Work Text:
I Feel Unknown (and it's safe that way)
Fadel forcibly chops yet another tomato, ignoring the incessant ringing of his phone. He had known dating Style could only end in trouble (at best) and heartache (which he’d rather not think about). Given his job, and how his last relationship had ended, he really, honestly, should have cut his losses well before now.
Never mind that Style has grown on him – like a weed, or a fungus.
Never mind that Style’s frustrating, endearing persistence won him over, leaving him slightly flattered (and annoyed about it).
Never mind that for the first time in far too long, Fadel had begun to believe he could actually trust someone.
His phone rings again.
Sighing, Fadel carefully sets down his knife and removes his gloves before setting his phone on silent. He has a restaurant to run, the one thing that exists for him, and he refuses to let it fail – even for a single shift – because his dumbass phone can’t be bothered to stop ringing.
An hour later, Bison storms into the kitchen like an earthquake, complete with stomping steps and loud gestures.
“Fadel,” Bison greets, his tone eerily at odds with his entrance, “you can’t pick up the phone now?”
“Working,” Fadel answers, gesturing vaguely to the counter and his small staff – who all suddenly find the need to leave the kitchen.
Even his fry and grill cook.
Traitors, all of them.
“Bison -” Fadel cannot help his sigh, exasperation obvious.
“No,” Bison interrupts, crossing to stand next to Fadel, heedless of the knife Fadel still grips far too tightly for the greens he was chopping. “No. You don’t get to do this now. Do you get that you’re the only one he remembers? The. Only. One.” The words are forcibly pointed.
“So?” Fadel questions, turning away to keep an eye on the abandoned grill. “Not my problem.”
“’Not your –” Bison starts to repeat before he stops, running a hand through his hair. “You’re forgetting that I know you,” Bison lowers his voice and takes yet another half step closer to Fadel. “You might be harsh, but you’re not callous.”
“I can be.”
“Sure,” Bison agrees with a far-too-casual shrug. “Maybe, to some, to a stranger you could be. But not to someone you know. Not to your boyfriend of a month.”
“He’s not –” Fadel quickly counters, dropping the knife. “You of all people know why he’s not. Hell, he probably didn’t even like me.”
Fuck.
He hadn’t meant to actually say that last part, but Bison has a way of getting under his skin. Stupid little brothers.
“Are you serious right now? He pursued you, Fadel! And it worked! How often have you stayed at his place, now? Did you meet his dad? I don’t care how nice my faen’s car is, no bet is worth that much investment!”
“Bet?” Fadel questions, the whispery tone barely audible over the sizzle of grease. “What bet?”
“Oh,” Bisen leans his hip against the counter. “Kant. That's how he first got Style to agree to try and date you so I could date Kant.”
Fadel freezes. Completely.
No way. There was no possible way that his idiot little brother got the guy he was in lust with to bring in an innocent friend just so Fadel would be distracted.
Not when Kant was a snitch.
No.
Style had to be in on it. He had to be.
“Bison,” Fadel says after a moment, carefully choosing where to start. “Kant is talking to the cops.”
“Yeah,” Bison agrees, “he definitely is.”
“You called him your faen.”
“I’m staying in character,” Bison smiles.
“Bison!” Fadel snaps and turns to face his brother.
“Look,” Bison starts, hands out in a caricature of placation. “I’m just acting the part. Right now, my faen’s best friend woke up and suddenly didn't know who he was. He doesn’t know Kant, he doesn’t know the mechanics at the shop – he doesn’t even recognize his dad.
“You want to know the only person he’s asked for since he woke up? The only person he remembers? You. So if I have to drag you back to that hospital I will, but I don't actually think I’ll have to.”
“You couldn’t take me if you tried.”
Bison moves to sit on an empty part of the counter (Fadel prays no safety inspectors turn up) and Fadel goes back to flipping his slightly dark burgers.
“I could,” Bison argues, “but that’s not the point. The point is that you'll go with me willingly because I need you to for my plan to work.
“Your plan,” Fadel says lightly. He’s seen Bison’s plans before. They all tend to work beautifully right up until the moment they don’t. Bison lets his emotions control him too much to be a planner. Or at least someone who sticks to a plan.
“Yes,” Bison agrees, “you know – getting close to Kant? Which I can’t do when he’s always at the hospital because he doesn’t know what to do about Style. I can’t try to find out how much he knows when we’re in a room surrounded by medical staff.”
