent-screaming a note that tells them how much pain he feels inside his chest. It’s a note he knows well, discordant and off key; he’s been screaming it since the day he was born.
He isn’t sure how long he stands there, watching his own blood spill. If the changes in song are anything to go by, it’s around fifteen minutes, but with how weak his body feels, it may as well be hours.
What brings him back to reality (or half reality, he’s not quite sure) is Henry standing in front of him. The other man is saying something that he can’t hear and knowing how neurotic Henry can be, doesn’t want to hear. He frowns when Henry takes his earbuds out of his ears, but the action is not enough to snap him back to Earth, watching in a daze as Henry gently sets down the earbuds on the vanity.
There’s a few seconds of silence as Henry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. When he opens his eyes again, he gives Glenn a gentle smile, then turns and shuts the bathroom door.
“I was calling out, but you mustn’t have heard me over your music,” Henry says, standing a careful distance away from Glenn. His posture is surprisingly relaxed, his tone is even and his lips are barely turned in a frown. Glenn, even in his hazy state, has enough presence of mind to know that he isn’t sure what to make of Henry’s reaction. “Let’s get you sitting down, hey?”
Glenn allows for his elbow to be taken. He follows Henry’s guidance until he is sat on the toilet lid once more, the dizziness in his head dissipating within seconds.
Uncharacteristically quiet, Henry roots around in the medicine cabinet. He pulls out a packet of wipes and a bottle of what is likely to be disinfectant.
“I know you probably don’t want to, but I’m listening if you’d like to talk. I’m not going to say anything while I clean you up, so you’ve got plenty of time to think and decide what you’d like to tell me.” Henry kneels on the tile, making himself level with Glenn’s leg. He assesses the damage for a few seconds, before drawing out a wipe and beginning to clean the edges of the bloodbath.
The cold, wet cloth grounds Glenn a little more. He watches, not entirely sure how to feel as the damage of what he’s done is unveiled, the blood soaking through the wipe much too quickly. Henry is patient, getting out another one. He seems fully absorbed in the task at hand, green eyes following the sweeps of his hand, before quickly surveying how effective the movement has been. He runs over the skin as many times as he needs to, his touch light and consistent.
“You’re not gonna get it,” Glenn says in response to Henry’s announcement before he started cleaning. He’s painfully aware of how long it’s taken him to process the words, and he’s hoping that Henry has been too distracted to notice as well.
Cocking his head, hands stilling, Henry considers his words. Before Glenn can continue, he’s standing up.
“You’re right. I can’t begin to understand your specific experiences and what goes through your mind when you self harm. But Glenn, you’re not as alone as you think.”
Glenn watches as Henry lifts his shirt. “Holy shit.”
All across Henry’s stomach, sides and ribs, there are scars. Some are more faded than others, whitened with old age or pinkened with more freshness. There are many different sizes and textures, like they were created with a variety of instruments, clearly the work of many (probably countless) years.
Before he can think about it, Glenn is reaching out to press his fingers to Henry’s ribs, feeling the bumps of skin beneath the pads of his fingers. In an act of mercy, Henry doesn’t react.
“Why do you do it?” Glenn asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I did it because I didn’t feel good enough, and that made me angry,” Henry answers. His breathing is steady as he speaks, like the words have no effect on him, but the flatness in his voice tells Glenn everything. “I was never enough for my father. When I met Mercedes, I felt like I was an inconvenience to her. As Lark and Sparrow grew up, there were many times where I felt like I was failing them as a father.”
Glenn traces more of the scars, wondering just how many times Henry has used a blade to ‘make do’. Most of the cuts are quite clean, and were likely deep at the time of their making - not done by razors. When he does finally reach a patch of razor cuts, right at the crease of Henry’s waist, he pulls his hand away and sets it back in his lap.
“I stopped when the boys turned ten. They didn’t know it, but that was one of my birthday presents to them. I’ve been clean for a few years now, but I can’t say that I don’t think about it sometimes. That I didn’t think about it a lot while we were in Faerun.” Henry runs a hand down his side, his gaze distant, remembering. “But, for the sake of my family, I’m done with it. I don’t want my beautiful boys asking why their father is wincing every time they hug him.”
