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“Nah,” Wayne said. “Not calling him that. I refuse.”
Wax raised an eyebrow. “You know I wasn’t asking your permission, right?”
“Sure you were,” Wayne said, dismissive. “Or you wouldn’t’ve told me.”
As Wax tried to find the logic in that, Wayne stepped forward and tapped two fingers against Wax’s temple. “Are you goin’ senile? I heard retirement makes folks go senile.”
Wax pushed his hand away. “No, I’m not going senile. What’s your problem?”
“You, Waxillium Ladrian, plan to name your kid Maxillium Ladrian.”
“So?”
“It rhymes,” Wayne whined.
“What’s wrong with that?”
Wayne groaned and collapsed backwards onto Wax’s bed, boots and all, losing his hat along the way. His head hung off the side of the mattress as he stared up at Wax. When he spoke, his accent was high-class Elendel, like Wax might hear at a fancy party. “Listen, Waxy baby, you have to listen to me—”
“...What did you just call me?”
Wayne sat up, urgent, cross-legged on the bed. Wax winced, trying not to think about the mud on Wayne’s boots. “Listen," he said, accent back to normal. "What if it’s my dyin' wish for you to name your kid literally anything else—”
“You’re not dying, Wayne.” Wax hesitated, then said, “Wait, you’re not—”
“Not yet, I ain’t. But in times of crisis, a fellow might need to cash in on his dying wish a few years early.”
Wax stared at Wayne, his gaze flat.
“Wayne’s a good name,” his friend said hopefully.
Wax suddenly had a vision of two tiny Waynes chasing each other around the penthouse, disappearing into speed bubbles at random. He suppressed a shudder. “I am not having two of you in this house, Wayne.”
Wayne grinned, pleased. "One of a kind, ain't I?"
Wax snorted. "That's one way to put it. Now, if you're finished critiquing my son's name—"
Wax ignored Wayne's muttered, "Barely started, mate."
"—Then I actually wanted to ask you something."
"Lookin' for a middle name?" Wayne asked, unfolding his legs and bending over to retrieve his hat, toes touching the floor. "'Cause Max Wayne's got a nice ring to it."
"I thought you might want to be his Uncle Wayne," Wax said. Wayne froze, hat halfway to his head. "Steris and I were talking about how we want to raise him, what we want to pass down. I don't have much to give him; not much that I'm proud of, anyway." Wax paused, meeting Wayne’s eyes. "But I want him to know my family. Not my blood relatives, the folks that matter."
It wasn't often that Wayne was speechless, so Wax savored the moment. Wayne stared up at him, eyes wide, cradling his hat in his lap.
"You don’t…" Wayne began, then trailed off. "Wax, mate, you're crazy. You've got more to give that kid than anyone else in this rusting city. He'll be the luckiest damn kid in the Basin."
Wax smiled. "And I'm giving him you. Luckiest damn kid in the Basin."
"Oughta get a thirty-day warranty on that gift," Wayne said. "You know the shops are doing that now? Just lettin' folks return stuff and get their money back? I read an entire book last month and brought it right back to the shop. Ol' Mandy let me trade it out for another one just 'cause I said it weren't what I wanted. And not even my normal kinda trade! An official trade, with a little printed receipt and everything. Can you imagine tradin’—"
"No, I can't," Wax said firmly.
"Y'know, MeLaan can be an uncle, if you catch her on the right day. Usually Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I bet she'd make an exception for—"
"Wayne."
"Wax," Wayne answered, echoing his accent. Wax still had no idea how he could make just his name sound different.
"Wayne, I'm not going to be mad if you say no. But do you really not want to? Or—” Wax looked at him more closely, slowly putting the pieces together. He followed his instinct. “Have you been feeling worse lately?"
Feeling worse was their shorthand for how Wayne's nightmares and insecurities tended to get… well, worse, every now and then. Usually around the first of the month, but sometimes for longer stretches—weeks, or even months at a time. Wayne never told him when it was getting worse, not unless Wax asked. He was trying to get better about asking.
Wayne looked down, fiddling with the braided twine wrapped around the base of his hat. "Little worse, maybe," he said.
Wax stepped closer and rested a hand on Wayne's shoulder. Wayne didn't look up, but he also didn't shrug him off, so Wax counted it as a win. "Listen. You know I don't say things I don't mean, right?"
Wayne nodded hesitantly.
"There's no one I'd rather have as my son's uncle. No one," he repeated, as Wayne opened his mouth to argue.
Wayne squeezed his eyes shut. Wax watched for a moment, waiting, then tapped his temple like Wayne had done to him earlier. "What's going on in there?" Wax asked gently.
Wayne laughed, shaky. "Too much, mate."
Wax pulled him close, one hand heavy on the back of Wayne's head and the other resting between his shoulder blades. Wayne buried his face in Wax's chest, breathing deep, and Wax carded a hand gently through his hair.
"You don't have to be perfect with him," Wax said eventually. "You don't have to pretend to be someone you're not." He paused. "Though, we're also taking auditions for little old grandmas, if you know anyone." He felt a smile against his chest.
"All I expect is for you to try your best," Wax said. "And be yourself, when you can. You don't have to pretend that things don't hurt sometimes. Not with me."
"If it hurts, I deserve it," Wayne said, voice muffled. "My own fault."
No you don't, Wax thought, but he knew better than to say it. You haven't deserved that pain in years, possibly ever. He'd tried that argument before, and Wayne had never taken it well.
"It’s not about what you deserve," Wax said instead, rubbing Wayne's back absentmindedly. "It's about me, this time. I want you here, and I want you to be part of my son's life.”
“Dunno why,” Wayne mumbled, almost too softly for Wax to hear. Like Wayne didn’t mean to say it.
