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Vezalius remembers Vantacrow in motion.
Laughing, smiling, leaning in for a kiss.
Rolling his eyes, sticking his tongue in his cheek, idly reaching out to toy with the ends of Vezalius’s hair.
Lifting their giggling precious daughter, holding her onto his hip with practiced ease. Chasing her around the park with outstretched arms, the pair of them whooping and yelling as they run, matching grins on their faces. Flailing around in the grass, playing at being the dragon that their beautiful girl would bravely defeat with the toy sword she’d received from Wilson during the Christmas they hadn’t known would be their last.
Crying. Trembling. Sinking to his knees by the kitchen table where Vezalius sits, pale-faced and grim. Harsh breaths shuddering through the whole of his body as he lowers his head and turns to press his cheek against Vezalius’s legs. Begging Vezalius not to make him sign the divorce papers in a voice so small and fragile, raspy and wet and breaking on every other syllable, that Vezalius physically can’t bring himself to open his own mouth and insist that he does.
The point is this: Vantacrow’s not meant for such awful, lifeless stillness.
He should be moving, fidgeting, living. Carving out a fresh start in some faraway place as Vezalius’s imagined him doing a thousand and one times. Enjoying a happier existence at a safe distance from the oppressive, grayscale grief that’s been steadily subsuming Vezalius, piece by piece. That’s why he’d tried pushing for divorce in the first place, after all. Vezalius’s been circling the drain since the universe decided to make him the victim of another cruel cosmic joke.
Fatherless child turned childless father, sorrow his only inheritance from the world.
Vantacrow, though—he’d always been the stronger one out of the two of them. Vezalius had seen a chance for him, then. A chance that Vantacrow could make it out of the haze of their shared suffering, make a better life for himself, if only Vezalius wasn’t a weighted yoke around his neck, dragging him down for both of them to drown at the bottom of the water.
He doesn’t belong In this hospital bed, limp and pale and unmoving, a discarded rag-doll amidst a sea of rumpled sheets in the same nauseating shade of white that Vezalius’s abhorred for years since—
No. Not here. Not right now.
Vezalius sucks in a breath. Holds it. Counts to five before letting the air slip out from his lungs once more, scraping his throat raw as it leaves him. Watches the subtle rise and fall of Vantacrow’s chest as he sleeps, utterly unaware of Vezalius’s presence in his room.
Bruises litter the skin of his face from the accident, darkly violent marks painted along the left side of his face, from temple to chin, where Vantacrow’s head had struck the car window after Impact. A small gash above his brow, butterfly-bandaged shut. There’s more bruising across his chest and abdomen from where the seatbelt had dug into the flesh, hidden by the cut of his hospital gown but openly disclosed to Vezalius by the doctor who had kindly walked him through the building’s labyrinthian halls.
It’s the head trauma that Vantacrow’s care team is most concerned about monitoring. Though he’d been awake and mostly cooperative in the hours before Vezalius’s arrival, he’d initially been found unconscious at the scene and has been displaying signs of a moderate concussion ever since. Nausea, vomiting, blurred vision, disorientation—the whole nine yards, apparently.
Scans and testing had revealed a minor skull fracture and brain swelling where Vantacrow had hit his head. Vezalius had nearly keeled over on the spot upon hearing those words from Dr. Ovid, a surprisingly reassuring man who’d told Vezalius that he was more than welcome to address him as Fulgur as they made their way through the halls. Only sheer force of will had kept Vezalius standing upright by the time Fulgur had finished relaying the extent of Vantacrow’s injuries.
Vantacrow, who technically remains Vezalius’s lawfully wedded husband, according to Yu Q. Wilson, a guy who does their taxes every spring.
Vantacrow, who Vezalius continues to hold medical power of attorney over and is still listed as next of kin for, according to hospital records that were still on file from the time he’d stubbornly insisted on trying to fix the gutter himself— only to fall and break his arm in two places. Because of course Vantacrow still lives within spitting distance of the town where the happiest years of their lives had ended nearly as soon as they’d begun, of course Vantacrow still lives near the place that Vezalius hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave either.
Vantacrow, who’s finally stirring where he lays, blinking lazily for several seconds before his eyes find their focus on Vezalius with an intensity that would be unsettling if Vantacrow’s pupils weren’t currently the size of saucers.
“Zali?” The nickname spills out of Vantacrow’s mouth weakly, laced with uncertainty. Vezalius finds himself moving closer at the sound of it, from the foot of his bed to the side of it, helpless to resist the pull of Vantacrow’s voice, hopeful and plaintive in equal measure. Vantacrow reaches out, fumbling to grasp at the hand that Vezalius doesn’t even realize he’s placed onto the sheets until Vantacrow’s already holding onto it like a lifeline. “Are you really here?”
