This chapter isn't as themed as 'Mini me, sandwiches, and worst panic attack'/Chapter 40; but it still does include a couple of themes/mentions following over at the beginning of the chapter from Chapter 40.

I hope you're all doing well and staying safe to anyone still reading.
HilsonForever96 xx

A quiet knock came on the basement door, "yeah?" James called out.

"It's Rob, can I come in?" the voice asked through the door and Greg nodded into James' chest.

"Uh, yeah, sure," James agreed, and Rob walked in, glancing around the basement to then lay his eyes on his nephew curled up in James' lap, clutching on to James around the chest, wailing into his chest; and not just any wail, but the most heartbreaking, distraught, devastated, destroyed wail that Rob had heard in a long time, with James' shirt being covered in large wet marks, presumably from Greg's tears. Rob came over as quickly as he possibly could and sat down on the edge of the bed, extending a wary hand to lay on Greg's shoulder, as if he were about to pet a wild animal. "What on Earth happened? Is everything OK?"

James nodded, "this is normal, this is a regular occurrence for us. Greg… gets panic attacks a lot. So, we've gotten used to how to handle them over time, although this is a fairly big one, give him a couple of hours and he'll be back to normal. Until then, we'll just stay here," James readjusted his weight and extended one of his legs he'd been sitting on, wriggling his toes to get the blood flowing again. Greg jerked slightly when James readjusted but then settled back down.

"He's always been… flighty, skittish… but this is the first time I'm seeing him have a panic attack," Rob admitted, "what can I do to help?"

"There isn't anything really. I wish I knew the answer to that. I usually just end up sitting here, holding him like this for hours until he starts feeling a bit better. It's not an everyday thing, it's only occasional," James admitted.

"That's a big task to take on," Rob stated, and James just shrugged his shoulders, as Rob sat down next to Greg, who was still leaning onto James. "Rosie and Blythe headed out to take the kids to the park shortly after you came down here. Tyson's a good kid, Greg, just like you were too. It can't be easy that he looks pretty much identical to how you did at that age too… Josie and I were actually talking about that a few weeks ago; how much he looked like our beloved little Greg. Here, have a look at this," Rob pulled something out from his pocket and Greg sat up straight, out from where he'd been leaning into James, and wiped his cheeks as he took a look, James did too, peering over Greg's shoulder.

In the photo, there was Greg, at the age of seven; grinning, standing next to a snowman that he and Rob, who was on one knee on the other side of it, had just built; on the back of the photo, it read "Gregory: age 7, Robert: age 18"

"I remember that" Greg smiled; "we spent New Year's here, and it snowed at midnight. You built snowmen with me, we made snow angels, had snowball fights, you dragged me up and down that hill in a laundry basket to go 'sledding' until you couldn't walk anymore. All things that we didn't do at home," his smile faded, "I was so little, so young,"

"Gregory, I wanted to let you know that as soon as I turned 18; so about when that photo was taken; Rosie and I were continually trying to get full custody and legal guardianship of you, and we didn't stop for eleven years, we refused to give up, but they just wouldn't help, and things were complicated because we were very young and lived interstate, the odds of getting you home to us were always stacked against us, but we never gave up. Multiple times a week we were on the phone or headed down to the downtown office. Because, things weren't very good at home, were they?" Rob asked seriously.

Greg glanced down to the floor and took a shaky breath, as he lied, "there were definitely some hard times, but no situation where I felt that I was in danger,"

"Greg, John abused you, didn't he?" Rob asked seriously and outright, James looked at him, horrified and imagining that this question would just set them back to the start of this panic attack. "He abused you in ways that no child should be abused, didn't he?" totally caught off guard, Greg just gripped the photograph, hung his head and cried, beginning to sob. "He wasn't the only one either, was he?" Rob continued softly and Greg just shook his head.

Greg took in a shaky breath, "how did you know? Because I never told anyone up until about six months ago,"

Rob smiled sadly, "I was in teacher's college, I'd just finished my first semester when that photo was taken. We had to learn all the warning signs of kids being abused- especially if they were being abused sexually, and those couple of weeks you were here I noticed every single sign constantly and to the extreme- and the odd relationship that you had with John; you were simultaneously obsessed with him and always wanted him around, while also being terrified of him. How you were terrified about what to say, even about the tiniest, most inconsequential things. You also acted out, knew about, and knew the words and meanings for different things that no seven-year-old should know. How old were you when it began, Greg? When did he first start abusing you that you can remember?"