“So what,” Fadel starts, putting his hands on his hips, “you’re going to go off with Kant to somehow try and find out how completely screwed we are, while I play the worried boyfriend?”
“Something like that,” Bison agrees, beginning to smile. “It’s not like it’s the hardest job you’ve had.”
It actually might be, Fadel thinks, remembering Style’s eager hugs and flirtatious, seemingly true words.
“Where would you even go to question Kant?” Fadel questions instead, still trying to ignore memories of Style. “You can’t take him anywhere nearby.”
“I know a place,” Bison waves away Fadel’s concerns. “I have it covered. So, can you please go to the hospital so I can get it done?”
“You need a better plan,” Fadel counters, plating the food. “Preferably one that doesn’t hinge on me. You don’t even know that you’ll be able to get Kant out if I show up.”
“Sure I can,” Bison grins. “I have my ways.”
“Please,” Fadel groans, “do not tell me.”
“I thought you wanted to know?” Bison’s grin widens, “I -”
“No,” Fadel snaps, “shut up and eat.”
“And most people think you’re stubborn,” Bison mutters. “Instead here you are changing your mind.”
“Will you stop muttering?” Fadel questions, despite knowing the futility of the statement.
“My plan is fine,” Bison mumbles around a mouthful of burger, “and you know it.”
“I still think it needs improvements,” Fadel counters, narrowing his eyes.
“But you haven’t given me any,” Bison answers, leaning forward.
Fadel runs a hand over his face. He still hates everything. All of it. “Not today,” Fadel finally mutters. “I’m still working for three hours.”
“But you’ll go?” Bison asks, even as he grabs a fry from the plate. “You’re agreeing?”
“Unfortunately,” Fadel states. “This better work.”
He ignores Bison’s fist pump of glee.
Style leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to sleep, not really, but he is tired of staring at faces he’s supposed to know.
He’s tired of Kant’s overly nostalgic comments on things they have apparently done together in the past.
He’s tired of the man who says he’s his father looking at him with eyes that can’t quite manage to hide sadness.
He’s tired of pretending he’s anything less than yearning for someone else.
He wants his boyfriend.
Everything seems wrong, and not just because the people in his room are strangers. It’s wrong because he knows that he loves Fadel. He knows that one, singular fact. And yet, Fadel isn’t here.
Kant and his boyfriend (Guar? Biker? Buffalo?) said Fadel is away for work, and is on his way home. Style wills the clock to tick faster.
Around his bed, he hears whispers. The man who introduced himself as Style’s father is wondering when the doctor will be back, and Kant is – once again – talking about his own work and family.
And then, the door opens.
Style keeps his eyes closed, uninterested in having to repeat his name and birthday – which he vaguely remembers from being told multiple times a day – and hearing everyone question when he would return to “normal.”
Part of him knows it’s not normal to only recognize one person, but the rest of him doesn’t care. He just wants to talk to Fadel. Wants to see the man he loves instead of unfamiliar faces full of hope that he suddenly recognizes them.
“Oh,” he hears, “he’s sleeping. I’ll just come back.” Style’s eyes shoot open, his attempt at hiding forgotten.
“Fadel!” Style doesn’t shout, but it is the loudest he’s been in the room, and he sees Kant wince beside him.
“Style,” Fadel replies as he steps up the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“You’re back!” Style says instead, “How was your trip? Is everything okay? Did –”
“Style,” Fadel interrupts, “you’re the one in the hospital. How. Are. You. Feeling?”
“I’m fine,” Style answers, reaching for Fadel’s hand.
“You’re not fine,” Kant counters, “since you only remember him.”
“Kant,” Fadel replies, voice flat, “why don’t you go check out the cafeteria?”
“Yes,” Style agrees, “go get some food.”
“I -”
“Come on,” the man beside Style’s bed comments, “let’s give the love birds a minute.”
Style knows that he should be embarrassed at this person – his father – making such a comment about his love life, but the stranger beside him brings no such emotion.
Moments later, Style is left alone with the only person he remembers.
He smiles for the first time in days.
“Fadel,” Style says again, briefly tightening his grip on Fadel’s hand. “I'm glad you’re here.”
“Yeah,” Fadel says after a moment. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
“It’s fine,” Style assures. “You’re here now.”
“I am,” Fadel murmurs before continuing more loudly, “Bison - they said you don’t remember anything?”
Bison. That’s Kant’s boyfriend’s name.
“Just you,” Style says with a slight laugh. “Who knew our love was so epic?”
