Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dante spits in the sink. Even through his socks, he feels the chill of the bathroom tiles beneath his feet. Light from the overcast sky streams in through a small window. He rinses the bowl of the sink and splashes cold water on his face. Yawning, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and drags himself back into wakefulness.

Just when he’s about to shuffle out of the bathroom, his phone buzzes against the countertop. He picks it up and sees his father’s contact. He furrows his brow. Shouldn’t he be at work? The store is definitely open right now. He shrugs and accepts the call. “Hey. How are you?”

Demetrius doesn’t respond right away. He takes a shaky breath.

Dante feels his stomach twist. “Is everything alright?”

Demetrius’s voice breaks. “I have— I have to tell you something.”

Dante’s tongue feels leaden. He can barely speak. He paces around the tiny bathroom. “What?”

“I just got back from the doctor.”

“And?”

Demetrius sniffles. He takes another breath. “Listen. Before I say this, I just need you to know that…you don’t have to come see me. You don’t have to do anything. You just need to know this. For your own health.”

“Know what?”

The speaker crackles as Demetrius exhales. “I—“ He swallows. “I have cancer.”

The words hit Dante like a sucker punch right in the stomach. He doubles over. The room feels like it’s tilting. He can’t get his bearings.

Demetrius lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s stage two, so it’s just in my lungs right now. It hasn’t spread yet. I just needed you to know for your own sake since it’s genetic.”

Dante hears the words but doesn’t process them. The floor tiles blur together. He puts a hand on the counter behind him to steady himself.

His father’s voice sounds like it’s coming from another world. “Again, I don’t want you to feel any pressure. You don’t need to come see me if you’re not ready. I don’t want to guilt-trip you.”

Dante gasps, finally processing his father’s words. “Appa, no! Don’t worry about me!”

Demetrius chuckles. The sound hits Dante right in the heart. “You can’t stop me from worrying about you, kid.”

Dante feels his eyes grow wet. Why did he burn the bridge between himself and his only parent? Why did he behave like a reckless, insolent child for so long? Why did he assume he’d have forever to fix the things he broke? He shuts his eyes, squeezing hot tears down his cheeks. “Appa…” His voice is a broken mess. “...I’m sorry.”

Demetrius coughs, the sound rough and ragged. “I know you are. I’m sorry, too. But I don’t want you to feel guilty. I just want you to take care of yourself and not worry about me.”

Dante shakes his head. This man just got diagnosed with lung cancer and his most pressing worry is his son’s mental health. After he thinks about it for a second, it makes total sense. Putting other people’s needs before his own is what his appa does best.

Demetrius takes a reedy breath. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this. Just go live your life the way you normally would.”

Dante sniffles. “I can’t. I need to see you.”

“You don’t have to do it if you’re not ready.”

“If I didn’t, I would never forgive myself.”

“I’d forgive you.”

Dante huffs. “Do you want me to come or not?”

Demetrius swallows. “I do. Of course I do. I miss you more than words can possibly explain. I just don’t want you to feel like it has to happen if you’re not ready yet. And…” His voice gets quiet. “I have to be honest. You might not like what you see.”

“I don’t care. I’m coming as soon as I can.”

Demetrius yawns. “Okay. As long as you’re alright with seeing me, I’d love to see you.”

Dante looks out the window at the morning light. “If you’re not working today, you should go back to sleep.”

“I’m going to. God, I feel like I can barely stay awake anymore.”

Dante thinks about how he used to crane his neck to stare up at his father. In his naive eyes, the man was made of stone. He never cried or got sick or needed a break. It feels wrong to know that he suffers just like everyone else. “Get some rest. I’ll try to get out there as soon as I can.”

“Do what’s best for you.”

“This is what’s best for me.”

“I—“ Demetrius starts to respond, then breaks into a coughing fit. He wheezes as he tries to catch his breath.

Dante curls his lips in, fighting another wave of tears. “Are you alright?”

