Chapter Text
For in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
As it turns out, having a drug induced threesome with his own brother, shockingly, isn't the most fucked up event of Lochlan's life. That comes a mere three days later.
Lochlan struggles to fall asleep on Saturday night, his mind buzzing to the point that he thinks his skull might crack open and burst at the seams. The fact that Dad wouldn't even let him have just a little sip of the piña colada? It’s insulting! It’s so lame and unfair! Maybe if Lochlan had been allowed to drink just a little bit of booze instead of pure sugar and caffeine he would have fallen asleep by now. What a thought!
It isn’t just the cocktail though, is it?
Saxon had looked at him during Dad's slurring and barely coherent toast with such contempt, but also something like pity. Like he pitied Lochlan for being such a degenerate little freak, like Lochlan was the only freak between the two of them. "No trauma," Dad had said. Trauma for who exactly? Either way it makes Lochlan want to throw up. It makes him want to carve out pieces of himself and offer them to Saxon, as some kind of a peace offering. No, no, that’s too worshipful, isn’t it? It makes Lochlan want to crawl to Saxon, clutching at the hems of his fancy Italian linen pants and beg for forgiveness. No... that’s still pretty worshipful.
He scoffs, crossing his arms and frowning petulantly. He doesn’t know what he wants, or if trying to placate Saxon is even a worthwhile goal anymore.
Lochlan hadn't lied that morning, as Saxon looked at him like he was fucking crazy. Lochlan isn't trying to worship Saxon. His brother is the one who keeps pushing him to his knees and demanding fidelity in the first place! Lochlan just wants to make him happy. It’s more than a want, it’s nearer to a compulsion. Maybe the difference between that and worship isn’t important enough to matter. He fusses with his mouth. Admitting that Saxon may be right about him would just be more humiliation on top of humiliation.
Or… maybe Lochlan is simply feeling left out of it all. It wasn’t just Saxon who’s been confusing him all trip, after all, telling him one thing but clearly meaning another. “They don’t care,” well apparently they clearly do, Saxon! Which would be a first in the Ratliff Household if Lochlan’s memory serves.
Lochlan had been harshly reminded how young he is, how inexperienced, how unworthy. He can do mystery drugs and drink himself sick as long as Saxon says it’s okay. He can fuck models with dangerous smiles and hungry eyes. He can even jerk off his own brother, well no, not that actually, that’s not to be spoken of or thought about. But participating in a private family toast? Now that is a bridge too far! He had wanted to shout that he had worse than rum that same week, see that shocked and tight lipped look on his parents’ faces, force them to admit that they’re hypocrites. But Lochlan could picture the rage twisting up Saxon's handsome face if he had chosen to do that. Even hours later it still makes his heart beat faster just imagining it.
He hears a sound coming from the bathroom, and realizes it's Saxon... oh ew. Saxon is so disgusting. It sounds wet. Lochlan clamps his hands over his ears to drown out the noise. He continues to stew over this flop of a vacation, taking a small amount of satisfaction that Saxon seems to be suffering, if not emotionally than at least like this. Then he feels guilty, that phantom image of Saxon’s face distorted in rage flashing in his mind again.
Lochlan tosses and turns as Saxon emerges from hugging the toilet for dear life, clutching his stomach. He does have a grimace on his face, but it's from discomfort, not anger. An... interesting smell emanates from the bathroom. Fucking gross. Couldn't he close the door? Saxon could've at least sprayed some air freshener in there when he was done shitting his guts out. He really had to let the fumes waft out into where they sleep?
Lochlan glares daggers at him, but Saxon doesn’t seem to notice.
"That coconut milk, dude. God damn. I couldn’t even finish that shit. You know you actually dodged a bullet, man," Saxon huffs out a noncommittal laugh before gingerly slipping under his sheets with a wince. Every other night that week he'd practically thrown himself onto that poor mattress, the springs squeaking in protest. Well, until they passed out together on Chloe's- nope! Lochlan isn't going there!
"Whatever," Lochlan says, trying not to sound bitter. He thinks he fails. What hasn't he failed at on this trip? Well, he succeeded in making Saxon- enough! He's not allowed to think about that, much less say it out loud. That was the agreement. Saxon dictates and Lochlan executes. He turns over on his side, facing away from Saxon. Lochlan angrily gloms onto one of the pillow and pulls the sheet up over his head, making a little cocoon around himself.
"What's your problem?" Saxon scoffs, though there's an underlying hurt to his voice. It almost breaks Lochlan's resolve, tempts him to turn around and stare at Saxon with his big puppy dog eyes, plead with Saxon not to be mad at him (something he's had to do a lot lately).
They both know exactly what Lochlan's problem is, only both had agreed to never bring it up again so long as they live. Saxon wisely doesn't press the issue, knowing he too has to play by the rules he wrote. He just rolls onto his back with a pained sounding sigh. Lochlan can hear his stomach gurgling from six feet away.
Lochlan doesn't bother saying goodnight. He squeezes his eyes shut hard, hoping that he can brute force his way into losing consciousness.
“Fine, be a little brat,” Saxon spits. His stomach gurgles again, this time with a meek little moan to accompany it, followed by a shaky inhale of breath.
"Just try not to wake me up when you keep running to the bathroom all night," Lochlan grumbles in response. Saxon snorts in turn, his hand rubbing along his abdomen, his stomach still making those ugly sounding gurgles. Lochlan snaps up, throwing the sheets down off of him. He reaches down onto the floor, groping for his suitcase. Saxon quirks an eyebrow at him but says nothing. Then Lochlan finds what he's looking for: cotton swabs, in the front pocket of his suitcase. He pinches the ends of two of them, rolls them into points, and shoves them in his ears.
