Chapter Text
Monday rolls around, and a blessedly slow day at the office sees Lio home half an hour early, miracle of miracles. After finally— finally— getting everything for the center finalized, the TBA felt remarkably serene: everyone paper-pushing with a new spring in their step as they all waited for the new boulder to begin its descent down the hill. Until then, though, the team had all taken more leisure time than they had for months, and, even half an hour early, Lio ended up being the last out the door.
(The lack of jumped-up, conservative bureaucrats in their midst was also helpful in that matter. If Gueira and Meis are to be believed, there’s talk of a parade.)
That said, even home half an hour early, Lio is Lio, and without Galo to heckle him about working during his off hours I swear to god Fotia, he sets himself up on the sofa with a throw blanket and his tablet. He opens his internet browser and begins responding to emails, fielding the perpetually ridiculous bureaucratic misfires that, even after a massive victory, keep on coming. It’s only when 6:00 pm hits, and Lio realizes that it’s only a matter of minutes until Galo is home, that a soft ding draws his attention.
A pop up has appeared in the upper right corner of his screen— yet another email notification. He clicks it open with a soft sigh, wondering whether Mattias has gotten back to him on the matter of the improved housing budget yet, but goes still when he sees the sender.
Your Appointment is Approaching! The subject line of the email reads, and Lio has to swallow back the bile that has risen into his throat at the words West Promepolis Reproductive Health Clinic.
Lio chews his lip, breathing deliberately through his nose, and, with a regrettable sense of dejá vu, clicks open the message.
What to expect at your termination appointment!
Lio winces at the bright infographic on the screen. The yellow is searing, a failed attempt at optimistic, and he feels his retinae burn against the obnoxious headlines. The browser is clicked closed on instinct. As he stares into the void that is the webpage, though, it’s easier to refill his tea than engage with his very bright screen— so Lio elects to stand. A tactical retreat to the kitchen. Strategy planning beside the kettle.
The email notification is still there when he returns.
Lio grits his teeth and taps it open once more, lemon-scented steam wafting into his face as he does. His retrieved tea perches awkwardly upon his knee, half balanced on his thigh and half held in place by his forearm, threatening at every moment to tip. With his laptop taking up the majority of the space in his lap, there isn’t much room for a dangerously full mug as well. They vie for space upon the already limited real estate that is Lio, and the heat of the ceramic against Lio’s skin is searing.
With condensation building on his eyelashes, he directs his attention to the email. Certainly, there will be an angry, red welt painted across his forearm later, care of the burn he is now able to receive, but it matters little, in the long run. Lio’s had far worse.
Regarding the surgical termination of a second trimester pregnancy, most patients feel quite nervous. That’s okay! The email assures him, as he squints against the violently cheery font. How can a font be cheery? Here’s a simple “what to expect to no longer be expecting,” Lio scowls, and a few tips on how to make the procedure as painless as possible.
During your surgical abortion, two separate steps are, at the WPRHC, combined into one! During the pre-operative phase of the appointment, here’s what will occur:
- A physician will give you a brief physical exam, complete with an ultrasound (the typical pre-op check up)
- The laminaria* begins, during which the doctor will:
- Place a speculum to view your reproductive tract.
- Clean the cervix.
- Apply numbing medication to the cervix.
- Insert laminaria (or Dilapan) into your cervix.
* The laminaria insertion takes five to ten minutes.
Lio swallows thickly, a migraine growing behind his temples. His scalding tea has gained a chill, and when he rises to warm it, he returns to the sofa with the imposter Twix bar in-hand. His skin hums and when he opens the candy mindlessly; tearing at the wrapping with impatient, itchy fingers, he can’t seem to access the chocolate.
And now for the second part of your appointment!
A surgical abortion is called a D&E ( Dilation and Extraction ), and, for those under 19 weeks of pregnancy, will be performed approximately two to three hours following the first step.
Lio’s at eighteen weeks, if he’d delayed it any longer, he likely would’ve had to take an entire day off. His fingers, inexplicably clumsy, slip against the frustratingly impervious candy bar. The packaging winks up at him, shiny and ostentatious as it feigns the appearance of a more desired treat, and Lio clenches his jaw at the stubborn plastic.
Cramping and minor bleeding following step one are routine, and once you are ready for the extraction stage, will likely continue until several days after the abortion is completed. Here, you will be given general anaesthetic…
Lio gives a mighty wrench, and the candy bar takes to the air. It lands a good five feet away, smacking sadly down right on the border between kitchen and living room, lying crumbly and broken in a way that tells Lio it’ll be hell to clean up. Even as he stares at it, the wafer inside begins to fall apart.
Lio’s tea has gone cold once more. He clicks out of his email.
