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KARL STARED AT the phone, his feet rooted to the floor, his mind racing. Oh God. Paul.
He blinked. What happened? Would he be okay? Karl slowly lowered into a crouch and picked up the cell. Dialed Paul's number again with shaky fingers. Could he have misunderstood something? Possible. Right? He hoped so.
Someone answered. A stranger's voice. They spoke; he could hardly hear them, except for the words car accident and St Joseph's. He shoved the cell in his pocket. He needed to get to the hospital. Karl shook his head. Was this really happening? He grabbed his key. Frowned. Chucked it to the counter, found the one to the Volvo.
"Charlie, come out here please." He had to get him ready.
When the boy didn't respond, Karl strode into the lounge, flicked the movie off, ignoring the sudden cry. Tucking an arm around him, he picked the boy up and moved to the kitchen. Maybe the boy shouldn't go. Maybe he should stay with Natasha in reception? Karl didn't know how bad it was.
Oh God, how bad was it?
His heart raced, blood pulsed in his ears. How bad?
Might be too much for Charlie to see. Hell, it might be too much for him to see. He didn't do well in a crisis, much less when blood was involved. And not just anyone's blood. That thought was too much to contend with; he shook it off. Focused himself on whether Charlie should come or not. It was late. But what if it's the last chance for him and Paul . . . How could he think that? No, Paul would be fine.
Still, better if Charlie came with him.
He pressed firmly on both of Charlie's shoulders. "We're going to the hospital. Your papa"—his voice croaked, he coughed to continue—"had a little accident." He hoped it was little. It was little. Surely. Paul had rung him. Rung him. "We're going to go see him and make sure he's okay."
Charlie looked into Karl's eyes. "Is papa okay?"
"I hope so." Karl stood abruptly, fished in the pantry for the jar of cookies. Grabbed a handful and stuffed them into Charlie's pockets. "For the trip. Now, let's get your jacket on and get moving."
Charlie buckled into the car, Karl jumped into the front seat. Fired the engine. Now to St. Joseph's. The boy kept asking something, but he only caught half of the words. His mind kept skittering, like he was losing his focus. Why did it bubble inside?
Traffic inched. Karl grieved at how long it was taking to get across town. Another red light. He gritted his teeth, felt the grooves in the wheel dig into his palms.
He beeped the horn when the light changed, and the idiot driver in front didn't move. He readied to roar across the intersection when they approached. Yellow light. He jerked into a brake. It would've been calling it close. He couldn't risk something like that. Not with Charlie in the car. Not considering . . . Paul.
Beautiful Paul. His gray eyes only an hour before searching his own . . . The wonderful smile, dimple begging for attention, his laugh . . . then those lips meeting his with an electric buzz. The quiet moan that had slipped from his mouth. The need to feel him closer. Wrap his arms around his torso, press their chests together. His cell rang. Gillian.
"What's happening?" Her voice sounded worried.
He mumbled what he knew. Her sharp intake of breath had him swallowing hard. He was glad to disconnect.
Cars beeped at him. Green light, right.
More beeps.
Come on! He was on it. Jesus. "Merry fucking Christmas back at you!"
Charlie sniffed and whimpered under his breath. Fuck! Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?
Everything was wrong. This was all wrong. Karl reached a hand to the back seat. "Charlie? Sorry. I'm sorry. It's okay, okay? It'll be all right. We'll all be all right. We'll be fine." His voice started shaking—that bubbling feeling rising again. "Just fine."
He glanced at the boy in the rearview mirror. Charlie was nodding his head, but his breathing stayed irregular. "She-sha, she-sha," he whispered. "Make Papa better."
Karl's eyes burned until the road fuzzed. He blinked. Needed to concentrate. Though right now, he wanted to pull over, take Charlie in his arms, and rock him till he calmed.
His cell beeped again. A text. Anonymous.
At a pause in the traffic, he read. In small accident. Am OK. Light whiplash and fractured arm. Concussion. Look after Charlie. Will ring when you should come to pick me up. Sorry. Paul.
His grip slackened on the wheel. The next free space, he pulled over. Rested his head on the wheel. The bubbling churned inside—he needed it to settle. It was making him stupid. Keep it together, man. A belt clicked. A little hand rested between his shoulder blades. Little puffs of cookie air on his cheek. "Is Papa okay?" he sounded unsure, but hopeful.
Karl crushed the boy to his chest. Hairs tickled his nose. "Papa's going to be fine. Your magic works, Charlie. It works so well!" Thin arms hugged him back.
"It'll be okay, Karly." The strength of this boy. So caring. . . .
His brain was foggy even though Paul said he was fine.
Said he was fine. Somehow, he still needed to see it. Hearing wasn't enough; he and Charlie needed to know. Karl sniffed and pulled himself together, giving Charlie a comforting smile. Or he hoped it was.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the side mirror. Pale. More than he'd seen himself before. No wonder Charlie worried; he had to keep it together. Be strong for him. He rubbed the boy's back. "Thank you, Charlie. Your hugs are magic too."