If only Dad had let him keep his technology. He could be listening to a playlist of ocean noises or Mozart music or something right now, drifting off to sleep, confident that Saxon won’t rouse him every time he has explosive diarrhea. As it is, the cotton does the trick pretty well, though Lochlan can hear his own blood rushing in his ears. It's a little weird. He squirms back down into his protected position, hugging the spare pillow with the sheets over his head, so that only a few stray curls peak out.
“And turn off the light!” Lochlan shouts over the dull thrum of blood flowing in his head.
“No,” Saxon replies, like Lochlan’s request is just plain stupid, not worth considering for even a second. Saxon’s voice is muffled by the makeshift earplugs. Good.
Lochlan growls, hunkering down further into his cocoon. He figures Saxon is probably not going to sleep much at all tonight, so it’s a little selfish to expect Saxon to grope his way to the toilet in the dark. But still, why is Lochlan always bending over backward to put Saxon’s needs first? What’s up with that?
Did he really think that the number one priority in that moment was making sure Saxon- Lochlan creases his brow. He can’t stop thinking about it, playing it over in his head. He knows it’s better to bury it deep inside him, throw away the key, forever. But how does he actually do that? Why is it so easy for Saxon to do?
His resentful thoughts flit between Dad, who's clearly hiding something and acting weird; Mom, who only remembers he exists when she wants something from him; Piper, who also only remembers he exists when she wants something, only she actually doesn't want anything from him, or anything to do with him; Saxon, who... Lochlan doesn't remember falling asleep.
A ray of sun wakes Lochlan up, strong enough to pierce right through the 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheet. It's blinding. He groans, rubbing at his eyes. Today is the last day. He'll finally get out of this godforsaken hotel and off this godforsaken island and out of this godforsaken country and back to his godforsaken life. Just one more awkward breakfast, one more awkward stretch of packing while he and Saxon say all of three words to each other, one more awkward boat ride to the airport (why couldn't they just take a shuttle or a cab?), and one more unbearably awkward series of connecting flights that should only take... oh... 30 odd hours to complete. Good thing he and Saxon will almost certainly be sitting next to each other the entire time!
But once they all get back home, Saxon will go back to his place, and start doing his finance shit that Lochlan doesn't really understand. He'll be too busy to check in that often. Lochlan can focus on school and put off making a decision on which college to attend as long as humanly possible. If Saxon doesn't want to be brothers anymore then that's fine by Lochlan. He can play his part.
He pushes his sheet off of him. As thin and breathable as it is, under the direct sunlight it's already getting too warm. He scoots himself backward, sitting up in the bed, rubbing at his eyes some more. Then he spies something strange on the floor. The teak panels are stained with something bright yellow-orange that smells awful. The acrid stench wafts in the air, sharp and bilious. It's undeniably vomit. There's a trail leading to the bathroom, or perhaps from the bathroom. Lochlan groans and swivels his head to Saxon's bed, his glare accusing, his eyes narrow.
His eyes widen as far as they can go immediately.
"Saxon! Oh my God!" he springs out of bed, nearly tripping over the tangled sheets as he hurries to Saxon's side.
A sheen of sweat covers Saxon's entire body, his chest rising ever so slightly. His eyes are closed but moving sluggishly underneath the lids, and his lips have dried vomit around them. His fingers and toes are twitching, but his arms and legs look heavy and lifeless. How long has he been lying here? How much pain is he in? How serious is this?
"Loch?" Saxon says softly, so softly it’s drowned out by the deafening thud of Lochlan’s own heartbeat inside his head. "Something- not right- don't… feel good... chest hurts- think... having... heart attack..."
Lochlan can't quite make out what he's saying. Then he remembers, reaching for his ears. His makeshift earplugs! He's so stupid! He yanks the cotton out and just tosses them on the floor somewhere, he couldn't care less what becomes of them.
The shallow breaths Saxon is making sound thin, watery, rattled. They’re still barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning.
"Saxon! What is it? What can I do?" Lochlan cries again. He tenderly presses a finger to Saxon's wrist, and his other finger under Saxon's jaw for good measure. He feels almost nothing from Saxon's wrist (is he doing it wrong?), but on Saxon's neck he does feel a faint pulse, nauseatingly slow. Lochlan swallows his own sick that's threatening to join Saxon's all over the floor.
Saxon's mouth moves slowly, but barely any noise comes out, certainly not any words. Only a thin, choking sound escapes, and maybe a single "Lochy..."
Lochlan curses Dad once again for taking away their phones. He could've already called... who? He doesn't know the emergency number in Thailand, doesn't have the hotel’s many phone numbers memorized or saved... he could call Mom and Dad, but what time would that save him, really? They were heavy sleepers anyway; he'd have to wake them up in person.
There’s a landline in their suite!
"I'll- I'll get help! I'll get Mom and Dad! I'll be right back! Saxon, please be okay, I'll be right back I swear! I'm going to call for help!" Lochlan babbles. He can feel his heart in his throat, can hear his blood roaring in ears even louder than when he had plugged them. Saxon's still conscious, if only barely. That's good, Lochlan thinks. That means it's not too late to get medical care!
Lochlan throws on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, the first he can find. He doesn't even care if they're dirty or clean. He probably shouldn't bother in the first place, but it's a force of habit, and running around the villa in only his underwear would be a little ridiculous. He can't even lace up the shorts with how badly his hands are shaking. He's wasting time! He gives up on the shorts and bolts out of his and Saxon's room, into the bright morning light outside. It should be a beautiful day, but the sun almost feels oppressive, like a great unblinking eye, watching in judgment from the sky. Everything is washed out and desaturated.
