White lights blind as eyes flutter open. Dry lips part soon after, a light cracking sound accompanying them as they do, like Aalam’s been sleeping for centuries. The stiffness in his neck tells him he really should check the time.
To his left are screens monitoring the various spaghetti like tubes hooked up to his arm. He disregards them, focusing solely on the sixteen-year-old sitting at his side, hunched over his mobile.
When the boy looks up, his eyes are red rimmed and alert. In each of their inner corners are globs of something. Dried up tears, perhaps. When from, Aalam can’t tell, but not recently; his brother’s washed out skin, normally a radiant almond tone, is free of streak marks.
“What’s wrong?” Najam asks, blindly shoving his phone into the breast pocket of his button up. The wool material bunches at his navel as he leans forward, practically falling off of his chair in anticipation of Aalam’s next words being said in a whisper.
“Nothing,” Aalam dismisses quickly. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t need me to call the nurse?”
The concern, etched into Najam’s forehead creases, garners a petite smile. He looks identical to their father. Sounds like him too, albeit not as deep and without a Northern tilt to his accent.
“No,” Aalam breathes, “I’m alright.” He runs his tongue along his rough lips, massaging them against one another like he’s trying to evenly spread chapstick residue. “Just a bit sore.”
Now that he’s reacclimated with the world around him, a searing ache can be felt pulsing from his lower abdominal. It’s a gnawing type of pain that isn’t nearly as similar to the soreness he’s grown accustomed to from years of pushing himself on the football pitch. To hide his discomfort, he looks away from Najam and towards the other person in the room.
Sleeping in the room’s only armchair, long legs bunched up to his chest, crammed between the sides at an awkward angle, is their abbu. His arms are shoved into the front pocket of an Oxford hoodie he knows to usually be their baba’s, its hood shielding him from the harsh lighting above that Aalam’s still adjusting to. On the floor, in front of the chair are black leather dress shoes that match his professional trousers.
“Do you want me to wake him?”
“No, please don’t,” Aalam says, making quick eye contact with Najam before going back to studying their abbu and the soft expression his sleeping form holds. Aalam’s selfish need to hear his voice isn’t worth jeopardizing that, especially not when he knows the mess his abbu will become when awake.
Beside him is a chair identical to the one Najam’s sat in: rigid and sure to cause a searing pain of its own if occupied for one too many minutes. On its right is the modern side table it's replaced, a single rod of metal as thin as a flamingo’s leg all that it’s balancing on. Atop it is an intimidatingly thick book surrounded by numerous paper cups.
“Baba’s here too,” Najam says, like he can sense the direction that Aalam’s mind is wandering in. “He just went to go get himself some more coffee.”
Behind Najam and his drained figure is a faded pink curtain, drawn to split the room in two.
“Do I have a roommate?” Aalam whispers, suddenly aware that thoughts shared aloud may not be as safe as he had originally perceived them to be.
“No,” Najam chuckles, his lips just barely turning up. It looks an effort. “The bed that’s there is empty.”
Aalam can feel the quizzical expression fall from his face. His father’s informal title said with such sarcastic boredom elicits a silent, oh no.
“He bribed one of the nurses to get you your own room,” Najam continues. “He didn’t want anyone bothering you or us. Something about needing to be sure there was enough room for all the doctors and equipment. But, that’s ridiculous,” he mumbles as an afterthought. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
It does if you’re Jayce Sheffield. Najam knows this just as much as Aalam does, he’s just significantly more embarrassed by their baba’s aggressive tendencies. Though he would never judge his brother for feeling this way—or any person for feeling any which way, period—Aalam can’t say he shares the same contempt. He admires the ferocity in which their baba loves, the great lengths he would go to ensure his family’s happiness and safety. The look in their abbu’s eyes any time he does tells Aalam that he’s not alone, and that perhaps their baba’s propensity is the secret behind being a good husband. A remarkably outstanding father.
“He didn’t make a scene, did he?” Aalam asks, preparing himself for the worst.
“Not for that.” After sensing Aalam wants more, Najam proceeds. “You know how he can get with Dad.”
The world knows how he can get with Dad, Aalam thinks.
“When people started to bother him in the waiting room for pictures and shit,” Najam says, “Baba lost it. Definitely gonna be a few things written about him in the papers tomorrow.”
The taut skin between Najam’s eyebrows softens. “No,” he says with a relaxed smile, “he really doesn’t.”
