Chapter Text
It all started with a knock; the rhythm familiar. And although either can demonstrate the motion until it's nothing but a sound, it never seems to fully quieten the thoughts that make him want to learn it every day, which it forces into his brain like a magnet.
Body tense, he waits for what he thinks is his favourite ringtone. His right hand stays where it sits next to a board full of letters, while his left remains still where it sits on a wooden surface.
"Sean," his phone lays blank, "can I come in? I want— need to talk to you about something." He knows that the voice can freely demonstrate transparency when it needs to and that it never had to do otherwise; it's what he loves about it — it's what he loves about him.
He finds that the person behind the door can demonstrate so many things that Sean will never know by definition. Again, he berates himself for acting younger than him and for standing at a lower level than his supposed equal. They're meant to love each other, and they do, but they just never learned how to display that.
Sean, like any other hopeless beggar, loathes that he doesn't have the degree to apply this concept of love to pay off a loan that he was given months ago. He grieves for the one who gave it to him and for the reason that he'll have to give it back, saying that he can't bear anything more than what he knows: comfort.
His back stays turned as he enters the room, shoulders broad, face tilted toward the ceiling. Trailing behind is a waft of childhood dressed in blue and white, hair combed forward as it always is, and eyes full of childlike wonder. The two walk three or four steps before stopping, the obstacles lining the floor not acting as a shield as he had once intended they would.
He can hear someone clear their throat before talking. "Sean, turn around, please." He sounds tired with the way his sentence is cut off by one of his hands that has already begun scraping down his face. Yet Sean, unwilling to let his mind win over his senses, lets his chair turn.
He can feel the way the other's eyes rake over his physique — his drowned eyes, his sunken bones, his creased outfit. And with the way he looks unimpressed, it confuses a fraction of his own disposition. His gaze is replaced by a disappointed glare, his eyebrows lifting to crease the wrinkles on his forehead that Sean knows aren't because of age.
They stare uninterrupted, the boy bracketed by his husband's legs keeping his eyes below Sean's chest. The atmosphere, accompanied by the unidentified light switch that's been off since the other had entered the room, doesn't penetrate any unsaid phrases, unsaid complaints. It only changes when the footsteps approach, creeping closer at a hesitant pace until they stop a foot away from Sean's chair.
"Don't look at me; look at him." So he does. His eyes switch from one expression to the next as the demand is registered; his head remains still as his eyes remain the only part of his conscience to move. He sees lips with a mark bitten into the edge; he sees nails, with every few fingers having a red stain on their contour. Then he stares into his son's iris, not entirely focusing on his pupil, and sees a sheet of glass, covered and marketed as a brand of mirror.
Then he sees a hand blocking the right side of his view. "Yeah, Sean. That's who we both chose to raise together. I'm just confused as to whether together means me and you or me and your shadow." It surprises him, of course; why wouldn't it? When he watches the person he loves show his true feelings underneath the polite shedding, it makes him admire his charisma and his ability to let the situation unfold rather than decide out of fear.
Most would come up with a combative defence: fight for their side of the story.
Instead, he shares his perspective. "I'm sorry; you know how bad it is. I know it isn't fair, and I know that you want me to quit." He stands from his chair, digging a hand into his hair. "But it just isn't that simple, Jake."
"It is that simple!" He has to take a sudden step back when his weight won't allow him to stay upright, while the other takes a step forward. When he gathers his composure and looks back toward him, he can see the pure frustration bubbling under the confusion.
He brings his hands up to push against his eyelids, blood circulating a variety of images he's seen a dozen times before. "What else do you expect me to do? Just to find another job for tech specialists that only specialize in computer programming?"
"Yes, Sean, a job that doesn't require you to work nine hours a day nonstop." Jake walks to stand next to his desk, placing a hand on the back of his chair. "A job shouldn't ask you to not only have, like, twenty-nine different projects ready in a week but also ask you to work overtime. Sean, that's unfair—"
"To us, to Parker, I know." He lifts both his hands up to surrender any defence he had in mind to the person across the room. With a quick glance to the side, he can see a glimpse of his son, arms wrapped around his middle, eyes wide and lost, rivers holding back the urge to flow. He can see that he's about to cry, and he knows that if they don't solve this issue soon, they'll receive more than a fragile solution.
