RPF: Father Toils Amid The Din- James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender- Part Two
Father Toils Amid The Din- Part Two
Part one is here.
Brunch with Sirs Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen turns out to be as amusing and enjoyable as Michael predicted. He’s finally getting cravings, much later on than James did, and basically wants to eat anything that is meat or tastes meaty. This is annoying on two levels: primarily because everything he craves has to be cooked incredibly carefully, so as not to do any damage to the baby, and secondly because this leaves him susceptible to all of James’ dirty jokes about “meat”, although these are always made out of Sara’s earshot. She’s with Jennifer and Nicholas this morning, whilst James and Michael make their way to Patrick and Ian’s house. They’re hounded by photographers, but Michael is layered up in jumpers and a big coat, so the bump can’t be seen.
He’s finally getting cravings, much later on than James did, and basically wants to eat anything that is meat or tastes meaty. This is annoying on two levels: primarily because everything he craves has to be cooked incredibly carefully, so as not to do any damage to the baby, and secondly because this leaves him susceptible to all of James’ dirty jokes about “meat”, although these are always made out of Sara’s earshot. She’s with Jennifer and Nicholas this morning, whilst James and Michael make their way to Patrick and Ian’s house. They’re hounded by photographers, but Michael is layered up in jumpers and a big coat, so the bump can’t be seen.
As soon as they’ve arrived- and Michael has grabbed for bacon, sausages and chicken, and covered everything with barbecue sauce- Ian starts to fondly tut-tut about himself and Patrick appearing in the paper again, claiming that Patrick deliberately draws attention to them in public.
“Just because we’re old, does that mean we should not be in love?” Patrick demands dramatically, waving his hands in the air.
“No, dear,” Ian sighs, “I am just wondering if being in love really requires you biting my tongue whilst it is outside of my mouth and you know that there is a photographer just across the road.”
“I feel your pain!” Michael cries, grabbing Ian’s arm.
“Oi,” James snaps, “I don’t-“
“Oh be quiet and go and get me more bacon.” Michael replies quickly, rubbing his bump.
“I want a baby.” Patrick grumbles.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Ian mutters.
“Yes,” agrees Patrick, “He’ll do.”
“So, Michael,” Ian asks, changing the subject swiftly, “How are you? How’s being pregnant treating you?”
“It’s a pain in the arse,” Michael says with a mouthful of food, “Everything hurts, I’m exhausted and no matter how much I sleep it’s never enough, and I’m getting fat without even getting to enjoy food to get there, what the Hell’s that about?”
“You don’t get to enjoy food?” James teases, raising an eyebrow at Michael’s full plate.
“You shut up,” Michael replies, equally as teasingly.
“You’re gorgeous,” James quips.
“You’re nuts.”
“You’re both quite entirely adorable,” Ian adds.
“Stop creeping on the young men, Ian,” Patrick warns.
“They’re flirting at our dining table, I can’t help it.”
James is laughing, when he suddenly notices the serious look that has come over Michael’s face, staring down at his plate.
“Michael?” he asks cautiously, “Michael, are you alright?”
“I…” he says slowly, “I… I have a sudden urge to have raspberry jam with this.”
“That’s a new one,” James says, grinning, the obvious delight he takes in these little advances in Michael’s pregnancy dancing in his eyes, “Patrick, Ian, do you have any jam?”
* * *
“Do you mean what you say, Patrick?” Ian asks in the evening, when they’re sitting in their lounge, each reading a book by the orange glow of the lamp. Patrick looks up, peering over the tops of his glasses.
“What do I say?” Patrick asks in reply.
“When you say you want a child. I just wondered whether or not that’s really true.”
Patrick repositions himself on the armchair, puts a leather bookmark on his page and closes the book, turning his full attention to Ian.
“No. Or at least, I don’t think so. You know that seeing James with little Sara and Michael being pregnant makes me ridiculously clucky, but I don’t think it’s a genuine desire to raise another child. I have children.”
“I don’t.” Ian says blandly.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Patrick tuts, mildly annoyed by Ian’s tone, “Do you want me to drop everything and go and see if I can find anyone dealing the drug? And who shall get pregnant? Perhaps it should be me. I’m the younger of us, after all.” Patrick says dryly.