Immediately, he’s greeted by his previous internet browser, appearing even before his finger has lifted from its rough slam into the exit symbol— and just like that, his nail still clicking against the screen, all of the fight leaves him. Over fifteen tabs blink at him, blinding white and demanding and somehow endlessly worse than the bullshit sunny yellow from before. Promepolis housing codes; Amnesty International funding operations; Board of Architects Project Guidelines; Building regulations; Administrative regulations; Financing regulations; Lease-Contract regulations; and more and more and more.
Lio closes his eyes.
There’s so much he has to do. Even against the darkness of his eyelids, the tabs full of demanding, damning headlines burn into his vision. But there isn’t time for this. He needs to get up. To get back to work. To finish reading the email, clean up the damn candy bar, and move on with his life. Because, in what world would he be able to close the tab on his upcoming abortion, without consequences? How could he ever be able to pick and choose?
There’s so much to do…
Galo opens the door and Lio blinks himself back into the present, wiping his eyes quickly. He hadn’t even realized they were watering against the imposing brightness of his screen, until he’d closed them and they’d received a moment of relief.
“Hey!” Galo smiles, and pulls Lio into tentative conversation, “Have a good day at the TBA?” He approaches slowly before dropping down to peck Lio once, very lightly on the lips, and then beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen. He steps cleanly over the candy still crumbling into the ground, and, to his credit, only spares it a single questioning glance before he keeps moving.
Lio can appreciate his ability to just keep moving.
“Yeah,” Lio replies, eyes still on his sad, floor candy. It’s only once Galo’s gaze fixes itself on him once more, innocently curious, that Lio succeeds in shaking himself out of his daze. He stands, swipes a dish towel from the counter, and gets to work cleaning up his mess.
Conversation about their days’ activities flows around them in starts and stops, the uncertainty in their interactions, even after everything, even improved, still far from gone. And even as they exchange a few, easier laughs, and the melting chocolate comes up, swept into the bin, Lio imagines that he can still see a smear of a stain on the rug. The phantom chocolate draws his eyes that night, a reminder that things are still far from normal. That the amount of matters calling on Lio’s time and energy grows by day. That even as one behemoth is put to death, so many others arise.
Lio reads the rest of the email, then rereads it in its entirety, before bed that night. The long, hot shower he takes next is responsible for the way he falls under the covers after, dead to the world, with pale skin and red-rimmed eyes.
***
Tuesday dawns, and Lio is reserved. He’s fine. Didn’t sleep super well. Let’s not talk about it. Have you seen the new invoice Mattias sent?
***
Wednesday passes in a blur.
***
Thursday is upon him, and when Lio arrives at the rec center at 5:50 pm, there are less than twenty four hours left before his D&E, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
(But he actually does, and that is the absolute worst part, because he shouldn’t know, or should know something else, but he does, and he doesn’t, and there’s not even one day more to go.)
Thursdays are generally more exciting days at the rec center—if any time there could reasonably be called dull—because it’s generally when most people are in attendance. That’s one of the reasons Lio tries to appear at least on Thursdays every week, if he can’t be there more frequently; somehow, many of the Burnish have assimilated into schedules that either have Thursdays off or an early end to the work day. Some schools and public institutions even follow the inexplicable trend: Thursday, if any day ever is, is anointed that of rest. According to Galo, even some local universities follow the standard.
(Lio doesn’t understand this coincidence, or that it’s a coincidence at all. Lio likes to see all of his people together, finding the time to be a community even in the midst of a busy work week. Lio has made the decision not to question it.)
Because Thursday yields the highest average attendance, save the obvious exceptions of holidays and specific events, much of the TBA staff (the four of them that there are) end up migrating to the grounds after working hours end. Which, throughout the year, is a timestamp that varies from 5:00 pm to 9:00 pm, depending on how big their current uphill boulder is. That said, though, the Powers That Be have been kind, recently, and all four of them arrive at the center before their usual work day is out.
Meis and Gueira, predictably, are immediately swallowed by a hoard of excited children who have taken to viewing them as the perfect playmates on the jungle gym— owing largely, Lio believes, to their undying rivalry in outdoing each other on the monkey bars. Watching them bend their knees to keep their feet off the ground as they fight valiantly to unseat each other’s grips on the neon orange-painted bars is endlessly amusing, and Lio is fairly certain there’s an ongoing betting pool dedicated to the phenomenon. He’s got half a mind to join in, too, because, really, his generals’ devotion to their cause is impressive.
Directly after Meis and Gueira are swept away by their convocation of miniature fans (and does Lio make out brightly-colored Silly Bandz changing hands, behind their retreating backs?), Clara is likewise waylaid. She’s shepherded off by Thyma and Aina, who are, apparently, also volunteering for the day. Lio watches their retreat with interest— he’s not certain what’s going on between the three: has formed and subsequently dissolved several competing hunches on the matter. In the end, though, he feels a slight smirk forming as he watches a pink blush bloom high on Clara’s cheeks, and cannot help but be endeared when Thyma and Aina, both relatively more boisterous than the former, echo the hue.
