The colors were beginning to feel familiar for Guzman. As he stared at the azule boxers and tank top he's been given as nightly in this tall vanity, illuminated by the vanilla candle that rests over there on the waist high shelf by the window here in the corridor, he not only looked like glass but felt that way too. He was neither hot or cold. He was neither wet or dry. He felt like he could shatter but also strong enough to withstand the next breeze headed his way.
Polo, the wounded puppy of a boy, comes gliding by on his way through the hall to the room the three of them share and Guzman's attention is adverted once more by the colors. The only bedroom on this wing of the house. It's a beautiful house, the Knight/Garcia home. They feel safe and also set apart with the only constant being the navidad decour.
In america the usual theme for this season is red, green, and gold. Frozen in forever. Here, however, the colors of Christmas seem to be in accordance to the three of them. For as Polo walks in only his sleepware bottoms of midnight there are ornaments dipped in amethyst amongst sparkling silver gleam of garland running along window sills and the banister of the stairwell. Much like the garland which is also tied up with string, Polo's purple pants cling to the bubble beneath his hips but allow everything else to breath.
The light, much like Ander, comes and goes in it's seafoam gleam. Illuminating the room with it's presence only for a moment through the branches of a tree made of white and silver, only every so often. As if it has a desire to leave but never long enough to make you worry it wont return. He swims back and forth through the entrance and exits of each space as if on a leisure mission in basketball shorts and a t-shirt that in the soft lights makes him appear like deep ocean wildlife it's almost teal.
A pale hum echoes from the LED present display on the floor. Big brilliant bows of lime green and polka dots of violet. The neon as bold as the carpet is soft. Guzman follows Polo into the bedroom and finds him sitting down by the bed the three of them will share. Like a tired pup after a long day of play making it's self comfortable Polo finds his spot and crosses his legs. Pencil to the paper on a binder he writes so fast Guzman worries Polo's hands might come flying off.
Guzman kneels himself down on the floor by Polo and the two of them sit like this in silence as the melody brings the two of them back into that familiar ease. The music does help. Here, on the floor, in the dark with the TV on Youtube streaming a fireplace Christmas display with the soft playlist that's easy enough to allow those who are already sleeping to not be woken with a start and steady enough to prevent those who are still awake from dozing off.
"What are you working on?" Guzman finally asks.
Polo starts to tremble, "I'm writing a letter to some old friends. Telling them what happened."
Guzman gently places his hands on Polo's, "Polo you've just been through something horrible. So have I and Ander. I'm sure writing is very healthy, when done for the right reasons. The only thing we are responsible for right now is ourselves. When you find a reason to write, then you should. Right now I just want your company. Even if it has to be in silence."
Polo's skin is warm but his bones are cold and when Guzman touches him that pain in his marrow vanishes. He can breath.
Ander returns with three mugs in his two hands each one with their own streams of steam. He sits down on the floor with his friends and hands each of them a cup. Then sighs, "So I have cancer. Worse shits happened right?"
Polo rests his head in the crook of Ander's neck and Guzman scoots so that he can press his right side into Ander's left side and the three of them stare out the window up at the bright blue moon.
The two other boys mumble in agreement and the music plays as they sip their tea and wait for morning here at the end of November in America. As far away from the mess Detective Garcia is digging through right now. Far away from Las Encinas and it's ghosts.
Dr. Sheppard stares at the projections on the walls in the scans lab. Her eyes rake over every vessle and molecule of Ander's tumor. A project, a very big one. She's excited to start the work up but the boys refusal has her in a bind. Where is Carlos? She thinks, What the hell am I supposed to do?
It's awfully late and usually she'd have her sister Meredith here with her. Now that Dr. Grey has resigned her role as cheif and moved away Amelia does most of her projects alone. Her husband Atticus Lincoln is the head of the Ortho department and therefore unnecessary but having someone is better than having no one. She considers paging him despite him being extremely busy with post Thanksgiving family bum fights- one of the most bone breaking holidays in america, when suddenly the door behind her opens.
Young Schmidt, a resident on her service today, arrives like he always does. Looking like an injured owl in serious need of a better wing but still flying around as if nothing happened in refuse to let anyone help.
"What do you want, blood bank." She asks.
He sighs, "There's someone here to see you from the prisinct."
An officer, probably assigned to the boys case.