“Don’t get impatient with me,” Ian says, “I don’t mean that. But don’t you just think it’s a waste, that we have all this love to give, and the science available to have a child, and we’re missing out because we were born too early?”
“Even if the drug had existed when we were their age, I wouldn’t have been with you,” Patrick replies quietly, “I loved Sheila, and it took me so long to find you, and to realise my feelings for you. It’s something we weren’t ever meant to do, Ian. Even with the drug, we couldn’t do it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Ian says, leaning back in his chair, “I think I just get jealous of them. They’re so young. They’ve got everything ahead of them. They’re in the right time, when they can be out and accepted, and have children who are truly their own.”
Patrick stands up, and crosses over to Ian; leaning down, he kisses him softly.
“Don’t be jealous of them, my darling. I love you more than I thought I ever could love. We don’t need a baby to validate that.”
Ian’s bright blue eyes stare into Patrick’s, and he pushes himself up to kiss him back.
* * *
Time seems to start passing faster for James and Michael. Twenty-two weeks along and still seemingly healthy, Michael has still been risking being seen in public, but James cautiously tells him one morning that he shouldn’t keep doing it.
“Why not?” Michael complains, “I don’t want to stop going and seeing my friends and taking Sara out. I shouldn’t have to.”
“I know that, and you know that, but Michael- you can’t really hide it anymore,” James says, putting one hand gently on the prominent curve of Michael’s belly, “And if you get seen, people will start gossiping. It was different with me: nobody knew that the drug existed, they could just say I was fat. But you- the public knows about the drug’s existence, now. So many people consider it unnatural or wrong that if the papers got wind of it, there’d be a full blown scandal. It’s not too far a leap for them to make if they see you like this.”
Michael wriggles down further under the duvet.
“Do you not think we could just… tell them?” he suggests slowly. James boggles.
“Are you being serious, Michael? Can you not think about what the repercussions of that might be? Michael, the world still has a problem with gay people. They are not ready for biological fathers.”
“Why should we care what they think, James? Why can’t we just tell the truth and be proud of what we are? Isn’t that what we should understand, what we should from X-Men?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that our lives are not a comic book series.” James says flatly.
“Don’t patronise me.” Michael says crossly.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.” his voice softens, “All I’m saying is, we can’t trust the world with this yet. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Michael looks at James, as though about to say something, but they’re interrupted by a newly-wakened Sara stumbling into the room, rubbing her eyes with her little fists, dragging her Beast soft toy behind her.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” James smiled as she comes to his side of the bed. With a pull-up from James, Sara clambers onto the bed. She kisses James and then crawls over to Michael, who gives her a one-armed hug.
“Good morning, Papa,” she smiles.
“Hello, baby,” he coos. She pouts, shaking her head.
“I’m not baby!” she says indignantly, patting Michael’s stomach, “This is baby!”
Michael looks at James, who is staring back in delight.
“I am trying to remember when my life got so good,” James says softly.
* * *
“I need a back rub,” Michael says as soon as James walks in the door, “And I need it not to descend into sex. I’m exhausted.”
James blinks, setting down the shopping bags on the kitchen counter.
“Good afternoon to you too, Michael.”
“Everything hurts,” Michael moans, “And I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten since this morning.”
“Eat, then,” James says, unpacking the bags and starting to put everything away.
“No.” Michael replies sulkily.
“No?”
“M’too fat.”
James rolls his eyes.
“Michael, you’re twenty-four weeks pregnant, you’re hardly going to be the same size you were before. Come on, you need to eat something. Do you want me to cook you a chicken fillet? I got more jam especially.”
Michael gets up onto one of the seats at the breakfast bar, opposite James and the shopping. He’s rubbing the bump absently but self-consciously.
“Yes please,” he mumbles. James smiles gently, then leans over the counter to place a kiss on Michael’s lips.
“It’s okay, Michael. It’s good to eat. You have to remember that.”
