Stormy Night (Deny, Pt.4)

Instructions

***Narrator's perspective, 3rd POV*** Stormy Night The thunder rolled in low and heavy across the sky, rattling the windowpanes of the house like something restless trying to get inside. Rain came down in sheets, loud and relentless against the roof. India had been reading — some old, dog-eared paperback he’d picked up years ago and never quite finished — when his bedroom door creaked open. Just barely. Just enough. He didn’t look up right away. He already knew. “…Appa.” Sri Lanka stood in the doorway in his oversized sleep shirt, the one that was a little too long in the sleeves, clutching the hem of it with both hands. His hair was messy from almost-sleep, and his eyes were doing that thing where he was very clearly trying to look unbothered and very clearly failing. India set his book down on his chest and looked over at him with the kind of calm that only came from being very, very old, and very, very fond. “Come here, da.” That was all it took. Sri Lanka crossed the room in about four steps and climbed onto the bed with all the graceless confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times before — because he had — and burrowed immediately into India’s side, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder like it was something to hide behind. India wrapped an arm around him without a word, adjusting so the boy fit better against him, and picked his book back up. Another crack of thunder. Sri Lanka flinched, pressing closer. “I know it’s just noise,” Sri Lanka muttered into his shoulder. “I didn’t say I didn’t know that.” “Mm.” “I just didn’t want to be alone.” “I know.” A long beat of rain and wind and the occasional low grumble of the storm moving through. India turned a page. Sri Lanka’s breathing slowly started to even out, the stiffness in his shoulders melting away degree by degree. “Appa.” “Hm.” “…What are you reading?” India tilted the cover toward him. Sri Lanka squinted at it, then made a face. “That looks boring.” “It is a little boring,” India admitted. “I’ve been trying to finish it for about forty years.” Sri Lanka snorted despite himself — a small, sleepy sound — and tucked his chin down against India’s arm. “Then why do you keep reading it?” “Because I started it.” India turned another page. “You finish what you start.” Sri Lanka was quiet for a moment. Outside, lightning flickered white through the curtains, and the thunder followed — further away this time, rolling off toward the east. “Appa.” “Still here.” “…Thanks for letting me come in.” India looked down at him then. Really looked — at the mess of dark hair, the half-closed eyes, the way he was still holding the blanket like a shield even though his whole body had gone soft with almost-sleep. He reached over and ruffled his hair, slow and gentle, the way he had since Sri Lanka was small enough to carry. “Aiyo,” he said quietly, with all the warmth in the world tucked into that one word. “When have I ever not let you come in?” Sri Lanka didn’t answer. He was already most of the way asleep. India closed his book — forty more years wouldn’t hurt — and reached over to turn off the lamp. The room went dark and warm, lit only by the occasional flicker of distant lightning, soft now, harmless. He listened to the rain slow. He listened to his son breathe. Outside, the storm was passing. Inside, everything was still. India smiles down at him and wraps his other arm around him, pressing a kiss to his head. “Sleep, makan.” Sri Lanka makes a small sound at that — not quite a word, not quite awake enough for one. He shifts, just barely, pulling India’s arm a little tighter around himself like even half-asleep he knows exactly where the warmth is. India doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to be anywhere. Hasn’t needed to be anywhere for five thousand years on nights like this. The rain softens to a murmur against the glass. The last of the lightning has long since wandered off somewhere else, leaving the room to its quiet. India watches the rise and fall of his son’s breathing until his own eyes grow heavy, his chin dipping toward the top of Sri Lanka’s head. He smells like the coconut shampoo he always uses. Like home. India closes his eyes. The storm doesn’t matter. The night doesn’t matter. There is just this — his boy, warm and safe and finally, finally still. India falls asleep beside his son. “Love you.” Somewhere in the deep, soft dark of sleep, Sri Lanka hears it. He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t move. But the smallest smile pulls at the corner of his mouth — barely there, gone almost as soon as it comes — and he tucks himself just a fraction closer. “...Love you too, Appa,” he mumbles, so quiet it’s almost just breath. And then there is nothing but the rain, and the dark, and two people fast asleep.