“Style,” Fadel murmurs, “this is serious.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Style snaps. “I don’t - I don’t know them, Fadel. That man says he’s my father, but to me he’s just an older guy in the room! Kant says we’ve been friends for years, but I don’t know him. And there’s something...off about him. I feel like there’s something I can’t trust. All I know is you. And that I love you. But for two days I’ve been surrounded by people I don’t know! And they don’t know me! They know – they want a Style who doesn’t exist right now!”
“Style,” Fadel replies over the beeping of an alarm, “I need you to calm down. Just – just breathe with me.” Fadel takes Style’s free hand and places it on his own chest, “Breathe.”
Methodically, Style does, following the inhales and exhales of his boyfriend’s own breath.
“Sorry,” Style murmurs moments later as he lowers his hand. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“No,” Fadel agrees, “but you needed to. And Style,” Fadel pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts, “you don’t need to try to be anyone else.”
“Sure,” Style comments, “but I know you. You don’t want me to be someone different; they want someone with the memories of three days ago.”
Beside him, Fadel sighs. “Well, that’s on them, and not something you need to worry about.”
Style can’t help it. He smiles. “Fadel?”
“Hm?” Fadel hums in reply and Style tightens his grip. “Why are you still so far away? Come sit with me.” Style pats the space beside his left leg. “Haven’t you missed me?”
“I -” Fadel stops, starts again. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Sit with me,” Style repeats, “please?”
“If I get in trouble, I’m blaming you,” Fadel states even as he carefully sits on the side of the medical bed. “But yes, believe it or not, I have missed you, Style.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe it?” Style questions even as he leans into Fadel’s side. “You might be the only person I remember, but I know that you care for me.”
Fadel takes a deep breath, and Style lets himself rise and fall with Fadel’s chest, content.
“I do,” Fadel murmurs against Style’s hair, “probably against my better judgement.”
“Hey,” Style laughs, playfully tapping Fadel’s leg. “I’m a delight, and our love is epic. Even my brain says so. And,” Style continues before Fadel can counter, “you won’t get in trouble. The only things injured are my head and right shoulder.”
“What happened?” Fadel questions, slightly tightening his arm around Style’s waist. “Bison didn’t really tell me much.”
“Oh,” Style fiddles with the fingers of Fadel’s hand. “I don’t really remember, but they told me that Jun had started to stock the shelf from the top, so it was unstable. Apparently, I pushed him out of the way, but the shelf and some panels hit me.”
“You pushed him – ” Fadel’s voice has taken on a rough quality, tight in a way that has Style wincing.
“I -” Style starts, but even he isn’t sure what he plans to say.
“No,” Fadel interrupts. “I don’t care. It was a stupid thing to do, and you are to never do something like that again.”
“Okay,” Style easily agrees. “In the unlikely event a shelf is falling in the garage – again – I promise to not get underneath it.”
“Style.” Fadel shifts slightly and turns Style so he’s facing him, Fadel’s left hand on Style’s chin. “I’m serious. Don’t - don’t do something that puts yourself in danger.”
Style bites back the quip that Fadel does care about him. He knows it wouldn’t go over well. “Alright,” Style finally says, reaching up to touch Fadel’s face. “I promise. Stop worrying.”
“I’ll never stop worrying about you,” Fadel admits, ducking his head.
Style, never one to give up an opportunity, ducks forward and drops a short, sweet kiss to Fadel’s lips. “It’s mutual, you know.” Style smiles. “I’ll worry about you, too. Restaurants can be dangerous.”
Against him, Fadel tenses for a moment before forcibly relaxing. “They’re not, really.”
“Hm,” Style muses, “I think you’re wrong. There’s all those sharp knives, and hot surfaces. Not to mention if someone attempted to rob such a successful restaurant.”
“Oh my God.” Fadel laughs. “Shut up. Besides,” he continues, “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
“Fine,” Style concedes, “scoot up so we can get comfortable.”
“Style -”
“No,” Style interrupts. “You left me alone with strangers for two days; you owe me. So move up so I can cuddle something in this awful hospital bed.”
Slowly, carefully, Fadel does.
Style leans against Fadel’s chest, feeling safe – content – for the first time in days. The faint smell of Fadel’s kitchen clings to his clothes, under the scent of his cologne. Style relishes in the comfort of his boyfriend.
So, of course, it’s only minutes later the door opens revealing both Kant and Style’s father. Style turns his face into Fadel’s chest and hopes it hides his sigh of frustration.
