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Even when it’s pouring rain outside, or rather, especially when it’s pouring rain, the little hurricane will beg to play outside. She’ll jump around, press her tiny hands against the chilled window, and loudly deliver her weather forecast for all who care to listen. (And even for those that don’t, of which there is only one.) The cat slinks away into the bedroom, tail drooped in resignation.
Rain! There’s Rain! Her voice crashes against every wall.
Yes, there is, Ivo will say mildly, lifting his gaze from his book long enough to admire her excitement (and anticipate her usual request). Then, an energetic mop of curly hair whips around and feet that sound, inexplicably, like a stampede of tiny elephants storm across their apartment. She doesn’t say anything, pressed up against Ivo’s side, her knees sinking into the couch cushion beside him. She slowly leans in between Ivo and his book.
Ask your dad, Ivo will say, turning the page, pretending not to see her. He covers a grunt as tiny hands shove with phenomenal strength against his chest in her scramble to her feet. The stampede retreats and Ivo manages another half a page before much quieter steps make the inevitable return trip, accompanied this time by a series of bitten off giggles and hushed whispers. Franz, too smitten by her for his own good, will always tuck the little one under his arm, carry her out to the reading room, set her back down in her starting position, and assume his own crouch at the other side of Ivo’s lap.
Papa, Franz will say with a teasing knowingness. Ivo refuses to acknowledge either of them, knows with certainty that he has already agreed to a rather damp outing against his will. A large hand lowers Ivo’s book. They most certainly consorted beforehand, because the picture Ivo sees before him conjures a gentle, familiar warmth within his chest.
Curls pile on top of one another, Franz and the hurricane pressed cheek to cheek with the doe-est eyes the world has and may ever see again. Franz is smiling impishly. The little one tries her best to do the same, to her credit, but in truth can do nothing but beam with unfiltered joy.
The harried raise of his brow and inconvenienced sigh is a truly compelling winning performance, but the co-conspirators share a knowing glance and Franz will whisper, comically loud, I think we’ve got him!
Before Ivo can offer a compromise (Only after the rain stops and we’ll sort out our laundry when we get home) something tickles his cheek. In the time it takes for him to reach up to brush it away, the vignette has faded away and his dark apartment takes their place.
In his sleep, Franz has pressed closer into Ivo, arm thrown over his bare chest, gangly leg hitched over his hips. Most nights Ivo would gently shrug the uncomfortably warm, and slightly noisy weight off and nod back off himself. Tonight, though, he draws Franz closer with a kiss buried in his hair. Reminds himself of the family and life they’ve built together, just the two of them. Reminds himself that, sometimes, dreams are and can only be that; a dream.
Ivo lets himself melt into the mattress under Franz’s weight, tries to commit the little hurricane to memory- glad to see her again, and wondering already when he’ll see her next. The hollow yearning in his chest is almost a comfort in its familiarity as he drifts back to sleep.
-
The next time he sees her, she’s significantly older. Her hair is cropped short on the sides but her signature curly, dark hair remains on top, falling into her face as she hunches over a notebook and textbook at the kitchen table. Beside her there are remnants of a sandwich and a half finished mug of tea. (Ivo grimaces a little when she takes a sip of the, now cold, drink.) She must have started studying earlier, got caught up in her assignments, and forgot to turn on a light because the only hope of light is the rapidly setting sun outside.
“Lamps are a marvelous invention,” Ivo reminds her as he flips on the overhead kitchen light. “It’s not good for your eyes to sit in the dark.”
“Sorry, this essay wants to be written now and I was worried it would get away from me if I didn’t get it all down now.” The voice that comes from his child is lower than he expects, but familiar all the same. They sit up, carefully stretching their arms overhead, groaning like someone who had just remembered what full range of motion means.
“But the good news,” they turn in their chair to lean over the back and smile proudly at him. Their resemblance to Franz is even more striking now. “Is that when I finish this, all I have left are the exams.” Ivo smiles back, easily, but he stares a beat too long and the not-so-little hurricane’s smile falters. “What?”
Ivo’s smiling, still, but his brows knit, bemused. Who else was he expecting to see? A... daughter? What a strange thought. There’s a higher chance of having a fully grown sea lion spawn into his kitchen than that. That’s his son. Always has been, hasn’t he. He shakes his head clear, “Nothing. Just impressed.” And clears the dishes off the table for him. He doesn’t quite make it to the sink when-
“Papa!”
