Chapter Text
It’s cold.
Ryland tilts his head up toward the sky, flinching as his raincoat touches the bare skin on his neck, and looks for stars. He ignores the chattering of his teeth in favor of scanning above. But there’s too much fog. He loves the fog, but it really gets in the way of stargazing. Not that his balcony is the best place for that. Sometimes, if he’s lucky and the night is clear, he can see Orion or Canis Major from here. Sometimes, if he’s even luckier, he sees Gemini.
The twins.
He has a twin. An identical twin.
Ryland remembers their mother being so ecstatic to be a twin mom. It’s one of his first memories actually. Three or four years old and guzzling down a juice box in his mother’s lap, Colt running like a mad man around them, with the spring sun shining down on them. Mom carded her fingers through his hair and told her she was proud. Of both of them. She was happy. She told Ryland she always dreamed about having twin boys, and here they were. She said they both must’ve been excited to meet her too because they were born nearly two months early.
Colton and Ryland Grace did everything together. Everything.
But then they got older, and everything got a lot harder. Ryland understood less and less.
His twin - the other half of him - is mad at him right now.
Ryland gets it. He’s annoying. Frustrating. Difficult to be around. It’s not news. He knows Colt knows about the… thing. The thing he has. The thing that makes him different from someone who is supposed to be identical to him. Ryland found out he had it when he was five. Mom got Colt tested too, but he didn’t have it. He had something else instead, something different.
They're identical. They're not supposed to be so different.
A tear trickles down his cheek, and he sniffles. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t feel much right now. Maybe he can’t. It’s like the part of his brain that usually screams “panic!” is switched off, replaced with something that just doesn’t… care? No. He cares. He cares a lot. Probably too much. But today started with him spilling coffee on his sweater and ended with Colt screaming at him, accompanied by his kids talking nonstop and the light above his desk buzzing and the fierce aching of his head. He forced himself to smile at the kids’ excitement over the end of the semester approaching. Forced himself to talk through their questions about the study guide. Forced himself to hold his legs and arms still as they interacted with him.
He barely made it through the day.
It’s cold.
He shifts in his seat. It squeaks.
Ryland hunches and acts like he’s trying to bury his head in the sand.
If he’s quiet, if he’s silent, he won’t get hurt.
His heel taps relentlessly as he chews on the skin around his thumbnail.
He doesn’t know why Colt is mad at him.
Well, maybe he does. Colt told him. Ryland babies him. Ryland doesn’t let him do anything by himself. Ryland ruins everything.
He heard it all, felt it all, but it’s like his brain is disconnected from the rest of his body. Nothing is sinking in. He isn’t anything. He just is. But, despite the lack of something, he knows he has to fix it. He can let Colt be independent, even if Colt misses his scheduled medication times constantly and occasionally still needs Ryland’s help in the bathroom or when he’s getting dressed. Until last Wednesday, Colt couldn’t even put socks on by himself.
But Ryland can work on that.
Maybe.
He did take Colt’s shoes off, make him a sandwich, got him some snacks and water, and brought him his pills earlier though. It’s just that… Colt’s hurt. Really hurt. More hurt than Ryland thinks Colt realizes. He had compression fractures at L4 and L5. He ruptured his right kidney. Broke four ribs. One of the broken ribs punctured a lung. Had whiplash and a grade two concussion. He had to have emergency surgery to stabilize his back and stop the bleeding in his kidney. He was in the hospital for nearly two weeks and was only released after he proved he could take a singular step with the help of Ryland, Jody, and parallel bars to hold him up after days of trying.
Colt’s still urinating blood.
Colt still forgets to take his medication often.
And he still gets winded on their daily walks, wheezing and coughing around his healing lung.
Colt needs to be supervised so he doesn’t -
This is what Colt’s talking about.
Okay okay okay.
He can do this. He can be better.
It’s cold.
Ryland shivers. He should go inside. Change into pajamas. Lie down on the couch under his weighted blanket. His nightly routine is already so messed up that it feels pointless to mess it up further by trying to fix it. So he sits. Stares. Watches as sky turns from dark to light. Well, not light exactly. It’s December, so he’s usually already at school when the sun officially rises for the day, but the sky is filled with oranges and purples, and part of him is grateful.
He stands up and nearly crashes back down. His feet and legs are numb from the cold. He shakes them awake. San Francisco winters (well, it’s not technically winter for another week) are milder than most places in the United States, but it still gets down to 45 degrees Fahrenheit at night.
Is cooking Colt breakfast considered babying him? He really should eat something more than a sandwich, bag of chips, and a measly protein bar. Colt isn’t eating enough, even if Ryland leaves food out for him. Three months ago, Colt could bench more than two Rylands if he wanted to. Now, his brother is withering away before his eyes, unable to keep up with the pain
Which is exactly what Ryland is trying to help with.