He allows his shirt to drop again. If not for the slump in his shoulders, Glenn can almost believe that Henry is the same man he was five minutes ago; full of joy and wonder and awed to be alive. But that slump is there, and Henry is a different man. He’s all the things he was before, though now the words ‘jaded’ and ‘hurt’ come to mind as well.
Without another word, Henry kneels again and returns to cleaning the blood smeared and dried over Glenn’s leg.
Glenn stares up at the ceiling, contemplating Henry’s words. His self harm has never really had anything to do with Nick, so he’s never had the same motivation to stop. He’s never been clean enough to count the months, or to have a proper relapse.
Closing his eyes, Glenn focuses on the coolness of the wipe against his skin. “I’ve been doin’ it since I was sixteen. Kinda- well, I started for some stupid fuckin’ reason I don’t remember, then kept doin’ it whenever I started to like, feel stuff. Big stuff. Distracted myself with it so I didn’t lose my chill. Slowed down when I met Morgan, ‘cause I was scared she’d think I was a freak, but she got me. Told me it was okay, and to let her know when I did it so she could clean up.” It strikes him how Morgan’s actions parallel what Henry is currently doing, but Glenn doesn’t let himself think about how that makes him feel. “Got real bad when she died. Ended up in hospital one time ‘cause I collapsed after a show. Just… felt like I should’ve died instead of her, ya know? She’d have done a way better job lookin’ after Nick and stuff. She was a good mom and I’m just- I’m a piece of shit.”
Henry hums a note of acknowledgment. The gears turning in his brain are practically audible. “It may not mean much right now, but I don’t see you that way. No one at this party does. We love you, Glenn, and we want to support you in whatever you do.”
“Even Jodie?” Glenn asks ruefully.
A sharp intake of breath tells Glenn that Henry is about to say something he doesn’t like. “I think Jodie is full of shit.”
Glenn is a chill guy who keeps his expectations lower than the pits of Hell, but that catches him off-guard. “For real?”
“I shouldn’t say that,” Henry mumbles, then says, “but he does get on my nerves sometimes. I understand that he doesn’t like some of the things that you do, but he doesn’t need to single you out and his behaviour regarding his issues is not constructive or healthy. He’s gotten worse since we’ve been back home and it’s exhausting to be his therapist because he thinks that psychologists are only for the mentally ill.”
“Tell him to pay you next time,” Glenn says, leaning back against the toilet tank and reaching into his jacket for a cigarette. When he lights it up, Henry doesn’t spare him so much as a second glance.
Henry laughs. It’s unusually dry, nothing like the reediness of his genuine laughter. “Next time I’m telling him to get over himself. Demon or not, he should respect that you helped keep Nick safe in Faerun, and that you continue to do it now.”
There isn’t much to say to that. A ‘thank you’ is probably in order, but that wouldn’t convey even a fraction of the gratitude that Glenn is feeling right now. He’ll bide his time to do it. So, rather than opening his mouth to say anything more, he breathes in oxygen that’s laced with smoking nicotine, closing his eyes as it fills his lungs and curls up deep inside his chest. Once upon a time, he’d fucking hated this particular brand - Firesticks, or something like that - but Morgan used to churn through them like mints and soon, he’d gotten hooked too. He’s smoked them ever since.
“Do you mind if I have a hit? Please?” Henry says, standing and leaning against the bathroom vanity.
Glenn hands it to him.
Henry smokes in a weird way. When most people get their hands on a vape or a cigarette, they suck air into their mouth, then breathe in oxygen. Glenn himself does it, after having grown up watching his dad do the same thing. Henry poises the cigarette at the centre of his lips, his entire mouth slightly open as he takes a deep breath in, the air mixing naturally with the smoke. He holds the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger. After another puff, he flicks the excess ash into the sink and hands the thing back to Glenn.
Smoke curls around them and floats to the open window. It looks like strands of silk.
“Forgot how dizzy the high makes you,” Henry chuckles. His fingers grip the sides of the vanity.