His son’s slightly irritated voice cuts through his awareness. Now Ivo’s sat again in his reading chair, warm light spilling over his shoulder to illuminate his book. Ivo looks over his reading glasses- reading glasses?- at the boy. Oh, the man. When did his son become a man?
“If you don’t know where Dad is I’m this close to calling Carlo to open a missing persons case.”
Ivo laughs and tucks his bookmark between the pages. Just from looking at him Ivo can see a man that is vibrant, kind, and true. His loose shirt hangs open at the top few buttons, showcasing Ivo’s old engagement ring on a delicate silver chain, and Ivo fights the urge to button the shirt right back up. Not out of a concern for modesty, but a concern for his exposure to the brisk winter morning.
“He’s not out back?”
“No. Already checked. I have a question about my bike.”
“Ah. Say that three times in a mirror and he’ll be here in no time.”
His son laughs flatly and rolls his eyes. Ivo sets his book down and gets up, ignoring his knees’ protests. He glances at his son’s shoes- at least the boots will keep some warmth. He can’t say the same for the skirt.
The skirt Ivo suddenly remembers seeing for the first time, and the surprise he felt. He doesn’t feel that now- understands better that his own transition and that of his son’s aren’t mirror images. He understands, with pride, that his son is more confident in himself than Ivo could have ever hoped to be at that age. He understands, with some fear, that there’s little he can do to protect him anymore, but hope for a world as loving as the man he raised.
“Is it really about your bike?” Ivo asks as he heads a short trek into the bedroom for his phone.
“Yes! Well. Yes and no. I’m worried about my new placement.”
“Placement?” Ivo falters, passcode input only half way.
“Yes? The placement I’ve had notice of for the last 3 months? To Słubice?”
Ivo blinks, the puzzle pieces sluggishly notching together in his mind. Oh. Right. Świecko, of course. He swallows thickly and forces out a chuckle.
“Really got lost in that book. When do you leave?”
His child pins him with a look of incredulity and answers cautiously, “Tomorrow… Are you feeling okay?”
Ivo nods emphatically and quickly unlocks his phone to navigate to his texts, “Absolutely, don’t worry. Let’s see what your Dad is up to.”
The phone rings.
“Oh, speak of the devil,” He brings the phone to his ear.
The phone rings.
He frowns and checks his phone. He glances up to his son who seems to be frozen in time, though he doesn’t notice. “Sorry, let me try that again.”
The phone rings.
“Franz? Hello?”
The phone rings.
“Ivo!”
Franz’s voice yanks Ivo back into consciousness. The morning sun is an assault to his tired eyes. His alarm is blaring beside his head. He’s too cold. Did he say that out loud?
“Well, you wouldn’t be if you got dressed when I tugged the blankets off of you 20 minutes ago, idiot. We’re going to be late.” Franz grumbles and throws a shirt and pants at Ivo, who- to his credit- has now sat up, but shows no signs of moving.
“You can’t video call into this one, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Autopilot takes over while his mind continues to lurch into the waking world; his shirt slides over his head, his pants are zipped and buttoned. He’s starting to finally stabilize, but he still looks dumbly at Franz.
“Late for what?”
Franz rolls his eyes and tosses a pair of socks at Ivo who, again- to his credit- catches them with ease, “To meet God.”
Then, over his shoulder as he leaves the room, “The new transfer!"
-
By the time they reach the office, Ivo’s fully recovered his waking memory, though today the son he’ll never have lingers. He waves Franz into their office, tells him he’ll be there shortly, and in an effort to shake the dream off, he stops by the canteen to make a cup of coffee. The ritual of it helps. He’s starting to settle into reality when he raises his gaze, casually, to survey the room.
He freezes, wide eyes trained on a man speed walking across the other side of the cafeteria. The man notices him too, stares back, confused and a little indignant as he adjusts the strap of his crossbody bag.
Ivo belatedly realizes he’s still pouring coffee and jolts away from the counter with a hushed curse and a rushed grab for napkins. He glances back over his shoulder, but the man is already gone. Ivo continues to sloppily mop up his mess, albeit slowly. It couldn’t be, of course, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He starts to bring the cup to his lips for a sip, but his trembling hand tells him, no, better not.