Above their abbu’s sleeping figure is a window stretching from the door to the wall Aalam’s bed is pushed up against. A single curtain, identical to the room’s divider, shields those walking down the hall from peering in.
“What time is it?” Aalam asks, voice quiet.
Again, Aalam’s eyes land on their abbu. Christmas is two weeks away. His and their baba’s wedding anniversary is a week before that. School lets out in a few days, the boys’ and Oxford. Somehow, between—wait. Their Uncle Aaron’s birthday. How could Aalam forget? Christmas Eve. The amount of wrath he’d face if the man ever found out such a thought worries him tense.
Outside, a squeaky gurney can be heard passing by. Aalam holds his breath until its cries are out of earshot, taking with it the possibility of their abbu’s sleep being disturbed. That’s the last thing he deserves. On top of all the personal obligations he had to fulfill, he had end-of-the-year press to adhere to before the new year. It’s been almost twelve hours since Aalam came out of surgery, ten since he can properly remember anything. Anesthesia’s a hell of a thing. But even with so much time having passed, Aalam can still feel the crushing guilt that washed over him the moment he saw their abbu, dressed in the same proper business attire he’d been excited to show off at breakfast that morning, aside his bed, worrying himself into the next century. Aalam’s pride had done that. His stupid, stupid pride. The same pride that he hardly ever let dictate his actions. He should’ve told the truth last night: the pain in his stomach wasn’t just normal upset. He should’ve listened to his body when he woke. Instead, he faked his way through porridge and shot penalty kicks like the agony wasn’t anything other than a weird muscle pull.
If he hadn’t been a fool, Najam wouldn’t have found him on the verge of blacking out hours into his backyard practice.
If he hadn’t been afraid of getting in the way, their baba wouldn’t have been on the verge of a mental breakdown, easing his eldest son down from an anxiety attack while his youngest clung to life by a thread.
He just wanted to be strong, like the man smashed in the weathered armchair, snoozing quietly. That’s all he ever wishes to be.
Casting his eyes downward causes Aalam to notice Najam’s trusty rucksack at his feet. “Have you been able to get a lot of revising done?” In the same breath, he adds, “I’m sorry I took you away from it.”
“Your bloody appendix burst and you’re apologizing to me,” Najam chastises. “I swear to god Aalam.” The named boy stays silent, unmoved. “We were in such a rush to follow the ambulance that I just grabbed this on the way out.”
The bag’s tipped over. Inside the largest pocket is nothing but black. A second ache appears in Aalam’s chest alongside the first in his abdominal.
“All my stuff’s upstairs,” Najam says, taking a deep breath. “Don’t think I’d be able to concentrate on it anyway. I can barely pay attention to my phone.”
A sardonic grin stretches Najam’s cheeks as he slowly does up his bag’s zipper. “I knew you’d eventually say something like that.”
Najam’s eye roll can practically be heard. “I did what I was supposed to.”
“Which is save me,” Aalam insists gently.
“I’m not going to admit that I’m some sort of hero if that’s what you’re tryin’ to get at.”
“The surgeon said that if you didn’t force me to stay still on the grass while the ambulance came, my appendix would’ve burst at home and not right before the operation.”
The images are blurry (a blazing fever and excruciating pain can do that to you), but Aalam can still remember being curled over in pain in their backyard, knees on the ground, ball in the net. A voice—Najam’s, it turns out—calling from the house, shouting if he was okay. Running to him when he was sick and helping him to lay down when it was clear he wasn’t aware of, anything, frankly. Aalam recalls hearing him scream at the top of his lungs for their baba, followed by a round of short repremends when Aalam had tried to sit up. He didn’t have it in him to tell his brother he wasn’t moving to prove his health, he was far past playing pretend at that point. He was moving to be sick again. But there were breathing techniques being given to him and a shaky hand pressed to his forehead, so he never got the chance. He doesn’t think he did at least, that was when his vision started to tunnel. The last thing he remembers before waking up from surgery is the sound of their baba’s voice, unbelievably soothing and pleasant. Reassuring Najam that Aalam would be fine, that he wasn’t going to die. Promising that neither of them would die so long as he was living.
Leaning forward, Najam places his forearms on the bed’s railing. Where they cross, he rests his head, turning his cheek in a rare act of vulnerability so he’s facing Aalam once he’s got himself settled.
“I’m a surgeon myself,” he teases, “didn’t you know?”
