The hospital room was quiet quiet once again, except for the soft hum of the machines and the occasional beep of the drip monitor. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting faint stripes across Julian's bed. His dog lay curled at the foot, eyes half-closed, occasionally twitching its ears at a distant sound.
Tommy stood silently near the door, hands in his pockets, not sure whether to sit, keep standing, or hover somewhere in between. Julian's eyes, still sharp despite the thinness of his body and the IV lines running into his arms, followed him. There was a tension in the air, the kind that makes small movements feel heavy. Neither spoke.
Finally, Julian broke the silence. His voice was quiet, but carried weight. "You don't have to just stand there," he said, his fingers moving slightly to adjust the blanket around his shoulders. "Come closer."
Tommy swallowed hard and stepped forward. He crouched by the bed, brushing a few stray strands of hair from Julian's forehead. "I… I just—" He paused, then ran a hand over Julian's arm lightly, checking the position of the drip line. "I'm making sure everything's okay."
Julian let out a short laugh, not entirely happy. "I'm not fragile, Tommy. Stop treating me like I'll break."
Tommy flinched at the sharpness, but Julian's eyes softened almost immediately. "I… I can't help it," Tommy admitted quietly, barely above a whisper. "I'm scared. Every time I see you like this… I'm just scared, Julian."
Julian looked at him then, really looked, and saw the fear behind Tommy's steady posture. He noticed the tension in the boy's hands, the slight tremble as he adjusted the pillow. Julian's chest tightened. He wanted to reach out, to soothe, but he also wanted to test Tommy a little—wanted to know if Tommy's care came from obligation or something deeper.
"Tell me," Julian said softly, "if I were… if I were healthy, would you still do all this? Would you still… care for me the way you do now?"
Tommy froze, his heart skipping a beat. He opened his mouth, then closed it. The words were heavy, too heavy. Finally, he said, voice breaking slightly: "I… I'd still care. I'd still—stay. Doesn't matter if you're sick or not. You matter to me, Julian. More than I… than I know how to say."
Julian felt warmth in his chest, but also a sharp sting of vulnerability. "More than… what?" he asked quietly, though his voice had no accusation, only curiosity.
"More than I should admit," Tommy said finally, a bitter laugh escaping him. "More than I thought was possible. I… I've always been scared of losing you, Julian. And every time I see you like this, every time I—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I can't say it all. I'm… I'm not good at saying it."
Julian's eyes softened, and he reached a hand toward Tommy, letting it rest lightly on Tommy's arm. "I know," he said, "even without saying it. I already know."
Tommy looked down at the hand on his arm, then back at Julian's calm, tired face. He wanted to pull Julian into a hug, to tell him everything he'd ever held back—but he held himself back. Julian's small, sad smile was a permission and a warning all at once. He could stay close, but he couldn't rush him.
They stayed like that for a while, quiet, the room filled only with the faint clicks of the drip and the occasional shuffle of the dog. Julian eventually broke the silence again, softer this time, more teasing: "You know… Tommy, you act like I'm your responsibility, but I can handle things too. Don't make me the only thing you think about."
Tommy huffed softly, not angry, just frustrated. "I know, I know… it's just that," He let his hand brush against Julian's again, lingering longer than needed. "I don't want to lose you."
Julian's lips quirked into a small, amused smile, though his eyes betrayed the seriousness of what he said. "I'm not going anywhere, Tommy. Don't worry."
The dog stirred at that moment, nudging Tommy's knee with its nose. Tommy bent down absentmindedly and petted the dog, and Julian watched the small, gentle movement, realizing something he hadn't admitted to himself: Tommy's care, his quiet protectiveness, was something he had always wanted, but never understood the depth of it until now.
After a few minutes, Julian spoke again, voice low, a little hesitant. "Tommy…"
Tommy's head shot up. "Yeah?"
Julian hesitated, then said quietly, "Don't… don't let me be the only thing you focus on. You have your life, your friends… and your feelings… I don't want you losing yourself for me."
Tommy's throat tightened, and he shook his head slowly, swallowing the lump in his chest. "I won't promise that.."
Julian smiled, reaching again to clasp Tommy's hand lightly. "That's enough. That's really enough."
