“You have a morphine pump, honey.” Matthew’s mom nudged the pump that was taped into his left hand. “Use it. You don’t have to be in pain.”
“It’ll put me to sleep,” he said through his teeth.
“Then sleep.”
“Not until I see him,” Matthew snapped, and instantly regretted it. The pain in his chest had been on the edge of unbearable for a while now, and speaking like that didn’t help. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe without causing more pain. That pretty much meant tiny little breaths that barely moved his ribs, which in turn made his head spin. Maybe he’d pass out. Passing out would be nice.
Except—no. Not yet.
He swept his tongue across his parched lips. “Where’s Rabi?” He had the vague sense that he’d asked that question a thousand times already. He’d been in and out of a fog of pain and drugs, and through it all, his own voice echoed—“Where’s Rabi?”—like a delirious mantra.
His mother sighed, but said nothing. He felt bad. She was exhausted and stressed, and she was trying to help. But she’d just kept telling him to rest, to use the morphine pump, to drink more water. She wouldn’t answer him. No one would tell him where Rabi was, and Matthew was terrified that meant he didn’t want to know.
Beside the bed, the chair scraped, and he opened his eyes as his mother stood up and smoothed her blouse with shaky hands. “I’m going to go get some coffee. I’ll be right back.”
Matthew nodded.
The room had been packed with people. Then almost empty. Then packed again. Family members had swarmed in and out, encouraging him to rest and recover, but no one had been able to answer Where’s Rabi?
At some point, around the time the fog had been starting to lift, Nate had said, “You really want to see him, don’t you?”
If Matthew had had the strength, and if he’d been able to count on his ribs not to explode with pain, he’d have shouted “Yes!” But all he’d managed was a nod and a feeble “Yes.”
Nate had left a moment later. That had been . . . an hour ago? Yesterday? Matthew had lost track of time. He’d lost track of anything that wasn’t pain or the constant electrical current of panic buzzing along his nerves asking Where’s Rabi? Where’s Rabi? Where’s Rabi?
There was a commotion out in the hall. Running footsteps. Voices.
“Slow down, son.” Dad? “He’s right in here.”
Matthew’s heart jumped. He craned his neck, and a second later, in the doorway . . .
“Matthew?”
“Rabi!” He didn’t care about the pain this time. Oh, he still felt it, and it still made his eyes water, but Rabi was there, in the room, staring back at him with the same disbelief he felt.
“Oh my God,” Rabi breathed, and crossed the room to Matthew’s bed. “I thought you were . . .”
“Me too.” Matthew swallowed. “No one would tell me . . . Are you okay?”
Rabi nodded and leaned down to press a tender kiss to Matthew’s lips. It wasn’t enough—with his good arm, Matthew fumbled for the front of Rabi’s shirt, found enough to grasp, and pulled him down a little farther. Then he weakly slid his hand up to the back of Rabi’s neck, and held him. The kiss was still light—he doubted he could handle more—but he needed it for a moment to be absolutely sure Rabi was all right.
Rabi broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to Matthew’s. “I love you. I didn’t think I’d get to tell you that again.”
“I love you too,” Matthew croaked.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Rabi whispered. “I tried to—”
“Don’t.” Matthew caressed Rabi’s face with a shaky hand. “You’re here. You’re okay.”
Rabi exhaled, then kissed him again. “How are you feeling, anyway?”
Matthew grimaced. “Like I’ll never be able to believe another movie where somebody gets shot and keeps on fighting.”
Rabi laughed, though it sounded like it was bordering on a sob. Matthew didn’t dare make a sound himself, but just seeing and hearing Rabi laugh was enough to send warmth all the way down to his toes.
Carefully, Rabi sat on the edge of the bed. “Seriously, how do you feel?”
“Hurts. A lot.”
Deep crevices formed between Rabi’s dark eyebrows. “Aren’t they giving you anything for the pain?”
Matthew nodded, eyes flicking toward the pump in his hand. “I didn’t want . . . until you got here. I needed—”
“Matthew.” Rabi closed his hand around Matthew’s and the morphine pump. “I don’t want you in more pain because of me.”
“But I needed to see you. This stuff will knock me out, and I—”
“I’m here.” Rabi kissed Matthew’s forehead. “Sleep if you need to. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
A lump rose in Matthew’s raw throat, and he ran his thumb along Rabi’s.