“Course I know,” Aalam replies, holding himself back from carding his hand through his brother’s hair like their abbu might. “Best surgeon in the country.”
Both share a cheeky grin.
“Do you think Abbu’s mad with me?”
It’s a question that’s been circulating in Aalam's mind since that afternoon. He would’ve asked Najam earlier, but this is the first time they've been without at least one parent in the room all day. He checks to make sure that’s still the case before locking eyes with Najam once more.
“Yeah.” After a short pause, “I know that his concern is real, but do you think he’s just being nice because I’m hurt? He takes his job seriously and I mucked that up. He was working hard so that we could all spend the holidays together and he wouldn’t have to go away and now I’m here and I-”
“He’s not mad.” Aalam’s about to refute that, say that Najam doesn’t know that for sure, but his brother keeps talking. “He’s the opposite of mad. Every time you fall asleep, Baba says prayers with him, asking that the infection clears like the doctors say it will. He’d never sing another song if it meant you would fully recover. I don’t have to hear him say that to know it’s true.”
Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, Aalam watches as Najam fights to keep his eyes open. Three blinks later and he’s out.
For several minutes the only sounds in the room are the methodical dripping of IVs and electric buzz of machinery. Then, as Aalam’s considering putting his thoughts on hold to doze off, there’s a click.
Immediately his eyes shoot to where the door’s being pushed open, in what seems like slow motion.
“Baba,” he whispers, hoping to let his father know that his cautious efforts aren’t totally needed.
All at once, the door swings open.
“Yeah,” Jayce says rushing forward, “I’m here. I’m here beta, what’s wrong?” On the way to Aalam’s bedside, he drops off his coffee in the graveyard of cups.
“Nothing,” Aalam replies with a smile. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t need me to call the nurse?”
They each look to where Andi’s shifting in his sleep, presumably to work out a kink in his back.
“No,” Aalam whispers back.
“You’re sure you feel alright?”
Although his baba’s words are said with certitude, Aalam can spot the fear in his eyes, clear as day.
“It hurts,” he confesses, “but like it’s supposed to. Like the doctor said it would for the next few weeks. It’s not new pain, I promise. I swear,” he repeats, this time in Urdu.
The switch in languages seems to convince Jayce enough to relax. “You should rest,” he says, placing a kiss in Aalam’s hair. “We’ll be here when you wake up.” Halfway to his seat, he halts, hearing Aalam call for him one more time. “Yeah?”
“Do you think you could ask if there’s a way to dim the lights?”
“I’ll turn them off,” Jayce says after retracing his steps and kissing Aalam for a second time.
“But then you won’t be able to read.”
A jolt of unease makes its way through Aalam’s system when he isn’t given a response straight away, only a pensive stare.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Jayce eventually says. “I couldn’t go a day without you.”
As a third kiss is pressed directly above his right ear, Aalam can feel a tear escape his eyes screwed shut.
“Don’t apologize,” Jayce mumbles against his hair, “just learn.” Aalam nods obediently. “I love you and your brother more than life itself. Do you understand that?” Another nod. Another tear. “A heart as big as yours I can’t always look over.” Steadily, Jayce pulls back. “No matter how desperately I wish I could. Please, for me, and for your Abbu, always take care of yourself.”
Throughout his short life, Aalam’s seen parenthood get the best of his fathers. More times than not, those moments weren’t meant for him to witness. But he had. He had, and each time he did, though he was still plagued by weary guilt, he was grateful that in those instances, he was a voyeur. Too close, and the force from that boundary bursting would’ve scarred him. He knew that if he were to see the distress swimming in his father’s eyes, sense the anxious torment radiating from his body, there was no erasing the memory. Right now, under the unforgiving hospital lights, Aalam can feel a chip fall from his spirit.
“I will,” he promises, wiping at his eyes.
“I don’t want you to cry,” Jayce says with a warm palm helping to dry the tears which continue to fall. “You’ve always brought such joy to our lives. I love you like mad for that.”
“I know,” Aalam can’t help but mumble.
A final kiss is given, followed by the room going black. Amid the darkness are small flashes of red and one dim mobile light.
Once his eyes have adapted, Aalam watches as Jayce blows on his coffee under the white glow. Before he takes to reading, he looks up at Aalam. Anticipating the gaze, Aalam shuts his eyes, doing his best to seem natural, not to squeeze too tight.
It isn’t until he hears the comforting sound of a crisp page being turned, that he lets himself drift back to sleep.
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