Chapter Text
You knock. “Mrs Morales?”
No answer. Again, “Mrs Morales? Hello? It’s me. Are you ho- ”
Before you can finish the sentence the door swings open and you see a woman. Finally, a woman, not a shell of her. Mrs Morales has horrible eye bags but her hair is fresh, wet, clean, and thank God it’s clean now because when was the last time she had showered?
It has been twelve hours and eighteen minutes since you last visited their home. Or is it just hers now? The first time Mrs Morales had called your mother it was two months ago, where she was sobbing on speaker, saying she couldn’t do it anymore and didn’t know what to do and Miles was not talking to anyone and had not opened the door in weeks except to just eat the food she left out and she just wanted to-
Ma had cut her off and driven over immediately with you in the backseat, praying — everyone needed this, to help and be helped. And since then it became a daily routine which you joined in every other morning. But today, today’s different, because it is a ‘tonight’ instead and you are alone this time. Ma was working overtime again, so she called you in turn and gave you the list of tasks which you already knew like the back of your hand.
“I’m really sorry I cannot make it so early, so you will be going by yourself, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And remember what I said,” Ma enunciated over the phone, “Make sure everyone eats and is clean before they sleep and and Rio has taken her meds, then make sure their home is clean, then make sure there is the nice music playing and it is soft but not too soft, and-
“YES, ma’am. Not my first rodeo,” you roll your eyes.
“I know,” she softens. You hear the gentle rustle of paper somewhere in the background before she continues, her voice cracking, “I’m just worried about you as much as I am worried about them. Can you handle it?”
It’s Miles. It’s Miles and Mrs Morales and it’s Mr Morales, too, even if he isn’t here anymore. Hence, of course.
“Of course, Ma,” you say. You think you sound strong; you are not sure.
“Oh, oh, mija. Come here.” Mrs Morales’s whisper brings you back to reality, and before you can do anything she moves forward instead and wraps you in the tightest warmest hug you have ever had in your life. Or maybe it was just the weather that made you really cold.
You had not been aware how cold New York had truly become, much less yourself, until that moment that sucked your soul back to your freezing fingertips, because the world had seemed to be spinning, still, after all the time. And time, this concept of permanence underlying the entirety of physics, time has been appearing so painfully, brutally, absolutely relative to the point you cannot keep track of what day it is or anything for that matter because there is only one thing on your mind which is the family, which is your family too, and in the weeks where Mr Morales was no longer driving you home you began to think that the world and its dirty pavements have also decided to mourn by frosting over, and you are thankful. Now everyone is in pain because Mr Morales was, and if you were to slow down to think about it any further this common experience that New York was having would not mean a thing anymore because you cannot feel it in your bones. You shouldn’t, because surely your grief cannot be anything compared to theirs. Mrs Morales, who has known him for half her life, or Miles, who has known him forever. And Miles, Miles.
“How is he? How are you?” you say out loud into her shoulder. It comes out slightly muffled but the tone is there and enough.
Mrs Morales does not answer the question. She instead lifts her head up and moves back a little to look at you square in the face with eyes every so slightly red. “Mija, I love you so, so much. You know that? Do you know that?”
With her grip tightening on your shoulders the answer is even clearer. “Yeah,” you sniffle, “and I love you too.”
“Come in, please. I’ll make some tea.”
*
While the kettle is making gurgling noises you look around the home. The house is still pristine for the most part, except for the strewn newspapers on the floor of the living room. It is crumpled from where the hands typically hold them, and it was not there this morning when you came over with Ma, and you wonder where Mrs Morales had found it again because Ma did hide it well enough, and you pretend to not see Mr Morales’ face on the front page. Mrs Morales is sitting at the dining table and drying her hair with a fresh towel, humming to herself. What a pleasant sound, you think. You miss this version of her which you used to see daily before. Now, it’s like a shooting star, so you wish to hear it again tomorrow.
“Mrs Morales, I’m glad you’ve showered.”
She hums in thanks, eyes closed in contentment. You grin.
“But Mrs Morales, your eyebags…?” You ask the question that has been weighing on your mind for a while.
Her smile falters slightly, and she turns to look at you, and you see something come back into her eyes. Something unspeakably sad.
“I’m alright, mija. Just cannot sleep.” It comes out a bit rawer than you think she intended for it to sound.
“The tea that Ma gave you? Hasn’t it been helping?”
“Oh, no, it does help,” she says, “Just sometimes, when I let it.”