Demetrius finally speaks. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Let me know when you plan on coming.”

Dante wants to scream that he can’t not worry about him, but he realizes how hypocritical that would be. “I’ll be out there as soon as possible. I just need to get my plans in order.”

“I’m glad you’re coming. I miss seeing your face.”

Dante thinks he might crumple to the floor. “I miss you too, Appa.”

“Alright. I’m gonna go back to sleep now, but call me when you figure out your plans. I love you so much, cocoa puff.”

Hearing his childhood nickname breaks Dante to pieces. He squeezes his eyes shut and sheds more tears, choking on his own stifled sobs. It takes him a moment before he can speak. “I love you. So much.” He hangs up the phone with trembling fingers.

Once the call ends, he drops to the floor, knees hitting the bathmat. He puts his phone down and cradles his head in his hands. He cries until he runs out of air and tears. Then he washes his face, goes back to his bedroom, and looks on the Internet for cheap flights home.

Chapter Text

Dante hauls his luggage up the wooden porch steps. He can still see the rough edge that gave him his first splinter. The rotten stairs creak beneath his feet. He slips on a particularly slick part and curses, struggling to regain his footing. He and his father both trip on these stairs with equal frequency. It must be a genetic thing.

He thinks of his father getting hurt trying to climb these steps. The cancer, the chemo, the slippery wood, the mountain rain…it seems like a disaster waiting to happen. He knows he can’t bring this up without getting accused of being patronizing. Maybe he is being patronizing, but he doesn’t know how else to be. He puts his luggage down and knocks on the door.

Footsteps approach from the other side. The old front door creaks. It’s gotten squeakier since the last time Dante slammed it. When it opens fully, Demetrius is standing on the other side.

Dante tries hard to keep his face still, even as his stomach drops. His father looks sick. The dark circles under his eyes have deepened into full-on bags. He’s lost weight, making his face look gaunt and aged. Dante can see a few bruises on his arms. Somehow, he still has a full head of hair. He offers his son a tiny, lopsided smile. “How are you, kid?”

Dante forces himself to smile back. “Good. How are you holding up?”

Demetrius holds the door open for Dante and his luggage. “As best I can.”

After taking off his muddy shoes, Dante hauls his bags up the stairs and sets them down on the floor of his childhood bedroom. The smell of his teenage-boy body spray still lingers in the air. It looks like the room hasn’t been touched since the night he ran away from home. His bed is still unmade. Seeing a time capsule of the worst day of his life does nothing to lift his spirits. He comes back downstairs as quickly as he can.

When he reaches the bottom of the steps, he hears humming from his father’s bedroom on the first floor. The door is open and the man is combing his hair in the mirror. Dante stops at the threshold. “Do you mind if I…”

Demetrius looks over at him. “Oh! Yes. Come in. I want to catch up with you. How was the flight here?”

Dante sits down on his father’s bed. It, too, smells the same way it always did. He remembers all the nights he spent curled up next to his appa when he couldn’t sleep. A part of him would rather sleep in here than in his own bedroom. The other part of him dismisses that thought as soon as it appears. He suddenly remembers that the man asked him a question. “Oh, uh…not terrible. Pretty short. It was weird, though, seeing the mountains again. Nice, but weird.”

Demetrius nods. “I get that.” He smirks at Dante’s reflection in the mirror. “City slicker.”

Dante laughs. “Hey! I’m not a city slicker. I just wanted to live somewhere with more than, like, twenty-seven people.”

Demetrius chuckles. “So what I’m hearing is you’re too good for the country.”

Dante rolls his eyes, still smiling. “I can’t win with you. I really can’t.”

Demetrius shakes his head. “No, you can’t. That never stopped you from trying, though.”

Dante sighs. “Yeah. I always needed the last word.”

Demetrius shakes his head. “I have no idea where you got that from.”

Dante shrugs his shoulders. “Me neither. Surely it can’t be genetic.”