Silence returned. Neither needed to speak anymore. Words had been said, enough to make the unspoken understandings between them heavier, but also more freeing. Tommy felt it in his chest—the pull, the tether to Julian, the promise to stay. Julian felt it too, a quiet certainty that someone would always stand by him, no matter what.
The afternoon wore on slowly. The sunlight dimmed, shadows stretching across the room. Julian's dog moved to curl at the foot of the bed again, and Tommy adjusted the blanket, letting Julian rest.
Finally, as evening approached, Tommy reluctantly stood, brushing his hands on his pants. Julian watched, feeling an odd ache in his chest. "You're leaving?" he asked.
Tommy shook his head slightly, forcing a small smile. "I have to. But… I'm not going far. I'll be back tomorrow. I'll check on you."
Julian nodded, reaching out one last time to squeeze Tommy's hand gently. "Don't disappear."
Tommy's eyes softened, and he answered, voice low but sure: "I won't."
He left slowly, leaving Julian alone in the room, but the space didn't feel empty. There was a quiet comfort, a new understanding, and a fragile, growing bond that hadn't been there before. Julian lay back, hands clasped over his chest, thinking about what had just happened, about how much Tommy had risked showing his feelings, and about how much that made him feel… safe.
The night air was cool as Liam slowed his bike in front of Oliver's house. The engine hummed softly before he finally turned it off. For a moment, neither of them moved. Oliver's hands were still wrapped around Liam's waist, as if letting go would make the night end too quickly.
Liam glanced over his shoulder. "You're already home," he said quietly, but his tone said he didn't want to accept it.
Oliver smiled faintly. "I know."
He then got down from the bike.
Liam sighed, then turned fully to face him. Before Oliver could say anything else, Liam pulled him closer. His arms tightened around Oliver's back, firm and warm, as if he was trying to memorize the feeling. Then he leaned in and kissed him. It was slow, lingering, full of reluctance.
Oliver's heart thumped hard in his chest. He kissed Liam back, fingers gripping the collar of Liam's jacket. Neither of them wanted to pull away. When they finally did, their foreheads rested together.
"I don't want to leave you," Liam murmured.
Oliver smiled softly. "You'll see me tomorrow."
Liam nodded, though he still looked unconvinced. He brushed his thumb lightly over Oliver's cheek one last time before stepping back. Oliver turned toward the house, taking a deep breath before walking inside.
He didn't know someone had already heard everything.
Inside the house, Mrs. Montero had just arrived to pick up a few things she'd forgotten earlier. As she set her bag down, the sound of a motorbike reached her ears. She paused.
Then walked to the door and opened it.
What she saw froze her.
Oliver. With another boy.
She squinted her eyes. With Liam. Kissing.
Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, her mind went blank. Her heart skipped, then began to pound painfully. This wasn't right. This wasn't what she expected. A burning sensation spread through her chest, sharp and familiar.
She closed the door slowly and walked into the kitchen, her steps unsteady as she clutched her painful chest. She poured herself a cup of water and drank it in one go, then another, relieving the acute pain in her chest.
Just then, the door opened.
Oliver stepped in and stopped short when he saw the lights on. His eyes widened slightly. "Mom?" he asked. "You're home?"
He quickly lowered his voice. "What did you come to pick up?"
Mrs. Montero didn't answer right away. She turned to look at him, really look at him, and Oliver felt his stomach sink. She looked tired. Much leaner than before.
"Oliver," she finally said, her voice quiet, "do you know what you're doing?"
His heart skipped. He knew at once. She had seen it.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead, he looked away and slowly turned toward the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last.
Behind him, his mother spoke again. "Think carefully before you make decisions," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm tired… I don't even know what to say anymore." She paused, then added softly, "Sometimes I feel like I didn't raise you well."
Oliver stopped for a second, his hand gripping the railing. But he didn't turn back. He continued up the stairs and disappeared into his room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Mrs. Montero stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Finally, she walked closer and spoke toward the door, her voice weary.
"Oliver… come and close the door. I'm leaving now."
There was no answer.
She waited. Still nothing.
She sighed, a deep, heavy sound, then turned away. Picking up her bag, she walked out of the house, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than any argument.
Upstairs, Oliver sat on his bed, staring at the wall, his heart still racing—caught between love, fear, and the quiet weight of his mother's disappointment...