2.5
Cristiano had done better these last few days. He had eaten when they'd told him to, as much as it had pained him to force the food into his system. He'd had a stomach ache but didn't complain, just curled into his bed.
He was terrified of gaining weight -- of what he must look like. Cris hadn't seen his own face in months. He knew he must be horribly ugly -- too skinny but not skinny enough, and his face had to be tired and gaunt from the lack of nutrition, his cheeks hollowed, the circles deep under his eyes. He tried to push the thought from his mind, but during his small meal two weeks after Ruud had come back, he broke down in tears in his room, shaking his head.
"I can't, I can't…"
"Cristiano," the nurse who had been attending to him said, her voice frustrated, irritated, "you need to eat. You were doing so well, just eat."
Cristiano shook his head, pushing the food away from himself. "No, no, I can't," he said softly, the tone in the nurse's voice making him feel worse.
"I'm. C-can I see Ruud?" he asked, pleading, the woman, who was much larger than himself, much stronger -- looked like she could snap Cristiano's arms in half with one motion -- who put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes.
"You can see him after you've eaten."
Cristiano's breathing quickened, and he shook his head. "I-I can't, don't you understand? I-I'm, I'm already so ugly, I-I just need to see Ruud, I-I…" He swallowed, pressing a few bony fingers to his eyes, trying to stop the tears from slipping past, trying to be good, trying desperately to be good. If he couldn't be good, he had nothing going for him -- he wasn't beautiful or smart. He had to be good.
"P-please, I just want to see him."
The nurse rolled her eyes again and told Cristiano to wait, and left the room. Cris stared at the plate, at the food on it, fingers trembling. He picked up the plate, skeletal arms carrying it across the room to the trash, placing half of the food in the bin. It was too much, no matter how little there was.
It was nearly half an hour before Ruud was in the doorway, looking worried. The other nurse hadn't followed him back to Cristiano's room, and Cris was grateful for that; he didn't like her one bit, the way she blatantly looked at his bones, at his skin. He wanted to shout at her, I know I'm ugly and falling apart, stop looking at me!
Ruud stepped into the room, looking somewhat haggard and overworked. Cris knew he had picked up more shifts, that he always tried to come on his breaks and usually made it for at least a few minutes. He sat down on the bed next to Cristiano, looking down at the plate in his hands, half of the food missing.
"Are you alright, kleintje?"
Cris nodded, looking at the fork in his hand. He could see his reflection in the shining metal, and though it was stretched and distorted by the curves of the silverware, he knew he looked horrible, knew he was the ugliest patient in the ward. All the other boys were beautiful -- sad, thin, falling apart, but beautiful all the same. Cris wasn't. He was a piece of newspaper in the rain, shredding itself to pieces, ink running, pictures fading to a mess of grey smudges. That's what Cris was. A grey smudge in the mirror.
"W-what does that word mean?"
"What -- kleintje?"
Cris nodded. Somehow, he had never asked what it meant before. He hoped it meant something nice -- hoped that Ruud thought nice things about him, even when he wasn't around.
"It. It means little one, in Dutch… you say it to someone you care about." Ruud smiled a little sadly and reached up to touch the back of Cris' head gently.
"I say it to you because you are one of the most important people in my life."
Cris bit his lip, closing his eyes. He could feel himself shaking all over again. He wanted to be good, but not because he felt he had to. He wanted to be good for Ruud because he loved Ruud… and he wanted Ruud to keep loving him back.
He pushed a mouthful of food onto his fork, looking at it for a moment before he placed it in his mouth, chewing slowly, thoroughly, his eyes closed. It felt too thick, like he could never swallow it, but he did, forced it down and looked up at Ruud, who had happy tears stuck in his eyes.
"Danke je, fraaiheid…" he said softly. Cristiano looked up at him with nervous eyes, clearly questioning, and Ruud smiled wider, leaning forward to kiss his forehead.
"Thank you, beauty."
--
Cesc was lying back on the couch in Henry's office. His eyes were closed. He was exhausted. He had spent an hour telling Henry everything, opening up to him for the first time since he had been at the hospital. He couldn't look at Henry, not with the appraising glances he was sure would be stuck all over the doctor's face at the way he talked of war.
Cesc told Henry how it felt to walk past the bodies of children on the streets and feel his heart scream, but keep a stone face. He told him what it felt like to be told he was going home to his mother, how he had wanted desperately to break down and cry but had kept his eyes strong and solid in the face of his commanding officer. He told him what it had felt like to be dropped into combat, how his fingers had shaken on the trigger of his gun for days.
