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The weeks had been hellish for Tristan and Dakan. Their lives had become a succession of meetings, files to handle, and endless responsibilities. They barely saw each other, their appointments becoming stolen moments between two meetings.
That evening, as the rain pounded against the windows of Dakan’s office, the two men sat on either side of a desk cluttered with files and plans. The dim lights cast unsettling shadows on their tired faces.
Dakan, with dark circles under his eyes, pointed to a diagram on the table. “I think we should adopt a more flexible approach to security for the festival. The festival-goers need to feel comfortable, not stifled by constraints. They are here to have fun, to forget about the sad events for a while.”
Tristan, his jaw clenched, had a different perspective. “I understand your point, Dakan, but we can’t afford to neglect security. It only takes one incident for people to panic and cause a stampede, turning everything into a nightmare.”
The words rose in the room, the tone gradually escalating. Fatigue added fuel to the discussion. “Flexible security can be effective if we take smart measures. We don’t need to be tyrants. People already have enough reasons not to trust the APD,” argued Dakan.
Tristan shook his head, exasperated. “You’re deluding yourself, Dakan. Security is a serious matter, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. There will be too many people; one hint of panic, and it will be a disaster. Being lax will only bring complications.”
The argument intensified, their voices rising to nearly inaudible levels. The two men were no longer listening to each other, unable to communicate, something rare since the beginning of their relationship. “I can’t believe you’re so stubborn, Tristan. I understand better why some people doubt your men and you. You’re just an idiot who prefers using force over brains. Open your eyes and stop being a fool. You won’t save anyone that way,” retorted Dakan, rubbing his temples in exasperation.
The police chief abruptly stood up from his chair, his gaze dark. “I expected you wouldn’t understand. You have no idea what it’s like to ensure people’s safety, to protect others.”
Dakan bristled, but without another word and without giving his partner a chance to respond, Tristan left the office, slamming the door behind him. The tension had reached its peak, leaving Dakan alone in his office, feeling misunderstood and lonely. What had just happened?
Outside, the rain continued to fall relentlessly. The torrential downpour enveloped Tristan as he left Dakan’s office. His clothes quickly became soaked, but he paid no attention. Anger pulsed through his veins, masking any other feeling or sensation. He walked briskly, his shoulders tense, water dripping from his hair. His anger kept him warm as he was already drenched to the bone. He decided to walk home; walking would do him good.
Unbeknownst to him, he was being followed. His mind was so preoccupied with his recent argument with Dakan that he didn’t notice the shadow closing in on him. The muffled footsteps behind him seemed to fade into the deafening noise of the rain.
It wasn’t until a sharp pain tore through his left side that he realized the threat. A cry of surprise and pain escaped his throat, but it was too late. A knife had penetrated between his ribs, slicing his flesh with cold precision. Tristan collapsed into a puddle, struggling to breathe, but each breath was torture. His blood mingled with the rain covering him, forming a sinister crimson web in the gutter.
He turned onto his back, his eyes wide open, staring at the dark sky as he tried to catch his increasingly labored breath. The rain showed no mercy, continuing to beat down relentlessly. The streets were deserted; the passersby had taken refuge in their homes, away from the rain, leaving him alone with his invisible assailant who had likely already fled.
Tristan thought of Dakan, deeply regretting the argument that had marked their last encounter. The love he felt for his partner was a source of sorrow in these dark moments. He wished their last exchange had been filled with tenderness and understanding, not anger and bitterness.
The pain was unbearable, and Tristan felt his strength gradually leaving him as he tried to get up, unsuccessfully, repeatedly falling back into the puddle. So, this was how he was going to die? Alone, under a torrential rain, killed by a shadow, abandoned in a gutter? He found it ironic, having survived so many injuries, so many shootouts. Was he going to die like this, killed by a stab wound, not on duty, not fighting? Without finding the people responsible for his brother and Rachel’s deaths? Without stopping the Phantom Scythe? Without saying goodbye to Lauren? Without reconciling with Dakan? Life was truly unfair.
His vision blurred, darkness enveloped him, and he lost consciousness, his last breath sighed under the relentless rain. Yet, as he sank into the abyss, he saw a blurry silhouette quickly approaching through the pouring rain, a glimmer of hope in this grim night. Tristan wished he had more time; he regretted so many things, he still had so much to do, so much to say, so much love to give to Lauren and Dakan.
///
Dakan's office was shrouded in semi-darkness, the dim glow of the desk lamp highlighting the piles of papers and files stacked in front of him. He had tried to immerse himself in his work, but his mind was elsewhere, haunted by the recent argument with Tristan.