She gestures for him to let the person in and when he steps out of the way detective Lucy Stone is standing there in her posh fake leather boots and leggings, her skin tight deep red turtle neck, her fake leather skirt and fake leather jacket. Her eyeliner is edgy but her smile is sweet and she walks in with a hesitation. Usually cops are on a mission, stepping at a quick pace.
"My partner, Garcia, is currently in the field handling a very serious Jigsaw Copy cat situation in another country and left three young boys in the care of his husband- my former best friend- Kendall Knight and he could be dead right now. Carlos Garcia is alone and off the radar in a city from a place we have no jurisdiction in. This is a transnational situation and I could use your help." She says all of this fully aware that a resident is standing there with the door open and some nurses in the hall just heard her.
"Maim." Says Amelia, "I'm a top neuro surgeon, I've won a few awards, and I've saved quite a few lives but I have no idea where to begin with that kind of tumor."
She steps aside and reveals the wall behind her, "As you can see I've already got one on my hands. My job is to help those boys, who for some reason all seem to share a brain. Reguardless, my head of pedes is doing a twin separation and I'm fighting this all on my own. If you have any ideas I'm all ears though. I can't start on mine until Garcia is back or so far gone that someone else has a say in when I can go in operable on this bad boy."
Detective Stone sighs, "I'm not here for just you, I'm here for a specific member of your team. A young, former military gentleman, Casey Parker."
"The hacker." She blurts out. Then her eyes go to Schmidt to tell him exactly what she wants to say without actually saying it.
Schmidt dismisses himself and closes the door behind him.
Students once sat here, beneath fake trees, and a sky light, waiting for bells to ring or rides home from parents. Gravel once filled these giant basins outlining the pit in which he and Fabian Rutter are trapped. That sky light is gone, as well as the space that held it. The ceiling above them is the bottom half of Las Encinas. The underground is far colder than it should be and these two boys are covered in so many cuts that they couldn't retain heat if there was any.
"Check your pockets." Says Carlos.
Fabian, lying as still as he can amongst the shade of green his blood keeps painting purple, looks up at the detective with fear. The very idea of moving sends a sharp stab up his back and suddenly all of his body is convulsing as the glass beneath him and beside him and around him keeps breaking and shards find flesh it hasn't already found and his screams are sharp.
Carlos fishes through the bottles, slowly at first, then in a 'fuck it' attitude he rushes through to the other side of the pit. He goes just an inch too far and a snap cracks across his ankles pulling him down to the ground with a harsh thud. A thousand pieces of glass shatter into ten thousand more and he feels every single one against his chest and screams.
The both of them are chained to benches located at the opposite ends of the pit. This is going to be much more complicated than detective Garcia thought.
For Fabian, shock has set in. He's stopped moving and just sits there staring at the officer who has yet to move. Is he awake? Is he still breathing? Is this it? Does he die here? Slowly, surely, he slips his left hand into his pocket. Some glass breaks but not enough to pierce him this time. It's empty and when he shifts his wait to try the other side a shard finds his hips and he gasps but there, in his right pocket, is a key. In all his body rests so little strength but he harnesses all of it to pull himself up to a sitting position and screams through the agony of the stabbing in his thighs and calves.
He tries the key on the cuffs of his ankle but it's to no avail. Then he looks over at the detective and yells, "Carlos! Carlos! I have a key!"
The officer raises his face and through the shadows his eyes find the golden sparkle of those jaws and that handle. With a grunt Carlos is back on his feet pulling bottle necks out of his stomach and blowing dust from the tops of his bloody arms, "Throw it over."
"Check your pockets." Says Fabian, frightened he'll be left to die.
Carlos does as he's asked. He slips his hands into his pockets and sure enough the other key is there. He holds it out that Fabian can see it and throws it over. Fabian catches his and goes for his ankles as soon as he can. The key works. He's free.
"My turn." Says Garcia.
Fabian takes the toss. It's undershot. The clank reveals it landed somewhere between them. Amongst the mess. Too far for Carlos to reach.
They share a look. One of fear. One of confusion. One of weakness. Then there's a gut wrenching howl as glass starts raining down from the aggressive arms of the British chap. Flinging shards left and right he digs his way through looking for the lost key and running slices up and down his vein lines until at last the token is found. He's much closer to Carlos now and can so much as reach it to him. Then he's down for the count as his body starts to collapse in on it's self. He crashes down and Carlos holds his key.