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Ramón took Pac off the whitelist again.
He tries to turn the handle; Ch-clink.
The barbs holding it shut stay firm, glued to the threshold.
It’s not the first time. It certainly won’t be the last. Pac releases the handle and sighs, “Ramón? Can you put my name back?”
He offers the respectable way first, of course. It never works. Never once has Ramón actually put his name on the list and every time Pac does it himself, it’s removed before the next morning.
Any frustration Pac has burning in his chest from it, whatever indignant emotion he feels, is smothered by the reminder that he really is Fit’s son in this way. No one else would be as stubborn, nor as persistent.
It’s Ramón’s house, however, he has a right to deny Pac entrance. Not that Pac can listen to it, his promises go beyond that, but he can at least offer the chance to let him in without moving to drastic measures first.
“Ramón? Please, can you…unlock the door?” Pac asks, peeking in through the slim opening at his eyeline. Ramón is in bed, at least. He’s there, he’s not run away. A good first sign.
His petulant twist of the sheets and the pillow over his head digs a sharp harpoon into Pac’s chest. A not as good second sign.
He rolls back off the tips of his toes he’d used to see in.
Pac swings the bag resting on his hip around to his front and begins digging into its contents. He withdraws a block remover, a worn rounded tool that still has Fit’s jagged enchant carvings on the handle.
The first time he’d seen that, maybe the day after he’d returned from Purgatory and come back to the ruins of Quesadilla Island, he’d broken down at Ramón’s front door. Made for an awkward impression, when he’d explained he would take care of him from then on.
It’s been a couple weeks, though. So he just fights back the tears instead.
One tap of the tool against the security door has it vanishing into its simpler, inventory, form. Pac’s movements are muscle memory at this point as he resets the mechanism. He scrawls his name back on the whitelist before feeding it into the keypad and once more; Pac is granted entry.
He could just remove the door entirely, or replace it, but one part of Pac considers that a major overstep on Ramón’s boundaries (more than he’s already done) and another wants to buckle at the thought of getting rid of something Fit made for his son. Even something as simple as a door.
Pac still has all his items. He hasn’t burned a single one. Hasn’t eaten any of the food he left or used the materials. This is no different in his eyes. So it stays.
He swings open the door and steps inside. He pockets the tools, pushing his bag to rest against his spine. Cats immediately run up to curl and brush their cheeks against his ankle and take a particular liking to the smooth metal of his prosthetic as a firm edge to press against.
“Oi, gatinhos,” Pac greets, trying to avoid shoving any of them as he moves through weaving cats, “Bom día.”
Ramón curls up tighter, his clawed fingers digging into his pillows and sheets. Pac tries to leave him to adjust. It takes awhile for him to respond to Pac in the morning.
His eyes instead focus on the fridge and small kitchen set up. One tug of the cupboard shows all the food and materials he’d brought yesterday, untouched.
Pac tries not to let the frown twinge his lip. He was… hoping Ramón would’ve rummaged through the food a bit, snack here and there. Pac comes in to make him breakfast, dinner– But he’s a growing boy. He needs a lot to eat. Richarlyson always likes comfort snacks and such if he wakes up in the middle of the night.
He doesn’t know… how to help that, though. It could be that Ramón just isn’t hungry. It could be that he isn’t wanting to eat. It could be that he doesn’t trust what Pac buys him. All of those seem to be way bigger problems than he knows how to tackle.
He can’t let it deter him, though. Pac drags himself out of the dredging panic and starts pulling out wrapped bacon packages and the small egg basket.
“‘Morning, Ramón!” Pac calls softly over his shoulder, “I’ll try to be quiet, but you need breakfast, yeah?”
A pillow is thrown and hits the wall a few feet from Pac, falling to the ground with a muted fwhoomp.
“Your aim is getting better.” Pac remarks, putting his bag on the table so he can find his flint and steel. Last time he did that it hit the far corner and ended up knocking over some precariously balanced swords and chest plates. Now it’s at least in his direction.
Pac lights some ignition papers, crouching to stuff them deep in the ash stained opening.
The whole gathering of material is topped off with sticks and other fuel for the fire. It catches easily enough, Pac’s gotten quite good at operating their more home-baked stove. Fit had insisted on it instead of anything high-tech. Our family just ain’t built for it.
He blows the flames with a careful breath, feeding them oxygen till the smoke begins to feed up the exhaust pipe and warm the room with its radiant heat.
“Go ‘way.” Ramón mutters from his bed, muffled by layers of pillow.
Pac pretends he doesn’t hear it and slides neat slices of bacon onto the oiled pan to bubble and cook. With a nudge of his fork, he manages to make enough space to cook the eggs at the same time. The quicker breakfast is over with, the quicker Pac can leave Ramón alone.