Ryland shakes his head and goes inside. The heat is welcoming. He wishes he could melt into the sofa and forget about the day ahead. At least it’s Friday. At least Colt can get away from him for a little while while he’s at school. At least his classes are taking their final today. He shouldn’t have to talk much. He can sit and read a book or grade the last of the assignments or do a word search. Then he can come home and… well, he doesn’t know what. It kind of depends on Colt. If Colt isn’t mad at him anymore, then they could watch a movie and order pizza. If Colt is still mad at him, then Ryland can sit on the balcony and give him space.
He kicks off his shoes by the door, stretching out his aching muscles, and pads down the hallway to his bedroom. Colt’s asleep and snoring softly, curled up on his side like always, as Ryland grabs a cream colored sweater and blue jeans from his closet. He gets boxers and reindeer socks from his dresser. Judging by the empty plate and water bottle, Colt likely took the medication Ryland laid out at some point, which is good. Maybe he’s finally getting the sleep he needs.
Showering quickly, he re-dresses and grabs his navy blue coat instead of his raincoat. Yesterday was rainy; today is supposed to be cold. Plus, this coat has a hood, so he’ll be fine if it ends up raining during his bike ride. He’s in the middle of trying to put on his Converse while standing when Colt limps down the hall. Ryland winces. The limp is bad. A lot worse than it usually is. Colt uses one hand to steady himself on the wall, nearly tripping over his socked feet.
“Ry,” Colt says, voice hoarse. Ryland fights the urge to plug his ears with his fingertips. “I’m really sorry.”
Ryland shakes his head. Even that movement is enough to ignite his neurons. “It’s okay,” he manages, barely able to scrape those two words together. When he stops talking for a while, it’s always hard to start again. It’s especially hard when he’s still not feeling like himself. Disconnected. Numb. Tired. He’s so tired. He’s not built for all-nighters anymore, especially when his head hurts like this.
“No, it isn’t. I… I shouldn’t have said any of that. You’re only trying to take care of me.”
Ryland shrugs and stares at the floor. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“You should stay home today,” Colt says. He limps closer and looks Ryland up and down. “You look like shit.”
“Can’t. Final exams. It’s the end of the semester.”
Fudge, even his teeth hurt when he talks.
Soon, Colt is face to face with him. Colt has deep, dark smudges beneath his eyes. He should sleep. Ryland wishes he would sleep instead of trying to have this conversation with him.
“Ry, are you sick, or is this sensory stuff? Or both? Because you look like you might have a fever, but you also look like you might disappear any second.”
Another shrug. He doesn’t know, honestly, and he doesn’t care to know. “I’m fine.”
Colt runs a hand through his hair. “Ryland, please just talk to me.”
“I’m going to be late for school,” Ryland says robotically before turning around and gripping the doorknob.
He almost looks back at Colt and tells him to remember to take his medicine, but he doesn’t.
“Bye,” he hears Colt whisper as he closes the door behind him.
He makes it through the morning by the skin of his teeth.
Gosh, he hates that expression. It doesn’t make any sense.
But he does it by keeping his voice quiet when he talks, giving out instructions for the test and letting the kids ask him questions if they need help. Each period is nearly silent, filled with eager students just ready to get it over with. Ryland alternates between grading assignments and completing word searches, things that are easy for him to focus on without having to be present. He puts his head down on his desk during lunch, using his coat to block the light, and it’s almost enough of a reset that the only thing bothering him now is his head.
He opens the bottle of ibuprofen he keeps in his top drawer and pours three into his hand. He usually only takes two, but he has to kick this headache somehow. Ryland goes to take a drink of his water to swallow the pills, but is met with emptiness. He gets to his feet, holding up his water bottle and pointing out in the hall for the kids who look at him. And he’s mostly through filling it up when he hears something. Footsteps.
And there’s a man.
Dressed in all black.
With a gun.
A gun?
A gun?
The man gets closer.
Gun. It’s a gun.
Holy fucking shit; it’s a gun.
Ryland drops the water bottle. It clangs to the ground with a disgusting clang. The sound reverberates in Ryland’s ears, and he flinches. But his brain is spinning spinning spinning, and there’s a man with a gun moving closer. He lunges toward his classroom, twisting the lock from the other side and slamming it closed, leaving him out in the hallway.
“Barricade this door now! Use desks. Books. Backpacks. Anything and everything you can find! Do it now!” he shouts. His voice doesn’t betray him this time.
“Mr. Grace! Mr. Grace!” he hears.
Olivia comes up to the window, terror wide in her brown eyes. Kids should never have to experience something like this. They’re in school. It’s supposed to be safe.
It’s supposed to be safe.
He’ll make it safe.
“Get back! Barricade now!” Ryland yells. “You’ll be okay!”
They’ll be okay.
They’ll be okay.
They’ll be okay.
They have to be okay.
His heart whacks repeatedly in his chest, threatening to burst, as the man moves closer.
The man raises his gun.
And Ryland’s looking down the muzzle.
He hears a boom.
Then a crack.
Then watches as his sweater rips open at the shoulder.