“Well,” Kant says as he enters the room, setting a cup on the small rolling table, “aren’t you two cozy.”
There’s something in Kant’s voice that sets Style on edge. Something that has his protective instincts for Fadel rising.
“My boyfriend is comfy,” Style comments as he slowly turns to face Kant. “I think most people like cuddling their faen.”
“Style,” Kant says, and Style still hates that tone, the one where Kant sounds like he’s explaining things to a child. Style has heard it for two days and he despises it, not that Kant knows. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” Kant looks over to Fadel, “Alone?”
“Actually -”
“It’s fine,” Fadel says, already carefully rising from the bed – Style mourns the loss and resists the urge to whine. "I should check in with Bison anyway,” Fadel continues as he heads for the door. “He’s not the best in the kitchen.”
“I can call Ton and check in on the garage,” Style’s father adds, and Style resists the urge to scream.
Style supposes he has no choice but to listen to what Kant has to say, but first, he’s not letting Fadel go quite so easily. Rather than releasing Fadel’s hand as he steps further away, Style tightens his grip and pulls, ignoring the pain in his opposite shoulder.
“Style?” Fadel questions, stepping back to Style’s bedside.
“Is that it? Have we dated for so long that you’re just going to leave me without a goodbye kiss? That’s what we’ve come to?”
“Style,” Fadel starts, glancing around the room, “I -”
“Don’t feel bad on my account,” Style’s father half-heartedly jokes. “I’m just glad he’s finally found someone who’s sticking around.”
At that, Fadel’s shoulders drop and he leans over Style. “I’m just going to the hallway,” Fadel quietly says, “and I won’t be gone long.”
“A goodbye kiss or I’ll think you don’t love me,” Style replies and hopes Fadel can’t hear the nerves in his voice. Why doesn’t Fadel want to kiss him? They love each other – it's the only thing Style is sure of.
“Ridiculous,” Fadel murmurs but obligingly leans down.
Style relaxes into the kiss – a kiss that ends far too soon for his taste.
“Come back soon,” Style says as he finally releases Fadel’s hand. “You owe me cuddles.”
Fadel laughs as he exits.
Beside the bed, Kant is frowning.
“He actually doesn’t remember anything,” Fadel quietly says into the phone. “He’s not playing at having amnesia.”
“Of course he’s not,” Bison answers. “Did you really think I’d make that up?”
“Not intentionally,” Fadel looks at a sign on the wall, directing visitors to other rooms or the nurse’s station. “I didn’t know how bad his injury was.”
“No,” Bison counters, “you were too pissed to think about it.”
Fadel hums in agreement. “Maybe, but this doesn’t help me figure out how much he knows.”
A pause, and Fadel tightens his grip on his phone. “Bison?”
“I don’t - Look. We know that Kant was talking to the police, yeah? But uh...I don’t actually know about Style.”
“Explain.”
“I told you! Kant made a bet on his car that Style couldn’t get you to date him so that I could spend more time with Kant. They’re friends, and I don’t know how much Kant might have told him, but...” another pause and Fadel glares at the wall. “I don’t actually know if Style knows anything. There’s no proof that he does, at least that I’ve found so far. He could be hiding something -”
Fadel hangs up the phone.
Bad enough that Bison essentially used him, working to set him up with someone just so he could have more time to sleep with his latest infatuation. He’d thought – wrongly – that as his brother, Bison would have more sense, more empathy than that. Especially after what had happened with Fadel’s last relationship.
In his hand, his phone is ringing.
Of course. Bison never has learnt to let things lie, especially if it was only in others’ best interests.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Fadel snaps when he finally answers the phone three missed calls later. “Do what you want, find out how completely fucked we are, and then let me know.”
He hangs up again, and this time the phone stays quiet.
Down the hall, Style’s father is still on the phone, leaning against the wall next to the stairwell. At Fadel’s glance, he offers a small wave.
Shit.
Fadel actually finds himself wanting the man’s approval. He always falls quickly, but two months? Two and a half months of knowing Style and here he is waving back to the man’s father.
Fadel sighs and turns back towards Style’s room, only to halt outside the door. There’s raised voices – both Kant and Style sound upset, something Fadel has never heard throughout his time of knowing them.
“You’re not listening to me!” Kant is loudly stating, his voice easily carrying through the closed hospital door. “Don’t you get that he’s dangerous, Style? This is serious!”