He’d like to, ultimately, leave him alone. In fact, Pac finds coming here every morning to see the remains of someone dead and be berated by their left-behind son who hates him, actually, fucking terrible. But this isn’t about what Pac wants, it’s what Fit would’ve wanted.
Fit would’ve wanted someone to look after his son. He would’ve wanted someone to make sure his son was fed good food, treated kindly, brought outside and his interests encouraged.
“Ramón? Did you feed the– the cats?” Pac asks, wiping his hands off on a rag thrown on the counter, most likely from yesterday’s meal.
Ramón’s cats are hopping up in his way now, treading along the line between the window and the counters to get a better view at what he’s doing. It’s adorable, no doubt, but also not very safe.
Ramón doesn’t respond, only mutely sniffs into the cushions. The sun cast through the windows is stale. Grey. It’s not a good day for anyone, much less one for a grieving child. Figures they haven’t been fed.
Pac leaves the station of bubbling oil and grease to check on the cat’s bowls. They’re empty, licked clean, and Pac can’t tell if they’ve eaten out of recently or not unless Ramón tells him.
But that… isn’t going to happen.
So he walks back to the fridge and makes sure to cut up some of the raw cod and other fish he’s been storing. The cats are delighted, nicknames of Canela and Ramoncito 3 pop up on shimmering name tags around their necks as they chase down Pac with hungry licking chops.
He spares some muttering praises as he places down the bowls of chopped meats and water, scratching behind their ears and down their spine while he has the chance. They’re cute cats, well cared for. When Pac had scoured Fit’s empty ( empty, dark, abandoned) apartment, he’d found many photos in drawers and on walls– Some of people around the island but mostly of Ramón.
And with every photo of Ramón and his cats, the boy is smiling wider than ever before. It reminds Pac of very early photos of him and Mike, in their orphan years and grinning for photos in hopes of finding a new family home. The kind of smile that’s youthful and not insecure, wide and boastful. Proud, without a reason to not be.
Pac hopes he’s been feeding his cats. But he’s not sure Ramón’s been eating much himself. He’s certainly not smiling. Not the way he does in the photos, not even with his cats.
When he raised Richarlyson, he did it with 4 other people. He did it with Mike. And while he’s a fine parent in his own right, he’s never had to be worried about… a lot of things that all of them together tended to cover without a fuss.
With this, with Ramón, he’s alone. And Ramón is nothing like Richarlyson. Not now, at least. Though, granted, Pac carries the burden of fault for that.
Smoke begins to sting his nose and Pac realizes he’s definitely burning the bacon. He rushes to the stove and flips it, pulling the sunny-side eggs off to a wayside plate. Toast– Toast– He has toast somewhere–
“Ramón? Breakfast is ready.” He says, splitting the servings between them, then quartering it after a moment’s thought. He’s small, he hasn’t eaten much, and overloading on greasy foods would surely make him sick.
He’s not sure how well Ramón did while all the eggs were missing. They don’t really talk about it. But they were starving, for sure. Their ribs pressing up against their skin was a good enough sign of that.
“I said go away.” Ramón says, pulling the pillow off his face, “I don’t wanna eat.”
Pac is placing his plate on the small table he has with pursed lips when he replies; “Then we can go out to the garden and eat later. I can wrap this– if you’d like?”
Ramón sits up, all bent eyebrows and jagged, broken, anger twisting his lips, “ Go away!”
“ Okay, okay, I’ll–” Pac’s gaze flits about the room, “I’ll– I’ll sit over here.” He takes his plate, leaving Ramón’s on the table, and backs up into the kitchen nook’s corner.
Ignorant to Ramón’s unbridled frustration, he digs his fork into the runny yoke and begins folding it onto his toast, chewing away without a worry.
Ramón scowls, dragging up the corner of his handkerchief to cover his nose, “That isn’t what I–!”
The loud gurgle of a hungry boy’s stomach pierces the air.
Pac’s brows raise, “Was that you?” He gestures with a fork, “I thought you said that… you weren’t hungry?”
Ramón’s face is red as he throws the covers back and hops out of bed. He climbs up into the chair, “Talk to shell. ”
He takes the fork in his clawed draconic hand and begins digging into the meal, still embarrassed with a tomato bloom on his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Pac says, swallowing a mouthful of slightly-burnt bacon, “Thank you for eating, though.”
Ramón stabs into his bacon and toast with a vengeance, eyes scoped downwards, “Close the stove before you kill us.”