Ivo breezes through the door with two bottles of water, one he sets on Franz’s desk as he tunes into the exchange of introduction.
“Wonderful to meet you, Mister Ross- Oh! Speaking of my better half,”
Ivo straightens, charming smile set for the new transfer and,
Oh.
He looks just like him. So much more like his son, Ivo thinks, now that he’s looking at him up close.
“Vincent, this is my partner. A man who is usually of more words.” Franz says after a long moment, with the thinly veiled hint of a man who will be asking questions later.
Ivo blinks, laughs off his shock sheepishly, “Sorry, yes, Ivo Batic. Lovely to meet you; Welcome to Munich! Weren’t you supposed to be in Świecko?”
It isn’t until Vincent gapes, eyes darting to Franz and back to him from underneath knit brows, that Ivo realizes what he said.
"Um,” Vincent starts, uncertainly. “Well, no. I declined the placement. How do you know about that?”
Franz has Ivo pinned with almost an identical look of confusion. If not for the sweat Ivo feels culminating at the back of his neck, he might have even chuckled at how strikingly similar they are.
“Oh, uh, I read it in your transfer files.”
Ivo’s nervous chuckle incites the same from the other two.
“Right, Ivo Batic, man of many words and even more transfer files.” Franz monotones through a smile.
Ivo glances at Franz, sharp and pleading, then follows up with, “How long will you be with us?”
“The commission didn’t say, but I’ve been looking for a permanent placement,” Vincent looks pointedly at the spare desk, covered with files from their current case and a few empty cups from Franz’s most recent all-nighter. “Assuming there’s room.”
Franz sheepishly side steps to the desk and less than discreetly pinches the cups together between his fingers and pushes the files to one side of the desk. “Of course there is. I’m not sure what led you to believe otherwise.” The thud of cups dropping into the trashcan in the quiet office is louder than expected, but Franz holds Vincent’s gaze, valiantly stoic.
Vincent answers with a soft chuckle, “Oh, good. I thought that desk was just for decoration.”
Ivo wonders how long he’ll be able to maintain a professional facade when just this simple exchange has his heart pressing against his ribcage, strangely proud and full of love for this young man he doesn’t know, but has met countless times before.
-
After a few weeks of having Vincent working alongside them, Ivo’s shrugged off the shock and tucked it neatly away in the back of his mind. Though sometimes, when Vincent is lost in research on the computer, Ivo will look at him and wonder at how remarkably the same he is to the son that visited him regularly for the better part of twenty years. He refuses to place any expectations on this man, that’s both an unfair and, given the context, undeniably insane approach to coexisting with your brand new coworker.
Once, Vincent catches him staring. He regards Ivo warily, most definitely catching a whiff of the undeniable insanity, and Ivo, in turn, plays up his old man card.
Slapping his hands on his thighs he inhales loudly, shaking his head for good measure, and announces,
“My gears are already slowing, maybe it’s time for a pick me up.”
“It’s 11am,” Franz comments from behind his computer.
“So none for you then.”
Franz grumbles under his breath.
“Vincent?”
“Actually, if you can, just some hot water would be great. I have my teas here,” And he pulls out an unmarked plastic bag containing various tea bags. Both men turn to look and Ivo can’t help his bemused smile as Vincent awkwardly lowers the bag back into his bag with a small shrug. “I like to have options.”
“We have our own canteen right here, huh. Just need a wet bar.”
“Sure, I’ll submit that request as soon as I get my Porsche back.” Franz mumbles.
“Darling,” Ivo drawls with satire. “You’re never getting that car back.”
Ivo hears Vincent ask about the tin can on wheels as the door shuts behind him.
-
Several months into bringing Vincent on their team, Ivo tries embracing a “Business Hours Only” fatherhood. But when they’re in the thick of an active case, sometimes Vincent will call him outside of work hours and each time Ivo answers within two rings, heart thumping in his chest with worry. Every time Vincent is calling with a new lead or theory. Every time Ivo sags against the nearest surface.