Jake seems to notice this too, and he turns back toward him with a cold glare in his expression. "Look, I don't care if I have to start working extra shifts at the café, because I'll do that. But this is about you actually spending time with Parker and watching him grow up. If you're too busy fixing the next mega virus or whatever, you won't be able to do that."
Sean, with mindless eyes, looks between the grey walls of his office; he observes the cracks in the concrete, the hinge on the door that needs to be fixed, and the leg of his desk that needs to be repaired. A list in his head, neat and coherent, replays several times. It's only when he looks toward his son that he notices a new problem to add.
"And what about him?" He asks the question with a sharp sense of his words, face unreadable in the lighting of the room. Jake, not receiving the concern in his words, raises his eyebrows.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I mean, we have a child. We have to fund his needs. What happens when he goes to school? Will we be able to afford that?" After realising that he took a few too many steps forward and that his husband's simple look of uncertainty turned into disbelief, he tries to retrace his path. "Like, I just mean that—"
"You think that we're unable to support our child?" Jake asks, his tone angered in a matter of seconds. "Now you're just being ridiculous. We've spoken about this stuff."
Sean's hands begin to sweat underneath the pressure he's putting them under, rolling them back and forth between his shoulder blades and the base of his neck. The focal point of his view changes every few seconds, with one being the man across from him and the other being the boy in the middle of the room. Sean, seemingly in a state of hesitation, doesn't account for the singular tear that slowly begins trailing down the younger's cheek.
He's hesitant because of the situation; he's hesitant because of the penetrating eyes constantly getting buried into his scalp. Speaking up for something that's had to be done repeatedly gets old eventually for anyone. The feeling when the same topic is brought to attention without allowing time for a different problem to arise has his stomach in knots as soon as the words are left out in the open.
Yet he still finds his voice. "Yeah, sure. But it will keep coming up if we don't find a solution." He imitates his steps from before, filling the space where he remembers his last ones having been taken. Fortunately, the other does not seem to mind the close proximity, cherishing the fact that maybe, just maybe, he's made his point clear.
Once he stands directly in front of him, he gestures his head to the side, where Parker is currently crying silently. Sean ignores how gut-wrenching the thought of it needing to be that way is; the reason he's learned. But he instead says, "We've made our child cry; we've made a four-year-old cry because of how bad it's gotten. We need to change our perspectives."
Jake sighs, averting his view from the boy, whose eyes have not left the ground since either of them spoke a word to each other. Sean's posture loosens the slightest bit when he moves over to him, kneeling to the floor and placing a hand on the other's shoulder. They share a few short comforts with each other, exchanging quiet reassurances, while Sean watches on with silent admiration. He realises that this could possibly mean change, that this could mean a piece of success in one part or another.
But all he sees, in flawless transparency, is his husband and his son, finally at this point in time, embracing one another in an innocent tangle of arms. Slowly, he makes his way toward them, counting the seconds of relief and kneeling next to them, and it's only then that they break apart from their hold. Jake looks at Sean, and Sean looks at Jake. They stare at each other for a while, the beginning of faint content edging into the crevices of each of their expressions, until an indignant whine from their younger companion breaks the bounds of their trance.
Sean, not yet satisfied with how he's shown his own form of dedication, wraps his arms around the boy, closing his eyes over his shoulder. He imagines the man behind him staring, pupils dilating in a fashion that could only explain his hesitance. He doesn't let go when he hears Jake get up; he doesn't let go when the sound of the door opening and closing resonates from ear to ear; he only lets his arms unwind when his footsteps disappear from the corridor, the door slamming shut.
Opening the door with one hand, his eyes trailed back to Parker. "I'll be right back, okay?" And, after he affirms his decision with his son's reassured nod, with one swift movement, he opens the door and steps out into the corridor. He gazes at all the different monuments that stand as decorative elements, showering each wall with their own personalities. He looks at the pictures of antiquated poses, each sending a shockwave of sentimentality around his body. Then he sees his door, the wood still in practical image. His footsteps end at the breach below the door; light from the other man's room seeping through the crack effectively, allowing a sense of consolation to wash over his ambivalence.
It all ends with a knock; the rhythm nostalgic. And although either can demonstrate the motion until it's nothing but a sound, it never seems to fully quieten his thoughts of learning it every day, which it forces into his brain like a magnet.