Pac kicks out his foot to swing shut the door and smother the fire. No more stove for now. “Do you want to head into the garden after you eat?”
The hazy gray sky deepens the shadows on Ramón’s face. The slit pupils of his eyes are twitching as he drinks in the meal in front of him. A thick cloud passes the sun and the room darkens, lightens, darkens again.
Ramón finishes a half of his toast and a bit of bacon, but chewing it looks like a chore he’s distasteful of. His face scrunched up, hidden in his big hat and green handkerchief.
Pac scoops the rest of his own meal off his plate and eats it. Placing his dishes in the sink, he offers; “Let’s go outside, sound good?”
Ramón leaves his dishes, dropping his hands to his lap.
Pac’s tongue darts out to wet his lip, “I don’t think we can be out there for- for long, though? Because it might rain later? So it’d just be– be really really short Ramón, I promise.” He wanders slowly past the table towards the front door, pushing it open and letting in the chilly autumn air, “Look, we won’t even go far! We’ll be right back in no time at all, Ramón.”
A cat tangles itself between the rungs of the chair and Ramón’s feet, letting out a gleeful meow as he reaches down to scratch under its chin. It purrs happily in response.
With a sigh, Ramón hops out of his chair and walks past Pac to the garden.
–
It’s cold outside. Ramón is sitting in his simple t-shirt and pajama shorts, however, because Pac recognizes when a win is a win and has decided not to push his luck.
It’s not many days he can cajole Ramón outside. Food, yes, he can get him food. But most days those conversations end with him eating and going back to bed.
He’s depressed, there’s no other way around it. Depressed and tired and cold.
Pac hopes Fit can’t see him from wherever he is now. He’s been a sorry excuse for a father in his stead.
Still, Ramón is outside. Fresh air, moving his legs, seeing more than just the walls of his empty home. He wobbles over to patches of petunia and daisies, azure bluets, inspecting them with a critical eye.
Pac calls it quits against the outside wall of the house, leant against the stonework to take the pressure off his knee.
Wearing the athletic prosthetic is great for running around the island, which he’s mainly done, but not great for idling. All the cushioning in the world couldn’t get rid of the ache that springs from overuse. Even losing a leg doesn’t get you that.
He lets out a breath, “Ramón? I’m gonna sit here for a bit, don’t mind me, okay?”
Ramón barely spares him a glance, crouched in the grass.
Right.
Pac lowers himself to the ground, landing a bit more unsteadily than he’d like. He rolls back the prothetic’s sleeve and tugs his stump from the liner, tugging the whole heavy leg out to lean against the wall beside him. He stretches, then huddles in to pull the sock a bit further up his thigh. It’s cold out here.
When he glances back to Ramón, the boy’s staring at him. Not in a cruel way, not like how Pac used to get stares back in prison– but with curiosity. There’s a spark of intrigue that wells in his dark eyes and Pac is all too willing to call to it.
“‘Should take a picture, it lasts longer.” He teases, easing himself back against the wall.
“Why’s yours look like that?” Ramón asks, again his voice devoid of any judgment, “Like a scythe?”
Pac purses his lips, knocking his head back, “‘Cause it’s for… like…” He gestures vaguely, unsure of the word he means to say, “Activity. Running, right? I have one that looks like a leg too. More like Richas’ one, have you seen it?”
Ramón looks down at his hands, but nods. “His looks like a leg, yeah. He doesn’t have a curved one.”
“Richarlyson never liked it. He’s fine with needing breaks and being slower– Even though he’s an active kid, you know? It’s his choice.”
“My–” Ramón pauses, “Fit never had one.”
Pac’s lip twists into a small grin, “Well, your dad didn’t lose a leg. He lost an arm. Doesn’t need a different one for that.”
“Oh.” Ramón says and shoves his hands into his pockets.
The next breath of wind that curls at Pac’s face smells like rain, heavy and thick.
“Why are you here?” Ramón asks, looking at Pac from under dark curls and an even darker hunter’s cap, “Can you just go?”
Pac bites the inside of his cheek, “Sorry, Ramón, but I– I can’t go. I’m not leaving, and…” He shrugs, “That’s that.”
Ramón’s jaw sets “But I don’t want you here!” He spits, “I don’t want– want you or- or this or–” His shoulders brush his ears as he speaks. Thunder in the far distance rumbles like an inviting purr, “You have a son already, don’t pity me and be with him !”
Oh, tá foda .
“It’s not– This isn’t pity–” Pac scrambles to say, “If you want I can find someone else to–”
Ramón shakes his head so hard his goggles clack together. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands pressing over his ears.
“I don’t want them , I don’t want you – I want my dad!”
