Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a momentous occasion. He was the typical figure of a soon-to-be father, pacing back and forth outside the infirmary, slumped over and still clearly unsure about fatherhood. The nurses assured him this was normal—some parents didn’t really step into the role of fatherhood until they actually had the baby in their arms.
“Once you hold him, that’s when it’ll feel real,” they told him.
He was nervous—what if that didn’t happen for him? He wanted very much to be a good husband, and with that came wanting to be a good father for their child, but a small voice in the back of his mind kept whispering awful things to him—
You’re not father material.
You have no idea what you’re doing.
He’ll hate you.
The nurses all told him that this was normal too, but that did nothing to quell his fears. He just wanted the day to be over already. A sense of apprehension—whether it was from dread or excitement, he didn’t know—washed over him as one of the nurses opened the door and said two words; just two words, but they were the two most affecting words he’d ever heard in his life.
“He’s here.”
The last time two simple words had gripped him so hard was the day his wife had said, “I do.”
But then he saw the image of his wife, bathed in the light of the setting sun and radiating a glow that her newly attained motherhood afforded her, cradling their son against her breast. He stood at her side, reverent.
“Can I hold him?” he whispered.
This was it, the moment of truth. His wife nodded, smiling softly, and leaned over to provide her husband easy access. She guided his hands to the right places, told him gently to relax when she noticed how nervousness stiffened his movements. He was small, tiny enough to cradle against just one of his arms, and with a rush of relief, it hit him—this was his son. A living, breathing being, made up of himself and the person he loved, a mix of their blood and sinew and love.
In that moment, there was nothing he felt more than the feeling of being a father. Balancing him against his chest with one arm, he touched a finger to one of the tiny hands, something indescribable flowing through him as it was barely enclosed by unbelievably small digits. For the first time, he saw his son’s eyes flutter slowly open.
Instantly, a cold sensation swept through his entire body.
“…his eyes are blue.”
The voice of his wife floated from her nest of pillows, exhausted, but clearly enthusiastic, “I know. They’re beautiful.”
A spark of panic flashed through him. Surely…this was a mistake?
“But we both have brown eyes.”
The nurse, patting a wet towel to his wife’s forehead, offered an explanation, “That happens sometimes. It’s a recessive trait—you two must have blue eyes somewhere in your family tree.”
“Oh,” he said simply, feeling a bit ashamed that he’d ever let suspicion into his heart.
‘Of course there’s an explanation’, he thought, ‘after all, she’s your wife.’
He wasn’t the smartest man, he admitted. He’d never really paid that much attention in school, and lord only knew how his wife still loved someone as ordinary as himself. Right now though, that didn’t matter—all he cared about was his son.
After this moment of reflection, he added, “Well, you learn something new every day.”
He took all his feelings of hesitancy, every lingering notion of doubt in his mind, and squashed them. He tried to recapture the bliss of holding his newborn son, gave his best efforts to remember how he had felt just moments prior.
And, for the moment, it worked.
-
They named him Sora, for his eyes.
“Blue as the skies,” his wife had noted fondly.
The first few weeks had undoubtedly been interesting. Being a parent was nothing at all like he imagined—it was sleepless and exhausting, both physically and mentally. Income was tight, since there was just so much expense to taking care of a baby, and he was having to come home an hour early every night to help with things around the house. They certainly couldn’t afford a sitter.
After his momentary lapse at the hospital, he tried very hard to connect with his son. He was always worried he was doing something wrong, like holding the bottle at the wrong angle, or patting him too hard on the back.
“…I don’t think he likes me.”
“You don’t know that, dear.”
“He’s always spitting up on me, and he cries when I hold him.”
“He’s a baby. They all do that.”
“All babies cry when their fathers hold them?”
“Give him some time to get used to you. He’ll recognize you after a week, I promise.”
He had nothing to say to this. To be honest, he was jealous. He had sort of expected his wife to be good at this—she always did have that sort of motherly quality about her—but it seemed as if nothing ever fazed her. Their son would be crying and she’d somehow just know what he needed, would set him against her bosom and that would be enough, like fitting a two piece puzzle together, mother and son, so perfect and easy, and just where did that leave him?
And of course, as with everything, she was right about Sora. It wasn’t even a week before his son was gurgling at the mere sight of him. In fact, it was increasingly becoming clear that Sora was a very affectionate child.
When he was strong enough to hold his own head up, Sora’s father took to sitting him on his knee and gently bouncing him. By this time he had largely shied away from most of the caretaking duties, finding himself awkward at them, and instead left them to his wife. But sometimes she would need both her hands, and when he found himself alone with his son while she went off for a minute or so, he would—for lack of knowing what else to do—bounce him.
Sora would never fail to give him the most mirthful smile, look at him with the bluest and most honest of eyes, and when he did he felt as if his son, this child, could see right through him and his insecurities, and he would ask himself, why does this have to be so hard?
He looked harder and tried to find even the slightest sliver of himself in the brightness that was his son.
And kept looking.