Zed never calls to chat....
(I suck at NaNo. Really, really badly. And I feel kinda bad about it, but oh well. This came out instead.)
It's been a long time, in his terms, since the boy who calls himself Romney has heard the shrill, alarming cry of his phone that announces a call from his longtime best friend--specifically, of that friend on the emergency line. They devised the idea of a separate 'emergency line' just before the older boy's departure, meant to make allowances for his active and involved social life. Zach keeps two phone lines, at least, at all times; one is for personal use, good for a simple chat or less than pressing discussion of business or logistics. The other is reserved for extreme and immediate concerns, and while the first might be ignored and called back later if Rom is busy with one thing or another, the second is answered without fail, no matter the circumstances.
Zed knows better than to call for less than a true emergency.
Even now; even when he's sitting at the bar in a darkened club talking and flirting and really starting to get somewhere with the hard-eyed blond beside him--getting far enough to sit much too close for strangers, and to twine a sinfully casual finger in honey colored curls--he hears that sound and drops everything to answer the phone. A frown flickers across his expressive face, and he pulls back abruptly from the quizzical expression of the boy at his side to fish into his pocket for the slim cell phone making all the noise. A tense flick of his wrist and curt greeting--
"Zed? What's going on?"
--and that boy may as well get going and look elsewhere for his fun, because Rom's somewhere else entirely in an instant.
"Danny.... I'm still mad at you, you know." the strange in-between voice on the other end of the line murmurs, hesitant.
"I know...." he offers in return, all his brash youthful confidence melting away. "You've got every right to be. But I know you wouldn't call if it wasn't important, so what's happened?"
His friend seems slightly vindicated, and goes on with only a little lingering uncertainty, like he's not completely sure he wants to be having this conversation, but knows he has to anyways. "I didn't want to call. But I'd rather tell you myself than let you hear it on the news. It's your dad. He's...."
Found him?
Given up looking?
Done something to Elly?
His dad's.... what? The thoughts case eachother in panicky circles for seconds that seem to stretch out forever in the briefest of pauses.
"...He's in the hospital. He's had a heart attack."
Another of those moments that lasts eons passes in stunned silence between them.
Rom swallows hard, banishing a lump he didn't realize was in his throat. In the hospital? Heart attack? That's not supposed to happen. The spiteful old bastard is supposed to go on being a spiteful bastard for at least another year, at least long enough for his son to turn 18 and come back to take his well-deserved vengeance in court against the man who made his life hell. This wasn't part of the plan.
"You there, Danny?"
"Yeah. 'M here." He half-whispers, too shocked to offer much more. His head is spinning unpleasantly, and there's a sickening pit like his stomach's dropped out, down in the bottom of his chest. Blood rushes in his ears, and the swirl of colors that disrupts his vision, courtesy of the club's dark and pounding bass beat, seems more vindictive than it did moments ago. "I.... I mean.... that is.... How's he doing?" He drags the words from his throat like he can't bear to let them go.
"Not good." his friend answers, a tinge of sympathy to that oddly enchanting voice that no one can quite place but everyone thinks they recognize. "I got into the Good Samaritan database. The general consensus is.... They figure he's got a week. Maybe."
"Shit." he whispers, soft and tender as a lost child asking if you can help him get home. He stares sightlessly at the bar under his elbows, and the world feels like it's slowing to an unscheduled stop all around. "I....." he swallows hard. "I'll be there by tomorrow afternoon. Late tonight if I can."
"You're coming back?"
"I have to. If nothing else.... who'll take care of Elly?"
"Of course. I.... I guess I'll probably see you, then." the words are strangely strangled across the miles; there's a kind of grudging resentment in them, like his friend isn't done being mad at him but has to stop anyways, and there's a sort of stamped-down hope, too.
"Yeah. I.... Thanks."
"Of course."
Without saying goodbye, like the superstitious pair hates to do, they both hang up.
With a troubled frown and strangely hard grey eyes, Rom stands abruptly, unsteadily, and stalks away from the bar and out the front door of club, into the chill late autumn night, without even a word to the confused blond who'd stayed hopefully close through the call.