Rain begins to plip and drip across the accompanying plants, starting as a small drizzle. Each stone and blade of grass begins to darken with the oncoming rainstorm.
Ramón hiccups, wiping at his face desperately as he cries.
“I want my dad. I don’t want you.” He sobs, “I want my dad!”
Pac bends inwards, pulling in his knee to bury his face into it. He can feel the phantom weight of a sword in his palm, the guilt of it. Even if he hadn’t swung a blade. It feels the same, the responsibility. The shame. I’ll be fine. What a lie. What an unintentional lie.
He rasps out a miserable, “I know. I know .” His breath is wavering, “But I’m all you got. And I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry.”
Ramón keeps wiping at his face, but it doesn’t seem like the tears stop. His little chest jerks and hiccups with sobs that he can’t keep down. He keeps muttering how it’s not fair, it’s not fair, and Pac is moments from breaking alongside him, because it isn’t.
Ramón should have two fathers. He should have one father. He should have someone better than Pac. Someone who didn’t help kill his dad by admission, but there’s no one else.
He’d offered more out of desperation than suggestion. Phil has gone missing with his kids, Tubbo won’t talk to him, and Ramón refuses to talk to Bad or Dapper after he learned the truth.
That Fit could be, should be, alive right now. That a third of this whole fucking island should be alive, but that life isn’t fair and neither was Purgatory.
Pac lifts his leg and fits his prosthetic back on. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but he’s done this enough times that it’s become second nature. Leant against the wall, he puts the rest of his pressure on the socket and it holds tight.
Stabilized and upright, Pac feels far more capable of pulling off his hoodie and handing it to Ramón. He’s still crying, handkerchief stained with tears. He looks up at Pac through glossy eyes.
“Here,” Pac says, having to clear his throat of the grief induced stone, “It’s cold.” The rain’s only gotten worse. Ramón could get sick.
Ramón must be too tired or weepy to argue, because he slips the hoodie on without any issue, letting Pac assist in working his arms through the sleeves till his little fingers can curl tight around the cuffs.
“Do you wanna go inside?” Pac asks.
Ramón nods, sniffling. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that Pac takes his hand to lead him back indoors.
It’s a waste to start a fire again so early, but he can’t bring himself to care. The heat coming off the stove is more than enough to forgive the spent drywood and sticks. And it’s heaven on his wind whipped fingertips.
Ramón’s just sitting at the table, staring woefully at the floor while his shoulders jump from time to time.
Pac toes off his shoes at the door, “Ramón? Do you wanna take off your shoes?”
He gets back a weak shake of his head.
“It’ll make you feel better. I hate resting in wet socks.” The joke doesn’t land.
Ramón wipes at his face.
“Do you want me to take them off for you?”
Silence. Then the world’s most careful, subtle, of nods.
Pac swoops to his side. He kneels, untying Ramón’s sneakers and rolling down his wet socks. The socks go on the laundry line that Fit put up in the corner, the shoes go to dry by the door.
Ramón doesn’t look much better, but he’s marginally less soaked. Not to mention he’s drowning in Pac’s hoodie, his arms pulled in to rest across his lap instead. It makes him look much smaller, especially when he’s still sniffling like Richarlyson used to after getting a knee scrape.
“D’you want some chocolate milk?” Pac offers, nervous. He doesn’t want Ramón to feel any worse and Fit had told him once that Ramón loved chocolate milk. He’d sort of hoped it’d remedy whatever wounds he reopened.
Ramón rubs his nose. “Yeah.” He croaks, voice soaked with despair and childish hope.
Oh, this kid.
Pac doesn’t quite mind the ache as he gathers the little ingredients needed. The slight glimmer of familiarity in his eye when Pac slides him a tall glass of chocolate milk is more than enough.
Ramón’s face twists, lip quivering, “Thank you.” He whispers, taking small sips of his drink between sniffs.
Pac sits across from him at the table, taking the weight off his leg. “It’s no problem, Ramón.” He says, “You can ask for it whenever you want.”
Tearfully, Ramón drinks his chocolate milk.
He doesn’t speak much for the rest of the day. Pac reads passages from any random chemistry book he could grab off of Chume labs’ shelves. Reading out loud to him for most of the day satiates the cabin fever that’d come with the rain.
Ramón draws a little, not a lot. He mostly lays down with his cats and stays curled in Pac’s hoodie. And Pac never musters up the courage to ask for it back, so Ramón falls asleep in it and Pac goes home.
The next morning, Pac comes to Ramón’s house with more groceries and snacks. He goes to open the door and this time, it moves willingly under his touch.
The whitelist stays every time after that and Pac makes them both chocolate milk.