Glenn doesn’t get the high anymore, and hasn’t for a long time - it stops after about a month of daily use - but he nods in understanding. He goes back to relaxing, one hand hooking over the toilet roller attached to the wall - this scene would make a fucking sick album cover. Title: ‘Gone to Shit’. A myriad of songs all telling the story of how Glenn Close is a shitty father, a shitty human and a complete fuck-up. A self-deprecating autobiography, making him look metal as hell.
He hisses when, a moment later, a stinging pain rips through his thigh.
“Just disinfecting,” Henry says, “I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”
“All good man,” Glenn responds, grinning at the ceiling. He hasn’t felt this kind of pain in a while - he misses it. Sucking on the cigarette between his lips, Glenn distracts himself from crying out the next two times Henry soaks a different part of the wound, but still relishes in each bite.
When Henry has finished, he steps back and looks over Glenn’s leg. He nods to himself, then turns around and begins to tidy up the cleaning supplies and the bloody razor. Once everything is packed away or trashed, Henry pulls out a bandage roll from the medicine cabinet and a pin from one of the drawers. Glenn watches in idle fascination as Henry begins to wrap the bandage around his thigh, miraculously keeping his hands steady. The white cloth is crisp against Glenn’s wounds and it traps the heat of his blood. He’s aware of the ache of the cuts now, pulsing through his entire leg.
“That should be fine for now,” Henry murmurs, seemingly more to himself than Glenn.
“Thanks, man,” Glenn says, lifting his leg and finding that the pain spikes, but doesn’t stop him. He stands a second later, scooping his pants from the floor and beginning to step into them. They barely fit over the thick bandage on his thigh, but he makes it work, shimmying awkwardly until the pants sit in a slouch on his hips. He can make that work. “Alright, time to party!”
Before he can swagger out of the bathroom, Henry steps in front of him. “Glenn, just- just one thing, okay? I don’t wanna talk your ear off, I know there’s probably a lot of feelings happening for you right now, and- oh geez, I’m already rambling, sorry. Just… you’re not alone. I can’t speak to your insecurities and worries, but I can speak to mine and I know how good it can feel to self harm. I’m here if you need to talk. And if you haven’t spoken to your therapist about this, I’d be more than happy to be a support person in a session where you do. I’m in your corner. Like I say to my beautiful boys, you’re gonna be O-A-K, Glenn. All the other dads and I are here for you.”
If he looks at Henry right now, he’s going to start crying. “That’s cool, man, I appreciate it.” He keeps his eyes focused resolutely on the door.
“Do you mind if I hug you?” Henry asks, not seeming to pick up on the fact that Glenn is purposely staring past his shoulder.
“Sure dude, whatever,” Glenn says, but doesn’t open his arms.
Henry steps forward, wrapping Glenn in his embrace. Despite being a skinny guy, his hug is soft and warm. The curve of his cheek fits perfectly against the side of Glenn’s head, his breath gently stirring through Glenn’s hair. Even without Glenn hugging him back, his hold doesn’t feel awkward - probably comes from the practice of not having his kids hug him.
“Alright man, I’m good,” Glenn says when he feels the lump in the back of his throat begin to grow just a little too big.
He flashes Henry a brief smirk. Henry smiles back, his eyes full of affection.
Morgan used to smile like that.
Glenn steps past Henry, patting him on the shoulder. He leaves the bathroom alone and saunters downstairs, one hand in his pocket and the other tossing his finished cigarette into a trash can. His leg cries out in pain with each step, and he vehemently ignores it, grabbing one of Darryl’s beers from a cooler and sidling up alongside Ron, who is regaling a bored-shitless Grant with stories of ‘business’. Sending Grant a wink, Glenn puts a hand on Ron’s shoulder and redirects his attention, giving the kid a chance to escape.
There has never been a time that Ron wasn’t an amazing distraction. Glenn is proven right once again, the pain in his leg fading until it is nothing more than background noise.
If it pangs when he looks at Jodie and Morgan, he ignores it. If welcome heat rushes through him when he looks at Henry, he ignores that too.
He’s a fucking rockstar, after all. No one, not even him, gives a shit about the scars all over his thighs. He’s gonna live forever.