He cried, in Henry's office. The tears had run down his face, his voice had faltered several times, but he had pressed on, told Henry how tight his chest felt, how full he felt with feelings and tension. How letting them out would have been the worst thing he could do, in the army. How he would have been discharged for Conduct Unbecoming of An Officer, if he had asked for therapy or to be taken out of combat. How they couldn't spare any bodies on the front line.
Bodies. They had called them bodies even though they were still alive, he told Henry, his voice just as shocked as his mind had been the first time someone had said that, had called him a body. He told Henry how afraid he had been to die, how terrifying the desert had been -- stretching out endlessly, too bright but dark, somehow, too.
Henry had listened silently, only gently encouraging Cesc very softly, and only when Cesc would stop, would falter.
They had run over time nearly an hour ago when Cesc finally stopped, when he was empty, his voice hoarse and broken but, for the first time since he had been in the hospital, Henry could see a tired smile on Cesc's face, one that had no forced expression beneath it.
Henry sent Cesc back to his room, knowing that he needed to sleep, that he could be nothing less than falling apart. But he didn't allow Cesc to leave his office without placing both hands on his shoulders, choosing his words deliberately and saying them firmly, proudly.
"You are so brave, peu une, to tell me all of that, to finally let me see it all the way you have. To let down your armor."
Cesc had smiled sleepily and Thierry thought it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, walking Cesc back to his room in silence.
From there, he went to King Eric's office. He knocked on the door, softly, and swallowed at the deep, french voice that responded. "Entrez."
Thierry stood in the doorway for all of one second before sitting himself in front of Eric's desk, looking at his hands the way Dimitar had not a week earlier. "You were right."
Eric raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. "What have you discovered, Thierry?"
"I forgot why I wanted to do this. I don't know how you knew, but you did -- you told me to do the job I have not done in at least a year. It is my job to listen. And for a long time, I heard, but I didn't understand, you know? I didn't understand."
Eric nodded, tenting his fingers.
"And do you now?"
"That boy. The soldier. He opened up his heart and showed me every chamber."
Eric nodded, hesitating invisibly for a moment before standing and moving around the desk, standing before Thierry, whose eyes were still fixed on his lap. He placed a strong hand on Thierry's shoulder heavily, smiling.
"You understand once again."
--
Ryan had gone weeks without a panic attack. Paul was proud, more proud than he ever could have told Ryan. Ryan seemed proud, too -- the smile on his face, his last day in the hospital, as Paul helped him fold up his things, was genuine. It was shining and perfect and properly sunshiny, and Paul couldn't stop smiling, himself, not looking at that.
Ryan had spent his last night in the hospital, was rested and, though he seemed to be nervous, it was a different kind of feeling that filled the room. Paul could feel the nervous energy filling the room, but it was pleased. Excited. Ryan looked up from the small pile of clothes he had just placed in his suitcase, eyes resting on Paul, who stood at the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching Ryan.
Ryan grinned at him, straightening. Paul grinned back.
"Are you nervous to go out there again?"
Ryan nodded, still smiling. "A little. I don't want it to have changed too much… but," he said softly, his voice even and steady. "Doctor Ferguson. He's letting me come back to work part-time. I'm going to be a nurse again… as long as I'm on my medication." He paused, looking back at his suitcase, nodding a little. "He's going to help make sure I take it."
Paul took Ryan to therapy -- his last therapy session. Ryan asked Paul to stay, his big brown eyes hopeful like they had never been before everything had fallen into place. Paul had sat down next to him, and Ryan had taken his hand for a moment, squeezing tightly before letting Paul's hand rest on his own knee. Paul had swallowed, and then smiled widely, reaching to pat Ryan on the back, the touch more than gentle.
"So, Ryan," King Eric's voice boomed in the room, clean white pad in front of him, hand poised with a pen, Ryan's chart open on the long, shiny wooden table that sat in the stately looking room where his final therapy session -- the one to sign him off -- was being held. "Let us start with your anxiety levels. Are you feeling anxious about returning to work?"
Ryan took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, before meeting Eric's, his voice confident.
"Yes. But mostly, I am excited. Excited to be able to help people again, the way you all have helped me -- to help my own patients get back to their lives."
Eric nodded, smiling. "Perfectly normal."