“You’re the one not listening,” Style replies, voice just as loud and just as clear to Fadel who stands frozen in the hallway. “I. Don’t. Care.”
“He’s a hitman!”
Fuck. Fadel glances down the hall, but no one appears to be taking any notice of the argument happening on the other side of the door. Two doors down a nurse hurriedly exits a room and heads for the nurse’s station, and luckily Style’s father is still on the opposite end of the hall.
While Fadel might be able to play off Kant’s words as those of a disapproving friend, it’s not on his list of things he’d like to do.
“You said that already,” Style is saying, “But you said you told me before, right? I didn’t break up with him then, so what on Earth makes you think I’d change my mind now?”
“Style,” Kant starts, and already Fadel is wincing. The pseudo-calm, placating tone is not the way to calm an upset Style. Still, Fadel is certainly not going to interrupt this continued conversation. “Just - just listen, okay? It was one thing when I thought getting you to hook up with Bison’s brother could help keep him distracted, but now you actually seem serious about him.”
“I am serious about him!” Style counters, his voice rising again. “You think I’d just lead him on for this long as a favor? What kind of person do you think I am?”
“Style. I’m telling you this as your friend.” There’s a pause and Fadel takes the opportunity to move to the wall beside the door, leaning against it. To a passerby, should they care, he would just look like a loved one needing a breather. “You don’t remember anything,” Kant is saying, “so you need to be careful.”
“I remember him,” Style replies, exasperation and frustration causing his words to crack. “He’s the only thing I remember, actually. Do you get that? You say you’re my best friend, just like that guy says he’s my father, but right now? Those are just titles. I don’t know either of you. But I know I love Fadel. I know that he’s my person. So you can say whatever you want about him, about how he’s apparently awful, but I don’t care. I don’t. And also? If he’s such a scary person and someone I should avoid, why is it that you’re still dating his brother?”
Fadel clenches his hands and resists the urge to fling open the door to Style’s room. Style loves him. Kant has spilled Fadel’s biggest secret and Style doesn’t care. Apparently, he hasn’t for a while. Even without Fadel being the one to tell him the truth.
The analytical part of Fadel knows that he should be planning, determining how much of a risk Style is since he evidently knows about Fadel’s side job. But the majority of Fadel’s brain is stuck on Style’s words, on the knowledge that Style, who only dropped his jokester side occasionally, had not only defended Fadel to Kant, he’d also said he loves him. Loves Fadel and all that entails.
Fadel remains frozen, in awe of Style’s words.
"You know that’s different,” Kant replies, forcing Fadel to refocus, “you know I –”
“I know how you said this started,” Style interrupts, “but that’s you. That’s not me, and your relationship with Bison is not mine with Fadel. Maybe you should have thought of that before you had me try to win Fadel over. But it’s too late now, so stop telling me to break up with my boyfriend or get out of my room.”
Fadel waits as the silence stretches, and then gives it another minute before he turns and opens the door. He ignores Kant standing by Style’s bed, focused only on Style who sits with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his blanket covered legs, a defiant look on his face.
Fadel crosses the room and leans down.
Style deserves a kiss.
Style jerks in surprise when the door to his room opens, but he keeps his eyes on Kant as Fadel crosses to his bedside. When Fadel leans down for a kiss, Style cannot stop the questioning hum, but he also brings his good arm up around Fadel’s neck.
If Fadel is going to initiate a kiss, Style is going to make sure it’s more than just a quick peck.
By the time Fadel pulls back, Style knows his cheeks are flushed, and even without the monitor beeping beside him Style knows his breath is uneven. When Style opens his eyes a moment later, it’s to Fadel offering him a smile in an otherwise empty room.
Style can’t bring himself to be upset about it.
“So,” Style starts and gestures to the bed beside him, “I’m guessing you heard that.”
“Some,” Fadel admits as he moves to sit on the bed, carefully maneuvering so Style can lean against his chest. “My call wasn’t that long. I didn’t know you knew,” Fadel admits, and Style feels Fadel drop his head on Style’s hair. “But I’ll tell you anything. Everything you want to know.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Style,” Fadel chides, “be serious.”
“I am!” Style admits as he plays with Fadel’s hand. “I want to know everything about you. Including your favorite color.”
“Red,” Fadel says after a moment. “It’s why the restaurant has so much of it.”
“I should have guessed,” Style admits, smiling. “It fits, though.”
“Glad to have your approval,” Fadel teases, his right arm briefly tightening around Style’s waist. Style takes a moment to bask in the feel of being held, in the simple joy of learning (relearning?) his boyfriend’s favorite color.
