Pakistan watches the sunrise and quietly waits, not turning around until he’s ready, which takes a little longer. India gently pats his back, using the bedrail to help himself sit up, even though it’s a little difficult. He’s careful not to mess up his bandage. Sri Lanka jumps up before India’s hand even reaches the bedrail. "Appa —" "I'm fine." "You're not —" "I am sitting up," India says patiently. "Not running a marathon." Sri Lanka stays close by, wanting to help but not sure how. He worries, but India’s bandage is still clean and white, which is a relief. Pakistan is suddenly beside the bed, hand at India’s back — not really helping, just being there to support him. India manages to sit upright, breathing carefully until he feels okay. He opens his eyes. "See," he says, a little out of breath but clearly proud. "Incredible," Pakistan says with a smile. "A man sitting up! Someone tell the newspapers." Sri Lanka lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He rests his hand gently on his father’s shoulder, needing the comfort. Pakistan checks his bandages, making sure everything is still okay. He relaxes a bit. Then he looks up at his son’s face — noticing the tired eyes, the little lines left by the pillow, and the worried expression he tries to hide — and something in India’s face softens. "Sit down, makan," he says gently. "You’re making me tired just watching you worry." Sri Lanka stands there, still anxious. "Sit," India repeats, guiding Sri into a chair. Sri Lanka sits because his father’s hand is on his shoulder, and after three days of watching over him, his legs basically decide for him. He looks up at India, who looks back with that calm, timeless expression. "I'm okay," Sri Lanka says, though he doesn’t sound very sure. "I know," India says. "I just —" He stops, looking down at his hands before meeting India’s eyes again. "Every time you close your eyes I worry —" "I know," India says softly. Sitting up is hard for India, you can see it in the careful way he breathes and the tension in his eyes. Still, he reaches out and puts his hand on Sri Lanka’s. "Look at me," he says. Sri Lanka looks up. "I’m sitting up. I’m breathing. I’m annoying Pakistan." Pakistan makes a sound from across the room, but India ignores him. "I’m here. All of me. Understand?" Sri Lanka nods. "Good." India squeezes his hand. "Then let yourself breathe, makan. That’s an order." Sri Lanka breathes out, a little shaky, but he does it. India smiles, squeezing his hand again. "Good." He stays there next to Sri as memories float through his mind. He remembers being scared, running to protect his son. His eyes close as he steadies himself. It’s over. He’s alive. Sri’s alive. They’re together. He focuses on the feeling of his son’s hand in his, the chair beneath him, the gentle beep of the monitor, and the morning light coming through the window. These things, right now, here. The memories come and go, but he knows he’s safe.
Carefully. In. Out. Against the pull of the bandages and the ache that lives beneath them. It's over. The head on the floor. The weight leaving his legs. Sri Lanka's voice somewhere above him, or below him, or very far away — he hadn't been able to tell, by then. Hadn't been able to hold onto much of anything. But he'd heard him. Every day. Every single time. He breathes again. Sri's alive. He opens his eyes. The room reassembles itself around him — dim and quiet and ordinary in the way that only hospital rooms at early morning can be. Hindu by the window. Sri Lanka in the chair beside him, watching his face with that careful, anxious attention he's worn for three days. He's here. India looks down at his son's hand in his. Squeezes it again, deliberate and slow, just to feel it. Just to confirm. "Appa?" Sri Lanka says quietly. He's seen something, clearly. He sees too much, always has. "I'm here," India says. It's for both of them.
