another interesting write. enjoy.
thanks to Lauv for coming out with Breathe. it's the inspiration, I suppose, for this.
sorry that it's rushed in the beginning. I needed to get to the good part in order to drag it out.
antiseptic heartache
She never thought she would end up back here.
It was such a short time between leaving and coming back; between leaving with a baby inside of her and coming back with twins in her arms. A feeling close to nostalgia came over her the moment the Welcome to Tulsa sign glared at her from the front seat of her car. But, if she was anything like her old self, that could also be nerves and nausea.
Her twins' small arms were visible in her rearview, and hearing the youngest—her boy—suddenly shriek in pain made her glance back to them. It happened again, and again, to the point where she was nearly off the road and her worries couldn't even be heard by her children.
It was two in the morning, she looked like an absolute mess, and here she was: pulling off of the highway and scanning every inch of grass and tree line to find somewhere to go. She cursed herself inside of her head, and, by some miracle, a hospital sign came out of fucking nowhere and she took a leap of faith, nearly busting the side of her car on the curb just to park in the closest space.
Her voice carried what felt like a thousand miles as she burst through the automatic doors, nearly choked on the antiseptic reek, and screamed at the top of her lungs, "Somebody, for the love of God, help!" Nobody came, so she did it again, clambering with her son's body wrapped around her, her daughter's hand in hers, and all of her shit falling the fuck out of her purse.
She was about to start sobbing when finally, a man with black scrubs came to her rescue. At first, she was hesitant to allow him to handle her boy, but at the hurried tone the man had and the way her son was practically shoving his way to him, she couldn't refuse. In one moment, she was standing just outside the hospital entrance, the warm Tulsa air heating her back; the next she was seated in a plastic chair as her son was hooked with some sort of liquid dripping from a bag. Her daughter sat next to him, and she silently thanked God for allowing her to raise at least one of her twins like their father.
"Ma'am?" Someone tapped her shoulder delicately, and at her lack of response, a large hand shook her out of whatever the hell she'd been in. "Ma'am, the doctor would like to speak with you outside."
She focused her attention on the squeaky tennis shoes that slipped to the top of her vision as a white coat disappeared among the blue curtains separating patient from patient. She hastily rose and stormed after him with her head high, about ready to snap at him that no, she wasn't fine; that it was two in the morning and she looked and felt like shit and that her poor baby boy was sitting only steps away, and here he was, asking if she could talk to him outside.
Maybe it was because she was exhausted or that his eyes looked too brown to be any other man's, but her mouth dropped to the floor. He must've looked past her night-time shitshow, for his lips parted as if he were to gasp or have a heart attack or scream or something other than speak.
And rather than be civil, rather than say anything, she began to pack what was left of her purse and was about to fling the curtain back, gather her children and storm away when he stopped her.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Getting them out of here," she snarled, but she couldn't tell if it was to herself or to him. "Getting myself out of here."
"That's not a very good idea," he deadpanned, ripping off the glove he'd just started to snap onto his wrist. "I really wouldn't recommend taking him out, especially—"
"I'm their mother, last I checked. I'll do whatever the hell I think is best for them, and at this particular moment, it's leaving here."
His hand was suddenly caught on her wrist, and she grappled with his stronghold for only a moment before she gave up. Everything became too much, and she let her emotions ride a roller coaster inside of her body as she said, "Just let me go back in there, for God's sake! My son could be dying and look what you're doing—asking if I'm fucking fine!"
"Sandy," his voice was gentle, and he spoke softly as if she had sensitive hearing. "Sandy, look at me."
Her eyes found the tattoo on his left wrist, just short of where his veins were visible. Two words slapped her in the face harder than she wanted them to; it was her children's names, forever imprinted on his skin in ink, forever in his heart where they didn't belong but she wanted them to belong. Forever part of him, forever part of her, and she hated herself for not telling him that, in time, she would find out that he was the father. That these two children she told him about but never thought of him actually meeting was his flesh and blood, was his heart and soul just like he always wanted them to be.
"You got a tattoo," was all she said. He glanced down, noticed her observation, and chuckled.
"Sure did," he said, and she looked at him completely just as he asked a thousand times over. Something warm came over her at seeing his eyes brighten, at seeing his body relax upon their eyes meeting, and at the way her lips curved into a smile. "One of the few that I didn't get while I was wasted. One of the few that mean something."
"Hm," she mused, and she made a mental note of how his doctorly-ness came back once the conversation was through.
"Your son is gonna be fine, San. Trust me."
Hearing him call her "San" made everything collapse inside of her head, and she broke into a flustering, sobbing mess. "This is one big fucking shitshow," she stated between her chest heaving with sobs.
"We've got him on an IV and running tests––"
"Not that, Soda. Okay, well, that, but even more of a shitshow is the fact that we're both standing here. You're not supposed to be a doctor––"
"I'll have you know that I worked hard to get here."
She gave him a glare and he, just as usual, shut his mouth and let her finish. "And I'm not supposed to be the blubbering damsel in distress, waiting for a knight in a doctor's coat to come and save my child."
"You've got one of the best knights here right now. I'm about the only one in this place that can not kill someone 'accidentally'."
"Am I supposed to believe that?"
"Is your kid quiet and asleep right now, or is he screaming like a banshee and kicking my nurses in the face?"
She listened, found no screaming, and he huffed in satisfaction from behind her as she ripped the curtain back and stared right at her daughter. "They've cleared out." she realized, looking over Soda's shoulder and finding them all walking around.
Soda stepped around her and walked up to her daughter––his daughter––and smiled at her. "Sorry to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but I'm gonna need you to hop on down from here so I can check your friend out."
She forced herself to not choke on air at the sweetness in his voice. If only he knew what she knew of him.
"He's not my friend," her daughter snapped, "He's my brother."
He smiled one of those goddamn lopsided smirks and nodded. "Sorry––your brother. I need to look him over, so if you could––"
"Don't say it again," she snapped again, nearly throwing herself into him as she hopped off the too-tall hospital bed. Her daughter's hand was suddenly in hers, and she watched as Soda's eyes fell on hers, as if he was saying that is totally your kid.
She closed her eyes for only a moment, but what once was her standing in a hospital room was now her standing back at her car, her son sleeping quietly in the back and her daughter humming along to the soft, quiet music that was playing inside. Meanwhile, she stood opposite of Soda, who had his hands in his pockets and was looking at her solemnly.
"What's your deal?"
"Just looking," he said, his eyes flashing with humor. "Not too sure when I'll get to see those pretty eyes again. Gotta keep it fresh in my mind."
She smiled, bid him thanks and was about to open her car door when he said, "Sandy, look at me."
"Goddamnit, Soda," she growled, "If you're going to tell me all the shit I have to do for my son again, I'm gonna bash your head into this car."
But regardless, she did, and she found his eyes way too dark and way too bright all at the same time. But they were his eyes, and in a crowd of thousands, even millions, she could pick out those eyes in a heartbeat.
"Dax's got my eyes," he said, and her heart slowed to a dull thud at the mention of her son, so sound and peaceful behind her, and so grown up and handsome in front of her. "and Wes has your looks. Good thing; their apples don't fall too far from the tree."
"Guess so."
He smirked that goddamn smirk of his and squeezed her hand. "Go, San. I'll find you again; someway, somehow."
And, like an idiot, she drove until his body was nothing but a fleck of white against the blackened sky.