Chapter Text
The last thing Tommy remembers before the wave of searing heat engulfs him is a cascade of regret. It crashes over him with more weight than the fire itself—regret for abandoning his family, for leaving his sister Amanda alone to care for her six-month-old niece. He can almost picture Amanda, eyes tired but determined, holding the baby close in the dim light of their small apartment. How had he not seen the quiet strength in her, the unspoken pleas she buried under a brave smile?
Regret for walking away from Jennifer, his newest ex-girlfriend, when she needed him most, when pretending to care after her mother’s death would have meant everything. He can still see the hurt in Jennifer’s eyes, the way her voice quivered as she reached out to him, searching for comfort that never came. If only he could go back, even for a moment, and wrap her in an embrace that said what words couldn’t.
The thought of Howard pierces through the haze, sharper than the heat pressing in on him. The sting of the cruel names he’d thrown at Howard, careless words that bruised far deeper than he realized at the time. Just a simple thank you would have been enough. Why hadn’t he been the coworker who stood up and said, That’s Howard Han, the man who always stays late to help without being asked, instead of laughing along when he was reduced to the Chinese delivery guy?
His thoughts shift to Sal, the friend who stood by him since day one, with whom he’d shared victories and defeats, laughter and quiet moments. Sal, whose loyalty once seemed unbreakable. But the memory twists with a pang of shame as Tommy recalls how they both treated Howard, how the jokes and dismissive remarks once passed for camaraderie. The echoes of those jokes swirl in his mind now, louder than the roar of flames licking around him. They weren’t just unfair to Howard—they failed him when kindness would have cost them nothing.
Lately, Howard has been on his mind more than ever, a shadow lingering at the edge of his conscience. Tommy isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s the guilt, that relentless gnawing that grows stronger as time passes, or maybe it’s something deeper—a soft, aching warmth buried beneath the regret. The kind of feeling that comes only when it’s too late, when he realizes how much Howard had truly meant to him and how little he showed it.
Howard is in front of him now, face contorted with urgency. He’s shouting, but the words are muffled, blurred into a dull hum as if underwater. Is he yelling at him? Calling to him? The confusion swells in Tommy’s chest, a thick, suffocating cloud. Why is this the moment his mind clings to? Out of every memory, why is this one unfurling in the final, blistering seconds?
Howard steps closer, his eyes wide with something between fear and fierce determination. The world shivers, edges dissolving into heat and noise. A flicker of movement—Howard’s arms reach out, and for a fleeting second, Tommy feels as if he’s being lifted. Or is it just an illusion, a cruel trick of a fading mind grasping for solace? The weight of uncertainty presses down, the blackness smothering his vision like a tidal wave.
Everything blurs to darkness. The roar of the flames, the broken shouts, and the warmth of Howard’s presence dissolve into silence, leaving nothing but an echo of all the things he never said and a void too deep to fill.
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A muffled sound drifts into his awareness—a steady beeping somewhere close. It feels like it’s coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, a strange, disembodied echo. His eyelids are impossibly heavy, weighed down not just by exhaustion but by something deeper—something he can’t quite grasp. There are voices, too, scattered and distorted, distant like they're coming through water, merging and separating, just beyond his comprehension. He strains to listen, but the words slip away, twisting, changing, never quite clear enough to make sense of.
Did he survive? Or is this some kind of limbo—a place where everything feels disconnected, a strange purgatory holding him while his fate is decided? The thought flickers briefly, fading before he can truly process it, replaced by a rush of sensations that seem to overlap and contradict. There is no clear line between reality and memory, just an endless loop of questions that lead nowhere.
Slowly, the weight pressing on his eyelids begins to lift, like some unseen force loosening its grip. Tommy manages to pry them open, just for an instant, and a searing brightness floods his vision. It’s too bright, overwhelming, a sterile whiteness that forces him to squeeze his eyes shut again. The sudden light makes his head spin, and the voices swell all around him—murmurs, machines, footsteps. The room is a cacophony, each noise bouncing around, merging into an unrecognizable blur. Everything feels too loud, yet somehow muted, like the world is closing in and pulling away at the same time.