Lio turns away, allowing the three whatever privacy they can scrape together amongst the familial throng. He can’t deny that the intrigue follows his thoughts even in its subjects’ absence, but before long he’s noticed, and the demands of socializing divide his attention.
He returns pleasantries from others who have realized his arrival, lending an ear and a chuckle left and right, and before long, finds himself swept up in conversation. He’s fairly certain he’s meant to be serving as a mediator in an engaging debate over a topic he’s not entirely sure of, yet as he watches the two friends bicker teasingly, finds delightfully frivolous regardless. Silly insults and even sillier rationales on the merits of whatever it is fly between the arguers—who have by now attracted a bit of a following—and as mock gasps are exchanged, laughter clear in their tones, Lio cannot help but feel just a bit more at ease.
He hopes he never loses the joy and novelty that grip him when he listens to his people complain about absurd matters, like a preferred brand at a store being marked up, or an annoyingly full metro ride. Such small inconveniences are so beautiful, Lio thinks, when he gets the chance to hear his family gripe and joke and bellyache without fear that everything will only get worse. Trivialities like this make the world go round, Lio has learned since entering into the bureaucratic fold, and he’ll never stop being grateful that his people have finally been allowed to join that world. Joking indignance echoes throughout the room, and it is so, so immeasurably better than the weary giggles softly summoned within the depths of a cave on the run.
The ultimate consensus of the discussion is purple, whatever it was regarding, and Lio is smiling as he excuses himself from the debate. He makes his way through his people, stopping in at the various activities and stations made up for their highest-population day, and pokes his head in as he goes to ensure that nothing is in need of a restock or additional manpower. His chest lightens as he’s waved away each time, finding supplies plentiful and volunteers multitudinous.
Seeing the results of the far too long battle for the center is gratifying beyond what Lio can truly express in words, and he feels almost too full as he gazes around at the collective safety of his people. The Lio of before, of not too long ago at all, never truly believed this was possible. He hadn’t dared to imagine that firefighters could be his foremost allies: that the Burnish flame could burn unchecked and embraced throughout Promepolis, even if only figuratively.
It’s only when Lio finds himself becoming choked up, smiling a bit too broadly out over the occupants of the center, that he checks himself. Not now.
There were a lot of things Lio had never allowed himself to long for, back then, in the Wastes.
Lio slips out the back door before the strange melancholia begins to overtake him. The amalgamation of feelings threatening to disrupt his carefully upheld composure, already wavering in so many ways, needs no audience, and Lio worries that, such a mess as he is, he’ll inadvertently give it one. The inside of his head—or heart, as Galo would say—is a confusing place, these days.
Lio has resolved to stop tugging on the ball of tangled emotions—even the positive strands—lest it unravel altogether, as yarn balls are wont to do.
This endeavor isn’t helped by the fact that he’s also been met with heaps of praise and buckets of gratitude for everything he’s done, is still doing, and will continue to do, for the rec center and his people at large. Lio does his best to deflect the compliments, of course; because, truly, it’ll never be enough, and he’s far from the most worthy recipient of his people’s thanks. Guilt gnaws at him with every word, though, even as he pushes back against his own irrationality. It shouldn’t be that the reminder of his endless work, even though it’s best-intentioned, is unwelcome. Yet it makes the small, hard knot Lio’s been determinedly ignoring in the pit of his stomach grow: the reminder of all that is forever left to do.
Outside, the heat kisses his skin, but at least for the moment, it’s not oppressively muggy. Lio takes a deep breath, tipping his head back against the brick wall that is ever his station, and tunes into anything beyond his tumultuous mind. The rain a day prior has lifted a large portion of the humidity from the air, and for that Lio is endlessly grateful. A slight breeze blows through the foliage, and Lio remains steady by the center, in plain view should someone need him. No one seems to at present, though, and he allows his attention to wander, directionless and searching for once as he works to brace himself against the strange sweep of emotion.
Snatches of conversation float back to him on the breeze. Snippets of innocuous He Said/She Said gossip flit between mothers and young teenagers. Joyous shouts ring from the playground, and Lio has to press a hand over his lips for a moment, relieved to be amused, when he catches a glimpse of Meis and Gueira’s ongoing jungle gym war. They’ve attracted a small mob of onlookers, mainly comprised of seven-year-olds, and the cheering and clamoring, accompanied by attempts at juvenile trash talk, are as endearing as they are absurd.
