Chapter Text
"I'm no son," says Adam, and means something entirely different than he would have a year ago. He knows it's probably misleading, probably burying the lede; but he knows how it feels to say the words, and they're the ones that come easiest to him.
Malcolm pauses. Adam knows the conversation he thinks they're about to have. They've had it before and he's been so patient every time, and it puts a lump in Adam's throat to see that he's ready to do it again.
"Adam," he starts, and reaches gently for his hands. "You don't have to be if you don't want to. I'll never fault you for that. But you're always, always welcome in this family, no matter how many kids I--"
He stops. Adam can see the gears turning in Malcolm's head as he feels how violently his hands are trembling; realizes that there's no dullness or self-loathing or attempted diplomacy in his voice, but fear.
"Oh," he says, finally. "Oh." Adam's heart races so hard it feels like he's going to be sick.
And then Malcolm smiles, eyes bright behind his glasses, and squeezes Adam's hands. "Well," he says. "The sentiment stands."
The nausea pours out of him all at once like an icemelt, like thawing; and then the tears come after.
"Do you know yet what you'd like me to call--oof!" Malcom is interrupted all at once by a hug like a drowning man (ha) finally close to the shore; it takes a second to get his wind back enough to adjust his glasses, which have been almost knocked off his face, and hug him back.
They talk. Adam cries. There's hot tea; they talk more. And his paralyzed lungs finally let out the breath he's been holding all his life; and they draw in another, and another; and it's then he decides that he'll never stop breathing again.