“I know.” Michael murmurs, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s fine,” James soothes, “I understand, you know I do. You know I’ve been there. And hey, you’re still beautiful. You’ll always be beautiful. And not in a, “I don’t care what you look like” way. Just the fact that you are unspeakably gorgeous and no matter how much your body changes, that will still be the case. Alright?”
“Why are you so perfect?” Michael whispers.
“It’s my mutant gift,” James smiles in reply, “Still need that back rub?”
* * *
James is sitting at the dining table, reading through the diary he kept when he was pregnant, which catalogued milestones in his pregnancy, seeing if Michael more or less matches up, taking into account the problems at the beginning. Sara is out for the day with Michael’s sister, and Michael is in the lounge, napping. James realises that Michael is no longer napping when he hears a phone ringing, and Michael’s voice saying, “Hello?” James listens to Michael’s half of the conversation, but it makes little sense to him, and when it comes to a close, James thinks he can hear Michael crying. He gets up and goes to him quickly.
When James walks into the room, Michael is standing there, clutching his phone, gazing hollowly into the middle distance.
“Michael?” James says cautiously, “Michael, what’s wrong?”
Michael blinks, and tears trickle down his cheeks.
“Michael, you’re scaring me.”
“I- I just got offered Jekyll and Hyde.” Michael says, his voice cracking, “I just had to turn down… Jekyll and Hyde.”
“I am so sorry,” James whispers. He takes him in his arms, and Michael cries against his shoulder, gripping the material of his jumper.
* * *
“How much do you love me?” Michael asks at thirty weeks, lying flat on his back on their bed. James is sitting beside him, reading, and looks up.
“More than I thought was humanly possible,” he replies, “When I’m with you, I can’t help but feel stupidly happy. I wake up every morning just excited to get the chance to see you and talk to you again. I look at Sara and I see what there is of you in her, and I just think, thank you. I don’t deserve anyone as wonderful as you, or as her. I thank the world that you put up with me when I was pregnant with her, that you love me as much as I do you. How much I love you… scares me. I never thought that I’d give that much of myself to anyone. But I know I’m safe with you. I hope you know you’re safe with me.” Michael tilts his head to look at James, still lying down.
“I do know that. I feel the same. I know that reply sucks in comparison to what you said, I’m sorry.”
“Make it up to me,” James smiles. He lies down next to Michael and kisses him hard, his hands cupping Michael’s face. Michael kisses back forcefully, moving his hips against James’, as much as the bump with allow, both hands against James’ chest. And the two of them make love for the last time in much longer than they anticipated.
* * *
A month and two weeks later, and Michael is sitting on the sofa, leaning back into the cushions, incredibly uncomfortable, whilst James and Sara play with her farmhouse on the floor. Occasionally she gets up to give him a sheep or cow or a farmer, and Michael does his best to smile and play along between his wincing. He isn’t concerned, as a lot of the time he’s in mild to average pain, and he thinks that today is no different from the random aches and pains of his feet and back that he experiences most days. Until he starts coughing.
It starts as just a feeling in the back of his throat, and he coughs quietly, trying to clear it. But it doesn’t go away. He keeps on coughing, more violently, his shoulders jerking with each cough. James gets to his feet worriedly as Michael tilts forward his head, his eyes shut. Blood drips from Michael’s mouth onto the sofa cushions.
“James,” he rasps, gagging from the taste and the blood still in his mouth.
“I’m calling Lesley,” James says at once, grabbing my phone, “Sara, darling, I need you to go and get your coat and shoes on, can you do that for?” Sara stares silently at her papa. James takes her hand for a second to squeeze reassuringly, “Papa’s gonna be alright, Sara. Please do what I tell you.” She does, and James makes the call quickly. Michael has begun to moan, clutching the bump. James slips one arm around his shoulders, helping him to his feet.
“Come on, we need to get you to the hospital,” James says, sounding calm but panicking inside. He leads Michael out of the house, praying to god that there are no photographers around. When he’d given birth to Sara, it had been the dead of night, and the journey there had been uninterrupted, but right now it’s the middle of the morning. He helps him into the passenger seat, strapping the seatbelt across him.
“It hurts,” Michael chokes, “What’s happening?”
“I think you’re going into labour, Michael.”
