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Chayanne huffs, burrowing into Phil's side on the couch. Phil shifts to hold him better. Still mostly asleep, Chayanne twists around him. One arm is curled around his back, clinging to Phil's shirt even in sleep. The other dangles awkwardly, the cast around his upper arm too bulky to really maneuver.
Phil holds him gently, mindful of the break. He has to be careful here. He can’t cling to his son like he wants to, can’t wrap Chayanne up in blankets and hugs. It’s easier now that most of the bruising has faded, but jostling Chayanne’s broken arm isn’t something Phil wants to repeat.
Chayanne’s hair is slick with sweat. Pale strands are plastered to his forehead and cheeks. Phil wipes the hair out of his face, wincing at the temperature. He checks the time. They’re good on meds, but Chayanne's still burning up. Infection from the break set in days before they got him back, and the delayed healing has offset any immediate effects of potions. The fever has been slow to die.
Chayanne shivers and presses closer. Phil pulls a thin blanket back over him, pale blue fabric covering most of his body. Aside from the cast, one socked foot peeks out. Blankets are safe now that it's less touch-and-go. Even though it's taking it's time, the fever is dying. The potions are working their slow and steady course.
They just weren't, at first.
He's not as incoherent as he was. Phil can get a yes or a no out of him now, if he asks enough times. Chayanne only staggers toward the doors during the moments where he's alone, when Phil has to get more water or medicine from upstairs.
He still calls for Phil, but it's not like it was when they found him.
Now, when Phil goes to get the potions, Chayanne waits at the door for him to come back but doesn’t cry. He draws stars into the blankets with shaky fingers. He drinks water and keeps down broth and little bits of avocado toast.
Once Chayanne was well enough to make it back to the house, he started hoarding bottles under the coffee table. But by then he could (and still can) mostly drink by himself now, so Phil let him. It didn’t hurt anyone, and even though Chayanne rarely remembered they were there, it brought comfort during the few moments when he did. That was enough of a reason for Phil.
He isn’t completely there—most of the time, he still doesn’t know who’s helping him. But he doesn’t panic, doesn’t cry or scream or hit or beg and—he doesn’t know it’s Phil, but he knows he’s safe. He knows he’s not back with the Federation. Phil will take the win for what it is.
He has to.
Now, Phil gets Chayanne water, picking from the scattered assortment and handing it over. Chayanne drinks and doesn’t choke no matter how much the bottle wavers in his hold. In the end, Chayanne holds it out shakily. It being half empty is the only thing keeping it from splashing. Normally, he’d hold his hand out for the lid, or start scouring through the blankets for it. A little unsure of what he’s asking for, Phil puts the cap on and hands the bottle back, but Chayanne doesn’t take it. He pushes it back toward Phil, and—
Oh. He’s trusting Phil to keep it.
It’s objectively small. But, like the million small things Phil took as wins when they first got Chayanne, the actions and words that turned a temporary stay with a kid into a permanent one with his kid, Phil holds them and tries to imprint them into memory. It settles next to memories of Chayanne splashing in pools and listening to strange music discs, of Phil adjusting Chayanne’s grip on a sword and raiding dungeons together, of bedtime stories and playdates and Chayanne hiding shyly behind him when everything was new, to then racing off to play before coming back when he got tired. Of that first introduction, where Chayanne’s wariness gave way to wonder and he’d clung to them with small arms around their necks and tucked his head into their shoulders.
Chayanne turns his face into Phil's chest and goes right back to sleep. He stays that way, curled up against Phil through the night, and Phil stays that way too. With the crest of the moon, slowly, the fever ebbs.
Phil doesn’t want this moment to last forever. There’s too much shit involved that sours the experience. The fever and injury aren’t even the half of it. Terror seeped in sickness is still fear, and it’s going to be hard to convince Chayanne he’s safe, that any of them are safe, because he isn’t. That’s a lie. In a way that had been beginning to fade but has now become apparent, the threat of the Federation looms.
Outside, the world rages on. But Chayanne sleeps, and he breathes. With time they have to fight for, recovery trickles in. That’s enough.
Or, at least, it’s what they have.
Eventually, he stirs.
”Dad,“ he murmurs, and Phil wouldn’t have been mad if he'd been wrong, he wouldn’t, but still—the relief hits him hard. Chayanne is getting better. He's recovering past the point of heartbreak. He's home, and he knows it. He knows Phil's here. He knows he's not alone anymore.
Or, maybe—
”Dad,“ Chayanne says again before calling out a little louder, ”Dad.” His head perks up, face scrunched and eyes still glassy. He's not quite looking at him, but he's not quite looking past. Instead, his eyes catch on that invisible nowhere that stray thoughts and fevered imaginings live in.
Phil shifts so can see his face better. He holds him close and brushes his hair back again.
“I'm here. I'm not going anywhere,” he says, settling in for another long night of Chayanne crying out, over and over again. Just because it isn’t screaming, isn’t crying, seems less like fear and more like frustration, it doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. Every call is a crack along the raw edge of Phil’s own desperation, built on by the recent memories of begging. He’s here. He is. It just doesn’t matter. Chayanne doesn’t know.
So, as much as it hurts the both of them, he’s ready for the routine of it.