Lio looks away before he can be drawn too far into the susurrus, and shifts his gaze to the other end of the playground. It’s less crowded there, or at the very least less busy; more of the accessible equipment lives on that side, and some of the lower-energy playthings for kids who aren’t as wild as those Meis and Gueira tend to attract. Fewer children dart around, but as the soft, bouncy flooring of the play area gives way to dirt and pebbles, movement catches Lio’s eye. Already, a few desire paths have been traced from the edge of the park’s equipment to the grassy knoll that lies a bit beyond it: a portion of the rec center’s land that they’d spared development.
On one such path, a young woman trails easily along after her child, who toddles excitedly toward the grass. They can’t be more than three, Lio thinks, but to his untrained eye, appears younger. Regardless, the child is eager if a bit unsteady on their feet, as they bend to examine some pebbles: a flower or two. The mother’s voice is unclear at best from Lio’s vantage point, and he’s far enough away that he can’t exactly make out the look on her face, but the toddler turns and throws up their arms, waving at the sky.
Perhaps he can neither properly see nor hear her, but as the woman moves to scoop up her baby in a dramatic, sweeping arc, Lio knows that she is laughing. He wonders whether the chorus of her voice is joined by a younger, higher one.
The child, held aloft in their mother’s arms, reaches out toward a leaf as they pass some larger ornaments of the foliage. Tiny, chubby fingers that Lio imagines are impossibly soft to the touch close around the air, a good three feet clear of the leaf they appear to pursue. A moment later, though, the minuscule hand is grasping clumsily at their goal, lifted into range by their mother. The light hits her hair to nearly halo it, and Lio is certain that she’s glowing along with her curls, happy and free and safe with her baby in her arms.
“How are you feeling?”
Lio startles before he can stop himself, turning to discover that, once more, he’s been approached in his daydreams without having noticed. The realization is a little alarming, only further testament to the fact that Lio’s lost his edge, and Lio fights the flush threatening to make an appearance across his cheeks. He reminds himself firmly, even as his embarrassment at his own preoccupation crests, that such a feeling is an oversized reaction to the matter at hand.
He swallows regardless, levels his tone even though his lungs are suddenly tighter than before, and voices a casual hum. “I’m well enough,” he replies, “and yourself?”
Cherise smiles, tilting her head from side to side. “Busy. But I suppose that’s a good thing. The influx of Burnish nurses definitely speaks volumes about the reintegration efforts, even if it makes for one hell of an overtime shift.”
Lio nods. He knows that many of his people who worked in healthcare pursuits have struggled beyond most in returning to their former lives. It’s no wonder to see, though it pains Lio— after the experimentation and the legions of trauma the Burnish have faced, of course they’re reluctant to return to an environment that perpetually smells of bleach and blood and anxiety. But the loss of careers they loved makes the reintegration challenge even worse, for those whose passions and identities had been inexorably tied to their jobs.
Lio looks a bit more closely at Cherise, cataloging her features as she leans against the brick wall beside him. He’s known her for quite some time now, though he’d be hard pressed to put a specific date approximation on their acquaintance. She was in Mad Burnish, and though she’d rarely seen action on the front lines the way Meis, Gueira, and Lio had, she’d been invaluable from the start. If he remembers correctly, Lio thinks that she’d been a nurse for around forty years before she flared, and thus was one of their principal assets during the war.
The woman before him, as Lio regards her, is late middle-aged and round, with a warm, maternal countenance even now. As long as he’s known her, through Hell and back, she’s been dependable, with the best poker face Lio’s ever seen. He’s watched her bring people back from the brink more times than he can count, and comfort those who could not be saved more effectively than any pain reliever. Her neon green hair clashes wonderfully with her olive skin, and her black eyes sparkle through the crows feet that enshrine them.
Cherise must realize that he’s giving her a once over, and she laughs, brushing his concern aside. “Don’t worry about me; a few long hours at the hospital won’t make a dent in everything we’ve lived through.”
Lio has to acquiesce at that; she’s not wrong, and she’d been among the first to assimilate back into daily life— her work in medicine included.
Cherise smiles softly at him. “Word on the street is that you finally got the rec center fully established. Congratulations, that’s a hell of an achievement.”
Lio smiles, biting back the urge to deflect the compliment. “It was a group effort. Honestly, it’s a shame it took as long as it did.”
“No reason to feel guilty over that.” Cherise says firmly, with the exasperation of a tried and true essential worker far too familiar with the bullshit of red tape. “Politicians are a different beast, and wrangling them at all is a wonder— especially with such a small staff,” Cherise smiles, and Lio nods briefly. As she looks at him, though, she pauses a moment. “I just hope that you haven’t devoted too much of yourself to it.”
