A man who looked older then he was sat across from Marlo Xanis’s unconscious form, his wife who looked equally worn out and older then she really was stood by his side, her hands digging into what had been a freshly pressed linen handkerchief. The man’s black suit looked new, not like it had been used and worn several times over. The crisp lines of the ironing from the night before still could been seen, even well into half the day. His dirty blonde hair was pulled tightly back, a few gray hairs showing obvious signs of his age along with the wrinkles next to his dark blue eyes. A few even escaping his pulled back hair, just like the boy’s own. He looked like an older version of the boy who slept in front of him. The exception being his eyes. Elzo had inherited his eyes, Marlo had inherited nothing. Giovanni Xanis didn’t consider Marlo his son. He hadn’t since he’d see his wife’s betrayal all those years ago. The name on all the paper’s was his. All but the paternity test. For Giovanni, the decision had been one made not on his love but on his bitterness. A boy who had spent his life attempting to mimic his supposed father was once more, turned away.
“I said to cut life support over a week ago. The quarantine has lifted. So, that means he’s no longer a special case. Just another coma patient.” The doctor didn’t quite nod or shake their head. She’d been asked by the boy’s brother to not give his father the right to terminate the boy’s life just yet. She had an idea that some tension might exist but nothing so…harsh. “It’s my professional opinion that until we can determine the cause of the mass comas, your son still has a chance at a full recovery. To pull the plug is-“

“-Is my right to decide as his father. Now get the paper work woman. I won’t pay for-“ he hesitated. Giovanni loathed saying that Marlo was his son. They were the words of a liar. “-my son to live this way. Let him sleep like some freak.” His wife was still twisting the linen cloth. Eyes unmoving on her son’s sleeping form. Her hand twitched as the word freak. The doctor shook her head. “Sir, I must protest. Given how little we know-“ “Exactly. End it now, rather than later. Save money and time. Get the paper work.” The doctor flinched as Giovanni’s voice was raising. “Sir I-“ “Did I stutter? I want him off life support. Now. I want him-“
“You want him dead.”
Maria spoke softly, yet her voice had cut Govanni’s off instantaneously. He looked shocked at her words, then, a silent mask of anger was shown. “Maria it is my right as-“
“No Giovanni.” He’d been told no by her once before. On a spring afternoon in New York City when he had a ring in his hand. He’d been told no for a while, even after their marriage. Then one day, she stopped. She’d never refused him after that. Not in anything. He’d just have to press. Maria had never managed to refuse him for long. “Maria, shut up. You don’t even care what happens to him, you haven’t cared for years. Nothing will change, nothing ever has. Now shut up and-“
“No Giovanni. I stand by the doctor’s assessment. Marlo will remain on life support.” Giovanni’s face was getting red. The doctor looked relieved. The doctor’s face waivered as a hard look of pure rage was sent her way. She could only put on a fake smile and excuse herself. Alone in the room with no one but coma patients to witness, Giovanni hissed at his wife, cursing her, his harsh Italian burning even those who might not know the language.
“He’s not your son Gio.” The elderly man stopped dead. His wife hadn’t moved once, her voice hadn’t raised one note. Tears rolled silently down her face, the only emotion she could show. “He is my son.” The ice blue of her eyes met his abyss like blue. No words were spoken as they looked at each other. One face expressionless, the other contorted in rage, hate, anger and frustration. Quite as she always was, Maria went to Marlo’s side and brush away a stray lock from his sleeping face. “He is my son.” She said, her back to her husband. The same husband she had been forced to marry. “Not your’s.” The words were like a kick to his pride. Giovanni face was clearly defined in anger. Silently, Maria brushed the hair from Marlo’s face. “He’s my son.” Her tone had changed. Giovanni had not heard that tone of voice from Maria in over ten years. It broke something in him to hear that voice directed at not his son or event himself. It broke something in him to hear her speak that way to the one person he hated with such a passion. Grabbing his coat off of a chair, he didn’t even wait for his wife or listen to the doctor’s passing comment. He went to his taxi and with a curt command, demanded to return to the hotel.



In Destiny City, there was a hospital. In that hospital was a room like any other. In that room, slept a boy. And over that boy, a woman sat. And for the first time in 10 years, a mother protected her son. For the first time in 10 years, a mother cried for the son she’d lost. For the first time in ten years, a mother found herself willing to fight for the child she’d made not out of obligation, but of love.

And the child would never know that on that day, in that city, in that room, he had finally been called ‘son ’ not out of contempt or loathing.

But of love.