Out of all his clothes to neglect to put on, he forgets his sandals. The soles of his feet burn as he steps onto the already hot concrete. He can barely spare a wince as he runs as fast as he can toward the main cabin. He only makes it halfway when he trips on something. He never sees what it is, and he hardly cares. In a matter of seconds, Lochlan goes from throwing open his cabin's door to careening toward the ground, skidding forward nearly a foot. He lies on his front, momentarily stunned.
"Ow... ow... ow..." he hisses with each breath, tears coming to the corners of his eyes. His elbows and knees are bright and bloody, and his forearms, his forehead, and one of his cheeks are covered in scratches and some kind of road rash. The pavement feels like it's slowly cooking him, only adding to the painful sensations of his open and raw skin. It's a good thing his entire torso wasn't gashed too... he was smart to put on clothes after all. He wants to just lie on the ground, wants to cry like a pathetic little baby until one of his family members comes to his rescue like they normally would. But Saxon needs him. Nobody is going to make him a man but him.
Lochlan grinds his teeth and groans, pushing himself off the ground with shaking arms. He rolls onto his side to avoid putting weight on his torn up knees. He shifts onto his butt, and slowly and shakily stands up. His knees sting like a thousand tiny needles are being driven into his skin as they bend. But Saxon needs him.
He limps up the stairs to the main cabin, whimpering with each step. It's like his whole body is throbbing in dull pain, but thankfully the adrenaline that's making his vision cloudy is also acting like a natural painkiller. He won't stop either way, he can't, not until he gets Saxon help. Saxon needs him. It's the least he can do after... no time to think about that!
Lochlan slides the door open with an embarrassingly feminine sounding gasp, his lips sealed tight as he tries not to think about the pain lancing up and down his arms and legs. If he gets a little smear of blood from his elbows on the glass, the cleaning staff will understand. The very first thing he does is stiffly limp over to the big couch by the big wall of windows. It was Piper's favorite spot. The landline phone is there, and a laminated card with all the phone numbers he could ever need to contact the hotel staff. He dials the buttons excruciatingly slowly, a trickle of blood threatening to get in his eyes as he makes sure he's punching in the number correctly.
"Hello, is this the front desk?" Lochlan's own voice sounds like it's coming from outside of his body. It sounds hollow and haggard, almost robotic. His ears are ringing. The ringing is getting louder and louder. He feels dizzy. He shakes his head, but it only makes a growing pressure behind his eyes hurt even more.
"Good morning. This is the front desk. How may I help you today?" the voice on the other end of the line says happily.
Lochlan licks his lips and clears his throat. He wills his rabbit heart to slow down, but it does no good. He tastes metal in his mouth.
"I need Help! We- um, sorry. Villa, um... twelve? This is villa twelve, we're in villa twelve. We have- um, medical emergency, send help! Please! Now!" his head is swimming, and now Lochlan is sure he smacked his head on the concrete. That's just great, in addition to everything else that's going on. A concussion is the absolute last thing he needs.
"Just breathe, okay? You're speaking very fast. It's hard to understand you. You say you have a medical situation in villa twelve, is that correct?"
Lochlan wrinkles his nose. She understood him just fine, why does he need to waste his time confirming details? Still he follows her advice, breathing heavily. He nods to her question, before realizing that it's a phone call and she can't see him.
"Yes, medical emergency, villa twelve, my brother had- um… a heart attack I think," his voice comes out sounding throaty, but still vaguely robotic. Blood is now trickling into his eyes. He wipes it away fiercely. He's grateful for it strangely enough. It's the only thing confirming that he's awake, that this isn't some sadistic nightmare his brain conjured up as a way to punish him for- no, not that. He won't think about that.
"Okay, we're calling Emergency Medical Services right now. They'll be there very soon, so stay on the line plea-" Lochlan drops the phone, leaving it off the receiver. He can hear the desk worker continue to talk, her voice all tinny as it fills the eerily quiet main room. Lochlan has other priorities than having someone tell him to do fucking breathing exercises. He's not going to stand there being useless, having some panic attack and needing to be comforted (he wants nothing more than to be comforted). He's not the one in trouble! Saxon needs him!
He shakes his head with a grunt. He can’t space out right now.
"Mom! Dad! Wake up! Saxon's sick! It's really bad!" Lochlan calls out, hobbling over toward the master bedroom. He pushes open the doors with a grunt. A wave of exhaustion laps at his ankles, trying to overcome him. He doesn't want to let it, but the adrenaline is burning through him like so much paper kindling. Once it's used up he'll fall flat on his face, again. Truth be told, he's in no state to offer Saxon CPR, and he never really learned how. But Dad could do it. Dad and Mom can help Saxon better than Lochlan can. Part of him just wants to collapse, but he won't give up that easily.
If Saxon dies, he’ll never forgive himself, and if Saxon survives, he’ll look so weak and pathetic for not doing more. Lochlan digs deep into his core, trying to summon some extra reserve of energy he’s sure his body has hidden away for an occasion such as this.
