Chapter Text
After seventy-eight hours, Roger wakes up.
He stirs in the hospital bed for the first time in days and it sends a ripple through the room, like a skipped stone displacing water. Everyone takes a breath, and a step closer. From where he stands at the far side of the room, Rafa watches it happen.
His palms are pressed flat against the wall behind him. They’ve gone tacky against the glossy paint, but Rafa keeps them there, leaning back against his arms. He doesn’t move.
Rafa sees Roger’s eyes open slowly. He sees him blink blearily up at the ceiling, once, twice. Then the others converge around the bed, and Roger disappears from view.
Rafa watches as Roger’s parents hold their son. His mother weeps against his neck; his father rests one steady hand on her back, brushing the lank hair from Roger’s forehead with the other. On the opposite side of the bed, Mirka grips Roger’s hand between her own. They’re all speaking soft, loving words, murmurs Rafa can’t quite catch.
It must be overwhelming for him, Rafa thinks.
A nurse arrives at some point. She demands space to do her work, and Rafa feels grateful on Roger’s behalf. She gives Roger water to drink in a thick plastic mug with a straw, and he swallows it down obediently. She measures his vitals and shines a pen light in his eyes. Rafa sees her smile at the others, reassuring. Must be good news.
She checks all the tubes and wires going in and out of Roger. Once satisfied, she types her notes into the computer, saves her work, and turns to leave, quick and efficient.
As she passes by Rafa, she offers him a smile, too. It’s stiff from overuse, but still kind.
She closes the door firmly shut behind her, ensuring their privacy. The sound of it is what finally draws Roger’s attention to the other side of the room, where Rafa is standing against the far wall. Their eyes catch and hold; Rafa’s heart begins to thump harder inside his chest.
By the look on his face, Rafa can tell Roger is surprised to find another person in the room who’s not crowded around his bed. He’s frowning, but his expression is neutral, in that way only Roger seems capable of doing.
Voice rough from days without speaking, Roger rasps out, “…Nadal?”
His tone is that of a man who wants to ask what are you doing here? but is too polite to actually say it. Confused, Roger’s gaze darts between his parents and Mirka, who have all turned to stare at Rafa.
Receiving no help from his family, Roger looks back at Rafa. Sheepish, he offers, “Sorry. I mean…it’s Rafael, right?”
There’s no sound in the hospital room other than the steady beep of Roger’s heart monitor. No one moves, no one takes a breath.
Rafa closes his eyes. He inhales deeply through his nose. He nods once, silently, to himself. Then, peeling away from the wall, Rafa picks up his jacket, pulls open the door, and walks wordlessly out of the room.
While Roger was unconscious, Rafa never once held his hand. The longer he kept himself at a distance, the more stricken Mirka’s glances in his direction had become, but Rafa had held firm. Standing sentry opposite Roger’s bed, he’d watched on as Roger’s parents, and Diana, and Mirka, and Tony, and Pierre, and Severin, and every other visitor sat at Roger’s bedside and held his hand in their own.
When the doctors said memory loss is common with head injuries this severe and side effects could be permanent and he might not remember new things, or recall old things, or he may be completely fine and we won’t know until he wakes up, it was as if Rafa already knew what would happen next.
Rafa never held Roger’s hand, so when Roger woke up and couldn’t remember his name, Rafa didn’t have to let him go.
From: Mirka
I talked to him.
The text is waiting for him when Rafa switches his phone on the next morning. Mirka doesn’t specify what exactly she’s spoken to Roger about, but Rafa assumes she means everything. Rafa sighs. He sets the phone aside.
Later, when he picks it up again, a second text has come through:
From: Mirka
Met with the neurologist. She says the memory loss is normal and other than that he’s in perfect health. They’re planning to discharge him tomorrow.
Rafa’s first instinct is to balk. He wants to object, and vociferously; it feels far too soon to remove Roger from direct medical supervision, especially given his current condition. But then Rafa remembers something else the doctors said: that there’s very little they can actually do to treat a concussion; that time and rest will be the most important parts of Roger’s recovery.
Rafa supposes there’s no better place for Roger to rest and recover than home.
