Chapter Text
When I’m away from you, I miss your touch
You’re the reason I believe in love
It’s been difficult for me to trust
And I’m afraid that I’ma fuck it up
Stay - The Kid LAROI, Justin Bieber
Henry is five the first time he hears the word.
He tries to go to sleep after his dad tucks him into bed, he really does, but everyone else is still being so loud. So he takes it upon himself to be the quiet one for once, to sneak out of bed and down to his big sister's room, hoping maybe she'll still be awake too. Hoping maybe she'll know what's going on.
After all, as far as he can tell, his older siblings know everything.
Quickly, before any staff can spot him, he opens Bea's door and ducks inside, leaning back against it with a sigh of relief once he knows he's safe.
The second the door clicks shut, she asks, "Are they keeping you up too?" Her heavy comforter flops down in the wake of the question, revealing that she too is awake and struggling.
Henry scuffs his toes in the plush carpeting and nods his head, and without a second of hesitation, Bea scoots over and pats the now-empty spot next to her on the giant bed to beckon him over. Once he's crawled up by her, she wraps an arm around him, tucking him in close to her side.
The next thing she asks is: "Wanna sing a song?"
It's her go-to when one or both of them is upset, but for once, Henry's not sure it'll help. He buries his face in her arm and shakes his head, not wanting to see if saying no upsets her. "They'll hear," he whispers. "And if they hear, they'll take me back to my room."
Thankfully, she doesn't seem upset. She hums for them both instead, a low, soft melody, just loud enough for him to hear. Their little secret.
The room becomes a bit fuzzy after that, her soft voice tempting his tired body towards sleep, even in the wake of everything, somehow creating a bubble of safety and contentment around the two of them in her giant poster bed. His words feel loose and slurred when he tries to talk, but he knows it's important, so he struggles to stay awake for a few more minutes.
"Why's Mummy mad?" he finally manages, tapering off into a yawn at the end.
Bea's humming stops short, surprised, but she just shifts them both down the bed until they're lying down, faces half-buried in her too-plush down pillows. "Gran said something mean about Dad, and Mum didn’t like it. Don't worry about it, H. Try to sleep now, yeah?"
"Why-" he starts, another yawn cutting him off. "Why doesn't Gran like Dad? He's the best."
"I don't know, love," Bea whispers, brushing his hair back from his face. "She never has. But Mum and Dad are soulmates, so they'll be fine."
"Wha’s a soulmate?” he asks, echoing her unfamiliar words back to her as he begins to fade off quickly.
Bea pulls the comforter up higher around him until it’s tucked under his chin, snuggling him up warm and tight and safe. “All I know is it’s a special kind of forever love. Mum said she’d tell us when we’re older. Now sleep, little brother. They’ll be done fighting in the morning.”
Henry remembers thinking he’s not sure that that’s true - it feels like someone is always upset with someone else in this giant house - but that he’ll take her word for it anyway. He curls in closer to her side and drifts off to sleep, a million questions bouncing around in his head.
By the time the sun rises, it’s entirely slipped his mind.
---
Henry is just shy of eighteen the first time he truly understands.
His parents go off to the appointment with little pomp and circumstance, but come back with shattered, blank stares. It takes another two long, torturous days before they summon them all together into a conference room and dare to speak aloud words that none of them saw coming.
The weeks after that pass in a blur of specialists and second opinions and appointments and treatments, each one taking more of a toll than the last. After one particularly hard day, one in which both of his parents had been gone long before he awoke and didn’t arrive home until well after dinner, Henry starts noticing something is off. And maybe in another world, he could have taken his concerns and questions straight to his parents, but he can’t find it in his heart to burden them with a single thing more right now. The world has been far too unfair to them already.
So he does what he always does when everything in this gilded cage of a house becomes too much and seeks out the only other person who always seems to understand.
He raps his knuckles against the door to the music room, just loud enough to be heard over the frantic, wailing notes of Bea’s electric guitar. The final chord she strikes fades out before she can resolve it, hanging dissonant and uncomfortable in the air between them.
“Can we talk?” Henry asks, inclining his head towards the couch off in the corner.
She doesn’t answer directly, but instead pulls the strap of the instrument up and over her head, resting it gently cradled in the stand beside her, before joining him. Her final chord fades quickly, taking with it the itching, incomplete feeling it left on Henry’s skin, but in its place now hangs a heavy silence.
“You’ve noticed too then,” Bea finally says, sighing as if the weight of the world hangs on her slim shoulders.
Henry nods, tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. “What’s wrong with her? We know Dad is… is sick, but Mum… ” He tries to keep his voice even, but what comes out instead is this broken, cracked thing. The voice of a scared child. “Bea, we can’t lose her too. We can’t.”
“She’s not dying, at least.”
He balks at that, dropping his head down into his hands to tug harshly at his own locks, exhaustion and frustration warring within him at equal levels. “Christ, Bea. You needn’t come right out and say it.”
“Well, he is.” She pulls a throw pillow into her lap, clutches it with a white-knuckled grip so tight that Henry worries if the seams might simply rip in two under the pressure. Clings to it if it’s some lifeline tossed out to her drowning at sea. Henry understands completely; his own grief and exhaustion feels the same some days. “Not saying it isn’t going to make it any less true.”
He sighs, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes until bursts of color dance behind them. “I know,” he agrees softly. “I just don’t want to hear it.”
Bea simply repeats, “I know,” before tossing the pillow aside and tugging at his shoulders, forcing him to lean down until his head rests atop her own. “I’m sorry. I won’t… I won’t say it again.”
It takes Henry a minute to realize that she’s humming as she holds him close - an old, achingly familiar lullaby - and it manages to feel both like a stab to his heart and a balm at the same time.
Henry sniffles, swipes at his nose with the back of his hand in an entirely undignified manner - as if he cares. “How do you know she’s - that she’s not… I mean, are you sure?”
She nods. “I overheard her doctor the last time they came by. She’s not sick, but she is hurting, in a sense. The doctor said their bond is fracturing, their souls grappling with the fact that soon they’ll… lose each other.”
The words, whispered quickly between them like some forbidden secret, feel impossibly heavy to Henry, more than he can comprehend. This, he realizes in a single, overwhelming tidal wave of emotion, is the true cost of giving your heart over to someone so entirely.
You hand them the power to break you too.