“They called me,” Vezalius replies thickly, rationality running further from him with every passing second. And I still live here. You still live here. Why didn’t you tell me you were so close by? That you only moved one town over? Why didn’t I try to ask where the hell you went in the first place? I’ve been wondering since the day you left.
Vezalius gnaws on his bottom lip to keep the traitorous thoughts from escaping out into the yawning, impassable chasm that stretches between them. He wonders, not for the first time, if he'd made a mistake in answering the phone, in rushing over to the hospital without so much as a thought given towards whether or not Vantacrow would actually welcome his presence. “Do you want me to leave?”
Vantacrow’s grip turns vise-like. Vezalius welcomes the hurt.
“No,” he exhales sharply, starting to shake his head before wincing at the motion and stopping himself. Vantacrow looks back up at Vezalius with the same expression that he’d worn while on his knees, weeping on the floor of the house that had once been their home. “Stay. Please.”
And because Vezalius’s an idiot, a glutton for punishment, as defenseless as he’s ever been with Vantacrow looking at him like that, he does.
When Uki shows up to the dimly lit room not even ten minutes later, Vezalius immediately realizes he’s been had. For years.
“You knew?” Vezalius hisses from his place in the chair he’d pulled close to the bed, mindful to keep his volume low since Vantacrow’s already started dozing off again. The subtext is clear. You knew my estranged husband moved less than half an hour away and said nothing?!
Uki shrugs, unrepentant.
“You never wanted talk about him. So we didn’t.” Point, Uki. There’s no arguing his way around that particular truth, no matter how it stings. Uki tilts his chin towards Vantacrow and crosses his arms. “How is he?”
Vezalius’s gaze falls back down to the bruising along the side of Vantacrow’s face, the cut along his forehead. The knowledge of all the hidden hurts beneath his mottled skin, damage down to the bone and beyond, burns as Vezalius forces himself to regurgitate the doctor’s words and give Uki a proper answer.
“Pretty banged up, but he’ll live. Lots of bruising all around but he hit his head the hardest.” Vezalius blinks and swallows hard around the suddenly forming lump in his throat. “There’s some slight swelling in his brain and—and small skull fractures.” His voice cracks and falters beneath the crushing weight of his fear. The human brain is so fragile. So small. Three pounds of tissue containing the entire sum of a person’s existence. Had there been just a little more pressure, a harder impact—then what? Would Vezalius be here still, in a dimly lit room, waiting for Vantacrow to wake up again?
Or would they have walked him down to that cold, awful room down below and shown him another body that once held part of his heart? Vezalius might’ve dropped dead himself, if that had been the case.
The look on Uki’s face tells him that he’s taken too long to continue, that he’s given himself away. Again. Vezalius pushes on with a sigh. “They want to monitor him for a few days to make sure it doesn’t turn into anything more serious. But since he’s been conscious, he’s been mostly coherent, so they’re not too concerned.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
“He knows I’m here. He asked me to stay and then he started drifting again.”
“And you think that’s a good idea?”
The flash of anger that rises in Vezalius’s chest is ruinous, corrosive. A living rupture in the finely woven tapestry of control he’s spent the better part of five years clinging to. It snarls and bays for blood. His voice drops to a deadly whisper.
“What?”
Uki doesn’t flinch.
“I mean, he’s gonna wake up soon. For real. He’s hurt and confused and he’s going to need help when he gets out of this place. If you’re still here, he's not going to be willing to accept that help from anyone unless it’s you. So.” Uki stops and stares Vezalius down for a long moment. Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched tight—a protector to the core of his being. Vezalius might be proud if he wasn’t so pissed off. “Are you still going to be here?”
“Of course I’m going to be here! Vanta and I, we’re—he’s—I’m—“ Vezalius cuts himself off with a wordless growl. He casts around in his mind, seizes his hesitation by the throat, snaps its neck, and casts its body to the wayside. Decision made. Dice rolled. Game over. Vezalius’s next words spill out of him hotly, a furious truth he sheds like blood. “He’s still my husband.” “Good,” Uki says, like he was never expecting to entertain any other possible answer. “Then you should start acting like it.”
The next time Vantacrow wakes up, Vezalius’s still sitting in the stupidly uncomfortable chair beside his bed, nibbling on a bagel and seriously contemplating going back to his car for the foldable camping chair he keeps in the trunk.
“Hey,” He rasps out, and Vezalius nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden sound. He drops the bagel back into the foil wrapper sitting on his lap and looks up to meet Vantacrow’s achingly soft gaze.
“You’re still here.”
“You asked me to stay, remember?”
“Yeah. I do.”