They talked for some time, about Ryan's medical history and his boss, Doctor Ferguson, who had, of course, been as supportive as he ever could have been in this situation. Eric made sure that Ryan was aware that if he stopped taking his medication, Ferguson would inform them, and Ryan had smiled, that brilliant smile that Paul couldn't look away from whenever it graced that lovely tanned face, and he raised an eyebrow.
"I don't think I'll be going off of my medication again, King Eric," he said, quietly, but earnest, honest. "This is the best I've felt since I was a boy."
Eric, with Paul's quiet, unobtrusive, but firm input, had worked out a therapy schedule with Ryan. He would visit twice a week.
Paul could scarcely believe he was leaving; that this was the same man, though there was certainly that sweetness still in him. Paul could feel his confidence starting to fill the room, and he couldn't help smiling, despite how much he'd miss Ryan.
Miss him. Paul was going to miss him.
--
Eric had known that this day would be eventful when he'd woken up. He had scheduled Ryan's therapy for the morning; Nemanja's for around noon; Cesc's for the afternoon. Today was a day where a weight would be lifted from Eric's shoulders, and from his patients'; today was a day when they would go free.
Ryan had been doing well. Eric was unconcerned about his recovery. Ryan seemed well aware that if he needed to come back, he was always welcome. Eric knew Paul would be insisting on keeping in touch just by the look in his eye, despite his calm, understated demeanor. Eric knew better; Paul cared deeply for Ryan.
Nemanja's recovery had weighed on Eric's mind since the first time he had seen the man -- the man who was truly, in some ways, still a boy inside -- react negatively to something. He had known it would be a difficult road, but with the way Rio had smiled as they sat down in his final session -- nevermind the way Nemanja had smiled, surely the first time Eric had seen it anything but defeated or slightly sinister -- Eric knew that Rio's suggestion had been warranted.
"Therapy three times a week, Nemanja, yes?"
"Yes. Sir?"
Eric looked at him, his gaze questioning, but not firm.
"You can call me Nema."
Eric smiled when Rio did, and nodded. "Very well. Nema. Three times a week. And you'll be living in a halfway house for the first six months."
Nemanja nodded, and took a deep breath. "And… Rio told me I can come back if I think I am going to start to lose control of my anger again."
Eric nodded.
After an hour of speaking with Nemanja -- whose demeanor had vastly improved -- Eric signed the form to release him.
Rio helped Nema pack, smiling a little sadly. He laughed, though, at the way Nemanja chattered softly about the job Rio had found for him -- an assembly job, working on cars. Nemanja liked to work with his hands, Rio had discovered through many long talks while he bandaged up Nemanja's hands, from various injuries.
He saw Nemanja to the front door of the hospital, the cab that the hospital had already paid for and given instructions to idling in the loop at the front of the building. Nema held his only suitcase at his side, looking off to one side a bit awkwardly, smiling sheepishly.
"This is it, bruv," Rio said, smiling, eyebrows raised. "You're free to get the hell outta here."
Nema nodded, laughing a little. He hesitated. He wasn't sure he was ready for this; it was too soon, there were too many things that might set him off in the real world.
"You'll be fine," Rio said, seeming to read his thoughts. "Just keep your nose clean, 'ey, Nema?"
Nema nodded, smiling at Rio, and sighing firmly. "Right."
They said goodbye, and Nema pushed his suitcase into the cab before himself, sitting down in the backseat. He paused, the door still open, and, suddenly, stood quickly from the seat, practically launching himself at Rio, who was still stood very close to the door. He wrapped his arms tight around him, eyes squeezed closed. He couldn't help the feelings that had welled up inside him -- the love for Rio, for all that he'd done to keep Nemanja from killing someone; to get him out, knowing how to deal with his anger better than he ever had in his life.
They stayed like that for a few minutes, Rio's strong, muscular arms just as tight around Nemanja. When they finally parted, and Nema stepped into the cab, it was with the knowledge that they'd see each other again the next week.
In the afternoon, Cesc's final meeting went smoothly. He seemed amiable, unstressed; Eric couldn't recall seeing the young soldier the way he was now since he had arrived at the hospital. The best way that Eric could have described it was that Cesc appeared to be thinking simply. Unfussed, not upset about Eric and Henry's insistence that he leave the army (though Eric had already contacted his regimen, and Cesc would be honorably discharged).
But what was more surprising to Eric was the way Thierry really did seem changed; he smiled through the appointment, touching Cesc's shoulder affectionately, the way Eric hadn't seen him with a patient in years. The way he seemed to look forward to twice-a-week sessions with Cesc; it warmed Eric's heart. It let him know that Thierry still had one in there, under all that charming french veneer and smarmy, handsome outward appearance.