The two of them fall into silence again. The only sounds are the hum of the radiator and the rush of a comb through thick, knotted hair. Dante looks out the window at the creek in the backyard. He can almost see himself as a little kid, wading in the water on chubby legs while his father held his hand. An old lady at his church used to say that the mountains held memories. He never paid her words much attention as a kid, but now, he feels them on a cellular level.

He opens his mouth to speak. “Do you remember how we—“

“Shit.”

Dante turns around and sees his father’s face in the mirror. The man’s eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open. He stares at something in his hand. Dante leans in to get a closer look.

In his right hand, his father holds the comb. In his left hand, he holds a chunk of black hair.

Dante freezes. He wonders if he should say something. He wonders what he could possibly say that would make this any better. His gut tells him he shouldn’t be in here at all, but he can’t force himself to leave.

Demetrius holds his eyes open and clenches his jaw. His lower lip trembles. He grips the hair in a tight fist. When he looks up, his eyes meet Dante’s in the mirror. “I…I need to be alone right now.”

Dante tries to move, but his limbs are too heavy. He blinks like an idiot.

Demetrius whips his head around. He flashes his son a warning glare with tears brimming in his eyes.

Dante flinches. “I–”

“GET OUT!”

Dante wastes no time in scurrying out of the bedroom. As if by muscle memory, he runs to his own room and shuts the door behind him. He kneels on the floor next to his bed, pressing his face into his rumpled bedding. He tries to think of something, anything except the chunk of hair and his father’s stricken face. He can’t.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that. He kneels there, paralyzed, hiding his face until he gains back a flicker of courage. When he’s finally able to lift his head, he notices that the sun is setting. Neither of them are probably hungry, but they both need to eat. He should ask his father what he wants for dinner.

He has no idea if the man will even respond.

He slowly makes his way down the stairs and tiptoes to his father’s door. He hears ragged breathing, and his heart aches. He leaves three quiet knocks. “Appa?”

He hears a tired, broken voice through the wall. “Come in.”

Dante pushes the door open as slowly as he can. When he steps across the threshold, he sees his father sitting on the bed. The chunk of hair sits on his nightstand along with a pile of crumpled tissues. When the man looks up, his face is red and puffy. His cheeks are covered in tear stains.

Dante holds back a gasp. The sight is completely alien to him. Even after his amma passed, his appa never seemed to cry. Dante never heard sobs from his bedroom or saw him with bloodshot eyes. He’d always assumed that Demetrius Choi was a person who didn’t cry. Nothing disproved that assumption until now.

Dante doesn’t wait for Demetrius to say anything. He climbs into the bed and sits next to him. Then, he wordlessly reaches his arms out, forming one half of a hug.

Demetrius leans into his son’s arms, wrapping his own around his shoulders. He speaks into the crook of Dante’s neck. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Dante feels his father’s face wet his shoulder. He holds back tears of his own. “I forgive you. I understand why you did.”

He looks down at his father’s black locks, at the curl pattern and the white streak they share. He thinks about how his appa has had long hair in every picture he’s ever seen. He thinks about how the man taught him what to do with his own hair, how to condition it and style it and keep it healthy. He thinks about how his father, who rarely buys fancy clothes or expensive cologne, always invests in the best curl shampoo he can find. He looks back at the chunk of hair on the nightstand. It’s a piece of his appa, severed from the rest of him.

He holds Demetrius a little more tightly. “It matters a lot to you. I know that.”

Demetrius audibly sniffles, leaving more tears on his son’s shirt. “I just feel—” He hiccups. “I just feel powerless.”

Dante doesn’t try to stop his own tears. “I know. I know.”

Demetrius swallows, trying to compose himself enough to speak. “Sometimes I feel this…this anger at the world. So many things go wrong, and I don’t have the power to fix them, and it all feels so futile.”

Dante wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Like…like when Amma died?”