He leaned back against his chair, letting out a sigh of frustration. His reaction to Tristan weighed on him like a burden. Dakan was usually reserved, but this anger had been a rare outburst, especially towards his partner, a manifestation of frustration exacerbated by the exhaustion tormenting him.
He reached for the phone receiver, his fingers hesitating over the dial. He wanted to call Tristan, to reestablish communication and apologize. His thoughts were a mix of genuine regret. He should have been more attentive, more understanding of Tristan’s concerns about security.
Just before he could push the dial to make the first number, the phone rang loudly, startling him. Dakan hurriedly picked up, hoping it was Tristan on the other end, ready to mend their strained relationship.
But it wasn't Tristan. The gentle voice of a nurse resonated through the receiver, informing him that Tristan had been seriously injured. Dakan felt like he had been punched in the gut. Anxiety overwhelmed him, and he struggled to comprehend the nurse's words.
He abruptly hung up and got up from his seat, leaving the papers in even more disarray on his desk. His thoughts were a whirlwind of terror and guilt. Without wasting a moment, he rushed out of his office, focused solely on the urgency of getting to Tristan at the hospital. He nearly collided with a housekeeper as he dashed out, quickly apologizing without stopping. Time seemed to stretch, his steps echoing in the hallways as he prayed from the depths of his heart for his lover to survive. He didn't want their last words to each other to be filled with anger and resentment. He wanted to tell him how much he loved him, how much he cared for him.
The journey to the hospital seemed endless for Dakan. His heart pounded, each beat echoing his growing anxiety. His legs jittered as he sat in the back of the car, the driver doing his best to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible, but the rain made the task difficult. The driver had to drive slower than usual due to poor visibility, which only heightened Dakan’s nerves. As the driver slowed even more, the wipers failing to clear the windshield sufficiently, Dakan ordered him to stop in an unequivocal tone. As soon as the car stopped, Dakan sprang out like a jack-in-the-box. The driver got out to bring his employer back under cover, but Dakan was already running towards the hospital, leaving the other man bewildered by the situation.
Dakan ran until he was out of breath, not being very athletic, his only sport limited to administrative work and the more intimate sport he practiced with Tristan. He could feel his lungs burning as if he had inhaled fire. His heart, already heavy with worry and guilt, threatened to escape. The muscles in his legs protested against the intense and rare effort. He could feel the water seeping into his clothes, soaking him to the bone, making him shiver. But none of this stopped him; he had to reach Tristan, he had to be by his side, he had to be there for him. Finally, he arrived at the hospital, short of breath, clothes drenched, his eyes frantically searching for answers.
Dakan’s frantic run through the hospital corridors left him even more breathless and trembling. He finally reached the reception, where a compassionate nurse directed him to Tristan’s room after he explained the reason for his visit in a semblance of words. He thanked her with a quick nod, unable to speak further without risking leaving his lungs on the counter, and rushed to the elevator to go up the floors. The stairs were not an option; he was almost certain he would collapse after the second step in his state. He hammered the button as if it would make the elevator arrive faster. He struggled to contain his emotions; he had to reach Tristan as quickly as possible.
Standing before Tristan’s room door, Dakan paused for a moment, his hand hesitating on the handle, afraid of finding his lover dead, afraid that it was too late. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then gently opened the door. His breath caught in his throat as he was greeted by the sight of his partner, pale and motionless, lying on the hospital bed.
Dakan approached the bed as if afraid to wake Tristan. He gently caressed his hair, still slightly damp from the rain, and murmured soothing words. "Tristan, my love, I'm here. You're going to make it, do you hear me? It's going to be okay, darling, you're going to make it."
Dakan's worried gaze scrutinized Tristan's face, hoping for a reaction, a sign of life, but his lover's face remained peaceful, still deeply unconscious. He delicately took Tristan’s hand in his, seeking comfort in the contact.
Tristan seemed both fragile and resilient, his breathing steady, a sign that life persisted despite the injury. The blanket covered him up to his chest, hiding most of the bandages on his torso. Dakan leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, a silent tear sliding down his cheek. He blamed himself; if he hadn't lost his temper during their discussion, Tristan wouldn't have left and wouldn't have been attacked. If he had spoken normally, Tristan would be safe, not gravely injured. Dakan sighed; there was no use redoing the world with "ifs," he had to take events as they came and fix the situation.