"Three… I was three… the first time that I remember him raping me," Greg sighed, "I was four the first time that my uncle Henry had a go, and by the time I was about five my father was selling me, to his friends, strangers, whatever… for a fee he'd give them complete full reign to do whatever they liked to my body… for a bigger fee he'd allow it to be filmed," Greg wiped the tears threatening to come down his face as he held the photo; "the boy… the little boy in this photo had already been raped by his father and uncle countless times… this boy had been prostituted out and filmed in child pornography video tapes twice a week for two years by the time this photo was taken…"

Rob felt a wave of sickness rise through him this is way, way beyond what I was expecting. This is worse than anything I've ever heard… and to my own nephew, nevertheless. I can't believe it; but the heart wrenching thing is that I absolutely do believe it. I should've fought harder to get legal guardianship. How could my own sister have allowed this to happen? To her son? There's no way that she didn't know about it, regardless of what she says- that extent of abuse happening to your own child at the hands of your husband and brother-in-law isn't something you just miss, not genuinely miss anyway. If she was complicit, that's another story, and I hate to imagine that, but I can't think of another way it would have happened.

"Rob," Greg looked over at him, "I'm not a liar," and Rob automatically shook his head to show that he absolutely believed Greg to the fullest, "but please don't tell mom or Aunty Josie about this,"

"Greg…" Rob started.

"Rob, please, I've just shared all this stuff with you that I hate to think about, please just do this for me," Greg begged, he handed the photo back to Rob.

"Okay," Rob sighed, looking back down at the photo, which seemed simultaneously more precious, and dirtied by what he now knew.

"How did you know what was going on down here?" Greg asked.

"Noise travels in this house; thankfully Josie, Blythe, and the kids left before they heard anything. I… I heard basically it all," Rob admitted, "I just wanted to make sure that you felt safe before I brought it up that I knew. I could hear it throughout the entire first floor of the house,"

"Oh," was the singular response; "I'm sorry you had to find out this way,"

"I'm sorry that it happened. I'm sorry that we weren't able to save you, Greg," Rob whispered, "that's something that I'll take to my grave, but I'll never forgive myself for,"

"By the time you were able to apply for custody, everything had already happened by then anyway," Greg whispered back, "there's no reason to beat yourself up. I survived,"

"Yeah… but maybe you would have had a better childhood after that if you weren't trapped there," Rob stated quietly.

Greg shrugged, "maybe, but then I wouldn't be the man that I am today; and heaven knows that I'm probably going to have a very different opinion from now, to tonight, to tomorrow. But it is how it is. I'm actually going to start seeing a therapist, as soon as I find one. Not originally my idea, but if I wanted Jimmy to see a therapist, that was the trade off, that I have to see one too".

"I think that's a really smart move," Rob smiled through his red tearstained eyes; "I'm really proud of the man you have become, Gregory, and," he held out the photo, "that little boy is really proud of the man that you are today too, everything that you've accomplished. Goddamn, I need to relax, I'm so wound up. Do you two smoke?"

"I mean, yeah," Greg shrugged, "we smoke… do you mean tobacco? Or weed?"

"Weed," Rob said, "its fine if you don't. But I partake from time to time, and this is one of those times, I need to relax and just not think about this for the time being I'm glad that I know and everything, but it's just- it's a lot to digest at once," James nodded along, "yeah, I get the feeling that you know what I mean," Rob added, wondering for a moment what set of circumstances lead to James finding out.

The three of them huddled up on the back porch, handing a bong around between them; "I feel like I'm back in high school," Greg laughed as he packed another cone; "huddled outside away from my mum with a couple of guys, smoking a bong in the snow," he put the top of the bong to his lips, lit the lighter and inhaled as deeply as he could, holding it in, until he finally coughed, "that's some good, strong shit. Screw therapy, I just need this," as he cracked open a can of double Jack's and Coke.

"You need therapy too," James muttered, reaching for the bong, Greg pulled it back away and started packing a small cone.

"Yeah, I think I'm inclined to agree with Jamie. You need therapy to deal with all that shit, Greg, you can try and run from it all your life, but you've been running all your life. Your trauma is faster than you, bro. You've been running for thirty years, only to get to here," Rob started, and Greg looked up curiously and with a look of judgement and really, seriously? You're judging my coping methods? "You know what, never mind, blaze it up, Greg. What do I know about what your life has been like. We failed you," Rob ended.

Greg finished packing his cone without another word, then turned slightly in his chair as he light the lighter, kicking James in the leg and on the leg of his chair until he turned his head "what?" to see Greg with his mouth over the top of the bong, rolling his eyes back and running his hand up and down the shaft sensually. "You're gross," James rolled his eyes.

Greg pulled back after dragging the entire small cone, holding and inhaling the smoke as deep as he could into his lungs, before slowly exhaling, "I don't hear you complaining when I'm doing it on your cock," the rapidly intoxicated Greg mumbled, "if I recall, you can never wait to blow down my throat,"

"Give me the bong," James muttered, although Rob, who was equally as high, was finding the whole situation just as hilarious as Greg was and they cackled.

"Have a cone, Jimmy," Greg slurred and coughed.