"Mom!" Lochlan steps into the room, still pretty dark and cool, as the windows don't face south. It’s even quieter than the main room. Mom is lying on the bed alone. Lochlan's shouting isn't enough to disturb her sleep. Dad must be up and in the bathroom, but he would definitely be able to hear Lochlan if that were the case. He could be on the balcony, and Lochlan entertains the notion of checking, but Mom is right in front of him, so he goes to her first. He'll find Dad after he rouses her. She'll know what to do. She wasn't taking her pills anymore. She'll be like how she used to be, fierce and sharp eyed and loving. Mama Bear will spring into action. She'll effortlessly dictate, directing Dad to give Saxon CPR or whatever he needs until the ambulance arrives. She'll wake up Piper, and give her some important task to do as well. And she'll hold Lochlan like when he was little, shushing him, putting Band-Aids on his scrapes and cuts, telling him that Saxon is going to be okay, that he did such a good job calling for help, that she's proud of him.
"Mom," Lochlan says more gently as he approaches her bed. He knows his crazed and bloody appearance will scare her when she wakes up, so he should try to make this as calm as possible for her sake. Only when he stands over her, she's not moving, at all. She doesn't appear to be breathing. Lochlan shakes her as hard as he dares, and she still doesn't move. His breath catches in his throat. So much for a tropical vacation, Lochlan may as well be standing at the north pole for all the warmth that's been stolen from his blood. He stands in silence for several seconds, too afraid to check, to confirm the worst.
"Mommy?"
He cautiously lifts up her hand by the wrist. Her skin is cold to the touch. He almost drops it like it burns to the touch instead. A wall of nausea slams into him, but he forces it back. He takes a breath, nearly as watery as Saxon's had been, and checks for her pulse. He still doesn't really know what he's doing with that, but he checks for it anyway. But he knows he won't find it when he looks at her face and sees that her lips are already blue. She's dead. She can't be dead. She isn't dead. She's just sleeping. She's always been a heavy sleeper. She drank too much wine last night. That's so like her, to drink a whole piña colada and still want several glasses of wine after.
"Mommy..." Lochlan shakes her again, and her body flops back into place like she's some inanimate object. Ragdoll physics is the term, he thinks. Lochlan swallows thickly, his eyes misting. She really does sleep like the dead sometimes.
It isn’t the first time she’s scared him, or the rest of the Family. Sometimes she’d get so into her pills with Mommy’s Special Grape Juice to wash them down that she fell into the deepest of sleep, like Sleeping Beauty. Lochlan had to hit her with his tiny hands until she snorted and stirred from her coma. She’d complain about Lochlan’s rude behavior, and he’d feel guilty and cry. Of course he already felt guilty because he was the one bringing her wine whenever she asked.
“Muffin, can you bring Mommy her- that’s the one! Look at you… Mommy’s little helper,” Victoria’s voice from years and years ago resounds in his head. It’s been a while since Lochlan’s heard such unconditional affection in her voice. He feels that stab of guilt twisting all the way around in his gut again. She had asked him to get the wine and some glasses after the toast. She wanted more to drink, and Lochlan just gave her what she wanted like always.
"Wake up! Mommy come on! This isn't funny, Saxon needs you, it's time to wake up!" Lochlan shakes her harder, tears falling from his eyes in earnest, mixing with the rivulets of blood on his cheeks. Fat drops patter across Victoria's lifeless body as he pushes at her so hard the mattress itself starts to move. What if she overdosed on her Lorazepam? What if this time it’s serious? Mommy isn’t as young as she used to be. She knew it was dangerous to take it with alcohol but she always did it anyway. That's two people Lochlan has to save now. He can't do that alone; he needs help- Dad- he needs Dad's help.
"Dad! Dad! Mo- mommy won't wake up! I- I can't wake- I can’t wake- wake her up! And Sa- Dad! D-"
He cuts himself off.
Lochlan spots the master bathroom door, wide open. He sees Timothy's leg sticking out into the bedroom. Nearly identical odious streaks of vomit paint the floor from the bed to the bathroom. There are no wet, rattled, breathing sounds coming from Dad though. Or at least Lochlan doesn’t think so. The stretch of skin peeking out is pale and sallow, unmoving. But- he can't be dead. They can't be dead. They're both just sleeping. They got food poisoning from the coconut milk. They're sleeping it off, they'll be fine. Worst case, the paramedics can treat them and they'll be good as new. All of them need to be strong for Saxon, who knows how long he'll be in the hospital. A heart attack? That's what he said right? That's major, that’s life or death, that’s “we need to act now.” A few scrapes and cuts, or some food poisoning? That's minor in comparison.
His parents being asleep is a setback, for sure. But that's okay. He can get Piper instead- no. He can’t get Piper. He doesn’t want to get Piper. He can’t bear to entertain the possibility of… what? She’s asleep too, isn’t she?
Lochlan's chest is heaving up and down. He runs a trembling hand over his face, smearing blood and tears and snot and sweat around. Piper is probably meditating right now, actually. It would be rude to disturb her. He doesn't want to be rude. He had done enough trying to force himself into her spiritual journey. She wants nothing to do with him now. Plus, she hates Saxon- no. Lochlan berates himself for thinking something so uncharitable about his own sister. She would want to help Saxon. She’d be devastated if Saxon died.
Lochlan remains rooted to the spot. His feet don’t seem to want to move. It’s like there’s a great big door in his mind, and he knows if he reaches up and opens it…
Well, Piper or no Piper, help is coming, professional help. That fact doesn't stop the room from spinning. When did it start to spin? The earth beneath Lochlan’s feet is shifting. Is it an earthquake? That's a telltale sign of an impending tsunami. He should seek cover. But if his parents are asleep and Saxon is sick how will they get to safety? How will the paramedics get here? There will be so many people to rescue, so many hospitals full to capacity. He can hear the faint sound of sirens outside, getting louder. Is that because of Saxon or are they responding to the tsunami? There is no tsunami. Or maybe he's imagining that... no those are sirens. They don't sound like the ones in America but they're unmistakably from an ambulance of some kind. But what if he is imagining it? Maybe no help is coming at all. This isn't happening. This isn't real. This isn't happening. This isn't real. This isn't happening. This isn't real!