Charlie smiled and clambered into his chair. Karl waited until he heard the click. Checked the boy in the mirror once more, and turned on the ignition. "Let's go get Papa."
* * *
Almost midnight. Five hours of sitting on a hard plastic chair, the back of it digging into Karl's back, his butt tingling with numbness. Chip packets, long since fallen to the floor, crackled as he straightened his leg.
He lightly ran a hand over Charlie's hair like he'd been doing the last hour. The boy took a sudden deep breath, and Karl paused, not wishing to wake him where he softly slept, head on Karl's lap. With his free hand, he flicked open his cell, hoping for a reply to the message sent to that same anonymous number.
Seeing small goose bumps on Charlie's arm, Karl carefully shrugged out of his pullover and laid it over him. Maybe it would have been fairer to Charlie to go home, but, no, he just couldn't.
Inside, the hollowness continued to tug, to widen; each passing minute he wondered if Paul had played his injuries down, perhaps they were far more serious. Each time someone walked into the waiting room, his head snapped to attention. Hope quickly faded into nausea; calming excuses and nightmarish images battled in his mind.
A wheelchair came through the door; Karl's heart leapt into his throat. Not him. Thank God.
Charlie whined a little as he snuggled into Karl's jumper. Karl swallowed. "Thanks for being here little buddy."
Air stirred. He lifted his tired, hopeful head. He blinked, wanted to rub his eyes to be sure it was really Paul there. He jumped to his feet, startling Charlie awake.
"Papa!" Charlie yelped.
Karl stood frozen, his gaze jumping past a nurse to Paul. He scanned Paul's body, stomach plummeting at the sight of the wheelchair and cast on his right arm. Charlie leaped onto his papa's lap. Paul patted Charlie's head, smiling. He acknowledged Karl with a nod, but didn't bring the smile with it.
Charlie asked something.
"Just until someone picks him up," the nurse answered him "Your Papa's fine. A couple of days bed rest and four weeks of the cast, and he'll be as good as new."
As good as new. Paul was fine. Would be fine! His legs buckled and he fell onto the plastic stool again. Karl grabbed his jumper, squeezing, forcing himself to regain control. He wobbled a smile and met Paul's glassy eyes. "Let's get you home, then."
Paperwork. Prescriptions. After-hours pharmacy. All the things that needed to be done blurred by. The drugs they'd given Paul slackened his movements. He barely spoke. But that was because of the drugs. And he was probably just too tired to smile. Or raise his head to look at him.
Karl drove slowly through the now almost empty streets. Charlie slept soundly in the back. Paul rested his head against the window, staring out into the darkness. Karl flinched as his tooth pierced his bottom lip. He smudged the blood into his mouth. Just too tired.
Still, the silence begged him to break it. Or maybe something in his gut did. "How are you feeling?"
A long wait. Karl frowned. And then Paul's soft sigh. "I'm so sorry, Karl. I know what that car meant to you."
What the—"Is that why you're all moody?" His words came out sharp. "Who gives a f—about a car, when you could've—" All the horrifying images of the night rippled though his mind. "—could've been . . . " His vision blurred. He gripped the wheel. "Someone rammed up your tail, it's not even your fault!" He took a breath. And another one. "It was never about how much it was worth."
"Yeah, but I was too close to the car in front. And it's the sentimental value of the car that makes it worse. It was special to you. And it's totaled. The day you give me your trust, give me something that means that much to you and look what happens." Paul turned his head on the window so his forehead rested on the pane. Could he get any further away from Karl while still in the car?
The rest of the drive, they sat in silence. Back at home, Karl laid Charlie into bed and met Paul, slumped over the kitchen table. He wanted to see a smile. See a smile just for him. He could've lost that today.
"Are you in pain? Do you need some pills?"
Paul shook his head. "I'm tired, though." He glanced at his cast.
Karl held in a disappointed sigh. "Let's get you to bed, then."
Darting to his room, Karl quickly shucked out of his clothes, keeping on his boxers, and donning a T-shirt. He met Paul in his room, sitting on the side of his bed fiddling unsuccessfully with his shirt buttons.
Karl went over, plucked Paul's hand away. Knelt on the floor in front of him and gently tugged it off, sucking in a breath at the red line running diagonally over his chest. "Oh God, Paul, I'm so sorry." His hands shook as he touched to one side of the mark. He teased a little hair between two fingers as he continued to stare at it.
It wasn't until Karl looked up into Paul's face, he noticed the damp cheeks. Karl brushed his hand over one. "What can I do?"
Paul gripped his hand. "Nothing. I'm just so—so tired, and . . . "
"And?"
"I'm sorry I was so moody."
The simple apology had Karl near tears again. He leaned in and kissed Paul gently. "You get a free pass. Today." Then pulled Paul's good hand so he stood. Linking fingers into Paul's waistband, he undid his pants, crunched them to the floor, and made Paul step out. While Paul attempted to tug his comforter down, Karl folded the pants and laid them with his shirt on a chair.
Paul groaned in pain and cursed. "I hate sleeping on my left."
