Will you stand by me?

Chapter 8 - In the end, our choices make us

A/N - Yet again, I am making myself use Virat's POV. Because while MS's POV may have been more apt but, again, this is Virat's story.

This has been a roller coaster - the story and life in general. But well... nothing new, I guess.

I had written a different take in the morning, felt it to be too bizarre and had to make changes. I really do hope that I do not disappoint with this.

I am so thankful for this amazing group of readers, commenters, and voters who made life just that much brighter. Much love to all of you.

Chapter 8 - In the end, our choices make us

"Careful, Virat."

A palm cupped Virat's shaking hands just in time to stop the hot coffee from spilling all over his legs. The last dregs of fever was pulling sudden bouts of violent shivers from him, ever-so-often, and Virat pulled the jackets tighter around himself.

"Are you okay? Here, let me hold unto your coffee mug."

"N-No! I am okay." Virat declined Ajinkya's overture and cradled the mug closer to his chest. "I-I will manage." A hesitant smile and Virat tired to portray normality. And he was okay; doing better and all.

Flashback - Of a sort.

MS had cooked for them; the really late lunch was all kinds of delicious, the company comforting but a tad downsized. Rohit had brought in the food and while he was returning to the kitchen, Virat had grabbed at his arm.

"Won't you have your dinner with us? And what about MS?"

Rohit had not shrugged off his hold or anything drastic to that effect but Virat could feel the resentment in the slightest quiver of his hands and the manner in which he held himself back the slightest bit, was not lost on him either.

"Rohu?" (A/N - ....Sorry?)

The name was ignored, wilfully or otherwise, but Rohit had stopped for a moment. "Have your food, Virat. You are due a medicine dose."

Virat had heard the words and the meaning was resounding in their repose; he had tugged at Rohit's hand yet again. His heart beats had thudded at the back of his throat and nausea had taken over all other sensations for a long moment.

"MS is okay?" The words had made their appearance    before Virat could overthink much and the look on Rohit's face had soured.

"He will be if people let him breathe!"

The rejoinder had come with no delay and Virat had left Rohit's hand in haste. The reply had shrivelled up the slightest trace of exuberance which had peaked at Mahi bhai's words and reassurances and Virat had found himself scooting back; physically and in his mind.

"Rohit? What is it?"

"Nothing."

"It did not sound like nothing."

"I said it is nothing, Ajju!"

Virat had tuned out the rest of the conversation. There had been raised voices, and counter talks. But nothing much had made sense. Risen out of a habit nurtured since the death of his father, Virat had methodically muted his surroundings till the only noise he could discern was that of his own breathing.

Humbled valor.

As a child, he had heard his father speak of greatness in people, with nothing to show for conceit, but he had not believed it often. As a teenager, Virat had, at times, found himself at sixes and sevens, trying to find that perfect demarcation between ego and self-respect. Where did one stop and the other begin?