“No, no,” Michael coughs, “I can’t, not now, it’s too early, I can’t, James, oh God, James-“
“We just have to get you to the hospital,” James says, desperately trying to keep his voice even, “I’ll just be a second.”
He dashes back to the house to get Sara, puts her in her car seat, then gets into the driver’s seat and drives as fast as the speed limit allows to the hospital.
“Help him,” James pleaded to Lesley when they meet her at the hospital. Michael is screaming in agony, Sara is crying in James’ arms, and he doesn’t know what to do. He hears voices tell him,
“He’s gone into premature labour” and “We need to perform the caesarean immediately” and “It’s going to be okay, he’s the fighting type” but none of the words register. He isn’t allowed in the operating theatre as long as he’s with Sara, but no one else is here and he can’t leave her. He kisses Michael’s forehead and squeezes his hand, but he’s in too much pain to respond. James curls up in a chair in the waiting room, with Sara on his lap, trying not to cry in front of her. He calls his mother, and then Jennifer, and then Patrick. He just wants someone to be there with him. Sara quietens, then puts her little hand around three of his fingers and kisses his chin, trying to comfort him in the only way she knows how. James hugs her close and says a silent prayer.
Jennifer arrives first, and she is an angel. She comes bearing a cup of coffee for James, and she takes Sara out of his arms and walks around the room with her, talking to her about distracting things, as though nothing could possibly be wrong. When Sara is settled playing with toys in the corner of the room, Jennifer sits down next to James and takes his hand in hers wordlessly. He rests his head on her shoulder, and she knows she doesn’t have to say anything, because there’s nothing she can say; her being there is enough for him right now. When James’ mother arrives he stands up and goes to her, and she holds him and the tears finally break forth. He cries like a baby in his mother’s arms, and she strokes his hair and whispers in his ear that it’s going to be alright.
Patrick and Ian arrive a few hours later, and say what they can. James starts to panic that they might have been spotted, and if James McAvoy, Michael Fassbender, Jennifer Lawrence, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen are all seen congregating at a hospital, there will most definitely be talk, and it probably won’t be about the third X-Men First Class film. Ian goes to get them all cups of tea from the hospital cafe.
“This tastes like dishwater,” James says, spitting his back into the cup.
“Yes, it does,” Patrick agrees, taking another sip, “But tea is tea.”
“Well I want coffee. At least you still get the caffeine hit from bad coffee.” He gets up to go and get himself a cup, but no sooner has he gotten to his feet than Lesley has entered the waiting room.
“James,” she says, her voice and face betraying nothing. He goes up to her and grabs her forearm.
“Is he- are they- alright?” he asks hoarsely.
“Michael is fine,” she says, “And the baby- the baby is in an incubator. Both of them will have to stay in hospital for a while, but he’s fine.”
“And the baby?” James presses.
“He’s fine.”
“He?” James murmurs, “A boy?”
“Yes. You have a son.”
She takes James into the private room that Michael and the baby have been moved to. Michael is sleeping in the bed, mentally and physically exhausted, deathly pale. The baby is in an incubator across the room, also sleeping. James pulls up a chair and sits by the incubator to look at his son. He’s very, very small, as James expected, and his skin is quite bright red-pink. He had a tube feeding into his nose, and monitors on his chest. He kicks occasionally, and James looks at his tiny little toes, in fascination that something so small is surviving in this massive world.
James looks up as Michael murmurs something. He gets to his feet and goes to his bedside, finding his hand under the covers and gripping it tight.
“James,” Michael says, so quietly he almost can’t be heard.
“I’m here, Michael, I’m here.”
“Where’s the baby?”
“The baby’s okay. He’s just in an incubator on the other side of the room. You can see him when you have the strength to get up.”
“He?”
“Yeah. We have a little son, Michael.”
Michael says nothing.
“What should we call him?”
Michael still says silent. After only having them open for a few moments, he shuts his eyes again.
“I thought we could call him Joshua,” James says softly, “God has delivered.”
Without saying a word, Michael begins to cry. He cries for so long, curling up under the duvet, unable to talk to anyone, hot tears coursing down his face until he has none left to cry. James stays with him, but can do nothing.