"Yeah, somehow you're not making it look much fun," James muttered, but much more awkwardly prepared a bong than Greg had done, "I'm not getting as stoned as you; someone has to babysit bloody Snoop Dogg over there all night. And don't look at me so judgemental, you've smoked a lot more marijuana in your life than me, that's no surprise,"

"God, you're starting to sound like Lisa," Greg muttered.

"Shut up," James snapped back, "or you'll make me split,"

With that warning, Greg did shut it, but Rob was curious; "what's a split?"

"Mental health thing," James muttered, "it's not fun for anyone when it happens,"

"Like a split personality?" Rob asked, but didn't get an answer, and he decided that if it indeed was like a split personality, then he didn't want to see or experience it.

"Check out Jimmy, the only Canadian who can't smoke a bong properly," Greg teased, but once the weed was in him, it did start to mellow the extremely tightly wound James out, who was now flopped back in his chair; he felt like his limbs were made of lead, but in a comforting way.

Greg was clumsily trying to cut up a few buds for his next couple of rounds when the back door opened and the light porch switched on; "hi Granddad," the little boy's voice came over as he came down the stairs giving him a hug, then he turned to Greg, "I'm really sorry that I upset you, Uncle Greg, I didn't mean to… I was just so excited to get my first two uncles in one day. I don't know what I said that made you so sad and why you had to leave, but I'm very sorry, please forgive me,"

"It's not your fault at all, Tyson. It was because of some grown up stuff," Greg smiled, his eyes glassy, "nothing for you to worry about at all," as he went back to finishing cutting up his buds, "are you going to sit out here with us?" to which Tyson nodded, and pulled a chair along the ground, "here let me get all that snow off for you," Greg muttered, as he swept his hand across the freezing cold seat to clear it for Tyson to sit on, "now you can sit anywhere you like,"

Tyson pulled his chair over so close to Greg's that he was just about sitting on his lap, "you looked so scared before, Uncle Greg," Tyson whispered, "why were you scared? Don't tell me 'It was all grown-up stuff'. I'm five now, I can deal with it,"

Oh, sweet Jesus. I have no idea how I'm supposed to answer this. I'm too high to deal with this shit right now. If only he understood that he really ought not to be able to deal with it or understand it. Greg thought as he sat frozen for a moment as he packed his next cone, feeling completely unsure what to say, when Rob came to the rescue.

"Hey Tyson, do you want to see an old photo of Uncle Greg when he was only a couple of years older than you?" Rob interrupted and pulled the photo out of his coat pocket, "here, Greg, you show him," as he passed the photo to Greg.

"See? That's me there, and the older guy is your granddad," Greg explained, pointing to the little boy in the photo, standing proudly next to his snowman; "I was seven when that photo was taken,"

"You look like me!" Tyson grinned and Greg nodded, "what were you like when you were my age, Uncle Greg? What did you like to do?"

"What did I like to do?" Greg leant back in his chair thinking, "let's see, I liked to cook with my mom, I liked music, I liked to sing, I liked to read comic books- Batman was my favourite, I liked to read, and I loved to dance and I was a very good dancer, I miss dancing so much… I liked a lot of different things,"

"Why don't you dance anymore? Is it because of your leg?" Tyson asked and Greg nodded, "does that make you sad? That you can't dance anymore?"

"Sometimes," Greg answered, "I'd like to be able to dance with my friend, Uncle Jaime, but sometimes life doesn't work out the way that we thought it would. And that's okay,"

"I know what that feels like," Tyson mentioned, "my mommy used to dance with me too, but now she can't anymore because she's in heaven. Now I don't feel like dancing anymore. It's not the same without my mommy," Tyson started to sniffle, and his eyes welled up with tears.

"Hey buddy, it's okay. Do you want a hug?" Greg asked, his instincts automatically taking over, and Tyson sniffled into a nod, "okay, come here buddy," Greg pushed his chair out slightly and Tyson stopped before climbing onto his lap, "which is your sore leg?" he asked and Greg touched over where the injury was, and Tyson climbed onto Greg's other leg, and used his feet curled up on the seat of the chair to step up and push himself further up into Greg's lap, and Greg was very aware of Tyson's footing and praying that he didn't end up accidentally stepping on either his injury, or his crotch, and turning a heartfelt moment into a night of agony from the foot of a five year old.

Alas he didn't, and ended up hanging off Greg's neck for the rest of the night, to which he resigned himself that he wouldn't be smoking any more pot so long as he had a five year old hanging off him and definitely being exposed to second hand smoke; Greg might have been irresponsible and an ass, but even he knew that he'd never put the health of a child in danger, and would never harm a child, even if it was something as benign as second hand smoke. All he felt was his heart bursting for this precious little boy he was now lucky and blessed enough to call his nephew.