Then watches blood pour through the light-colored fabric.
His mouth dries.
His fingers twitch.
He stares at this… this… this…
Oh shit.
The gunman rapidly shakes Ryland’s classroom doorknob, fiddling and cursing and readying his weapon.
Ryland immediately shoves him out of the way. The gunman huffs and shoves him back, using the butt of the rifle and clipping Ryland’s jaw. But the gunman doesn’t account for foster kid brutality. Ryland kicks him straight in the groin with all his strength, sending him right to the floor. But there’s no time to waste. He grips the man by the collar and hoists him to his feet, staggering and stumbling at the weight, and slams his head against the water fountain once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Blood spurts from the man’s face, drenching Ryland’s arms and sweater as Ryland smashes his mouth against the drinking nozzle.
It tears a gash in his cheek so deep that Ryland sees his teeth. He is not smiling.
But the man still has a grip on his gun.
As Ryland is preparing for another blow, the man calculates and pulls the trigger.
Multiple rounds fire.
Ryland’s leg buckles. The force is exceptional. His shoelaces are untied. He falls to the ground. His glasses slide off his nose and crunch beneath his knee. Two bullet-shaped holes in the thigh of his pants. Okay. Okay okay okay. He immediately grips his abdomen, watching as blood streams through his fingers, soaking into his jeans and then the floor. He coughs, deep and haggard. More blood splatters the wall as it spills down his chin. He wheezes and tries to fight off the overwhelming urge to throw up right then and there.
The gunman, a bloody blob to Ryland, stands shakily. He immediately slams the butt of the rifle against the side of Ryland’s head, but Ryland doesn’t care. Ryland doesn’t care at all. He doesn’t care that his vision blurs, and the room tilts, and the world is swaying violently around him.
Because the gunman is looking at Ryland’s classroom again.
Because the gunman is oscillating between pointing the gun at the window and the doorknob.
Because he has to protect his kids.
He gets to his feet, dragging his injured leg behind him, and jumps onto the gunman’s back. The gunman shouts and swings and tries to claw Ryland off of him, but Ryland doesn’t budge. Instead, he brings his elbow down on top of his head, his ear, his cheek over and over and over again. Until Ryland hears a snap, and his arm isn’t working right anymore, and he can’t feel any of his fingers. The blows are enough to make the gunman topple backwards and land on his ass, unable to keep ahold of the gun when it matters most.
Ryland kicks it down the hallway and coughs. Blood dribbles to the floor.
He stands over the gunman, gasping, for a split second before swiftly kicking him in the side.
Ryland falls.
And he crawls over the gunman, whose nails rip and tear Ryland’s skin as Ryland lands punch after punch to his pulpish face. Blood gushes from Ryland’s mouth as his chest rattles. But he can’t stop. He won’t stop. He can’t let this fucking psycho hurt any of his kids. Punch after punch after punch. All of his brute strength and anger. The gunman isn’t moving anymore, but Ryland doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because he can’t care because he can’t stop because he can’t stop because if he stops his kids will get hurt his kids will die and it’ll be all his fault because he’s grown and their teacher and he’s supposed to protect them so they live long happy fulfilling lives no matter what that’s what he’s going to do he’s going to make sure this fucking piece of shit never gets to lay a finger on any of one of them -
“Dr. Grace!”
He can’t stop.
Bones crunch.
Parts of him shatter in ways no part of a human should shatter.
He screams and chokes out a sob.
“Dr. Grace, please!”
There are hands on him. Pulling him. Tugging him. Yanking him.
Begging him to stop.
Stop?
Stop?
No, he can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t his kids will die they’ll -
“Dr. Grace, it’s okay. He’s down. It’s okay.”
He’s on the floor looking up at the ceiling.
The alarm, high pitched and wailing, shrieks in his ears.
Lights pulse and flash.
Ryland lets out a strangled, broken cry, blood curdling in his throat, and tries to cover his eyes and ears, but he can’t.
“C’lt…” he manages to gurgle.
He’ll never see his brother again.
He’s going to die and his kids are going to die and everything will break into pieces and he’s going to die he’s going to die he’s going to -
“C’lt!” he screams.
Colt would know how to make it stop. Colt would know how to make it better.
Colt knows how to make everything better.
His vision is hazy, head split into two halves of a whole city slathered in brick walls, littered with graffiti. He forgot the world is here. He forgot. He’s wailing now, stomach swimming violently like the ocean during a hurricane, and he pukes up nothing but blood mixed with bile. He tries to roll over, to get away from it, but he can’t. Hands hold him down. Pin him in place.
Ryland kicks and twists and sobs heaving sobs.
“Colt, please,” he begs.
The alarm howls, rupturing his eardrums.
Ryland tries to curl in on himself, hiding, but he can’t. There’s nowhere to hide.
There’s nowhere to hide.
There’s nowhere to hide.
Blood seeps out onto the tile below.
Ryland bawls, pleading for his kids, for their safety, for his brother.
His eyes slip closed.