That night, alone in their house, Rafa changes the sheets on their bed, gathers the things he needs, and settles into the unfamiliar silence of the spare room.
Roger does sleep a lot.
This is okay, Rafa reassures himself, Roger’s brain is healing, just like the doctors said.
For a while, Rafa doesn’t see much of him. Bright lights and loud sounds hurt his head, so Roger spends a lot of time in the darkened bedroom, resting in the quiet with the curtains drawn. The few instances Rafa does slip inside the room, to bring fresh water, or to drop off a snack, Roger is asleep.
In truth, Rafa makes sure to come only when Roger is asleep. He doesn't volunteer to bring Roger his medicine, or offer to assist when he knows he’s awake. Roger would much rather see familiar faces right now, Rafa thinks.
Rafa’s presence is all but unnecessary anyway. Roger’s parents have come to stay at the guest house for a while, and with Mirka taking up residence in the second spare room, Rafa’s help is hardly required most of the time. Only when the others are away for groceries, or other matters.
Rafa does insist on taking his turn to look in on Roger, though. If only to be fair. If only to see that he’s okay.
He’s mostly in charge of doing check-ins while the others are asleep at night. This is okay with Rafa. He hasn’t been sleeping well anyway.
It’s just after two a.m., four hours since someone last checked in on Roger, when Rafa gently pushes open the door to the bedroom. The room is lit by a dim night light plugged into the wall. It provides just enough of an ambient glow so they don’t trip over anything and make too much noise. So that they can make sure Roger is still breathing properly.
Rafa catches himself staring at it every time he comes into the room. The night light is yellowed with age and shaped like a tennis racket, a faded green tennis ball caught mid-bounce off its strings. Roger’s parents brought it from their home, probably right out of storage from Roger’s childhood bedroom.
Rafa wants to ask him about it, tease him about it.
But he can’t.
“Funny, isn’t it?”
Rafa feels himself start at the question. He hadn’t noticed Roger was awake.
Gulping, Rafa glances away from the night light to Roger. He’s sat up in the bed against a stack of pillows, looking rumpled and worse for wear, watching him.
They stare at each other for a long moment.
When Rafa wholly fails to muster anything to say in response, Roger tries again. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
It’s a neutral statement, said with that same characteristic expression of Roger’s, even and unrevealing. It’s not meant to hurt—not meant to mean much at all, really.
Still, Rafa winces.
I live here, he can’t help but think. Then, finding no reason not to say it out loud, “I live here.”
He watches for Roger’s reaction. Roger just nods minutely in the faint glow of the room, still gazing at Rafa.
“Right,” he says.
The silence is a physical, disconcerting presence, looming over the bedroom. Rafa fidgets under its oppressive gaze.
“I’m sorry,” Rafa offers, after an indeterminate amount of time has passed.
Roger frowns, curious. “For what?”
Rafa isn’t entirely sure himself. He shrugs. “Bothering you,” he guesses.
Roger only returns the shrug. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says mildly.
You need sleep to heal, Rafa wants to scold him. He doesn’t voice his thoughts out loud this time.
“But you are…you are feeling okay?” he asks instead.
He does a visual check—Roger appears to be breathing normally, and he doesn’t look to be in a great deal of pain.
“Better,” Roger nods. Then, heaving out a long sigh, he gestures vaguely around the room. “Just, you know. Bored.”
Rafa can only nod, commiserating. “Sorry,” he says. He knows Roger can’t spend much time looking at bright phone screens or televisions, or even a paper book. Not without hurting his head.
Silence, again. Roger still hasn’t looked away from him.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” he says then. Suddenly, and without warning.
Rafa’s breath catches in his throat like a barb. He almost staggers back from the impact of the words, but stops himself before he can take a step. Rafa forces himself to not outwardly react at all. He can feel his heart beating hard, almost painfully against his ribs. Every other part of him feels numb.
Effortfully, Rafa swallows down the sharp hurt, the aching heartbreak inside his chest.
“It’s okay,” Rafa lies.
Before, Roger would never have believed him. Now, Roger just nods. He glances down at his hands, finally looking away from Rafa.
Before, Rafa would never have let Roger sit alone. Now, Rafa just takes the opportunity he’s been given and flees.