* * *
Joshua’s screams wake them both early in the morning. James pauses for a moment, his cheek against the pillow, waiting to see if Michael will get up, but of course he stays still, waiting for James to deal with the cries. James sighs softly and swings his legs over the side of the bed, getting up and crossing over to the cot by the window. He picks Joshua up in a swath of blankets and cuddles him close, kissing his little forehead, amid the tufts of red-brown hair. The tiny baby against his body wails, so James takes him down to the kitchen to prepare some baby formula for him. It’s times like these that James is glad the drug doesn’t make breast-feeding possible, because he’s sure that right now, if that were the case, both mother and baby would refuse to feed.
Joshua is a small and sickly thing, skin stippled with jaundice and eczema, with the most sensitive stomach, and tiny pink hands that grab for James but don’t know Michael. James makes sure that he takes the milk slowly so that it doesn’t make him throw up instantly, and when he’s finished James burps him, takes him up to the nursery, changes him, and then takes him back to his and Michael’s room, and lays him back down in the cot, before getting back into bed beside Michael.
“Why do you never go to him?” James murmurs.
“He doesn’t want me.” Michael croaks flatly.
“Michael, he’s your son,” James says softly. Michael shuts his eyes.
“He doesn’t… He doesn’t feel like it.” Michael whispers, “I can’t look after a son.”
“And what about Sara?”
There’s only silence. James swallows.
“I love you, Michael.”
Michael says nothing. James rises from the bed again, picks up the dozing Joshua, and carries him to Sara’s room, blinking back his own tears.
* * *
Michael is far too thin, his body in sharp contrast with James’, which is soft, but supple and healthy. Cradling Michael in his arms is like holding a child, so helpless and weak he seems, curling up into James’ hold, exhausted. Michael hasn’t been eating properly since Joshua was born. He refuses to, claiming nausea and lack of appetite. He’ll occasionally eat some bread or a piece of fruit to silence James, but left to his own devices he’d let himself starve. James is so worried that he doesn’t know what to do, and the worry is starting to turn to anger.
James throws yet another of Michael’s untouched meals into the bin, trying not to be angry but finding it very difficult. He’s exhausted, he’s spent the whole day looking after Sara and Joshua, and has finally gotten the two of them off to bed, cooked dinner for himself and Michael, laid the table out properly and lit a candle, and then had to sit through the whole meal with Michael not eating and not speaking, just gazing hollowly into the distance.
“You waste your time, cooking for me,” Michael says eventually, when the table is cleared, though he’s still sitting at it, “You know I won’t eat it.”
“Why won’t you eat it?” James asks exasperatedly. Michael fixes his eyes on James, one hand tightening into a fist on the tabletop.
“Because I can’t.”
“Why not?” James almost shouts.
“Because I feel nauseous around food!” Michael snaps, “How many times do I have to tell you that, James?!”
“The nausea isn’t in your body, Michael, it’s in your head.”
“You tell me to calm my mind and I’ll punch your face,” Michael mutters.
“If you’re getting some kind of fucking eating disorder, I honestly don’t know what I’m gonna do with you.”
“Don’t you swear at me when our three-year-old is in the next room!”
“Oh, she’s ours tonight, is she? ’Cause I could swear you said last night that she was my problem!”
“Don’t!” Michael yells, getting to his feet, “Just don’t, James! I’m sorry, alright? I don’t mean what I say and I can’t help what I do! I don’t want to feel like this but I do, and I need you, alright?”
James just looks at him with an empty look in his eyes.
“No, Michael. It isn’t alright. Because I’m in this relationship too. I can’t just look after you all the time. I need something back from this as well. I don’t know what to do.”
That is the first night that Michael sleeps in the spare bedroom, and James has to stifle his own sobs with a pillow.
* * *
“Michael,” James says shakily, “You know that I love you.” He swallows. “So much.” His voice falters. “Too much. Michael… Do you understand what I’m doing?”
Michael shakes his head, not because he can’t understand, but because he refuses to.
“I have to go,” James says, tears beginning to fall, “I’m sorry, Michael.”