Lio blinks, and when he meets her gaze once more, finds himself arrested. He feels momentarily pinned in place, perceived too keenly to be comfortable. He shakes his head dismissively after a moment, though, waving what he hopes is an airy hand. “We’ve all worked hard. I can’t claim to have put in more effort than any of the others.”
“I’m not so sure,” Cherise replies, with more shrewdness to her gaze than Lio welcomes. She sighs then, and levels Lio with a strict look. She’s only demonstrated it a few times to him, but each time the expression hits a bit too close to home. On each such occasion, Lio wonders whether her being such a maternal presence may be a drawback. “Boss, how are you really? I hope you won’t write yourself off, in favor of helping the Burnish.”
“The Burnish have always been my top priority,” Lio replies, a bit more stiffly-diplomatically than he’d intended.
“I know that,” Cherise nods, “but they can’t continue to be the only priority.”
Lio looks away from her, fighting against the display of emotion that is trying very dearly to make its appearance. He’s not sure exactly what the display would be, or even which emotion it would evince, and that spurs him to rein himself in more tightly than ever. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine, I promise.”
“Are you?”
“I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t be.” Lio replies, even as he mentally chastises himself for being curt with a woman who has saved more of his people than he can articulate. He takes a long breath and closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, he feels steadier, if only by a bit, and glances over at the mother in child, still playing in the grass. “I apologize,” he says more softly, “that was rude.”
“I worked in labor and delivery,” Cherise chuckles, “that didn’t even register.”
“Regardless,” Lio insists, and she smiles.
“You know, I’ve been a nurse for forty two years now,” Cherise says contemplatively. “An RN for thirty seven. I’ve worked in a lot of specialties, but realized pretty early on that obstetrics was it for me.”
Lio nods carefully, unsure where this is going. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Oh, yeah,” Cherise chuckles fondly, shaking her head. “Hell, I’ve worked in gynecology longer than most physicians today. I was on the front lines of the abortion debate, before Promepolis officially ratified the right to choose in its Constitution.”
Lio’s chest is tight.
“The point I’m trying to make, Boss,” Cherise’s voice gentles, “is that I know what a parent trying to make a tough choice looks like.”
Lio’s throat closes. “I’m not—”
“Okay,” Cherise’s gaze is too understanding. Warmth seems to exude from her person as she sets a very gentle palm on his forearm, and Lio cannot look her in the eye, “that’s fine. But I hope you’ll do what’s best for you. And please don’t forget, Lio, that isn’t mutually exclusive with what you want.”
The child in the field climbs into their mother’s lap, wiggly and squirmy and warm, in the late-summer sun. Lio cannot tear his eyes away.
Cherise squeezes his arm once, very gently, before stepping back. “Good luck, honey,” she murmurs, and her voice ticks just a hint lower and warmer when she adds, “and congratulations.”
It’s only when she walks away, and Lio looks down to clear his blurring vision, that he realizes his thumb is rubbing soothing circles into his stomach, and judging by the roteness of the motion, has been for some time.
***
Friday morning dawns cool and bright, the temperature finally remembering that autumn is encroaching and dropping accordingly. Over a breakfast that, for the first time in a while, Lio can’t stomach even a bite of, his iPad dings with another email notification. He swipes it away before it can even fully load on his screen, and immerses himself in his tea when his calendar reminder dings, too.
2:30 pm.
He dresses in layers, even though it’s certainly not cold enough for that yet, and makes the brisk walk to the TBA hardly noticing that by the time he’s arrived, he’s sweaty and shivering slightly. He feels hyper aware of every minute he spends in the bathroom, quickly cleaning himself up a bit so he doesn’t look as breathless as he feels, and when he steps into his office, Lio could swear that five minutes have passed since he took a seat at his desk.
Time moves in drips and drabbles as the day wears on, and by the time the clock strikes 1:30, Meis, Gueira, and Clara are all exchanging glances that Lio goes intentionally blind to. It’s been marked on the TBA calendar for a while now, that he would be taking the afternoon off today, yet when Lio stands from his desk, at 1:30 on the dot, it feels very rash to him.
The cool air meets him when the TBA’s doors swing shut, and Lio directs his steps toward the metro station. It’s a fifteen minute ride to the clinic, but it’s best to be early. His appointment isn’t until half past two, but it’s best to be early. His feet falter when he passes the frozen yogurt shop on the way to the station, because it’s best not to be too early.
***
He misses the appointment.
Lio stands stationed in front of the shitty yogurt shop, where he has been posted, immobile, for the better part of two hours, and rakes his eyes along the sidewalk for Meis and Gueira. However many minutes and a single text message from Lio ago, they’d promised to meet him there, because Lio needs either them or the ice cream, and even with both, he’s not sure he’s not going to start screaming. And even if he does, it seems marginally more bearable with both them and the ice cream.