“Mr. Kinard? Can you hear me?” A male voice cuts through the din—clearer, closer, but insistent, as if it’s echoing both inside and outside his head. He thinks he can hear it, but everything is jumbled together. He can hear something, but what? He isn’t sure. The words seem to blur, echoing in waves, making his thoughts feel like they’re unraveling. He tries to lift his hands, maybe to cover his ears, maybe to reach out—he isn’t sure anymore—but something catches his arms halfway. It feels like they're stuck, restrained, but why? What’s holding them back?
“Mr. Kinard, please, try to put your hands down.” The voice again—different now, softer, more patient. But Tommy doesn’t understand. His hands? He’s not sure what he’s doing or even if it’s real. Everything feels heavy, muddled. He struggles against whatever invisible weight is holding him down, confusion thickening in his mind, turning his thoughts into a hazy fog.
Suddenly, hands are on him—holding him, pushing him back. He blinks, but nothing makes sense anymore. The touch feels real, but the room feels like it’s slipping away. He tries to make sense of what’s happening, but his thoughts are a jumble, scattered pieces that refuse to come together. There’s pressure, voices, then a rush of blackness swallowing everything. He’s falling again—into darkness, into nothingness, where nothing makes sense.
When he opens his eyes again, the world slowly shifts back into view, blurry and dreamlike. Two figures stand over him, their faces obscured, blending into the background. He blinks, his vision swimming, struggling to focus. Are they nurses? He catches a glimpse of uniforms, but the details fade before he can be sure. A hospital? The thought stumbles through his mind, disjointed and fleeting.
Is he alive? He blinks again, but it still doesn’t feel real. Everything is fragmented, like he’s seeing it all from a distance—his own body, his surroundings. The voices, the brightness, the movement, it all spins around him, a carousel of confusion that he can’t step off. He tries to grasp onto one clear thought, something solid, but it slips away before he can hold it. The realization—he’s alive—feels vague, like it belongs to someone else, and before he can understand, the confusion swallows him again.
The next time Tommy wakes up, there's someone sitting beside him. He blinks, struggling to make out the figure in the dim room, his vision still adjusting. Slowly, the image sharpens—Howard? His eyes widen, and his voice comes out rough and strained, barely a whisper.
“Han?” he croaks, hesitant. Should he even be using his first name? Does he deserve to?
Howard looks up, his eyes meeting Tommy's with a flicker of warmth. “Kinard—Tommy, how are you?” His voice is soft, his expression almost tender. He’s clearly exhausted, his skin glistening with sweat, as though he’s been there for a long while. But why is he here? Why is Howard being so nice to him? Tommy's head spins, unable to make sense of it.
“I—” Tommy starts, trying to form a question, to ask something—anything that could explain this—but suddenly his thoughts scatter. He tries to move his arms, but they won’t budge. Panic jolts through him as he looks down and sees his wrists held by restraints.
“What?” he breathes, his voice cracking, confusion overwhelming him. He pulls against the restraints, his mind racing.
Howard shifts closer, his voice gentle. “Whoa, whoa, easy there, cowboy,” he says, raising his hands as if to calm him. “You, uh—you tried to pull your IV out before, so they had to restrain you.”
Tommy blinks, the explanation slowly settling in. So that’s what it was. He lets his head fall back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, a tangled mix of exhaustion and confusion washing over him. Howard’s presence, the restraints, the room—none of it feels quite real.
Howard stays beside him, watching carefully, his eyes never leaving Tommy's face. Tommy can’t shake the thought: why is he here? Why does Howard still care enough to be here? But beneath the confusion, there’s a small, almost comforting warmth in the way Howard looks at him. The kindness in his eyes, the steady way he’s there, makes Tommy’s chest tighten in a way that’s not altogether unpleasant.
Tommy closes his eyes again, exhaustion pulling at him, hoping the world will make more sense when he opens them next. But even as he drifts off, Howard’s quiet presence lingers—a gentle anchor in the chaos, one that makes him feel, for just a moment, a little less lost.