"Dad?" Lochlan mewls softly. He walks slowly to the master bathroom, like his legs are made of cement. He sniffles, smearing the back of his hand across his nose like he’s a child. His eyes sting from the salt of his sweat and the iron of his blood.
He peers inside, afraid to actually step past the threshold. Dad's lying at an awkward angle on the floor, his vomit is everywhere, practically everywhere but the toilet bowl, rancid and festering. Dad's arms are bent awkwardly, his waist turned so that he's facing up. His eyes are open, but they're milky, faded, unseeing. His mouth hangs open too, bile and something like foam clinging to his lips. His chest isn't moving up and down, nor his stomach, not even a little bit. His lips are the same shade of blue that Mom's are.
"No no no no no no no no," Lochlan yanks at his hair, his vision blurred by tears, the cloud covering his own eyes growing thicker by the second. Maybe Dad had just been crying? He's been so stressed and sad lately. And Mommy is so dead to the world right now, Dad must be terrified that she’s hurt. What if he got sick and slipped and hit his head on the toilet, and now he’s knocked out? Poor Dad. Lochlan crouches low to the floor, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking silently. He suddenly inhales sharply, lifting his head. This isn't real, and it's not happening.
"You're sleeping with your eyes open," he whimpers at his father's corpse. It's almost a laugh, frantic and wild. It collapses into a yelp, the beginnings of a mournful wail, but Lochlan refuses to let it out. "Why would you do that? You can’t actually sleep with your eyes open, it’s not possible. Dad, come on, stop faking! Help me wake up mommy, we have to help Sa-"
He chokes back another sob, bites at his knuckles for good measure. The sirens are getting louder. Piper will definitely be annoyed that her morning meditation is being interrupted, but she’ll run outside to see what’s wrong, and she’ll handle things with that determined little furrow of her brows that she does. Lochlan wants someone else to take over. He’s not strong like the rest of the Family. He’s just a little will-o-the-wisp, floating around catering to their big personalities, meeting them on their planes of reality.
He toes his foot at Dad's ankle, tapping it slightly, waiting for Timothy to groan and stir, complaining about the coconut milk like Saxon had. He doesn't. His flesh feels like ice against Lochlan's big toe. Well, actually, don’t old people kind of run cold anyway? That doesn’t mean-
Lochlan sinks all the way down to his haunches, gripping the doorpost of the bathroom for dear life, his nails scratching into the lacquered wood, until his hands shake and his knuckles are whiter than Dad’s flesh. His Achilles tendons stretch far, burning, and his knees throb dully. He's breathing hard. A few drops of blood fall on the hardwood floor, to mix with drops of sweat and yet more tears. "Okay... okay... okay..." he chants to himself, not sure what he's reassuring himself about. The sirens are getting louder. They're real. They're here to help Saxon!
“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers to Dad.
He pushes himself into a standing position, his knees protesting once more, and hobbles out of the master bedroom. No use in trying to wake his parents up, they're just too tired from last night, from the whole trip. It's been a crazy week. He's not sure why his nose is running and he can barely see with his waterlogged eyes. Oh right, he's worried about Saxon.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” he says softly. He knows he won’t wake Mommy, but he thinks he should still let her know not to worry. Something twists inside him, a nagging feeling that grows by the second. Lochlan takes slow, stilting steps back to the bed. He didn’t kiss Mommy goodnight. She hates when he does that, always complaining that he is not too old to still be doing that. Lochlan bends down and presses his lips to her cheek. It’s cold. His stomach roils.
“I love you,” he whispers. It feels too final, too sentimental. That’s not really his style. The paramedics will give her Narcan or whatever it is she needs. Or she’ll just wake up on her own, notice EMS at their villa and throw her hands up and demand to know why her beauty sleep is being interrupted. Mommy is so dramatic, but she’s funny too. Lochlan thinks in another life she would’ve been an absolute diva on the stage. She had that Mae West or Audrey Hepburn presence.
Lochlan feels a tiny kernel of “good emotion” deep inside him, that he told her he loves her. It feels like the right decision to have made. He gazes down at her body one last time and physically swallows his sob, his throat bobbing. He won’t say goodbye. He just told her and Dad that he’ll be right back.
He almost floats back out of the master suite. His feet trudge forward on their own, taking him to the phone. He picks it up off the side table thing. It’s just a dial tone when he puts it against his ear. The line has gone dead. Dead like…
“They’re dead,” Lochlan says, or maybe someone who sounds like Lochlan, because he doesn’t think that’s his voice. It’s creepily similar though. Who’s dead? Hopefully not Saxon, not yet.
“They’re all dead,” he repeats, louder, though the desk worker hung up the phone, probably minutes ago. Still, he thinks it’s necessary information, and maybe the line isn’t dead after all. Maybe she’s just really quiet right now. It’s important for EMS, who’ll be arriving shortly. Why is it important exactly? The room is spinning faster. He feels sick. The EMTs have to know that everyone is dead- no- sleeping. Won’t they ask him when they get here? Or maybe that’s not how any of it actually works. Lochlan’s entire knowledge of emergency medicine comes from binge watching 9-1-1 with Piper when she visits home from campus. He can admit that.
“Okay,” he says to no one. The silence echoes back to him. He’s all alone. He’ll be alone for the rest of his life. That whispering notion traces itself up his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, worming its way deep inside him and wrapping itself tightly around his lungs. He can’t breathe.