Karl chuckled and slid in next to the wriggling body. "Better get used to it. You've got at least four weeks more of that thing. Stay still and I can massage your back, if it helps get you more comfortable?"
Paul quickly settled down, and Karl smiled. So, he liked a massage, did he? Paul's Mmmm confirmed it, when Karl rubbed small circles into his shoulder blades and either side of his spine. He made sure to touch every part of bare skin, feeling his smile strain his lips at each encouraging murmur. Karl stopped a moment to rub an itch from his nose, and Paul wriggled again.
As he continued prodding Paul's back, the night's events replayed in his mind. He moved in closer to Paul, his breath stirring his hair. "You remembered my number." Must have, to message him from someone else's phone.
Paul's head moved. Was that a nod? His tired voice hummed out of him, somewhat slurred. "Memorized it."
"You did?" His words fell out a whisper on Paul's neck.
A soft reply, "I memorize everything . . . about you."
Karl rested his head against Paul's upper back. Was this all Paul talking, or were his meds really kicking in and he wouldn't remember this in the morning? "Really?"
Another move on Paul's part. "Your brown eyes have little flecks of blue in the middle." Paul's voice came out tired, but . . . happy? "Just enough, so that when you wear green, they look green too."
Karl swallowed. He didn't even know that.
Paul yawned deeply, and at the end of it all twisted, and mumbled, "Like to see you before you go to bed."
Slinking over, Karl held his breath, only releasing it as he laid his head on the other side of Paul's pillow, the casted arm between them. A leg inched to his, and Karl, taking it as an invitation, hooked his leg around it. Paul shifted so his good arm reached out and grabbed a fist of Karl's shirt. "Thank you, Karl."
A smile. Karl savored the moment, drinking every etch in, even how the shadows fell in the room onto his face. Beautiful.
Paul traced the smile on his face with his finger. He stopped on the middle of his upper lip. "I want to memorize the inside stuff too, and I d-don't want to w-w" he paused a moment, collected a tired breath, "don't want to waste another opportunity."
Karl's stomach curled in on itself, warmth and energy rising up his torso with it.
Paul tapped Karl's lip, his lids drooping. "Tell me everything, Karl. Please. Everything. From the best moment of your life, to the most embarrassing, to how you chipped your tooth."
A long yawn trickled out of Paul.
Stroking Paul's hair, Karl leaned in and kissed him. "I will, Paul." He drew back. "But that one's not for tonight. Another time, promise. Now sleep, handsome."
"Hmmm, handsome, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
The smile on Paul's face as his lids fluttered shut tugged at Karl. That was his smile. What he'd been waiting for. Karl twisted onto his back but kept his head turned to Paul. Had this been the best or the worst Christmas of his life? Both, somehow.
Within minutes, Paul's snores filled up the silence of the room. At least the heaviness of it was regular. Something he could get used to? Did he want to get used to it? No, it was loud and obnoxious. Just the thought made him cranky. But . . . maybe. He watched the blankets as they rose and fell with Paul. How his bottom lip jutted slightly open. How he mumbled occasionally . . . Karl leaned over and kissed his forehead, wishing him pleasant dreams.
He vacated the bed, but as he reached the bathroom door, turned back. It didn't feel right leaving him here, alone.
Because . . . Karl frowned. Well, he'd had a concussion today; he should stay to keep an eye on him. And what if he needed his pain meds in the night? It'd be much easier for him to grab them than Paul. Yes, he should stay.
Karl padded back to the bed, but still couldn't bring himself to slide in. He just wasn't tired. Actually, he was, but just so tired he was beyond sleep.
He veered toward the crack in the curtains and widened it. Glanced out the window onto the road. A red car drove by. Sleek, like his Lamborghini. Was.
Karl shot a glance to Paul. Tucked up. Safe. That was all that mattered. Really.
His stomach flipped; Karl huddled onto the floor, hugging his knees, and watched the city. Really, really. That was all that mattered. For a second time that night, he tongued his tooth. Shivered. Pop would have said the same thing. Would have agreed.
He rested his forehead on his cold knees, liking the pressure on his full head. Disliking the mix of feelings in his gut—the part that grieved for his baby. He banged his head against his knees at his next thought: Had it been a bad idea to give Paul the key?
How could he possibly think that? It was an accident. He shouldn't care about a car. He didn't.
Really.
A dull glow hovered in the sky. Close to dawn already? He scanned the room for a clock. The strap of Paul's watch winked at him from behind a glass of water. Four o'clock. He very much doubted he'd get to sleep before Charlie woke . . . He'd better try though, Paul needed his bed-rest; Karl was on kid duty. He gently put down the watch, remembering one of their first real conversations. Paul wanted to be buried in it. Would he ever let go of Laura completely? Was it unreasonable to wish he would?
Why couldn't he just stop thinking, stop imagining all the ways that he and Paul could go wrong? Why was he so very, very afraid that they would?
He held his breath and slipped into bed behind Paul. Whispered, to himself, to Paul, to the world, "I don't want us to waste an opportunity, either."