“I promise,” Rabi whispered. “If they kick me out when visiting hours are over, I’ll be back.” He squeezed Matthew’s hand. “Take the meds. Please?”
Matthew gazed up at him, torn between wanting pain relief and wanting to stay conscious enough to focus on Rabi. “You’ll be back? If they kick you out, I mean?”
Rabi smiled that warm smile Matthew had been hooked on since the Beta Phi Halloween party. “I promise.”
“Okay.” Matthew pressed the button on the pump. “Going to hold you to that.”
“Good.”
They held each other’s gazes for a moment, and Rabi still gripped Matthew’s hand. Matthew wanted to reach up and touch his face, but he didn’t want to let go of his hand, so he settled on murmuring, “I really, really thought I’d lost you, you know.”
Rabi’s expression turned . . . pained. Like he was trying to maintain the smile, but couldn’t fight a grimace. With his free hand, he smoothed Matthew’s hair. “I thought you were gone too.”
Matthew grinned, wondering when a damn facial expression had started needing so much work. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t want to get rid of you.” Rabi stroked Matthew’s face. “I need you to get better so we can go make out by the cornfields again.”
Matthew laughed before he could think better of it, and winced. He reached up and closed his fingers around Rabi’s. “You promise? Soon as I’m better and I can move and stuff?”
“You better believe it.”
Sleep was closing in fast, and Matthew struggled to keep his eyes open. “Gonna . . . take you up on that.”
“Please do.” Rabi’s lips were warm and soft against his. “Get some rest.”
“’Kay. So we can go make out.”
Rabi laughed quietly and kissed him again. “Deal.”
And then, with Rabi beside him and their fingers laced together on top of the blanket, Matthew gave in to the haze and let himself drift away.
Rabi watched Matthew’s eyelids flutter, then settle. Matthew’s breathing was slow and even, and a monitor kept watch over his heartrate.
Matthew was ghostly white. Even his lips were pale, and his pallor was emphasized by the circles under his eyes, which were probably from how little sleep he’d had in the past twenty-four hours. Still, he was okay.
From what Nate had told him on the way in from the parking garage, Matthew was mostly out of the woods now, but it had been close. He’d lost a lot of blood, made it through surgery, and then had to be rushed into a second surgery after something had started bleeding again. That was apparently around the time Rabi had come to the hospital earlier. Mrs. Swain had been in the room with Matthew when he’d started deteriorating rapidly, and watching her son be wheeled out for another emergency operation had nearly broken her. She’d been inconsolable until he’d been brought back to his room.
The whole family had been terrified he’d die in the OR. They’d prayed for a miracle, and they’d gotten it—thanks to the quick, skilled response, the bleeding had been brought under control and he’d been given a transfusion. He’d be in the ICU for a while, and they’d have to be vigilant in case of an infection, but the doctors had assured Matthew’s family that his prognosis was good.
Now Matthew was sleeping peacefully. Rabi was at his side. Somehow, after everything that had happened . . . they were here. They were okay. The fallout wasn’t over yet, but Matthew was alive and recovering.
This was so surreal. So unbelievable. Rabi wondered more than once if he’d actually pulled the trigger in his bedroom and was just having a hallucination before his brain finally tapped out.
But no, this was real. He’d been utterly convinced that Matthew was dead, but here he was. Rabi decided he could even cope with the extra helping of guilt over Matthew enduring drug-free pain until they could see each other. At least he was alive.
Movement behind him told Rabi he wasn’t alone. Still grasping Matthew’s hand, he turned around to see Matthew’s dad and brother, along with a man wearing a cross and holding a Bible. Their minister, he assumed.
Rabi was instantly on edge, a chill running through him as he realized the Swains and their minister were blocking the only way into or out of this room.
But none of their expressions were hostile. If anything, they looked beaten down and . . . contrite? What was going on?
Swain turned to his son. “Go on.”
Nate closed his eyes and took a deep breath. To Rabi, he said, “Sheriff McCaskill’s on his way.” He gulped. “I . . . told him everything that happened the other night. And that when I hit Matthew . . .” His eyes cut toward his father, then darted to the floor. “I was aiming for you.”
Rabi’s stomach twisted into knots. He had no idea what to say.
“I know it doesn’t change anything,” Nate went on. “But I’m sorry. You and my brother were right—there’s been enough violence. There’s been too much violence. So, I’m turning myself in.”