He stumbles back outside, the sun higher, the harsh rays giving their best effort to heat up his skin, but it’s still clammy. His head is swimming. He feels his throat constrict and his stomach lurch violently. He leans over and lets the wall of nausea batter down his defenses. He doesn’t fight it anymore. He upchucks into the carefully curated plant beds that wrap around the bungalow.
Lochlan pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s strange, how he can’t seem to focus on anything. He can see shapes, but there’s little detail. Even the colors are all wrong. It reminds him of the full moon, when the drugs made everything so bright, colors swirling infinitely in front of his mesmerized eyes. But this time everything is tinged gray, lifeless, like- no. Everyone is asleep. Why is he crying?
He spits for good measure, not wanting that foul taste in his mouth, not wanting his lips to be ringed with disgusting bile like Dad or Saxon. They drank way too much last night, didn’t they? Wanted to end Thailand off with a bang? But Lochlan isn’t allowed to have fun, not anymore, not after what he and Saxon- they didn’t do anything.
“Drop this, forever, please.” But what if Saxon dies? Is Lochlan just supposed to erase him?
Something tells him last night was his last chance of having fun for a long time, maybe ever. It’s so cold. How can it be so cold when they’re this close to the equator? His head hurts. It’s a pressure behind his eyes or something.
Lochlan flops down onto one of the steps. He doesn’t even feel the impact on his behind. He lowers his head to his lap, his curls brushing against his knees, ghosting across his still bleeding cuts. It strings. He mashes his hand over his mouth, forcing the scream that’s trying to escape him to stay locked inside. Finally, after hours of waiting (or is it days… it could be weeks), Lochlan jerks his head upright. Flashing lights catch his attention. The sirens are here, but they’re not actually very loud, are they? They should be louder than that.
There’s a little buggy that pulls up to the gate after the ambulance, respectfully keeping its distance. The hotel manager is in there, looking squirrely, with one of his workers, maybe the girl from the desk who answered the phone. The owner is there too, with an old man. She looks displeased. He looks even less pleased.
Lochlan rubs his eyes, hey at least he can focus on faces. There’s that. He pushes the memory of Mommy and Daddy’s lifeless, pallid faces deep down into the recesses of his mind.
The EMTs? Paramedics? (Lochlan doesn’t even really know the difference despite his penchant for medical dramas), spring out of their vehicle almost as soon as it stops. Everything’s moving too fast for Lochlan to spot every detail: what equipment they have, what they’re saying, even their uniforms. They may as well be blob people. But one of them does walk directly to him, while he stares with wide, frightened, watery eyes.
“Did you call this in? Where is the patient located?”
Lochlan shakes his head slightly, before remembering that means no. He nods his head instead and points to the cabin to the left of the main one. That's where Saxon is. The jerking of his head earns him a slight throbbing sensation, and he feels a little sick again.
The medical team wastes no time. There's four people, Lochlan thinks, young and fit looking guys. Their faces are serious; they rush forward with a gurney thing. The woman riding along with the manager steps into the villa proper. She looks worried, nervous. She taps her fingers together, probably not knowing what her role here is supposed to be. She and Lochlan have that in common. It’s probably for the best if both of them stay out of the way.
Saxon is brought out in what feels like seconds. These guys are good at their jobs. They're saying things like “26-year-old male, no history,” and “Pulse ox is 98," and "That's good, airway is clear," and "BP is 106/62, only 53 bpm," and "Sir did you ingest something?"
Lochlan thinks he knows what some of these terms mean, but his mind is too sluggish to keep up. They speak good English, with British and Australian accents. That's cool, Lochlan supposes. But they might as well be speaking Thai, or even Ancient Sumerian for that matter. All Lochlan can focus on is Saxon strapped to the gurney, pale, shining with sickly sweat. He still has some color to him. Saxon has always been so strong. It would take a lot to knock him down. The medical guys keep talking, almost over each other, but the only detail Lochlan can parse is that the paramedics' voices are getting louder and more frantic. They're trying to ask Saxon questions, but Saxon’s voice is so quiet, so fragile, so unlike him. They load him into the ambulance.
“Lochy,” Saxon wheezes, his hand weakly twitching as he locks eyes with Lochlan. Soon the gurney is up and sliding into the ambulance, and the doors are closing.
Lochlan’s heart seizes, fresh tears welling up. What if they're too late? It's a strange sensation: Lochlan can feel panic slithering through his veins, but he feels no less distant or removed from himself, like he's trying to swim through molasses. He tries to tread toward the surface, but it's like the water is actively trying to pull him back down. He looks up, the sun bleaching everything of color. It's almost as if he can see four figures standing above him. Those are the EMS guys, aren't they? Or is this the Family? Are they all on the other side, saying goodbye, maybe waiting for him to join them? Is he dying right now too? Who said anyone is dead? Saxon will be fine, everyone else is still asleep.
"I have to go with him," Lochlan says... or does he think it? He can't hear his own voice, not even vibrating inside his own head. Isn't a family member supposed to ride with the patient? Do they not do that in Thailand? Lochlan's eyes lazily leak yet more tears.
“I have to go with him!” his voice is thick with emotion. He’s trembling, eyes and nose leaking, cuts starting to clot but no less uncomfortable.
"Sir, you’ll be able to see him at the hospital when he’s stable. Are you experiencing any symptoms? Did you ingest anything? Do you know if the patient did?"
Lochlan realizes this particular guy is talking to him. "Um... no…" He blinks slowly, so slowly it looks like everyone is rushing around sped up, like those time-lapse videos he's seen of tsunamis and their aftermath.
