The Key to My Heart (Or to Baz's Diary)

Love Through the Ages

Malcolm

I didn't expect to see Baz around the mansion -or around me- for a while. I deserve nothing if not his avoidance for saying the things I did about him.

So while I'm reading the morning newspaper, sipping my coffee, it came as quite a shock when my son walked in to the kitchen.

Baz looks like he'd just seen a ghost, and it pains me to know that I'm the source of that very emotion. Stopping in the doorway, he freezes up waiting for me to say something.

"I think we should talk, son." That's the best I could start off with. Fiona really gave me a wake up call as to the way I'd been handling this. Baz needs to hear everything that's been festering inside my head since making him upset a few days ago.

Baz has one hand resting against the doorframe while the other dangles at his side. He only nods in response to my request, and it doesn't take a genius to realize he's afraid of using his voice. I catch a slight tremble in my sons hand from where it hangs, and the sight nearly brings me to my knees.

I never want to be the source of my son's pain.

Standing from my seat at the kitchen table, I motion for Baz to lead the way into the living room. He pushes off from his position against the doorframe, walking across the kitchen in order to exit through the opposite side and into the living area.

On his way there, he passes the kitchen table where I stand. I put a hand on his shoulder before he can escape and feel it tense under my grip. The look of fear in my son's eyes is enough to break me.

Baz waits for me to speak, never breaking my stare. Instead of speaking, though, I draw my son into me. I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my head atop Baz's. Words aren't enough to fix any of this, though I'll have to try.

As Baz accepts my embrace, I hear him huff a soft sound into my chest. One that makes me think he was on the verge of breakdown. I'm reminded now of just what lengths I'd go to in order to protect my boy. I'd do anything for my son.

Baz

I keep telling myself that I will not cry in front of my father. That there were far too many tears shed on this trip alone. Feeling my father's arms around me threatens to change that right now. It's the feeling of being overwhelmed, fearing of what my father thought of me since seeing him cry.

Burrowing into him, I try to calm my breathing, squeezing my eyes shut in attempt to calm the stinging behind my eyes. Father doesn't say anything, only keeps his grip around me firm and reassuring.

Words aren't enough to express the love I have for him, this vital figure in my life. I don't know what kind of man I would have become without my father to guide me through life.

Suddenly I'm gasping lightly on air, desperately trying to get the words out. I squeeze my father harder before I'm able to choke out the words. "I love you. I'm sorry- I love you more than anything, father."

I'm left trying desperately to suck in as much air as possible. I've said the words hundreds of times to my father, but time felt different- raw.

"God, Baz. You know I will always love you more than anything in this world. I don't even need to tell you that. I never want to hear you say you're sorry for any of this, because you know this one's on me."

I hide my face against my father once again, and whisper, "I don't want you to hate me."

At that, I feel his chest convulse from beneath me, and father lets out a hoarse whimper, loosening his firm grip on me into something softer- more comforting. "Baz," Father's voice is already quivering, making it hard for me to stay semi-composed.