But—
He’s getting better.
Chayanne’s breathing deepens, and his face relaxes. He curls back into Phil’s side, and something in Phil’s chest blossoms open. A knot unravels. It’s hard to say if he knows what’s happening, but he’s safe. He’s here. He’s okay now. At the very least, Chayanne knows he’s not in danger anymore. He knows, for at least this brief moment where he slips into wakefulness, that Phil is here.
Phil lets the silence linger. It feels almost weightless in his arms. He lingers with it, holding Chayanne through the night.
The quiet dissipates with little breaks. Chayanne calls out for him gently, time and time again, but it’s less like he’s afraid and more like he’s uncomfortable from the fever. This is still the same. But when he calls, Phil answers, and now that’s enough. He’s soothed back to sleep by Phil’s voice.
There’s another break in the silence. Chayanne calls, Phil answers, and there’s a silence long enough Phil sure he’s back asleep, but then—
”You found me?“ Chayanne asks, and his voice is muffled from where his face is pressed into Phil’s side. He’s already quiet on his own. Even when he isn’t sick, when he hasn’t been through the ringer from another time with the Federation—this time alone and hurt and sick and terrified—even then, he doesn’t talk much, and he’s quiet when he does. Especially when he’s hurt. As the delirium fades or the terror settles or both, Chayanne gets quieter. He slips back into that familiar silence that feels like a barrier on a good day and a yawning divide on the bad. Each word is something Phil already holds onto. Now, with Chayanne sick and even quieter, but with so much more to say, or at least more need to say it, Phil listens all the more.
Phil closes his eyes, taps a protactile yes on Chayanne’s leg, and says, “Yeah, I got you.”
He holds him as close as he can without hurting him and whispers, mostly to himself, “Never gonna let go of you again, I swear to God.” And he won’t. He really, really fucking won’t. He’s going to carry Chayanne around like he’s a baby until they’re both old and grey and the Federation is reduced to burning piles of debris.
Chayanne stills, and silence fills the room where breathing doesn’t. Chayanne’s breathing goes odd. It hitches, and Phil has half a second of growing concern before—
Voice very, very quiet, Chayanne asks, “…not mad?”
“Why the fuck would I be mad?” Phil asks, too genuinely bewildered to watch his volume, and wincing when Chayanne flinches, just a little, curling back into Phil’s chest. Fuck, he feels bad, and only a little less shit because Chayanne’s not scared or delirious enough where he’s flinching away from him. …Anymore, anyway, though it hadn’t really mattered how quiet or gentle anyone was in the beginning.
He’s going to rip out Cucurucho’s spine through his throat. …Or Missa will. Or Fit, or Cellbit, or Bad, or Etoiles or Baghera or Bagi or—someone fucking will, is the point. Phil’s watching Chayanne, and he can get to the vengeance part later.
He has to calm himself. He breathes, slow and routine and incredibly forced, until his hackles settle. Chayanne copies the breath, matching the rhythm in a tiny imitation of the familiar routine. After a minute, Phil tries again.
“Why would I be mad?” he asks, gentle.
“I got caught,” Chayanne admits, head tucked shamefully, and shit, he’s a lot more aware than he’s been. Aware, but still not right, and Phil needs to set that record straight before it builds up into something completely twisted. Phil sits straighter.
“That's not you’re fuckin’ fault. Chayanne, that is not your fault,” he gets loud again, still just as unable to check himself when he’s too passionate, but Chayanne doesn’t flinch. Instead, he locks eyes. Hazel meets blue before Chayanne breaks the contact, looking down at the blanket instead.
Phil doesn't have to ask why Chayanne thinks it’s his fault. He’s too much like them for his own good. That’s what makes it so hard to fix.
“…Are you sure?” he asks tentatively.
Phil’s voice is firm. “Yes. You didn't do anything wrong.” He means it. At no point had Chayanne done anything even questionable. The onus of the kidnapping was held solely at the fucking kidnappers—and trust him, they’re going to show them the consequences of that real fuckin’ soon—and on the parents. It wasn’t Chayanne’s job to get himself out while injured and find somewhere safe to hide, but he’d done that, too. On that front, Chayanne had kept the other kids from getting taken.
There’s no blame for him to have, but he’s got too much of them in him. Too much of Phil’s stubborn guilt. It’s in their nature to hold onto weight that isn’t theirs. It isn’t Phil’s nature to let go of it when people say he can, but Chayanne isn’t Phil. He’s a kid that trusts his dad.
So he believes him.
“Okay,” Chayanne says, and his good arm hugs Phil tightly. He’s blinking slowly and fighting back sleep, too calm and relaxed to beat the effects of the potions now that they’re absorbing better.
Phil hugs him back. “You’re a good kid,” he tells him.
Chayanne huffs. “Love you,” he says, quietly losing the battle to stay awake. He’s not fighting hard. He knows he’s safe.
“I love you too,” Phil says, brushing Chayanne’s hair back again and sitting in the calm.
“Love you too,” Chayanne says, too tired to keep track of who said it first.
Phil huffs a laugh and smiles. “Love you too,” he repeats, waiting out the night with Chayanne in his arms.
end.