Lio’s stomach hurts.
He’s vibrating out of his skin by the time they appear, making their hurried way up the street, and it’s only once they come within a reasonable distance that Lio feels his body go stock still. Another minute ticks past, and he won’t be able to get another appointment for weeks. At that point, it may well be too late. He may well have to get a judge’s ruling, to have the procedure. He may well have just cemented his fate to continue carrying this baby, by missing the appointment.
Breathing is very difficult.
“Boss,” Lio blinks and they’re in front of him.
“Boss,” Lio blinks and Meis’s face is very close to his, gaze intent.
“Boss?” Lio blinks, and he’s seated on a park bench, a good block away from the frozen yogurt place, with Gueira poking his cheek. “Boss, what do you need?” His voice is very serious. Lio swallows. What does he need?
Lio needs his best friends’ support, and they’re right here. Frozen yogurt and shitty candy bars would be fantastic, too, but apparently they’ve wandered away from their site of purchase without Lio realizing it. Lio needs a moment to sit still and breathe and think, except for the fact that that’s all he’s been doing—for weeks, no less—and it hasn’t made anything any easier. Because it’s not as though he needs to think more at all— he already knows what he needs, and, honestly, has for a while. But how the fuck can he get it?
He’s been so firm with himself for so long. He is the fearless leader, the dedicated volunteer, the indefatigable adversary of bureaucrats everywhere. He is what his people need him to be, whether that constitutes his burning down a prison, piloting a giant mech, or researching the proper usage of semicolons. (Because grammatical legalities are a bitch.) Lio is the person other people need, and perhaps this entire process has just gone to show that he doesn’t know who that person is, outside of the demands placed upon him.
But that’s not fair, Lio knows— he signed up for this. He continues to sign up for it, every minute of every day, with every meeting he mediates and every politician he doesn’t sock in the jaw. And that’s what everyone seems to go on about, these days: from Clara, to Galo, to Cherise and her catalytic effect on Lio’s overwrought emotions. Perhaps it’s the hormones, but Lio dearly wishes for a break, selfish as it is. And it’s the selfishness, above all else, that he feels he needs right now.
“I don’t know what to do,” Lio’s voice is soft when he speaks, and Meis and Gueira who have been fussing over him increasingly frantically, go quiet. Backburnered within his brain, Lio is horrified by the amount of weakness he’s shown of late; how many times now, has he allowed the pieces of himself to fall apart and forced his best friends to put them back together? How many times has he shut down on Galo? In what world is he okay with being so obviously fucked in the head, to the point where his people not only notice, but feel the need to speak to him about it?
“What do you mean?” Meis’s voice is gentle, as though he’s addressing a spooked animal, and Lio would laugh if he had the energy.
“I know what I have to do,” Lio replies. “What I should do. But I’m just… not doing it.”
Meis and Gueira exchange a glance; as ever, without using words, Lio watches them have an entire conversation. As easy as things are between the three of them, Lio does dearly envy that effortless understanding. Their telepathy has long been something he covets, and he imagines that they know it, too. They’re perceptive like that.
“Why aren’t you?”
Lio lets the air out of his chest; feels his lungs collapse in on themselves as his posture slumps and his shoulders droop. He feels like a pathetic child when he speaks, and to his ear, it sounds like a whispered whine. “I don’t want to.”
Meis blinks; Lio watches as he opens his mouth, ready to ask what will surely be a thousand, perfectly probing follow-up questions, but Gueira silences him with a shake of his head. Instead, he rests a hand on Lio’s knee because of course—Lio wants to shout—his hand is unavailable, curled around his abdomen.
“You don’t want an abortion.” Gueira says, and it’s not a question. Lio remains quiet.
“You don’t have to have one, then,” Meis offers, and Lio can hear the way he flounders, even as he tries to hide it.
“I do, though. I could never keep it.”
“Why?” Gueira’s voice, just a little bit, roughens. It’s a challenge, and Lio finds irritation building within his chest at the intentional blindness of his friend.
“You know why. There’s so much to do— I could never have time for a baby,” and then Lio tacks on, “the Burnish need to come first. Frivolous desires can wait.”
In truth, Lio knows that they cannot. That this baby cannot. That, forever, he will be too busy for discussions like these— for the decisions that necessitate them. Waiting is something he resigned himself to early in life, and even then, a young Lio knew that later meant never in kinder terms. It’s a not now he’s clung to for all these years, yet when he tells himself the familiar lie this time, instead of comforting him, it just fills him with grief. It’s a grief unbefitting a leader, one who asked for the reins and will not relinquish them until he knows his people are taken care of, and knows deep down that that will never be a fully actualized goal. Later is a phrase used to beat back selfishness, but now it just brings all of his ridiculous, juvenile fantasies crashing down upon him.