“Did you tell me?” Style questions, “Before, I mean. I know Kant said he told me, but did you –”
“No,” Fadel interrupts, his voice soft, “no, I hadn’t told you anything. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about that.”
Style nods and goes back to fiddling with Fadel’s fingers. “You don’t have to, not if you don’t want to, but how did you even start? I mean, that’s not exactly something they offer in school.”
“No,” Fadel chuckles self-deprecatingly, “definitely not.”
He continues, and Style listens as the history of Fadel’s life is laid out, as Fadel shares the horrors of his past, and the debt he now feels obligated to pay.
“Don’t get caught,” Style says once Fadel has finished. “I don’t know what Kant knows, but just...don’t get caught, okay? You can’t go to jail.”
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of, Style.”
“You didn’t have a choice,” Style counters, tightening his grip on Fadel's hand. “You can’t make me fall for you and then abandon me for jail.”
“It’s certainly not in my plan.”
“What about me?” Style questions, only slightly teasing. “Am I in your plans?”
“Hm,” Fadel muses, even as he uses the remote to lower the head of the bed. “I think you said something about me owing you cuddles, and I’m pretty sure your father has left us to it, since he’s not here.”
“So we’re napping?” Style smiles and turns on his side, pillowing his cheek on Fadel’s chest.
“For now,” Fadel agrees and Style ignores how much it sounds like a promise.
“And later?” Style cannot help the hopeful tone in his question, the daydream of waking up beside Fadel and then laying down beside him at night.
“Don’t worry,” Fadel assures, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he doesn’t. When Style’s father eventually returns, Fadel volunteers to stay with Style for the night to give the older man a rest from the recliner that couldn’t be helping his back.
Style had looked away when his father had winked as he was leaving.
Two days later, when Style is getting discharged, the longest he’s been without Fadel was when the man left to shower and change clothes. Fadel carefully reads through the packet the discharge nurse hands him, and Style resists the urge to coo.
Truly, Fadel is amazing.
“It can’t be that interesting,” Style mutters moments later when he’s been placed in a wheelchair while they wait for his father to bring the car. “It’s mainly just my memory, and even that isn’t as bad as it was. I remembered Heartburger yesterday.”
“You remembered me cutting your shirt,” Fadel counters, “I’m not sure that counts.”
“It counts,” Style argues, “and you should be paying attention to me.”
“I’m reading how best to care for you,” Fadel says, voice soft. “That’s the most important.”
“Noo,” Style whines and Fadel immediately moves to stand in front of him, anxious.
“Style? What’s wrong? Do I need to get the nurse?”
“No,” Style reaches for Fadel’s hand, “you can’t be hot and then say such sweet things. It’s not fair.”
“Style -” Fadel shakes his head, “you’re ridiculous.”
“So you’ve said,” Style agrees, “but you love me anyway.”
“I -” Fadel pauses and it suddenly occurs to Style that despite their conversations and plans, he hasn’t actually heard the man say the words since he showed up at the hospital. “I do love you,” Fadel says after a moment, and Style smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.
“Happy to be going home?” Style’s father questions as he pulls up, “That’s quite the smile.”
“There’s a lot to be happy about,” Style agrees as he leans against Fadel in the back seat of the car.
“There is,” his father says as he drives out of the parking lot, “but I’ve noticed Kant hasn’t been by. He busy with work?”
Style sits up because his father is right. Style hasn’t heard from Kant since he told him to get out of his room. Nothing.
Not even a text.
Style looks over and sees Fadel already with his phone to his ear, listening.
It’s obvious no one answers, and Style shares a look with Fadel as his father begins chatting about how glad the mechanics will be to see Style, how worried everyone has been.
Style distractedly keeps up the conversation with his dad, patches of memories coming back as his father mentions more names The more the man talks, the more a sense of ease encompasses Style - it's not a memory, not really, but it is comfort.
“Bison isn’t answering,” Fadel murmurs into Style’s ear, “so I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know he planned to...talk to Kant about what he knew. But don’t worry, we’ll find them, okay?”
And they would.
Style knew they would. Just like he knew that he would forgive Kant the hypocrisy of denouncing Fadel even while he held Bison above reproach.
Style would stay with Fadel – and prove Kant wrong in the process.
But first, Style was going to enjoy these last few moments of peace, leaning against Fadel’s shoulder. Content to be riding in the car with his family.