For a small stretch of time that seems to encompass eternity, neither of them speak. Vantacrow just stares at Vezalius with those ridiculous eyes—sleepy and violet and beautiful as ever, the same eyes he’d given their daughter, the daughter that Vezalius had cradled in his arms since the first day, carried and loved and lost forever—and Vezalius can’t bring himself to look away.
“Have you changed your mind?” Vezalius finally asks, once the pain in his chest has risen to debilitating levels. He’s always hurting. Grief is his constant companion, a miserable creature that’s taken up residence somewhere within the ruins of his battered heart. But the hurt is never quite so sharp nor so sweet as when he’s with Vantacrow.
“Have you?” Vantacrow replies, and the question is layered, a double-edged blade. It hangs in the air like a shroud.
Have you changed your mind about being here, with me?
Have you changed your mind about never wanting to see my face again?
Have you changed your mind about us?
Vezalius doesn’t know how to respond.
Fate, luckily, decides to intervene.
The sound of gentle knocking shatters the burgeoning stalemate between them, followed by the sight of the door swinging open to allow Dr. Ovid into the room. He waves as he enters, appearing considerably more rumpled and tired than before, with fresh creases along his white coat and scrubs and even darker circles ringing his eyes. Still, he manages to radiate an aura of unshakable self-possession that Vezalius envies. He smiles as he approaches, polite and professional but still sincere, and stops near the foot of the bed.
“Mr. Bringer, it’s good to see you awake again. How are you feeling?”
“Like I got T-boned into a tree,” Vantacrow says jokingly, an undercurrent of laughter running through his tone.
There’s no reason for Vezalius to be upset by it, but he is. The flippancy of Vantacrow’s reply presses down on him, wraps a noose around his neck and pulls tight. Vantacrow could’ve died tonight. Vantacrow could’ve died and Vezalius would’ve been left all alone, in the dark, in the cold, picking out floral arrangements at the funeral parlor and having to decide what to do with the bo—
“It’s not funny.” Dimly, distantly, Vezalius realizes that he’s gotten to his feet. That his entire face feels hot and his cheeks are wet and he’s shaking like a leaf from head to toe. Both Vantacrow and Claude are gaping at him with their mouths open in matching O’s. “It’s not. Don’t–don’t joke about that. Please.”
Vantacrow’s expression shifts, all traces of humor and levity falling away in an instant.
“I’m sorry.” Vantacrow sits up, grimacing slightly as he moves. Vezalius’s change in position has brought him close enough for Vantacrow to touch with little effort, and he does, reaching out for
Vezalius’s clammy hand and squeezing it with his own. “I’m sorry, my love. Forgive me.”
Solemnly, Fulgur adds, “I apologize, Vezalius.”
All Vezalius can do is nod numbly as he sits back down and sinks into silence. He doesn’t pull his hand away and Vantacrow doesn’t let go either.
Conversation eludes Vezalius after that. His focus is totally shot, thoughts stuck cycling through an endless loop of what if’s, each one worse than the last.
What if no one had called Vezalius about the accident, and he’d never known that Vantacrow had been injured in the first place?
What if the accident had been worse, and Vantacrow’s injuries were more severe than they are now?
What if the other driver had hit his car differently, and Vantacrow had never made it to the hospital at all?
Vezalius feels faint at the thought.
He leans forward, bending over the edge of Vantacrow’s bed until his cheek brushes their clasped hands, and tries very hard to keep breathing evenly.
Fulgur’s voice filters into his awareness slowly, indistinct and echoing, as if coming from a far greater distance than a few feet.
“Zali, are you alright?”
Vantacrow’s voice—precious, dear, beloved Vanta—follows, calm and authoritative.
“I think we just need a moment, doc. Can you come back later?”
Fulgur’s reply, whatever it must be, is said too softly for Vezalius’s muffled ears to catch. He can tell that Fulgur listens, knows that he’s left the room, when Vantacrow’s other hand begins to gently card through his hair. It’s not something that Vantacrow would’ve done in front of him, an intimacy that belongs to the two of them alone.
Vezalius returns to himself in pieces.
When, at last, Vezalius can finally bring himself to sit up and meet Vantacrow’s tender, searching gaze, lavender eyes brimming with a kind of care that Vezalius hasn’t allowed himself to acknowledge in years, he shatters all over again. The love that shines in Vantacrow’s eyes leaves him stricken, wounded. It carves him open and bleeds him dry of any remaining resolve against the truth he’s worked so hard to deny, deny, deny, regardless of what it cost him.
“I love you,” Vezalius says, wondering if he should get down on his knees and say it again and again, recite it prayer-like to repent for his sins.
The warmth of Vantacrow’s smile settles over him like sunlight, a benediction.
“I know.”