Later, later, later, and later will never come. Lio’s been mourning his entire life—mourning long enough not to realize that he’s been mourning at all—and it’s only now that he’s finally watching the casket close that he realizes what he’s burying. And he just doesn’t want to.
It’s not fair, and it’s not right, and it’s not the selfless leader he’s forged himself into, but he just doesn’t want to.
“Frivolities are favorite colors. Favorite ice creams. Which fuckin’ drapery to hang in the hallway, and that shit,” Meis rolls his eyes as his partner’s trademark eloquence. “This isn’t a frivolity, Boss.”
Lio swallows, his gaze blurry. His voice is plaintive, despite himself. “I can’t let myself have it. I don’t know how.”
“Do you want it?”
Lio’s voice escapes in a whisper. “Yes.”
The toddler reaching for the leaves. Delighted shrieks from children on the swings. Juvenile laughter ringing out, and tiny, warm, fingers and toes.
“Boss?” The gentle grip Gueira has on his leg squeezes, and Lio swallows. “Everything you’ve ever done has been for us.”
“For the settlement and the Burnish and people you don’t even know, but are ready to fistfight politicians for,” Meis adds.
“So how about just this once, you do something for yourself? It’ll help the Burnish, too, in a way.”
“You deserve to be happy, Boss.”
Lio’s vision is a slur of colors and he has to blink the tears out of his eyes, but they keep coming. He has to breathe deeply, swiping them away, and he focuses on his best friends’ voices to anchor him.
“—crying! You fucked it up!”
“I didn’t —”
“Fix him!” Lio can just make out a shove, and then the ensuing squabbling over who caused what fuck up, and he just starts to laugh.
Immediately, the would-be slap fight halts, and, whispered— “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—”
Lio chuckles wetly, shaking his head even though he knows full well that he’s given his generals more than enough reason to be freaking out over ‘breaking’ him recently. “I’m fine, you fuckers,” Lio rolls his eyes, and when he realizes his gaze has cleared, smiles slightly. “You’re so high-maintenance.”
“Yeah, well, it’s good training, right?” Gueira’s grin is tiny and earnest, and Lio doesn’t start crying again, but it’s a near thing. This time, though, he’s fighting tears for a good reason, and he bites his lip around the tentative, anxious smile curling the edges of his mouth.
“C’mon, Boss,” Meis slings an arm around his shoulders, squeezing gently. “Let’s go get some of that bullshit chocolate you like.”
“You hate that chocolate,” Lio points out, striving for normalcy even as he continues drying his face.
“Yep,” Gueira pops the ‘p’ and then looses a snaggle-tooth grin. “But we can judge you while you inhale it. You know, like the freak with cravings that you are.”
Lio lets out what would be an affronted huff, if he weren’t so helplessly fond and emotionally drained. He contents himself with shaking his head, flipping Gueira off even as he slings his arm over Lio’s other shoulder.
They set off like that, a ludicrous tangle of limbs in weather that, while cooler, is still far too warm for that much physical contact, and make their way to the frozen yogurt place.
Meis shoves an entire knock-off Twix bar at Lio without a word once they step outside, ice cream in-hand, and life is overwhelming, but good.
***
“Hey,” Lio’s breath catches as he lingers in the doorway, dividing the kitchen and the living room and dancing along the border.
“What’s up, Firebug? How was the TBA?”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Galo turns away from the stove, where something that smells delicious and tangy is simmering, and looks at Lio carefully-casually. “Oh?”
Lio nods, and tries to force his roiling stomach to calm. The decision has been made. The emotional volatilities have been talked out with Meis and Gueira. The appointment has posthumously been canceled, and there is no turning back now. Lio feels guilty that Galo is the last to know, but this is good news. Right?
“What’s going on?” Galo asks uncertainly, anxiety plain on his features.
Lio takes a deep breath. His fingers twist together, his right hand picking at the skin of his left, and vice versa, and he takes a second to steady himself. “I’m not having an abortion,” Galo remains stock-still, reactionless, and Lio plows on, desperate to keep this as quick and clinical as possible. (If he starts crying again, he’ll probably dehydrate to death.) “I missed the appointment, and at this point, I’m too far along for it to be over and done with. It would be multiple steps over multiple days, and it would ultimately be surgical, which— let’s be honest. I’m not exactly a beloved public figure amongst most Promepolitans. I don’t want a doctor doing surgery on me unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Galo shakes his head slowly, visibly processing. “We could— I’m sure we can find a trustworthy surgeon, Lio. Some of the Burnish—”
Lio shakes his head. “No. I’m not getting an abortion.” He pauses, shoulders tense. “It’s just not safe.”