He sat down on the chair next to the bed, noticing a notepad containing Tristan’s file on the table. He picked it up and started reading. He learned that his partner had been stabbed at the left eighth rib, puncturing the lung and causing severe bleeding. Dakan let out a trembling breath as he read those words. He hoped his lover would recover.
He had kept vigil for hours, worry gnawing at his mind, before fatigue overwhelmed him again. He felt his eyelids growing heavier. He tried to stay awake by mentally replaying the festival’s security protocol elements, but it wasn't very effective. He refused to leave his lover's side, so he couldn’t go get coffee, the precious beverage that usually kept him awake. He then tried counting Tristan's breaths while holding his hand, but again, it didn't help fend off sleep; it actually made him feel even more drowsy. He picked up a newspaper lying on the bedside table, but the words were blurry and incomprehensible to his tired mind.
Finally, he gave in; he had to sleep, but he feared something might happen to his lover while he slept. He made a decision. He took off his shoes and jacket, leaving them on the chair, then carefully climbed onto the bed next to his partner, on the right side, the uninjured side. He needed this contact, to show Tristan that he was there despite the argument, to feel him against him, alive. Dakan took great care not to cause any pain, not to move his lover’s body, and he rested his head on Tristan’s shoulder. Their hands were clasped on the injured man's abdomen, a symbol of their unbreakable bond. He could feel Tristan’s pulse against his ear, which reassured and soothed him.
Words seemed superfluous in this moment of vulnerability. The rain still pounded on the windows, creating a peaceful atmosphere in the room. Dakan closed his eyes, letting exhaustion and relief wash over him. The last emotions swirled within him, and he finally succumbed to sleep, yielding to fatigue, his steady breath accompanying Tristan's peaceful breathing. Words were unnecessary; love and presence were enough.
The sweetness of sleep enveloped Dakan, his exhaustion pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep. Dakan's return to consciousness was unexpectedly gentle. He felt kisses as light as butterfly wings brushing his hair. He groaned softly, the sensation stretching a smile across his sleeping face. He no longer knew where he was; he supposed he was at home, in bed with Tristan, warm and safe in his lover's arms. His heavy eyelids slowly opened, letting in the soft light of the hospital room. It took him a moment to recognize the place. He noticed an unfamiliar white wall, the unknown chair with his jacket and shoes, then a medical machine. As reality forcefully made its way into his mind still foggy from sleep, the realization struck him: Tristan had been injured.
When he raised his head with concern, a breathtaking sight greeted him. Tristan, his hair tousled, was awake, a tired but tender smile illuminating his face. The dark circles under his eyes testified to the trials he had endured, but his gaze showed only sweetness and love.
Dakan was overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions. He took Tristan’s face in his hands, leaning in to kiss him tenderly. Tears of relief and gratitude began to roll down his cheeks, flooding their faces with this rain of emotions.
Between kisses, Dakan repeatedly apologized. "Tristan, my treasure, I'm so sorry for what I said," a kiss, "I regret every word," another kiss, "I love you so much, you can’t imagine how much." He kissed him again, savoring the moment, savoring the fact that Tristan was indeed alive, awake, and loving.
Tristan responded by holding Dakan close, avoiding the sensitive area of his wound, his strong arms enveloping him in a comforting embrace. Dakan rested his head under his lover’s chin, listening to Tristan’s gentle heartbeat. The latter spoke, too relieved to have the chance to be alive, "I’m sorry too, my love. I was too rigid. I should have understood your concerns. I love you more than anything in the world." He planted more kisses in his lover's hair, so happy not to have just died in a sordid gutter.
All this time, the rain continued to beat against the hospital room window, creating a soothing, calming melody in the background. Dakan gradually calmed down in his companion's arms, the tears giving way to a feeling of deep reconciliation. He straightened up and gently rested his forehead against Tristan’s, then made a solemn promise. “I will never let you go when we’re angry again. We will always find a way to overcome our disagreements, I promise you.”
Tristan accepted this promise by kissing Dakan once more, their lips sealing not only their love but also their determination to no longer let anger separate them and obscure what they had. The two men settled comfortably against each other, enjoying being together, being alive. They fell asleep peacefully, Tristan unable to resist the medication any longer, and Dakan simply happy to fall asleep in his man’s arms. They would deal with their responsibilities later; that could wait. In any case, Dakan wouldn’t let Tristan go back to work too soon, ensuring his partner would respect his convalescence. If Tristan played stubborn, Dakan would use his secret weapon: teaming up with Lauren to make Tristan stay home. Tristan never resisted this team, his heart too happy to please his family. The rain continued to fall outside, a gentle reminder that love could be stronger than the storm and the shadows.