Cesc had gone back to his room to gather his things -- the photos of his family being the last things placed into his suitcase -- and to say goodbye to Yoann.
Yoann was curled on his bed, watching Cesc pack, smiling sadly at him every time Cesc glanced his way. When Cesc was finished, all his things neatly in his duffel bag, he sat down on Yoann's bed next to him, lost for words for a few moments, playing with his hands in his lap.
"I don't know how to thank you."
Yoann's expression read bashful confusion for a moment, but Cesc grinned and shook his head.
"Don't look at me like that… I never could have told him if it weren't for you."
Yoann swallowed hard and blinked quickly. He had known this goodbye was coming, ever since he had woken Cesc that night, but it didn't make it any easier; nor was it made easier by the number of goodbyes Yoann had had to say. It would never get easier, Yoann had decided. It would never be easy to say goodbye to someone who listened even though he couldn't speak.
Cesc put his arms around Yoann, who was sitting now, each pair of eyes filling with tears. Cesc cried audibly in Yoann's arms, and for a few moments, Yoann just shook.
The softest sob escaped him then, in a voice he had heard only sparingly. Soft, but audible, to both Cesc and Yoann. Cesc squeezed him tighter, though no more sounds came out of him, and then pulled back to look at him, both faces tearstained, both sets of fingers trembling.
"You're going to get out of here someday," Cesc said softly, and looked Yoann dead in the eye. Yoann tried to look away, but Cesc held his face gently between two shaking hands, shaking his head. "You're going to, and then you're going to come and see me. B-but I promise I'll be back before then. I'll come to visit you."
Yoann nodded and swallowed hard again, burying his face against Cesc's shoulder. The two of them looked up to see Henry at the door to escort Cesc out.
Down the hall, Dimitar was signing halfway house forms for Kaka. Cesc smiled at him on his way out, and Dimitar smiled back, seeming happier than he had been in weeks.
--
Sergio looked out the window at the young soldier -- former soldier, he corrected himself -- getting into the cab downstairs. He watched him hug his doctor and get into the cab, looking at his old room, where Sergio had no doubt the mute boy was standing at the window, waving.
There was nobody living with Sergio that he would wave to when he left. He wished he could leave now, go get anything to make the sinking feeling -- the feeling that darkness was closing in on him from within -- disappear. He wished he could shoot up, could bang back a rock of cocaine the size of his thin, gaunt fist.
Even the boy who had tried to kill himself, to escape the hell that had ensnared Sergio, that wound itself around him, strangled him but never killed him -- even he was leaving soon. Even he was smiling again, saying hello to other patients and laughing at jokes, and, even if it was softly, less forcefully than before, was professing his love for God again.
"You will have your day, little one," came a deep voice from the doorway. Sergio turned to find King Eric there, but his expression -- empty, tired -- didn't change.
"I don't want a day like that, where everything is all better," he said softly, shaking his head. "I want a day of my own. I want a day when I can leave and push so much into my veins and my nose and take so many pills that I don't feel anything anymore."
Eric smiled, and, if Sergio had had the energy, he would have lunged at him for it.
"Do you think it is all better for Cesc? Or for Nemanja, or Ryan?"
Sergio just stared at him, expression blank, unseeing. "Isn't that the point of this place?"
"We all feel pain, Sergio." Eric stepped into the room a little further, looking out the window, standing next to Sergio and sighing. "I feel pain every day. For the ones I couldn't save, for the ones I could that I have lost to time."
Sergio gazed out the window again at the gathering clouds on the horizon, at the pink-tinged sky that disappeared over the field where there were boys playing football.
"Then what is the point of living, if it's all pain? What's the point for me when I feel nothing but darkness? For Cristiano, when he can't look in the mirror without hating himself a little more? For Yoann, when he can't speak, when his voice won't work because there is too much pain stopping it up?"
Eric laughed, shaking his head.
"But don't you see, Sergio? Those things are a part of life."
Sergio shook his head, and looked at Eric. "The only part."
"No," Eric said softly, looking at Sergio, eyes bright, seeming to look straight through into Sergio's soul. Sergio had never known that he had one, but there in the half-light from the sunset, with those piercing dark eyes looking into him, he could feel it, feeble and broken, rising to the surface.
"Don't you see? The good is nothing without pain." He closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked out at the blood red sun, setting over the edge of a distant deep blue field.
"Our pain makes our joy real."