Demetrius nods against Dante’s shoulder. “Exactly. I felt it when your amma died. I felt it when you were so upset and I couldn’t understand why. I feel it now, with myself. It never goes away.”

Dante feels a sudden spark of something. He leans over his father, resting his chin on the man’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Appa. I know this sucks. I know this is taking so much from you, and I know there isn’t much you can do about it. There isn’t much I can do, either, but I promise I’ll do everything I can. Even if nothing I do matters, I’ll still do it.” He sniffles and wipes away a tear. “Because I love you.”

They sit in silence for a while with their arms around each other. Dante tries to get up, only to discover that Demetrius has fallen asleep. Without waking his father, he pulls out his phone and orders dinner.

Chapter Text

Dante cannot believe it’s only been three days. Already, he feels like the lone sailor on a sinking ship. He sloshes though gallons upon gallons of water, knowing nothing he does will bring the vessel back to land.

He can’t blame any of it on Demetrius. His father has tried his best to tamp down on his moods and be amiable. For once, the problem isn’t between the two of them, but around them: it’s the faint scent of phlegm and blood hanging in the air. It’s the muffled sounds of retching after every meal. It’s the sight of pronounced cheekbones on a face that’s always been round. It’s the fact that even when things are okay, they’re still terrible.

The fourth morning, Dante wakes up on the couch to the sound of knocking. He’s chosen to sleep downstairs in case his father can’t breathe in the middle of the night (and also because his old bedroom makes his chest hurt). He’s glad for it, because if he hadn’t, no one would have heard the frantic rapping on the front door.

The trained introvert he is, he hunches over and looks through a small window. He spies a glimpse of pink hair and gasps. No way. He throws the front door open.

He smells his aunt before he fully sees her. Berry-scented perfume floods his nose. The tall, broad, tan woman grins from ear to ear. She squeezes Dante’s cheeks with her calloused hands. “¡Mi sobrino favorito! You’re back!”

Dante offers his aunt a good-natured smile while taking in her appearance. Her hair is still dyed the same vibrant shade of pink and styled in the same youthful twin buns. She looks a bit older, but her high energy hasn’t decreased with age. Once she removes her hands from his cheeks, he can talk again. “Tía Holly! I didn’t know you were coming over.”

Holly tucks a flyaway behind her ear. “Your appa told me to come whenever. Said he’d be home. He didn’t tell me you were here, though.” She gestures to the minivan parked in the driveway. “Would you be a doll and help me unload? I brought a bunch of stuff.” She chuckles. “Maybe too much stuff. Your father will kill me.”

Dante obliges, and the two of them carry in a number of containers that can only be described as “implausible”. Some contain headscarves and blankets while others hold various dishes, both Korean and Costa Rican. Dante feels himself salivate. He hasn’t had his tía’s cooking in years.

Once they’re done, they sit in the living room and wait for Demetrius to wake up. Holly fluffs a throw pillow. “So how’ve you been?”

Dante sighs. “I’m alive.”

Holly nods. “I always told your father you’d make it. You’re a smart kid.”

Dante laughs, his throat dry. “I’m really not, but thank you.”

Holly smiles. “Well, no matter what, you’ve managed to survive this long. I’m just so glad you came back. I’m sure your appa is, too.”

As if on cue, Demetrius’s door creaks. He shuffles down the hallway holding a toothbrush and toothpaste. He stops in his tracks when he sees the woman on his couch. “Hol?”

She flushes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you. You said I could come whenever.”

He waves a hand. “No, no, you’re fine. I did say that. I just…” He looks down at his feet. “I’ve been exhausted lately. I can’t lie.”

Holly’s face falls. “DJ.”

Dante wrings his hands. The look on his tía’s face makes his heart sink. He remembers his appa saying that when they met, he was fifteen and she was nineteen. Even though four years is nothing at their age, Dante wonders if his father still seems young to his aunt.

Demetrius coughs. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth.”

Holly offers him a weak smile. “Once you’re done, come sit. I’d love to catch up with you.”

