Max probably needs to go and do some homework. Matteo should probably be getting on with his life. But it has been perfect. Calm and relaxed and happy. And Tom has basked in it. Listened to all the stories from school. Laughed at the descriptions of people he has no idea who they are. His face going bright red when Matteo innocently mentions that he usually delivers pizza to one of their teachers on a Saturday night. Pizza for one. Kebab pizza with extra garlic sauce and a bottle of Fanta. Tom doesn’t even have to ask who that is. The constipated laughter coming from Max making it perfectly clear that he now has an address for Mr. Lukas Myrtengren. The right one.
It’s fate. He has always known it is.
He stumbles into the kitchen just before seven in the evening, to grab his flask of coffee for the ride into town, blinking awkwardly into the light from the table. He should have gotten up earlier, but whatever. He has time. And as usual he will be hobbling into his scrubs at the last minute at 8.01 ready to take over from whoever his handover person is today.
“Hi, kiddo,” he says to Matteo who is sitting by the kitchen table with books and papers spread across it.
“Sorry, I’ll leave in a while. I just need to finish my homework, since I have Max’s charger here. The battery is shit and it will probably be dead by the time I get home.”
The kid needs to stop apologising already. It’s becoming annoying.
“You can stay however long you want. Max will be on his own tonight. I’m working, so I don’t mind if you want to stay and keep him company.” He doesn’t. Honestly. It will be good for Max not to spend so much time here alone.
“He’s having a nap. I think I’ve exhausted him today. I talk too much.” Matteo is muttering. His voice almost sad. Pained.
“He likes you. So do I.” Tom flicks the main lights on and Matteo blinks awkwardly.
“Have you eaten?” The kitchen is spotless. They obviously haven’t eaten a thing.
“I made pasta, I have tried to clean up everything, but I don’t know if I have put everything back in the right place. Sorry.”
“Stop apologising.” Tom sighs. “You are welcome here. Mi casa su casa or however the thing goes. Just feel at home, Matteo.”
“I don’t live here. I don’t want you to think I am taking advantage.” Matteo looks scared. The little shit.
He really needs to go, but the kid, this kid here. Tom can’t help it.
“Can you do me a favour?” Tom means it. It will make him feel a million times better if Matteo can just do as he asks.
“Sure,” the kid says, and Tom sinks down on the chair next to him.
“Stay with Max tonight. Can you help me look after him? I know you understand him and know what he needs, because he told me. He says he feels safe with you.”
“I love him,” Matteo whispers. Fuck. The kid is adorable.
“I love him too.” Tom laughs. “And that kind of makes us family. So, stop apologising, Matteo. Look after my kid, and I will look after you, and we will all be kind of this messy family that just hangs out and watches zombie moves. Is that chill with you?”
“Can I buy some proper hot chocolate powder? Max says he has to have low GI stuff, but that Carob shite is rank. Sorry, man.” God this kid is going to give Tom trouble. He can see it all now. Things are going to become damn messy.
“Tell you what. You buy hot chocolate powder, on the proviso that I get to buy you some fucking new socks. And a laptop charger. Deal?”
Matteo just cackles and wiggles his fucking useless socks at him. Tom shakes his head.
“Kiddo, just humour me. I’m buying you socks. I’m not having my kid walk around like that.” Tom is serious. Those socks are going in the bin.
“I’m not your kid,” the kid yaps back and Tom just ruffles his hair and grabs a pen off the table.
“Here is my number, add it to your contacts. Ring me if there is anything you need. Can you send me a text, so I have yours? And let me know the laptop model and I will order you a charger.”
“You don’t have to look after me. I have looked after myself since I was thirteen…”
“Shut up.” Tom stops in the doorway. “I know, kid, but there is nothing wrong with letting someone help you once in a while. Family. We’re family. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Okay?”
“Okay,” Matteo says. He looks a bit wobbly, but hey. At least Tom won’t be worrying himself sick about the kid getting back to Brantbacka in one piece and the sheer thought of Matteo staying in that place is making him feel a little nauseous.
“I get off my shift at 8 o’clock tomorrow, so I won’t see you in the morning. Tomorrow night?”
Matteo nods. And Tom feels surprisingly light as he hops down the steps onto the drive and lets the gravel crush under his feet. He likes the idea of this. And he is seeing Lukas tonight.
Of course, he doesn’t even step through the staff entry door to the Sergel Emergency room, before someone pushes him and shouts at him and he has never changed into his scrubs as fast.
It’s chaotic out there. They don’t deal with the big incidents down here in the city centre. This place is for people walking in with minor injuries. Parents with kids who can’t face the hospital waiting lines for an obvious stitch job. Yet, there is shouting and screaming going on behind curtain two and there are two police officers filling in paperwork at the desk, and Marianne, who no doubt has done the early shift and not made it home yet, just shoves a clipboard in his hands and points at curtain five without saying a word.
They don’t need to speak much down here, colleague to colleague. They are all experienced people where enthusiasm and bedside manners have worn off to create a comfortable silence of truths. People are shit. People do shit things. Then, people are kind of fucking shit about it. Then, we fix it. Rinse and repeat.
The woman behind curtain five is Astrid. Of course. It’s Sunday night and Astrid will have gone to evening mass and the well-meaning yet useless vicar will have filled her already fragile head with thoughts and not done his actual job of filling her with peace and calm. Which is why Tom is a stern atheist.
“Astrid, hello!” Tom says calmly as Astrid hurls abuse at him and tries to put her hand on his head to bless him from all sins. She’s a lovely woman when she is calm, despite her unkempt looks and the unhinged temper.
“Astrid. Remember the rules we have discussed here? You do not bless me. That is for Jesus to do. Okay? We made a deal with each other. Now it says here that you have cut your leg. Would you let me look?”
He gets another round of abuse which he quietly sits and takes in. Nods appreciably at the intricate rant about the cobbled streets being the work of Satan. Yeah, he can agree with that.
She eventually gets her leg up on the stool he has placed in front of her, lined with the green protective paper they use for everything. Liner. Snot catcher. Blood soaker. Tear wiper.
It’s a clear cut. Crisscrossed with the scars of a myriad of different injuries that has Tom’s textbook stitching written all over it. She’s not injury prone. Astrid may be in her late sixties, but her self-harm is a long running issue, and her mental state overrides her chronic sensory issues, causing deep and frightening injuries that Tom will patch up over and over again.