The minister squeezed Nate’s shoulder. Bob Swain watched his son silently, his expression unreadable. Except . . . it wasn’t. Rabi was used to seeing Swain’s bright politician smile or his snarling, twisted hatred written all over his face. Right now, he was subdued, but the pain in his face was impossible to miss. He had a dead son, a hospitalized one, and a soon to be incarcerated one, and for the first time in Rabi’s life, he felt a deep pang of sympathy for the man who’d stoked hatred and violence against the Hashmis and the Muslims of Arbor Hills. As much as the man had earned this moment of lying in the bed he’d made, and as much as it was probably the moment Swain had needed to realize he’d been wrong all this time, it wouldn’t be right to gloat over a grieving father.
Swain turned to Rabi. “I’m gonna have a talk with your dad. Maybe see if we can put some of this to bed before anyone else gets hurt.”
Rabi nodded, still unable to speak.
A moment later, heavy footsteps came down the hall. Conversations just beyond the door fell silent. Rabi wasn’t at all surprised when the tired, sad-looking sheriff appeared.
The man eyed Rabi, lips tight, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned to Nate. “Come on, son.”
Eyes down, Nate nodded, and he let himself be led from the room. It was weird, Rabi thought, that Nate wasn’t in handcuffs, but Nate wasn’t exactly putting up a fight. And maybe Sheriff McCaskill was just waiting until they were out of Mrs. Swain’s sight. She’d been through enough without having to watch her son get cuffed.
Swain and Rabi were silent until Nate’s footsteps had faded down the hall. Then Swain turned, and Rabi’s skin prickled as he felt the man’s gaze on his and Matthew’s hands. Suddenly self-conscious, he was tempted to pull away, but he didn’t. On some level, he was sure that the second he broke contact, reality would kick him out of this fantasy and Matthew would be dead.
“How long has this been going on?” Swain’s voice was even. Not confrontational or hostile at all.
Rabi swallowed. “Since October.”
Swain nodded, gaze still fixed on their hands. After a moment, he sighed and scratched the back of his neck, and he suddenly looked old. Like he’d gained twenty or thirty years overnight. Given everything that had happened since last night, maybe he had. Rabi probably had too.
Swain met Rabi’s eyes. “Listen, I don’t understand it. Don’t know that I ever will. But I don’t think I need to. All I have to understand is that for some reason, you mean the world to my boy. Enough he jumped in front of a bullet for you.” The pained expression intensified as he glanced in the direction Nate had been taken. “I don’t want anyone else dying or going to jail. I think . . . I think it’s time something changed.”
Rabi nodded, not sure what to say.
Swain hesitated. Then he took a breath, came closer, and extended his hand over his sleeping son. “Maybe that can start with you and me.”
Rabi regarded his hand uneasily, but finally took it. “Yeah. Maybe it can.”
“And I’ll give your dad a call. See what we can do.”
“Good. That’s . . . that’s good.”
They released each other’s hands.
Rabi glanced down at Matthew. He gripped Matthew’s limp hand a little tighter as he looked up at Swain. “Can I stay with him? In the hospital, I mean?”
Swain blinked like he hadn’t quite understood the question. Before Rabi could clarify, though, Swain nodded. “I’ll let the nurses know. They’re only supposed to let family in, but under the circumstances . . .” His eyes lost focus. Without finishing the thought, he nodded once at Rabi and then left.
Rabi stared at the empty doorway for a moment. Then he turned his attention back to Matthew, who was sleeping peacefully beside him.
It was still surreal that he was here at all. That Matthew had survived and that the Swains had . . . fuck, they’d changed. After all the violence and Rabi’s outburst, they’d gotten it through their heads that Matthew and Rabi loved each other, and that two men—even two men from rival families and different religions—being in love was no justification for violence.
And how close did I come to missing this?
Rabi’s stomach roiled. He was sick at the thought of how close he’d come to killing himself in a moment of despair. Matthew had not only been alive—he’d been asking for him. Refusing to take his pain medication until someone told him Rabi was all right. And what if Rabi hadn’t been all right? What if someone had had to tell him that Rabi had taken his own life?
But he hadn’t. Rabi was alive. Matthew was alive. There was something like peace happening between the Swain and Hashmi families, beginning with Nate agreeing to face the music for his own actions and Bob giving Matthew and Rabi his blessing.
The last twenty-four hours had been hellish, but he’d always heard it was darkest before dawn. Maybe the sun was rising. Maybe the darkness was receding.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of the end of the violence.