“No!” Michael rasps, grabbing hold of James’ hands. James turns away, shutting his eyes, teardrops gathering on his dark lashes. “James, please, no. Please don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you.”
James shakes Michael’s hold off.
“You can’t do anything with me here. Neither of us can. This is for the best.”
“Please!” Michael begs, his own eyes streaming. James gently slips his hands out of Michael’s.
“I’m leaving tonight.” he says calmly, though his eyes are still shiny with tears, “I am taking Sara and Joshua with me. We can call one another when we’re reading to talk. I’m not walking out of your whole life, Michael. We just need some time apart to sort things out.”
“Please,” Michael repeats, “I love you.”
“I know you do, Michael, I know. I love you too. I swear that I mean it. But I have to go. Just for a while. Please, let me go.”
“Let me say goodbye to Sara,” he begs.
“Of course,” James murmurs, “You think I’d go without letting you say goodbye? I’m not a character in a Dickens novel, Michael.”
Michael smiles a tiny smile at that, wipes his eyes, and goes to Sara’s room, where she’s sitting patiently on her bed, her hair in a plait, a little suitcase and her Beast on her lap. Michael thinks the juxtaposition of these items makes her look like some kind of X-Men War World II evacuee.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says with a sad smile. “You okay?”
“Where are we going, papa?” she asks.
“I’m not coming with you, I’m afraid. You and Papa are going to go and live with Auntie Joy for a while, and I’m gonna stay here.”
“Is the baby coming too?” Sara asks, wide-eyed. Michael swallows.
“Yes. The baby too.”
“But you’ll be all alone.” Sara says concernedly.
“I won’t be alone. I’ll get Auntie Catherine to come and stay with me. And you’ll be back before you know it.”
She puts her suitcase and her toy to one side, then lunges forward and throws her arms around his neck.
“I love you,” she says forcefully.
“I love you too, baby,” he replies. She doesn’t object to being that, this time.
* * *
The first things his sister does are to hug him, kiss his forehead, wrap him in a blanket, make him a cup of tea and set about making him some food. Usually Michael would feel patronised and annoyed by this, but he just needs someone to take care of him like this right now. She has the time that James, with the two children to care for, didn’t, and she spends it all on Michael. She works out foods that he can eat properly and keep down well, and lets him have treats like hot chocolate with cream when they watch films together. She goes out jogging with him, so that he’s getting fresh air and getting used to the world outside again, but also because the exercise means he doesn’t worry about his body as he puts on much needed, healthy weight. He hasn’t started drinking again: he doesn’t seem to want to, which is good, because Catherine worries that if he did, he’d start using it as a coping mechanism, and that could end very badly.
Michael has found a new vice. Writing. For hours at a time he sits on his bed with his laptop and writes. It’s an autobiography, but not of his entire life: it details his and James’ separate pregnancies, explain the drug, writing about their experiences and their scares and their joys. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever publish it, but if they do tell the truth about Sara and Joshua, this is how he’d like to do it. Not interviews that can be misquoted, not a press conference where he could get flustered and tongue-tied, but a book, where it’s all set down in black and white and he can say everything he needs and wants to say, nothing more and nothing less. He does anticipate them having to come clean: the papers are all over James’ and Michael’s apparent split, and curiously wonder where Joshua came from, not being another surrogate child of Anne-Marie’s, although they just assume that he is adopted. Michael doesn’t want their children to grow up having to lie about who they are. He had that himself, and wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.
Michael speaks to Ian on the phone sometimes. Neither of them wanted to take sides, but it is quite obvious that Patrick is eager to help out James and the children, whilst Ian’s concerns all lie with Michael. Ian has known depression, although admittedly not post natal, and says everything he can to help Michael through it.
“Have you seen James?” Michael asks.
“Michael…”
“You have, haven’t you? Don’t worry, I don’t want you to pass on any weird messages or anything. I just want to know how he is.”
“He’s tired, and he looks thin. He needs you, Michael.”
“I need to give him the time to work out what he wants.” Michael says firmly, “Then we’ll see.”
