Or, maybe they had? "Did you check your messages this morning?" They'd been out so late last night—
"There's nothing on my cell." Lance's voice was dull, flat.
"The house phone?" They turned. The answering machine light was blinking, but it always did, because anyone who didn't actually know them, anyone who wanted to sell them something or get a quote or sidestep their agents, used that number. They kept it on silent, or it would drive them crazy. Reichen crossed the room and pressed playback, then took Lance's hand as they listened to the parade of messages.
And then. Lance? Honey? I guess you aren't home right now. Oh, dear, uh, your Dad and I, we just—we wanted to say, we love you, and we're so sorry that we, that we haven't been—" There was a deep, painful sob, and Reichen gathered him close. "—we have a new cellphone, just for family, the number..."
He grabbed for paper and pen to write it down, and had to press the digits into Lance's cellphone because Lance was trembling too violently to be able to work the keys. He pushed Lance down onto the nearest chair, and muttering an excuse, left the room. Some conversations were meant to be private. As he closed the door between them, he heard "Mom?" in the voice Lance must have used when he was a bruised kid.
Reichen leaned against the wall for a moment, closed his eyes and whispered a thank you. If he could have gotten one wish granted, one prayer answered, it would have been this. And it had been answered more perfectly, more generously, than he could ever have imagined.
Six words.
Because you make our boy happy.
Lance and Reichen's Team page for the AIDS walk is here, and if those particular names should show up in their donor windows I shall squee like a thing possessed.
Re: Six words
"There's nothing on my cell." Lance's voice was dull, flat.
"The house phone?" They turned. The answering machine light was blinking, but it always did, because anyone who didn't actually know them, anyone who wanted to sell them something or get a quote or sidestep their agents, used that number. They kept it on silent, or it would drive them crazy. Reichen crossed the room and pressed playback, then took Lance's hand as they listened to the parade of messages.
And then. Lance? Honey? I guess you aren't home right now. Oh, dear, uh, your Dad and I, we just—we wanted to say, we love you, and we're so sorry that we, that we haven't been—" There was a deep, painful sob, and Reichen gathered him close. "—we have a new cellphone, just for family, the number..."
He grabbed for paper and pen to write it down, and had to press the digits into Lance's cellphone because Lance was trembling too violently to be able to work the keys. He pushed Lance down onto the nearest chair, and muttering an excuse, left the room. Some conversations were meant to be private. As he closed the door between them, he heard "Mom?" in the voice Lance must have used when he was a bruised kid.
Reichen leaned against the wall for a moment, closed his eyes and whispered a thank you. If he could have gotten one wish granted, one prayer answered, it would have been this. And it had been answered more perfectly, more generously, than he could ever have imagined.
Six words.
Because you make our boy happy.
Lance and Reichen's Team page for the AIDS walk is here, and if those particular names should show up in their donor windows I shall squee like a thing possessed.