It's been a long time, in his terms, since the boy who calls himself Romney has heard the shrill, alarming cry of his phone that announces a call from his longtime best friend--specifically, of that friend on the emergency line. They devised the idea of a separate 'emergency line' just before the older boy's departure, meant to make allowances for his active and involved social life. Zach keeps two phone lines, at least, at all times; one is for personal use, good for a simple chat or less than pressing discussion of business or logistics. The other is reserved for extreme and immediate concerns, and while the first might be ignored and called back later if Rom is busy with one thing or another, the second is answered without fail, no matter the circumstances.
Zed knows better than to call for less than a true emergency.
Even now; even when he's sitting at the bar in a darkened club talking and flirting and really starting to get somewhere with the hard-eyed blond beside him--getting far enough to sit much too close for strangers, and to twine a sinfully casual finger in honey colored curls--he hears that sound and drops everything to answer the phone. A frown flickers across his expressive face, and he pulls back abruptly from the quizzical expression of the boy at his side to fish into his pocket for the slim cell phone making all the noise. A tense flick of his wrist and curt greeting--
"Zed? What's going on?"
--and that boy may as well get going and look elsewhere for his fun, because Rom's somewhere else entirely in an instant.
"Danny.... I'm still mad at you, you know." the strange in-between voice on the other end of the line murmurs, hesitant.
"I know...." he offers in return, all his brash youthful confidence melting away. "You've got every right to be. But I know you wouldn't call if it wasn't important, so what's happened?"
His friend seems slightly vindicated, and goes on with only a little lingering uncertainty, like he's not completely sure he wants to be having this conversation, but knows he has to anyways. "I didn't want to call. But I'd rather tell you myself than let you hear it on the news. It's your dad. He's...."
Found him?
Given up looking?
Done something to Elly?
His dad's.... what? The thoughts case eachother in panicky circles for seconds that seem to stretch out forever in the briefest of pauses.
"...He's in the hospital. He's had a heart attack."
Another of those moments that lasts eons passes in stunned silence between them.
Rom swallows hard, banishing a lump he didn't realize was in his throat. In the hospital? Heart attack? That's not supposed to happen. The spiteful old bastard is supposed to go on being a spiteful bastard for at least another year, at least long enough for his son to turn 18 and come back to take his well-deserved vengeance in court against the man who made his life hell. This wasn't part of the plan.
"You there, Danny?"
"Yeah. 'M here." He half-whispers, too shocked to offer much more. His head is spinning unpleasantly, and there's a sickening pit like his stomach's dropped out, down in the bottom of his chest. Blood rushes in his ears, and the swirl of colors that disrupts his vision, courtesy of the club's dark and pounding bass beat, seems more vindictive than it did moments ago. "I.... I mean.... that is.... How's he doing?" He drags the words from his throat like he can't bear to let them go.
"Not good." his friend answers, a tinge of sympathy to that oddly enchanting voice that no one can quite place but everyone thinks they recognize. "I got into the Good Samaritan database. The general consensus is.... They figure he's got a week. Maybe."
"Shit." he whispers, soft and tender as a lost child asking if you can help him get home. He stares sightlessly at the bar under his elbows, and the world feels like it's slowing to an unscheduled stop all around. "I....." he swallows hard. "I'll be there by tomorrow afternoon. Late tonight if I can."
"You're coming back?"
"I have to. If nothing else.... who'll take care of Elly?"
"Of course. I.... I guess I'll probably see you, then." the words are strangely strangled across the miles; there's a kind of grudging resentment in them, like his friend isn't done being mad at him but has to stop anyways, and there's a sort of stamped-down hope, too.
"Yeah. I.... Thanks."
"Of course."
Without saying goodbye, like the superstitious pair hates to do, they both hang up.
With a troubled frown and strangely hard grey eyes, Rom stands abruptly, unsteadily, and stalks away from the bar and out the front door of club, into the chill late autumn night, without even a word to the confused blond who'd stayed hopefully close through the call.