Page 67 of Damian & Jun, Episodes 9-12
Lock me in jail
Wait for the trial
And then inhale
* * *
I’m not your child
I’m your crime
I’m not your blood
I’m your patricide
We don’t speak
I never see you
I lost you
Before I ever met you.
“Most sons don’t have criminals for fathers. How’s anyone going to want to listen to this?”
Émeric read over the words. They were all in English, the only language in which he and his father had ever communicated.
“More than you would think.” Émeric put the paper down. “We all have had father figures that have let us down and left us with the consequences. If not a direct biological father, then a grandfather, a boss we looked up to, a political leader, a religious figure, generations past that set us on roads that are now ruinous.”
Jun blinked. Tears he didn’t expect burned on the edges of his eyes. He dabbed at them trying not to smear his eyeliner.
Émeric looked back down at the lyrics. “Even if not a father figure, the pain of being held to blame for something we can’t change or didn’t do is common. The desperation to be free of pain, that’s universal. There’s layers here, Jun.”
More tears spilled over Jun’s lashes. He put the napkin to the edge of his water line, trying to stop them. “See, this is why you’re scary. You’re already making me cry.”
Émeric shook his head, eyes soft, and scooted his chair back. “Come here, little crime.”
“I’m not your crime.”
“I know. Which is why I’m allowed to hold you.”
Jun tromped around the table and sat across Émeric’s legs. Émeric scooped him up, turning him into a ball of skirts and knees against his chest, guiding Jun’s head down on his shoulder. Jun pressed his napkin against his wet face. “What about your sweater?”
“I’m quite sure our laundry service is magic. If not, I’ll buy another.”
“This doesn’t make you any less scary.”
Émeric’s voice brimmed with dark amusement. “Are you sure?”
Jun snuffled. “I’ll have you know I didn’t even cry during military training.”
Émeric chuckled.
Jun waited for Émeric to let him go, but the dark Frenchman did no such thing. He leaned forward and retrieved Jun’s coffee, handing him the cup, and then sipped at his own, relaxing back in his chair, contentedly holding Jun. Jun drank tentatively. He was a grown man on another man’s lap. Surely this was about to end?
Émeric adjusted Jun to be even more cradled, took his cup, and guided his head back down on his shoulder. “Shush, stop thinking.”
“Not possible.”