You understand what that means, and you think of the newspaper on the floor, and you think of Mr Morales laughing at your terrible jokes over the same dining table both of you are at. His seat is empty. Twiddling your thumbs, you shift your gaze to your hands quickly. Your calluses are coming off because you have not touched the double bass in so long. The double bass sits in the corner of your room, and you used to take it out when they came over for dinner for a mini-Morales performance, and you think of Miles and his eyes that would gaze at you lovingly. How long ago, and how long more?
The kettle starts whistling. You stand up to pour the boiling water into the three cups with packets you put in just now. Today’s are chamomile for Mrs Morales, jasmine for you, and chai for Miles. Mrs Morales comes over the minute the scents start wafting from the cups to take her own and strokes your hair.
“Miles is in his room,” she says.
You freeze for a moment before you continue to pour. “Has he eaten?”
“I cooked two hours ago, but he didn’t want a bite,” she clicks her tongue before sipping, “stubborn runs in this family. Can you help me, mija?”
You do not know how to tell her you are scared. You have not seen Miles since the day you found out Mr Morales passed in action and you are not sure whether he has been wanting it that way. Every morning you have showed up with your mother Miles would have left for school already, which was evidently weird since both of you go to the same school and you have not seen Miles in uniform anywhere on campus for a while now, and when Mrs Morales would say the same phrase every time it was with an awkward pained smile your gut knew to be an I- am-lying-really-badly smile.
“Me? Really?” A heartbeat passes.
“Miles asked about you yesterday, before I went to sleep,” she manages to squeeze out. It pains her as much as you, apparently. “He opened his door.”
You forget about hesitating. Immediately you go to the stove where his food is kept warm over a gentle flame to switch it off. Remove the lid to open the pot and scoop the rice on a plate. Beans, stewed beef, plantains. Grab the two searing hot cups of tea in one hand with the plate of dinner on the other and let your legs do the walking. You do not think of anything other than him, and you do not notice Mrs Morales’ quiet laughter behind you.
Arriving in front of his room, you stare at the white door for a few seconds. Breathe in. You kick the door thrice as a means of knocking.
“Miles,” you say.
The mattress squeaks. A thud with paper flapping just a little bit. More shuffling. The doorknob turns downwards but the door doesn’t open just yet. Open open open for crying out loud open-
The door opens. You do not look up to meet his eyes but push past him, and thankfully the tea does not spill. You set the dinner and cups gently down on the table, avoiding his sketchbook which he presumably tossed there, and start organising his desk. Shit is strewn all over like fuck, everything is a mess, so you start stacking the papers, moving books back to their original homes on shelves, lifting the cups and plate up again to get the scrap papers and throw them in the bin under his desk, shoving stationery into his pencil case, all while he stands at the door, watching. He closes it, turns around, closes his eyes this time, and waits. You’re almost done, no worries — push the chair in, open the window, make his bed — and then you start crying. It comes suddenly when your hands come into contact with the pillow and the tears just gush out. You don’t even gasp or start heaving or shrieking, but just sniff once. Miles snaps his eyes open.
“Hey, hey-”
He cannot even finish his sentence before a pillow is sent flying towards his face and THWOP! Your blind aim is pretty accurate, like some spidey sense or something, but Miles has no time to find it cool.
“What was that even for?” He catches the pillow before it falls to the floor, and when he looks at you again you are running over and jumping on him, wrapping your body around him so tight as if this is the last time you will ever see him again.
“Stupid, stupid, you’re so stupid stupid stupid…” you shout into his shirt and it comes out as, “Shmmf, shmmf, oourt shh shmmf shmmf shmmf…”
He wiggles his arms out to hold you back tightly. Both of you know he’s sorry. He smells like shit, frankly, something like sweat and peanuts, but he’s so alive. He’s here. The hug lasts for quite a while, and you are surprisingly strong today, Miles thinks to himself, to stay in his arms for so long. After ninety-two seconds (Miles counted) you unwrap your legs from behind and set your feet back on the ground, but your arms do not move.
“I missed you a lot.” Sniff.
“I know. I-”
“I really wanted to see you again.” Sniff, sniff.
“Me too. I’m- ”
“You’re smelly. I want you to eat well.” Sniff.
“I’m sor- HEY! That was mean-”
“I love you. I love you so much, Miles.”
Miles does not respond immediately. He removes his arms as much as he does not want to and removes yours too. He holds the elbows gently and you look up at him. Sniff. Today his eyes have something about them that reminds you of the first time you met: there’s the freshness again, something bright. It’s a small light, but it’s pleasant, needed, warm.
“Let’s eat.” He dips his head a little, and kisses your forehead like he used to do when he greeted you before all those days. Holds his lips there a little, and you lean in just a little. He loves you, too.