Work Text:
There was a time when Tom would've scoffed at this, at a happy father looking down at his child, stars in his eyes and smile lines marring his cheeks, an image straight out of a greeting card, but not now.
Not when the father is Harry, wearing the softened-with-time emerald sweater Tom bought for him, a dirty rag over his shoulder, already stained with sick. His wrinkles were not marring his face, but decorating it- ornaments on a Christmas tree only serve to make it more beautiful. And, certainly, not when he's looking down at their baby, theirs, only a few weeks old, still pink and wrinkled, eyes newly open and aware, both radiating comfort and home.
It's strange how immediate this pounding need to guard fell over Tom, but he's never been more accepting of the responsibility. When he began dating Harry, the defense he built rose like a tidal wave, tumbling and rising faster than he could control. Needing to care for someone else, someone whose movements and decisions he couldn't predict, terrified him. It was different to lead a flock of sheep, like he had done all his life, than it was to unite with a lion.
But over time, Tom learned and grew, and his urge to defend steadied to this unwavering hum of mutual protection. A stable understanding that control wasn't protection, that it wasn't healthy and it was a parasite eating away at Tom. Instead their relationship is to be a coexisting haven, a harbour in each other's darkness. Equal, and safe.
To share happiness with someone was much better than celebrating it alone, Tom had realized. To share it with Harry was what it felt like to be alive.
It was enough, for so long. It would have still been enough, but no, not anymore.
It's been less than a month, Tom's slept less than a combined day since his son was born, and he thinks he's never known joy or fear quite like this. Even if he does manage to sleep, he can't help but wake up, whether it be from screeching cries, nudges and kicks from an exhausted, subconscious Harry next to him, or from the anxious beats of his own heart, and creep over to the bassinet and look down at his son, swaddled tightly from Harry's perfected tucks.
His life was plentiful, full of love and happiness, when it was just him and Harry. He had so much already. How is it possible he could have gotten even more? Harry is a present Tom certainly doesn't deserve, but now there's a new gift, so special and precious and theirs.
He will mess up, he knows, but damn him if he isn't going to try his hardest not to. Harry has already caught him searching up preschools on his phone, leaning his head over Tom's shoulder as he was heating up milk, testing and retesting the temperature inside his wrist. He teased him, but Tom knew Harry had already bookmarked dozens of "mommy blogging" websites on his computer.
And even in the moments where things seem hopeless, where his son just can't seem to calm enough to be fed, or to rest, Tom is comforted by the weight of life he feels in his hands. Somehow, he's only holding a healthy baby boy, with his husband's attitude and gummy smile, but it's so much more than that. He rocks his son to sleep, or burps him over his shoulder, and it's everything.
His own childhood was filled with crying children, but none had sung songs like this (even though they are not so much lullabies as they are heavy metal) and none of the times he had to settle them made Tom feel a sense of fulfillment like this.
How could he have spent so much time conquering his own mortality, when he could have been living? His son, the child that is an extension of himself, is his immortality. Tom will age, as he must. Harry will, too. The acceptance of dying would have killed him, years, even months ago. Yet, it doesn't now.
Now, Tom has Harry and their son, their light. His and Harry’s own instrument of immortality, and existing in the moment is more than enough.