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“Dee?” there’s a quiet knock at the door, even and measured, passing through the wood of the door and carrying over the noise of the claps of lighting and thunder from above.
Dee’s head jerks up from where he is curled up in the corner of his bed, against the cold wall. His eyes widen and instantly he tries to wipe the tears from his face, only achieving in smearing them across his face more.
He doesn’t know how to respond, his disinterested, tired tone that he needs right now to assure his dad that’s he’s okay failing him as he trembles.
Because he knows it’s his dad. Heavy wouldn’t be awake and his mother wouldn’t have knocked. And he can’t let him see him like this - falling apart again. He knows the way his dad’s eyes scan over the scars on his shoulders and wrists if he ever has the chance. To make sure there aren’t more. But there are more and Dee hates himself for it.
Before he can do anything, the door pushes open. And he’s breathing for too fast. Outside, thunder rumbles and a burst of lightning claps out, lighting up his room and illuminating the concerned face of his father.
Unnervingly, his smile is gone and Dee has never wanted someone to smile again more in his life. He doesn’t want to be like this. He doesn’t want to be the kid to have his father in his room at 2 in the morning because he can hear his pained sobbing through the walls.
“I’m fine,” he tries, but his voice crumples and tears slide down his face. He looks to the window, and back at his dad who is approaching quietly. “Dad-“ he manages, wanting him to leave and pretend this night never existed.
“No, you’re not, Dee.” He crosses the room, adjusting the curtains so the thunder isn’t in the room. He’s aware of how Dee isn’t fond of thunder, from the time he was a toddler onwards.
Then he sat next to Dee, settling by perching on the edge. Dee knew he looks like a cornered animal because he feels like it. He holds his scarred, unclothed arms tighter around him, and wishes his sleeve isn’t falling off of his scarred shoulder.
”I just…can’t sleep. It’s not a big deal,” he shoulders him off, hand dragging his messed hair from his face. He keeps on flicking it back from his face, bothered with how it’s sticking to his wet tear marks.
His dad sighs, giving him a sad look like he’s an abandoned puppy. His dad stands, and for a second, Dee is terrified he’s leaving. He doesn’t want to be left with the thunder and the dark and his thoughts.
“Dad-“ he manages before he can stop himself. His dad’s head turns: something in hand. He blinks, approaching the bed again. Dee is comforted for a second before he’s slammed in the face with the fear of being left all alone.
”Yes?” He asks calmly, but Dee shakes his head wiping at his eyes. “Are you able to come out of the corner?” He holds out a hand, stark blue eyes strangely warm despite their icy color. Dee blinks at him, arms tightening around himself.
But he shifts forward, like he’s discovering uncharted territory that wasn’t just his room. He’s uncertain, but he sits next to his dad, fidgeting hands twitching in his lap.
”Mm,” he nods, spotting the hairbrush in his dad’s hand. He positions so his back is to his father, letting him adjust his hair.
Slender, gentle fingers curl through his messy hair, combing out the strands. His hands are pleasantly cool against his boiling, clammy skin. He’s still afraid that his father will leave again, as much as he wants to admit that he doesn’t want him.
“Plaited or ponytail?” he asks - a question he hasn’t been asked for years, since he was little and wasn’t tasked with the responsibility of managing his own hair. He shares the same messy hair as his father anyway.
“Plaited.” He mumbles, feeling his dad nod. The hands left his hair before a brush was gently running through the strands. Dee had started doing his own hair in the first place due to his mother not being the gentlest when helping him do his hair. It isn't the easiest to plait, but his dad seemed particularly capable as he didn't complain at all.
”Okay.” His dad responds quickly, and Dee hears how tired he sounds. His wipes at his eye again. Deft fingers begin to sectioning his hair into three groups, the motion similar to a head massage and calming all the same.
”You don’t have to be here.” Dee mumbles, guilt flooding his system. He doesn’t need to be wasting his dad’s time like this, when he could be having a peaceful night and sleeping. He wishes he himself was having a peaceful night of sleep.
“I’m not going to leave you, Dee.” he’s told, and he doesn’t know how to believe it. His hair is neatly tied up and his dad pats his shoulder. “If I didn’t want to be here I wouldn’t be.”
He nods glumly, trying not to move too much. He's cold though, a slight shiver running through his body that he tries to compress. But it's already been seen. A hand drops from his hair to adjust his blanket so its around his shoulders. He clutches it closer, feeling like he can hide under its expanse.
His dad gently pats his shoulder.
"All done, it's not too tight at all?"
Dee turns, eyes downcast. "No," he murmurs, "thanks."