Galo swallows. His face is pinched, but he nods after a second. “Okay…” he hesitates. “So. Um. Adoption, then?” His expression is visibly pained, however he tries to conceal it, and Lio shakes his head again.
“There are already thousands too many displaced children in the foster system. I could never add one more.”
“We could… I know there are direct adoptions with Planned Parenthood—”
“And take those parents from a child who needs them more?” Lio crosses his arms over his chest, knuckles white as he grips his upper arms. “No way.”
“Lio,” Galo flounders. He gestures helplessly, at a loss. “I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t know what option that leaves us…”
He looks so desperately penitent, so impossibly willing to help, Lio swallows. “The only choice, really,” Lio says, speaking slowly even as his heart beats a tattoo against his ribs. “Is to keep the baby.”
For a moment, all is silent. Lio looks up, anxiety written all over his face without even the energy to halt it, and looks at Galo.
“It’s the only feasible plan.” He says, staring at his partner. His pulse pounds in his ears, his lungs ice; Galo is completely immobile, not so much as blinking. Fuck.
Fuck. Has Lio read him wrong all this time? Or has he jerked him around so much that he’s given up— the baby now seems like too much effort? Lio now seems like too much effort?
And then Lio’s breath catches, because he’s engulfed in heavily-muscled, endlessly gentle arms. He’s pressed up against a warm, solid chest— Galo’s chest—and is being held there as though lives depend on it. And then he’s being pushed back to an arm’s length away, gazed at imploringly, measured fully by desperate, tentatively hopeful blue eyes.
“Lio,” Galo breathes, and he sounds as terrified as Lio feels. “Are you sure about this?” Lio nods, and Galo shakes his head. “Really sure? Not just worried about the abortion, or the adoption, or doing this because you think I want—”
“No.” Lio swallows, but forces himself to look directly into Galo’s eyes. Very firmly, he promises him: “I want this, Galo.”
Galo whoops.
Lio is laughing, picked up and being spun around through the air, even as Galo holds him as though he’s made of gold. They stumble against each other as Lio is released, momentum still carrying him, and joy is a physical entity in the room, finally displacing the anxious pachyderm that has for so long made its home there. Galo’s touch over Lio is reverent, his face positively glowing as he grins at him. It’s like staring into the sun, and it’s overwhelming, and frightening, and so hopelessly addictive that Lio, for once, abandons himself to the excitement.
This beautiful man, who looks at Lio like he hung the stars, and is the most caring and devoted soul ever known— Lio is going to have a baby with him. Galo will be the best father, and Lio can already see him playing with their daughter, or tying their son’s shoes, or very gently, very passionately, introducing a tiny newborn to each of his matoi collection. Galo is everything, and Lio will happily bask in his warmth as long as he is able, clinging to him as they kiss. It’s sweet and it’s excited, and then it’s over—
“Hi,” Lio feels his cheeks heating, surprise suffusing his body as Galo kneels before him, hands resting gently on his hips. He’s face to face with Lio’s belly, bloated and subtly rounded out as it now is, and he’s grinning with what Lio thinks are tears in his eyes. “I’m so excited to meet you,” his voice is so gentle. His touch is so light, as he very carefully caresses Lio’s abdomen. He wanted this so badly from the start, was willing to give it up to support Lio— and now they’re bound together for the rest of their lives, a human life linking them more irrevocably than anything else could. There are butterflies in Lio’s stomach as he gazes down at the ridiculous, blue mohawk he regards as a beacon of home.
They are having a baby. There’s so much to do, and plan, and talk about— so much to talk about, Lio can’t even bring himself to think about it right now—and they’re doing it together. They’re going to be parents together. Lio truly can’t wrap his head around it.
But that’s okay, because they’ll figure this out as they go. They’ll make it work. They’ve saved the world, so really, after the weeks of distress, and anxiety, and endless tears, everything happening next will be okay.
Lio lies in bed that night, spooned closely to Galo’s chest and glowing with nervous happiness, even as the silver light of the moon filters across the bedspread. Galo’s large, warm hand rests against his abdomen, protecting Lio and their baby from harm even in sleep, and carefully, Lio slides his own, smaller palm up beside Galo’s calloused one. His voice is soft, hesitant when he speaks, but the butterflies in Lio’s stomach have yet to abate, and that can only be a good sign.
“Hello,” he murmurs, very softly, into the darkness, and feels a soft smile stretch across his face as he rubs his thumb over his belly button. Before long he’ll be huge, that same belly button distended as the rest of his stomach: a balloon with aching feet and a sore back. But it’ll be so worth it, Lio knows, as he carefully traces patterns over his flesh. He falls asleep that night with a smile on his face, a glow in his chest, and hope for the future filling his mind. And at long last, when he wakes in the morning, there is no nausea.