As soon as Demetrius closes the bathroom door, Holly looks at Dante and shakes her head. He nods gravely in return.

She rests a hand on his shoulder and speaks with a soft, hushed voice. “You’re brave for this. I don’t think there’s anything harder than taking care of a parent.”

Dante feels an all-too familiar tightness in his throat. “I…” He swallows to keep his voice from breaking. “I have so many regrets. What if—“ His voice gets taut and shaky. “What if I ruined the last few years of his life?”

Holly gasps. She wraps her arms around Dante, all but suffocating him with her sweet perfume. She’s warm, so warm. She ruffles his hair. “You didn’t ruin his life! You were a child. You had problems. As much as he wanted you to come back, he understood why you went off on your own. He loves you, and he knows you love him too.”

Dante is about to collapse into tears when the lock on the bathroom door clicks open. He pulls away from his tía, mouthing “Thank you” as he does so.

Demetrius sits on the couch, breaking into a coughing fit with the motion. Dante supports his back until he can breathe again. When all is said and done, the sleeve of Demetrius’ sweatshirt bears a spotty crimson stain.

Holly bounces her leg, clearly looking for a diversion. Her eyes land on the dishes she brought. “Does anyone want lunch? I brought a ton of stuff, and I won’t lie, I’m starving from the drive out.”

Demetrius fails to respond, still hunched over and trembling a little. Dante answers for both of them. “That’d be great.”

Relief washes over Holly’s face. She immediately busies herself with heating up the casserole dishes and aluminum pans from her car. Dante’s mouth waters with the smell, but then he looks at his appa. The poor man can barely keep anything down. It feels almost unfair to eat, but he reminds himself that his tía brought this food for him as well as for his father. He needs to take care of himself if he’s going to try and handle this.

After a few minutes, Holly bustles back into the living room with plates for everyone. Under normal circumstances, Dante would dig in without a second thought. Now he finds himself watching his appa and holding his fork just above his food. He doesn’t take a single bite until Demetrius does.

Holly seems to notice this. She rubs Dante’s shoulder again. He looks down at his own food and starts eating at a normal pace.

Demetrius looks over at Holly and flashes an uneven smile. “You know, Holly, I’m proud of you for not bringing wine. It took you forty years, but you finally got it through your head that I don’t drink.”

Holly chuckles. “That’s what the kid thinks. I was at your twenty-first birthday—”

Dante puts up a warning hand. “And nothing of any consequence happened.”

Holly snorts. “That you remember.”

Demetrius shrugs. “That’s fair. All I remember is waking up in Parsa’s bathtub.”

The rest of their lunch passes like that, with Dante listening as Holly and Demetrius trade old, ridiculous stories from their youths. Holly tells Dante about his father’s comical lightweightedness, and Demetrius tells him about his aunt’s penchant for trying to fight grown men in bars. The air in the house suddenly feels a lot less thick. Demetrius and Dante manage to forget about the thing that brought them together in the first place.

The universe quickly reminds them. A few minutes after they finish eating, Demetrius throws a hand over his mouth and runs to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He turns on the fan, but it doesn’t drown out the sound. Nothing can.

Dante deflates. He hangs his head and stares at his socked feet. He stammers like a child who just lost a Little League game. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

Holly tousles his black-and-white hair again. “You’re doing the best you can.”

Dante recalls the conversation he had with his father the night he started losing his hair. He remembers his promise: Even if nothing I do matters, I’ll still do it. He grits his teeth. “I don’t know if I have any power over anything that happens, but at this point, that doesn’t matter to me. I just need to try, and maybe, maybe he’ll be okay.”

Holly looks down at her lap. “I know nothing is certain, but I think he’ll be okay.” She glances back up at Dante. “This is a fight, but your father is a fighter, and so are you. Besides…” She raises her eyebrows. “The two of you have something that I think will be very useful.”

Dante arches an eyebrow. “What?”

Holly smiles. “Each other.”