Then he expects his dad to leave, so he wants to grab dad's hand. To make him stay. But he's not little anymore and he needs to take care of himself. So he stays put, fidgeting hands turned to fists in his lap, eyes closing to pretend the tears aren't building in them.
Dee finally turns to glance at his dad, almost like he's distinguishing that the shadows aren't playing a trick on him, and his dad is still there. He looks back at Dee expectantly. Is he...supposed to know what he wants?
"Do you want me to stay here?"
Dee knows what he wants, but he doesn't know how to say it. He wants him to stay. He can't spend a whole night on his own, quaking from the thunder and listening to nothing but his own brain recycle the same horrible things. But he's not a kid - he hasn't been for years - but he can't talk properly like he still is one.
His mouth opens. It closes. He reaches up to spin his earring. It's not there. He bites his lip, eyes watering and blue irises darting around. His dad still waits, patiently, calm smile still plastered on his face as if he is made of wax.
Breathing in deeply, Dee tries to answer, he really does. He just wants his dad, like he's a kid. He just wants to be a kid, and not worry about school or the shitty people there, or if the scars will fade or if he can eat.
Tears roll down his face, hot and burning, and his eyes sting. His fingers raise to his head, trying to run through his hair - the same stressful habit that was responsible for how his hair had been before it'd been neatly tied - but his hair is tied back and he can't tug it.
He's shaking, sobbing again too. Shame runs through him, for being this way, for crying like this in front of his dad. He can't form words, his breathing far too fast and his mind frazzled. He's barely given a second before a warm body is pressing against his, larger and comforting. Instantly, his fingers cling to what he's realizing is his father's shirt, holding on tight. His head drops, so he's sobbing into his chest.
A gentle hand pats his head, softly running over his hair until it reaches his back and rubs in a small circular pattern over his shoulder blade. He can vaguely hear his father talking.
”It’s going be okay, Dee.” His calm voice ensures Dee exactly that. He continues crying harder, relieved and upset all at once, unsure how he’s really meant to be feeling. “I’m here,” he coos softly, pulling Dee even closer.
He tries to mumble an apology between his tears but he feels the shake of his father’s head.
”You have nothing to be sorry about. If anything, I should be sorry for not coming sooner.”
After his apology, they don’t move for a long while. Dee stayed curled up, crying into his dad’s chest until his tears dry up and he’s only sniffling and half sure he’s soaked the front of his shirt.
His dad leans back and presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“I’ll stay in your room tonight.” He declares gently, and Dee doesn’t want to protest even slightly. He only slides into his cold bed and lets his dad tuck him in like he is little again.
Then his dad lays next to him, letting him snuggle close to his chest and Dee isn’t worrying about whether his dad can tell if he’s too skinny or feel the scars. He just knows he’s warm and familiar and that he’s protected.
But he’s still guilty.
”I’m sorry.” He finally admits, and it’s not a combination of words he says a lot but has said a lot tonight. His words hang heavy in the quiet room, before a clap of lightning interrupts. He raises a hand to wipe his eyes.
Instead of telling him not to be sorry, his father gently asks,
”Why?”
He doesn’t know what to say, words stuck in his throat and all his reasons of why he’s a waste of space dissipating at the tip of his tongue.
”For being…so difficult.” He admits, even though it’s much more complicated than that. It’s an apology for all the arguments they’ve had, the times he’s shut him out and all the things he’s made himself suffer through.
Overall, he's just sorry for being a shit son.
He holds onto his father more, nuzzling into his chest. He feels his chest rumble as he chuckles.
"Difficult? I'd say the problem is you're not difficult. I hardly ever see you and you don't talk to me an awful lot. I'm afraid your brother learning algebra is more of a difficulty to me."
Dee chuckles slightly in return, because he's tried (and long since given up) on trying to teach his younger brother. But his smile only lasts a second before he feels bad. He's barely seen his dad for the last few weeks.
"You know what I mean, dad. Like...I'm difficult because I'm not talking to you. Not because I'm shit at math."
"I know, Dee. But I'm afraid I was more difficult when I was your age."
"Yeah?" He mumbles, aware of how his body is tugging him into sleep.
"Well, I left my parents when I was still in school,” he kept in brief, voice curt and cut. “So I’m rather glad you’re still in bed in our house and not running away.”
The admission of his past hits Dee hard. He’s never heard his dad talk of his past - it’s all small moments of him zoning out when specific things come up, and Dee’s inkling of an idea that his dad’s past may not have been all that great.
But his dad is right. He’s still in his arms, hugging him tight and not planning to go anywhere else
Everything isn’t okay, he still has nightmares and the scars aren’t fading any time soon, but for a few hours, he can still sleep comforted by the familiarity of being a kid again, being held by his dad, who also isn’t going anyway.