“Where is the rest of your family? Do they know about this?”
Lochlan shrugs dumbly.
“Oh… I think- I think… they have… food… poisoning. The coconut… milk… it was… off... I think…” His voice is so sluggish and thick, he can almost hear the reverb, like when audio files are slowed down, like his words are being stretched to their limits through time. He points his thumb behind himself.
The medic quirks his eyebrow at Lochlan, but he nods gruffly. He looks over his shoulder to one of his coworkers and jerks his head toward the sliding doors. That guy jumps to action, running inside.
"Two patients deceased inside," The EMT guy says as soon as he comes back out. He says something else in Thai, and one of his colleague says something else (also in Thai) into the radio on the ambulance before it pulls away. The siren’s lights pierce into Lochlan’s eyes, his retinas burning every time they pass back over him. The sound comes back on, and where before they were muted to his ears, now they’re full force. He winces as his eardrums feel like they’ll shatter.
But as the ambulance leaves, with Saxon inside, Lochlan feels a vice gripping his heart. Saxon is leaving him. He’s getting farther away, and Lochlan wishes those deafening sirens weren’t fading into the distance. He has a feeling that Saxon’s never coming back.
“We’ll have to call the morgue, to handle the bodies. And- and the authorities, rule out foul play… oh this is a disaster!” the manager cries, practically biting his nails and tearing his hair out. The owner and the old man next to her look on, expressions sour, paying the manager no mind. When did they walk up to the cabin?
“This is just what we needed,” the old lady sighs sarcastically. “First that heiy comes into our home and tells you lies, assaults you, and now this?” The man puts his arm around her shoulder, and she looks like she appreciates the gesture. Maybe he’s her husband.
“It’ll be bad for business,” the maybe-husband agrees softly, before mumbling something into his maybe-wife’s perfectly coifed white hair. Lochlan isn’t sure why his hearing is suddenly so sharp again. There’s a growing pressure building behind his eyes, and that feeling that his skull is going to blow open is back full force.
“The medical examiner is sending a team to pick up the bodies, Khun Hollinger,” the paramedic says. He leans in close and Lochlan can’t make out what he says next, but the old couple nod grimly.
“The damn fruit? Jesus… who told them about that?” the old man, Khun Hollinger, whispers with something like contempt, but also pity. Lochlan’s stomach hurts. He wants to crawl into the earth. He wants to go back in time and never touch Saxon, never kiss him, never accept his dare and stare at him as he walked around naked with that stupid tablet.
“Should we call the lawyers?” the manager asks timidly.
“Not yet,” Khun Hollinger says, without a trace of worry in his voice.
How can they all sound so calm? And why is he out here alone? Where is everyone else? Saxon might die and they’re… Dad was sleeping on the bathroom floor, probably drunk. Mommy was so tired. She should stop drinking before bed. Lochlan is an idiot for giving her more wine.
“Excuse me, Khun Jim,” the front desk lady says as soft as humanly possible. She looks very afraid of the man. He must be a big deal, one of those important businessmen. He’s too skinny and his wife, though pretty, is too old for him to just be another pot-bellied pig in search of an Asian trophy girlfriend. He must have real money. Money like Dad has.
The worker continues talking, in low, soft tones. Lochlan recognizes her voice now, it is her. She points directly at him. Khun Jim, his wife, and the manager all swivel their heads to glance at Lochlan.
“Well I’ll be damned,” the old man sighs, like he hadn’t noticed Lochlan sitting there despondently the whole time. He probably hasn’t. “Someone- you. You take care of the kid, ye- thank you, khop khun khap,” The old man says dismissively and runs a hand over his face. He says something else in pretty good Thai to the paramedic, snapping his fingers at Lochlan. He acts like the guy works for him and not the hospital.
Nevertheless, the paramedic obediently strides over to Lochlan and starts examining him. The examination doesn’t last very long.
"Khor toht!” the medic shouts behind him. He spots the front desk lady, and asks her something in Thai, rapid fire, almost sounding like a machine gun with how fast he speaks. She just shakes her head like she doesn’t understand. She must be a foreigner. The medic doesn’t skip a beat, switching to English.
“He's in shock. Do you have a blanket?” he asks her. She nods, running to fetch one. Her eyes look utterly haunted. “I want oxygen for him too, and we need to address these lacerations," that the paramedic says more for Lochlan’s benefit than anyone else’s. Or maybe he’s just talking to himself. He looks Lochlan in the eye, as little as that means with how blurry Lochlan's vision is. He hasn’t cried this much since… he can’t even remember. His head still hurts.
"Sir, can you hear me? How did you get these cuts? Sir?"
An intrusive beam of light is blasted directly into his pupils, slowly arcing back and forth across his eye, and then it repeats with the other eye. It’s not as intense as the ambulance lights, but it’s still unwelcome. All Lochlan can do is lick his dry lips and blink in slow motion again.
Someone puts a blanket around Lochlan’s shoulders, and a little plastic water bottle is placed gently into his hands. He tips it back and sips. It feels strange going down his throat, and it doesn’t hit his stomach pleasantly. He sets the bottle down on the step, forgetting it. He’s not even really that thirsty.
“Did you witness the event?” the paramedic guy asks. “Sir?”
The front desk lady says something to the paramedic gently, in halting and poorly pronounced Thai. He sighs in frustration, before nodding. He gives Lochlan a placating gesture, telling him to wait, that he’ll be looked over thoroughly at the hospital. More ambulances or whatever such vehicles are coming. Something about the medical examiner? Isn’t that like a coroner? Doesn’t that word mean…
Lochlan isn’t sick though. He just needs some bandages, that’s all. Saxon is sick. What if someone else needs that ambulance? He’d appreciate a ride to see Saxon once he’s better, for sure. But he doesn’t need to take up space when he’s not in immediate danger.
