The call comes at 3:28 am, piercing through the haze of exhausted sleep. The resort has been bustling lately and you both are tired to the bone but you wake up in a flash anyway.
”—lo?”
”Dad?” Type’s voice is nasal and hoarse and he sounds so small through the tinny speaker. ”Dad—I—Tharn—”
”Tharn…what?” You ask, barely holding back a, What did he do? It’s instinct, perhaps. Or the thready panic in your son’s voice.
”He—there was a car, I didn’t see it but he did—he—” Type’s voice hitches and then he lets out a low, wounded sound. It cuts through you like a knife, bringing back memories of a dingy basement and a bruised boy trying to stay quiet and hide in the corner.
”He was hit. Dad, he pushed me out of the way and the car hit him and there was so much blood, dad, and he didn’t wake up, he’s not waking up—”
”Where are you now?”
In some other situation, you would probably gape at the hospital that looks more like a high-end five-star hotel but right now, you don’t give a shit. A gently smiling nurse guides you to a spacious, tastefully decorated room with big windows and soft, muted colors that seem garish when you take in the young man lying motionless on the bed. He’s even paler now, face bruised and swollen, the other side of his head shaved and bandaged. There are machines, tubes going in and out, monitors guarding his rest.
He looks like a corpse and it makes you sick.
Type sits next to him, half slumped on the bed, even though the bed is definitely wide enough for two grown boys. His other arm is draped over Tharn’s midriff and the other is holding the hand with less medical equipment attached to it. He’s asleep but it does nothing to diminish the grey exhaustion painted over his face.
Your boy is hurting and it breaks your heart there’s nothing you can do to make it better.
”Who are you?” Someone asks from behind you. You turn around to see a girl of perhaps ten or eleven, in a pale yellow dress and her hair up in Princess Leia buns. She’s staring at you with suspicious, narrowed eyes. ”What are you doing in P’Tharn’s room?”
”I—” you start, momentarily at a loss. You didn’t know Tharn had a sister.
There are lots of things you don’t know about Tharn.
”I’m Type’s father.” I’m your brother’s father-in-law, your mind supplies.
”Hm,” the girl says and doesn’t offer her name. Instead, she walks imperiously past you and climbs onto the bed, bends her head to whisper something in Type’s ear. You want to tell her not to, to let your son sleep, but then he’s blinking himself awake, a lost look in his eyes.
And then he turns and sees you.
You barely manage to open your arms when your boy barrels into you and grips your shirt so hard you hear it tear from the seams. He breathes in wet gulps, gasping air like a drowning man, eyes wide and terrified. You lean your foreheads against his and cup his cheeks, shut out the outside world and remind him to breathe, the way you did after the… After the time you thought your heart would be forever scarred, pieces of it missing, gently carrying a boy who went through things no child ever should.
And now he’s going through something no one ever should: watching someone he loves fighting for their life.
Traumatic brain injury, internal bruises, contusion, intracranial bleeding, several broken ribs, and a fractured cheekbone.
That’s the price for your son’s life.
More than a fair price.
You wish you could be the one paying instead of that cocky boy with too-bright eyes and a wide grin.
Little Thanya lets her name slip out one day when she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, braiding silk flowers into a wreath. She’s always there, usually accompanied by Tharn’s big brother, Thorn, but sometimes she’s there with their mother. The only time you’ve met Mr. Kirigun was on the morning after your arrival when he walked in after Thanya and Thorn, shook your hand, and told you you’ve been booked a room in the hotel right next to the hospital and if there was anything you needed, just let his assistant know.
Apparently, Tharn’s family is filthy rich.
You, surprisingly, don’t give a damn.
”Wake up, you asshole.”
Type’s desperate whisper carries through the small crack on the door and you pause with your hand on the door handle. You know you shouldn’t eavesdrop but—
Thing is, you don’t really get this whole gay thing. Oh, of course you know there are people who prefer their own sex to the opposite but you never thought your son would be one of them. Why would he be? Type always struck you like a normal boy who liked pretty girls and soft curves, if the girlfriends he had years back were of any indication. And why on earth would any man like to—to—
Sometimes you wonder if what Type went through broke something in him. Is that the reason he doesn’t want to be with a woman?
But the fact also is that you’ve never seen your son smile like that to anyone. Not to you or his mother, not to his friends, not to his girlfriends. The anger bubbling under his skin is gone, replaced by snark and bark and sharp grins and kisses they both think you didn’t see but you did—even though you wish you didn’t. You did not need to know your son liked to be kissed like that.
Your wife of 24 years likes to remind you that your understanding is neither needed nor required, just your acceptance and love. As if that’s a hardship—how can you not when that infuriating boy with his glinting earring and assessing eyes is the one your son has chosen, the one he turns to like a flower to the sun, the one he leans to with easy confidence and trust.
How can you not accept someone who looks at your son like he’s the most significant thing that’s ever happened to them?
How can you not, whey they were literally ready to die for him?
You blink against the prickling in your eyes and smile at the blurred image of Type holding Tharn’s limp hand in his, pressing small kisses on his knuckles. The scabs have healed over but the red scratches will remain for quite a while longer. From the times you’ve held Tharn’s hand, you know they’re slightly raised and the new skin is pale pink like raw prawns.
Tharn likes his seafood cooked.
”You fucker!”
There are many things you don’t understand about your son but this isn’t one of them. He’s definitely your kid: quick temper, sharp mouth, and the penchant to use insults as a love language. His words may be cruel but the tears running down his cheeks are not, neither is the way his hand shakes as he reaches carefully out to cup Tharn’s cheek—the healthy one, that is. And, oh, the boy is awake.
”You took your time,” you snap and narrow your eyes. ”Made us all worry about you.”
”Sorry,” Tharn croaks. He barely spares a glance at you, anxiously looking at Type instead. ”Are you alright?”
”Am I alright? Fuck you! You—you—” Type jabs his finger at Tharn, carefully making sure he doesn’t actually poke him and hurt his mending ribs. ”You jumped under a fucking car!”
Tharn looks like he doesn’t understand why that is a problem which seems to make Type even more incensed. (You get a sudden flashback from decades back when the girl you’d been dating for seven and a half months stood in between you and a rabid dog that was about to attack. Her reasoning? ”I know you’re afraid of dogs and I’m not. I knew I could take it.” You wanted to both strangle her and kiss her senseless. The look on Type’s face is achingly familiar and it makes you both exasperated and fond.)
”Don’t. Do. That. Again,” Type hisses and leans down. ”Or I’ll kill you myself.”
And then you get another eyeful of how your son likes to kiss and to be kissed and while you’re happy Tharn’s awake, the demonstration isn’t really necessary. You want to point out that killing anyone sort of contradicts the long vigil by Tharn’s bedside but you don’t. It’s too soon for that.
With a huff, you shake your head and leave the room, giving them some privacy. Outside, Princess Leia has given way to Raya and you hold a finger to your lips. ”Your brother woke up. Give them a moment, then you can barge in, okay?”
Thanya grins and nods, focusing on the door with the frightening intensity only kids her age manage. You tap her on the nose once and then nod at Thorn who doesn’t even bother to try holding back a wobbly, relieved smile as he digs out his phone and starts to furiously type out a message.
You duck your head and heave out a long breath and then another. You feel light-headed, unsure of whether to laugh or cry. Instead, you dig out your own phone and pull up speed dial #1.
”He's awake!—No, everything's alright. Our boys are alright.” You chuckle and it comes out more like a sob. ”They’re both alright.”