After three months, Michael is coping. He can get up and dressed in the mornings. He can eat, he can exercise, he can write. He can call his mother, he can see his friends. They are all tiny victories, but they mean the world to him. Catherine moves out, and Michael picks up the phone.
“Hello,” he says, when it’s answered, “How are you? …I’m glad to hear that… listen… could we meet up?”
* * *
The sickness sits low in his stomach, roiling unpleasantly. He holds his silence, although he knows it shows in the palening of his face, and keeps his head up. One hand rests tentatively at his middle. He keeps walking down the pavement, his coat pulled up around his chin. He can feel his phone vibrate against his leg and pulls it out his jeans to read the text message.
‘I can see you :)’ it says. Michael can’t help but grin at it; the little smile is quintessential James, reminiscent of years ago, when they first started dating and used to text and e-mail whenever they weren’t with one another. He looks up and around, into the cafe window, trying to spot James. He knows that James is watching him and that thought amuses and thrills him a little, like he can feel James’ smile on his skin. He finally clocks James, sitting on a dark leather sofa, bouncing Sara on his knee, Joshua in his babyseat next to them. Sara’s eyes widen and Michael can see her mouth forming a cry of, “Papa”’. Michael can’t stop himself from running inside, James putting Sara down so that she can dash to him. Michael grabs her, throws her up in the air and then catches her again, making her squeal with excitement. He hugs her close, kissing her hard on the top of her head, his eyes tight shut, clinging to this moment like it’s a dream that it would kill him to wake from. James looks at the two of them and his eyes fill with tears, and his heart thuds as Michael raises his head to look straight at him.
“Hello,” James says hoarsely.
“Hi,” Michael replies, then turns back to Sara, “Just sit down there, sweetheart,” he tells her, putting her on the sofa. There’s a brief pause before James flings himself at Michael, taking his face in his hands and kissing him desperately. Michael closes his eyes to kiss back, running his hand through James’ hair.
“You look good,” James pants when they break apart.
“You’ve looked better,” Michael replies, reaching out a hand to wipe away the tears that are falling from james’ eyes.
“Well, I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. So much.”
“How are you doing?” James asks tentatively, blinking rapidly to try and clear the tears.
“I’m doing well. Living on my own again, my sister really looked after me… yeah. You can probably tell.”
“You’re eating properly?” James checks.
“Yes. I still feel sick sometimes, but I can handle it. And you were right, it is mostly psychological.:
“I’m- I’m sorry that I said such horrible things to you,” James near-whispers, “I didn’t mean- I was so unfair. I shouldn’t have left- I-“
“Ssh, ssh, James, it’s alright,” Michael soothes, “You did what you had to do and I do not blame you, okay?”
James looks into Michael’s eyes, sniffling, and nods. They’re interrupted by Joshua starting to grizzle. James makes to go to him, but Michael asks him not to; James holds back and Michael picks up his baby son. He rocks him, cradling his head, hushing him softly.
“You’re getting so big,” he says with a smile, “I hope you haven’t forgotten all about your silly old Papa.”
As though in answer, Joshua stops crying immediately.
* * *
James puts the manuscript back down on the desk.
“Wow,” he says.
“That bad?” Michael asks amusedly, looking over his shoulder. He’s standing in front of their mirror, trying on his suit and tie for Patrick and Ian’s civil partnership (“Marriage!” Ian shouted, “Call it fucking marriage!”) which, after some fussing and re-arranging, is going to be held the next week.
“It’s amazing, Michael. I had no idea you could write so well.”
“The internet helped me with the big words,” Michael jokes.
“So, do you want to do this? You want to publish it?”
Michael ties his tie and goes over to James.
“I don’t want Joshua to grow up not knowing who he is, or having to lie about that to anyone at all. I don’t want to have a world shame this and call it disgusting, and us not be able to stand up against that. I don’t want to lie about what we did out of and for love. So yes, I want to publish it.”
“Amid The Din,” James reads the title, “That’s from Gaelic Cradle Song, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You know it?”
“My mam used to sing it to me. Hush, the waves are rolling in, white with foam, white with foam; father toils amid the din, the baby sleeps at home.”
Michael smiles, and James smiles back: and they know that the toiling is through.
- The End-