SynTracker | ONC 2021 | MM Romance | Sci-Fi | Complete

Two: Friday

Ian hadn't felt this free in a long time. Quentin always shouldered half his burdens, but this went beyond that. Ian could scarcely believe he'd allowed himself to commit to a date. Fifteen years - still too far in the future to dream of, but it was there. Something to work towards. Home at the end of a long, long day.

A different job. Teaching. Making sure the kids getting SynTracker licences these days knew what they were walking into, how to track Syns without civilian casualties or without getting themselves killed. Perhaps form a guild of sorts. Ensure no one without the right psychological profile could get a licence, and that no one without one would be paid for turning in a Syn.

No more heroes.

No more psychopaths.

It sounded like utopia. And there were practical considerations that wouldn't let him give it more serious thought for years.

It'd be a pay cut, and they were already pouring all their resources into the house. He wouldn't be able to pick contracts that fit around Quentin's hectic schedule, so he could always be there when it was important - in ten years he'd never missed an exhibit's opening night, never missed a birthday or an anniversary.

More importantly, if Quentin ever came across a Syn and it harmed him, Ian would never know if it was one he might have taken off the streets. No, he couldn't do it yet. Not while he was in his prime. But picturing it filled him with warmth just the same.

"Credit for your thoughts," Quentin said from the passenger's seat.

Ian forced himself to take his eyes off the road so he could bask in his husband's features. The car drove itself, but giving up control was still hard. "Just thinking about our talk. All the reasons I can't quit for now." He reached out to caress Quentin's cheek. "But I'll keep my promise."

"I know." Quentin smiled, and everything was right with the world.

Something in his peripheral vision made his eyes dart back to the road a fraction of a second before the impact.

One, two, three flips. In slow motion. Each so detailed it was as if it had taken an hour, yet Ian never had the time to say a word. Something hit him in the face - Quentin's camera bag. Ian, disoriented, couldn't be sure which way was up anymore. He turned to look at Quentin, to check if he was okay, but everything went dark.

☵☲☵

Quentin was calling his name, but Ian couldn't get to him. It was like being underwater, trying to swim for the surface only to realise he had no way of telling which way that was. Like a beacon, Quentin continued to call; Ian held on to that thread with all his might until he managed to open his eyes.

Everything was blurry. He felt nauseated, his head pounded, Quentin was laughing, and that wasn't right - he wouldn't be laughing in a situation like this, would he? Wasn't he screaming just moments before? Was he alright?

He said something - asked Quentin if he was alright - hadn't he just been thinking that? His ears rang. Quentin asked something. He replied something else, but couldn't, for the life of him, remember what it was.

Damage. He needed to assess damage. They were both wearing their seatbelts, there was no-

No.

No.

No.

A burst of adrenaline filled him with horrifying clarity when he saw what had caused the crash. A stray piece of billboard frame had shattered the windshield.

It had pierced through Quentin's sternum.

From where he was hanging, Ian couldn't see any blood, but there was virtually no chance of it not being fatal.