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[Damien Lockwood]
Damien hadn’t expected a hospital room to have this much life in it.
The space was small, pale cream walls, a clock ticking just a bit too loudly on the left, and a haphazard row of get-well cards taped next to the window, their envelopes wrinkled from handling.
A vase of fresh flowers sat on the bedside table beside an old mystery novel, their petals catching the afternoon sunlight, almost softening the sharp antiseptic smell that seemed to cling to places like this.
In the background, the heart monitor kept its steady rhythm, like a metronome no one had agreed to, but everyone had gotten used to.
Damien scanned the room. Then he focused on the man inside it.
Frank Reyes had that special quality of someone who’s been through a lot but still comes out warm rather than worn down.
He was thinner and paler than he should be, shadows lurking under his eyes showing months of tough nights.
Yet, when he looked at his son, his face showed the look of someone who’s found something worth fighting for and is giving it everything. He’d turned a hospital room into a place where laughter came easily and lingered.
It reminded Damien, unexpectedly, of something he had never quite had.
"Ollie."
Frank glanced at the empty coffee cup on his tray, a look on his face like he just thought of a genuinely useful task.
"I hate to ask, but could you run downstairs to grab me another? The café makes a hazelnut one that the nurses keep finding reasons to borrow."
Oliver looked back and forth between them, the focused suspicion of someone who’s been managed before and knows the signs. "...Now?"
Frank nodded, the serene innocence of someone who’s been using this look for fifty-three years, perfecting it.
"Unless you suddenly developed an allergy to elevators, son."
"I don’t trust that look."
"What look? I’m just smiling."
"Exactly."
Frank laughed, a genuine, unguarded laugh that filled the room and rattled slightly in his chest, which Damien noticed but kept to himself.
"Go on, it’ll only take a few minutes."
Oliver glanced at Damien, his pretty hazel eyes scanning him with slight worry. Then back at his father, then back to Damien, studying them like he was putting together a theory.
"You two better not be talking about me when I’m gone."
Damien held up his hands. "I wouldn’t dream of it."
"And yet, somehow, you’ve already formed an alliance against me." Oliver pointed at both of them, the energy of someone presenting documented evidence. "I witnessed it happen—watched it unfold in real time!"
Frank nodded solemnly. "It all happened surprisingly fast. Honestly, I was a little impressed."
"I can’t even—" Oliver grabbed his wallet with the decisive energy of someone who knows when to exit before things get worse. "I’ll be back in five minutes."
"And don’t forget the newspaper!" Frank called after him.
"I won’t forget the newspaper—"
"The crossword edition, specifically—!"
"I know—"
"Because the last time you brought the wrong one—"
"Dad."
"I’m just reminding you."
"I know what edition you like—"
"I’m sure you do."
"Goodbye!"
Frank chuckled as the door clicked shut behind Oliver, the sound settling into the room with the warmth of someone who’s been doing this for twenty-one years and still hasn’t tired of it.
Silence crept in slowly, taking over Oliver’s energy like a tide pulling back to reveal what’s underneath, quiet, more thoughtful.
The monitor beeped its steady rhythm. Somewhere down the hall, footsteps passed and faded. The clock continued to tick.
Frank reached into the bag beside his bed, unwrapping an orange candy with the ease of long habit, rolling the wrapper neatly between his fingers before setting it aside. Then he held out a second one to Damien.
"Candy?"
Damien looked at the small wrapped treat, and something about the simple gesture...the pure unpretentiousness of it, made him accept it without any of the polite deflection he might usually use.
"Thanks."
"My son always remembers these, at times." Frank said with unmistakable pride, looking at the bag Oliver had brought in rather than at Damien, like people do when they’re admiring something that represents a loved one. "Most visits. No reminders needed along with a good mystery novel or a book about the ocean."
"He mentioned they’re your favorite."
"They are," Frank smiled. "But that’s not really the point, is it?"
Then he looked up. "The point is he pays attention. He’s always noticed what matters to other people, even when he had good reason to ignore it."
They let that hang in the air, neither filling the silence, the clock marking the comfortable seconds.
Then Frank leaned back against his pillows, comfortable like someone who’s made peace with the long stretches of time and let his eyes shift to Damien with a calm, direct focus of someone determined to speak something true.
"So." He held Damien’s gaze. "Are you two really just friends?"
Damien didn’t rush his answer. He took a moment with the question...not because he didn’t know what to say, but because Frank deserved a genuine response, not a quick one like "no sir, your son and I just really like eachother and fuck. But we’re friends."
Frank softened it further by adding, "I’m not blind, son. I’ve noticed how you look at each other. Especially the way he looks at you."
Frank seemed to understand this. He unwrapped his candy, the paper crinkling softly, and waited.
To be honest, Damien also wanted to see how Frank would react to his son being with another guy.
"We’re more than that," Damien said.
Frank nodded once, satisfied, as if confirming something he already suspected. "I figured."
"We haven’t really defined it. I haven’t pushed him to do that." Damien glanced at his hands for a second before looking back at Frank. "Oliver takes his time with the things that matter. I’d rather wait until he’s ready than make him feel rushed into something."
Frank was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Outside, a cart rolled by in the hallway, wheels against linoleum, someone speaking quietly to someone else, the world continuing on as it always does.
"That sounds like you really get him," Frank said.
"He can argue about which is the best cereal brand for twelve minutes," Damien said with a small smile, one that appeared without planning. "But ask him something real and he goes quiet, I’ve learned to see the difference."
Frank laughed, the genuine kind that resonated in his chest, no performance required.
"That’s my boy." He shook his head. "Stubborn about the little stuff. Careful about the things that truly matter."
"He’s scared," Damien said, saying it plainly, not as an accusation or complaint but as a fact he’d come to accept. "Of letting people in. Of what happens next."
He locked eyes with Frank. "I don’t want to add to that. If waiting is what makes him feel safe, I’ll wait."
Frank studied him for a long moment, a true, unhurried look, the kind of assessment that came from genuine concern, not politeness, weighing a situation. He flipped the candy wrapper over once in his fingers.
"There’s something you ought to know about that," he said, his voice shifting, the warmth still there but something deeper underneath, heavier. "Because I know that Oliver would sooner dive into a pool of lava than tell you."
Damien froze.
"You see, when Oliver was nine, his mother left." Frank spoke plainly, as if sharing something he had said enough times that the rawness had worn smooth. "Abigail couldn’t handle my drinking problems anymore and I don’t blame her for that, honestly I’d leave me too."
He paused, looking toward the window where the afternoon light struggled to shine. "But she’d also fallen for someone else."
Damien didn’t say anything, allowing Frank to find his rhythm.
"The day she walked out, Oliver thought she’d be back," Frank continued, his voice steady, but Damien could hear the effort behind it. "He waited by the front window each evening for almost three months. Same chair, same time. Just waiting."
He rubbed the bare ring finger on his left hand, an automatic gesture. "He asked me every day when she would come back home."
The monitor kept its rhythm. The clock ticked on.
"I never had a good answer."