-
It’s been some years now, and Ivo’s almost forgotten about his dreams completely. He has little use for them, after all, when Vincent is within arms reach, just a hair tousle, a ‘Hey Vince,’ or a phone call away. A Business Hours Only fatherhood was never that sustainable for him anyways, he supposes, while hustling around the kitchen for Vincent’s promotion celebration dinner. In the other room Vincent and Franz are arguing about the international reputation and influence of Cream and Jimi Hendrix. Vincent is fighting a losing battle and all three of them know it, but judging by their intermittent laughter, neither of them care much about the outcome of their debate. Especially when their voices join together for rather subpar renditions of both groups. World worst Greatest Hits album. And Ivo would play it on loop, if he could.
Sitting around the dinner table, Ivo feels an immense sense of contentment and completion. Franz keeps leaning over the table to drunkenly plant kisses of gratitude on Ivo. Vincent, who has long since made himself known to them, just laughs and begs them to get a room.
“Oh, sure, just tell me which and I’ll put the dog away.” Ivo manages to straight-face, even with Franz kissing all over one side of his face. Vincent’s laughter is hardly a rare commodity, but Ivo still winks, playfully. Ivo grabs Franz by the jaw, delighting secretly in how easily he stills, and presses a firm, chaste kiss to his lips.
“Now eat,” he commands.
“Thank you,” Franz says simply, and a bit stupidly, Ivo notes with all the fondness in the world, before leaning back to his setting and continuing his meal.
Franz and Vincent have moved on from music, now discussing art, though It’s mostly surface level, just an exchange of names and better known pieces. Ivo realizes, not for the first time, that this is the life he’d always envisioned. A life with his lover and their son. A life that can be as quiet and safe as their work is loud and full of tragedy.
-
Not even a week later, Ivo receives a text from Vincent.
Can I come over?
Barely an hour later, Vincent is sat cross legged on Ivo’s couch, mug of tea cradled between his hands, supported by the pillow he has tucked in his lap. As soon as Ivo sets eyes on him, he knows there is something wrong. Ivo sits next to him, rests a hand on the back of his neck, comfortingly.
“Everything okay?”
Vincent studies his mug, brings it to his lips, hesitates, lowers it again and mumbles, “They want to transfer me.”
Ivo nods slowly, taking this not-entirely-unexpected news in stride and without making any jumps to conclusions, “Well, hey, isn’t that good?” He ignores the way his heart twists, knows how easily it could crumble.
Vincent looks up at him and Ivo is taken aback at how young he looks in this moment.
“You think I should go? I know it would be good for my career.”
“Why not? Maybe this next permanent placement will last a few years longer,” Ivo attempts a joke.
It doesn’t land.
Vincent looks back at his mug. “They won’t be like you.”
Vincent is even younger, still. Barely twenty, if Ivo were to guess. “Maybe not, but I think there’s a younger generation like you trying to-”
“They won’t be like you and Franz. I don’t want to have to cocoon myself up again. I don’t want to start over again.”
An ache starts deep in Ivo’s chest. Vincent continues, his frame small and fragile under Ivo’s warm hand. “I don’t want to do it again. I don’t want to leave.”
Vincent looks at Ivo again, this time tears are streaming down his face. The ache in Ivo’s chest slices through him. His hand slides away from Vincent’s neck to wrap around his shoulder. The little hurricane curls against his side, shaking and crying into his shirt.
Ivo draws him, now a boy once more, into his lap, holding him firm and safe and secure. Ivo rubs his back, letting him cry as long as he needs. The front of his shirt is damp by the time his son stops trembling. He presses a kiss to the top of his head and pulls away long enough to hold the little hurricane’s face in his hand and look him in the eye when he says,
“No one’s going to make you go, son. Listen, I’ll make regular weekend trips to Słubice if I have to.”
The little hurricane stills in his embrace. “Słubi...” A sudden aged depth colors his, now confused, gaze. He whispers, tentatively, “Ivo?”
Ivo drops his hands as the dream quickly begins to dissolve around them. Baffled, he realizes he recognizes these eyes. Has come to know them, to love them; beyond the confines of a dream.
“Vincent?”
Ivo’s eyes fly open, but he remains still under Franz’s arm. His pulse is racing and he clings to the remnants of his dream, even as it dissipates under the tides of waking. He stares at the ceiling, barely comprehending when his phone chimes on the bedside table. He gently pushes Franz off and shifts up on his forearm. Franz curls immediately back around Ivo, arm draping across his waist, warm breath fanning across his back.
“Tell them we’re busy,” Franz grumbles.
Ivo pats his arm and reaches for his phone on the nightstand.
It’s Vincent.