Everything is a blur. Time stretches beyond the horizon. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.
More vehicles do show up shortly (or not shortly, Lochlan can’t tell). It’s another ambulance, and a couple of SUVs, stark white and for some reason, Lochlan is afraid to look at them. And a police car arrives too. His hair stands on end. He pulls the blanket closer around him. That was a good idea on the EMT guy’s part.
The owners and their employees have the good sense to move out of the way, still whispering to each other, too loudly to keep their secrets that secret. Lochan thinks they’re gossiping about Saxon, about the Family. About him? He frowns.
More gurneys pop into existence, pulled out of the back of the SUVs, and more teams rush inside the main bungalow. Lochlan is gently led by the original paramedic out of the way, to the ambulance. A new paramedic/EMT/whatever sits him down in the back, looking over his worst scrapes. An oxygen mask is rudely shoved over his mouth and nose, and Lochlan pulls it off by instinct.
“Sir, please cooperate,” the new paramedic says, fitting the mask back on Lochlan’s face. He gives up and lets it happen.
Lochlan peers past the medic, knowing the guy’s just trying to help. He hisses and winces as the medic wipes the drying blood off his knees and elbows, checking the wounds. Lochlan can see the gurneys coming back out of the sliding doors, and the teams are carefully carrying them down the stairs, the wheels awkwardly spinning as the legs dangle in mid-air. These guys are strong, but how inconvenient they have to put in all this extra work. What are they carrying again?
Black bags. They’re body bags. Those are dead bodies.
“Who’s that?” Lochlan asks, his voice back to being robotic (he’s not sure if it ever stopped being robotic), not coming from inside him, but from somewhere else. “Who is it?” he asks more frantically. The paramedic just looks at him so sadly.
Why are bodies being taken out of Mommy and Daddy’s room? Did they know about this? He smiles wryly in spite of himself. It’s horrible to think, but he’s amused imagining the ranting and raving Mommy will do once this all blows over. How could the hotel let dead bodies fester in the same building where she sleeps? The Club will be hearing about this. Prepare to lose a lot of valued customers, Khun what’s-your-name.
“You have identification?” another posh voice joins the fray outside. Lochlan strains his neck to look past the paramedic working on him, and he sees another old man, talking to one of the medical examiner workers… whoever they were, the people driving the vans, taking the bodies. It must be the medical examiner himself, who someone mentioned earlier. He’s talking to the police too, and the old man and his wife, the owners.
“Timothy Ratliff and Victoria Ratliff…” Lochlan catches amid the chaos. There’s more prattling on about age and other identifying factors. Someone speculates about cause of death, and the mood becomes hushed, almost embarrassed. Khun Owner’s hands are up. His wife’s lips curl inwards in disgust. The manager looks panicked.
Timothy and Victoria… Lochlan knows those names. Those are his parents. But why would his parents have a cause of death if they were just sleeping? Nobody brings out the police and the coroner and shoves people in body bags if those people were just asleep. Lochlan shakes his head, the tears are resurging in force. It’s like a dam is crumbling in his brain, and he can’t deny reality anymore. Oh how he wants to though! He needs it far more than the oxygen being shoved in his face. His shoulders shake and his hands tremble. He can’t breathe. Or is he breathing too fast? He starts hiccupping, whining softly, like a little dog might.
“You distressed?” the paramedic asks, not unkindly. He looks behind himself to see the bodies being loaded up.
“Don’t look,” is all the paramedic can advise. “Almost done, we’ll take you to hospital.”
It’s not happening. It’s just not happening. It isn’t real. Lochlan’s dreaming. He was wrong before, this is just a dream, a nightmare to be specific. A cruel nightmare. But he’ll wake up soon. People always wake up from their nightmares right before things get too scary, too dangerous, right before they die in the dream. Lochlan feels like he might die.
He feels a dark clawed hand reaching up from below, grasping him bodily, dragging him into the depths, deep within the earth. It's suffocating. The pressure builds in his head but he can't seem to scream. The faster he breathes the more fuzzy and faint his vision gets. The paramedic is talking to him, but he isn’t making any noise either. He wishes he could read lips. For all the good that would do him, he’s starting to see spots, and everything is going white, but also black. Blackwhite. He’s going blind!
The paramedic grabs him delicately by the shoulders, but Lochlan has no idea what this man wants. His gloved hand taps Lochlan gently on the cheeks, but it does nothing to break Lochlan from his haze. The guy is yelling louder, and Lochlan can only hear the most muffled of sounds. It's still not discernible English. Oh maybe he was speaking Thai. Lochlan wishes he had bothered to learn some Thai before the trip. It wouldn’t have hurt to brush up on his English skills too.
“This isn’t real,” Lochlan mutters to himself. “This isn’t real,” he says a little louder. The medic removes his hands like Lochlan is radioactive to the touch. Lochlan whimpers. He’s going to be sick. His head’s going to explode. He paws at the mask, ripping it from his face, despite the medic's protestations. He can’t breathe, he can’t move, he can’t see, he can’t hear, he can’t speak, he can’t think, he can’t-
It isn't until the new batch of workers bring out a third, oily black body bag from Piper's cabin that Lochlan succumbs, fainting. Lochlan’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he falls forward, slipping off the ambulance step and onto the ground before the paramedic can catch him.
He descends into darkness as the earth swallows him whole.