Rhys is holding my twelve-year-old brother in a tight hug, sitting on the large ledge of the hospital window so that Oliver can stand between his legs and keep his head against Rhys’s chest. Rhys is whispering into his ear at a constant rate, and the nod of my brother’s head without leaving the embrace, fists tugging at his suit jacket, tells me everything. Oliver hates being touched, and yet he’s wrapped completely in Rhys’s arms.