Wax’s chest ached. “For my own mysterious, old retired man reasons."
"Why you gotta make that sound so creepy?"
Wax smiled. "You’re the one who keeps calling me old.”
“You been callin’ yourself old for years. Anytime you sat in a chair wrong.”
“That’s not my fault; you know those old wooden chairs didn’t have any—”
“'—Any lower back support, we might as well eat dinner on that rock outside.'” He was using Wax’s voice again, grumpy and indignant and younger than Wax could ever remember being. Harmony only knew how Wayne managed it; they’d had that conversation nearly a decade ago.
Wax laughed, then lied through his teeth. “I did not sound like that.”
Wayne drew back and looked up at him, a perfect imitation of Wax’s own flat stare.
Wax’s grin grew fond. “Okay, maybe I sounded a little like that.”
Wayne snorted, putting his hat back on. "Fine," he said. "Someone's gotta teach that kid his voices, after all."
"You sure?" Wax asked.
"Nah," Wayne said. "But you are, for some reason. Trustin' you ain't turned out too bad for me yet."
Then maybe someday you'll trust me about the rest of it, Wax thought. About how you don't deserve the pain, and don't need to be forgiven.
They had time. Wax would keep trying, even if it took another fifteen years.
There was a light knock at their hospital room door, and a nurse slipped inside. Wax watched out of the corner of his eye as the door clicked softly shut again, but he didn't look up from the warm bundle in his arms. He felt, in that moment, that ash could start falling from the sky and he'd still be unable to look away.
His son. Their son, his and Steris's, born earlier this morning. He was perfect; warm and beautiful and smaller than anything Wax had ever seen.
"Will we be needing anything, Lord Ladrian?" The nurse asked softly. "Another blanket, perhaps?"
Wax looked up sharply, meeting the nurse's eyes. "We need to stop impersonating medical staff to get around visiting hours."
Wayne grinned, eyes twinkling, and put a finger to his lips. "Shh, the babe's sleeping. And his momma. No need to cause a fuss. Anyways, it ain’t my fault this institution has so many rules to keep a fellow from seeing his own nephew. Right inhumane, that is. Practically begging for someone to sneak around ‘em."
Wax raised an eyebrow. "And the time you pretended to be a surgeon just so you could tell me the ending of a book you'd finished?"
Wayne waved a hand. "You weren't gonna read it; it's not spoiling the ending if you weren't gonna read it. Besides, I was going crazy from thinking about it all by myself, 'cause you'd abandoned me. That poor bloke traveled to the future and stepped on a butterfly, and then he went back to his time and he didn't even exist, can you imagine—"
"Wayne, I didn't abandon you; I was having surgery. You woke me up from the anesthesia by asking if I was sure we actually existed. While holding a scalpel in front of my nose."
Wayne pointed a finger at him. "I told you I gave that thing back. Eventually."
"That's not the point—" Wax cut himself off. "Nevermind. You want to see him?" He nodded down at Max, who was still sleeping soundly in his arms.
Wayne went still, as though suddenly remembering there was a sleeping baby in the room. He nodded, taking off his nurse's cap and dropping it onto Wax's head before sitting next to him on the small couch. He leaned over Wax's shoulder.
"He's so little," Wayne whispered.
Wax turned to look at Wayne, opening his mouth to tease him about all babies being little. But then he saw his friend's face—jaw slack, eyes wide with amazement. Something in his expression looked soft and fragile, and suddenly Wax didn't have the heart to tease him.
"Yeah," he murmured instead, brushing a careful thumb across his son's cheek.
Wayne leaned closer, watching intently as Wax checked his blankets for what must have been the hundredth time. Steris had gently scolded him about it earlier, before settling down for a well-deserved nap. I am certain the nurses in this hospital know how to correctly swaddle a baby, she'd told him, amused. Wax wasn't even sure what he was checking for, just that he needed to do something to satisfy the sudden instinct inside him to help, fix, protect.
"Got something for him," Wayne said. "For when he wakes up."
Wax looked up to find Wayne fiddling with something soft. He held it up for Wax to inspect, and Wax realized it was a tiny knitted hat—not any single color, but instead a swirling rainbow of oranges and pinks and purples. It reminded him, inexplicably, of the vibrant sunsets out in the Roughs.
"It's perfect," he told Wayne, meaning it. "Thank you."
"Got 'em to make it special, at the shop," Wayne said. "Said I needed it baby sized. Thought it might be too small when I picked it up, but he's so rusting tiny."
Wax smiled, then nudged his shoulder. "You want to hold him?"
Wayne went stiff beside him. "Me?"
"You see anyone else in here?"
"Mate, I don't know how to hold a baby," Wayne said, looking panicked. "Marasi said they can't even hold up their own heads. Ain't right to let a kid be born without a functioning neck, if you ask me. You oughta keep him."
"You're not going to break him, Wayne. I'll show you how."
"What if he starts crying?"
"Babies tend to do that," Wax said. "It's hardly the end of the world."
"My hands are full," Wayne said, grabbing a folded blanket from the end of the couch.
Well, Wax wasn't going to force him. But he had an instinct for these things, finely honed after years of unraveling Wayne's deliberate misdirections. So Wax shifted his son to one arm and used his other hand to grab the blanket from Wayne's lap, tossing it out of reach.
"You're not going to break him," Wax repeated, voice calm like he was corralling a spooked horse. "I'll show you how. Okay?"
Wayne met his eyes, then looked back down at Max. "Yeah. Okay."
Wax turned to face Wayne, giving him quiet instructions and rearranging his arms with his free hand. When Wax was satisfied, he adjusted his own arms so he was cradling Max the way Wayne would be doing it.
"See," Wax said, letting Wayne track his posture. His gaze was sharp, like when he met someone new and wanted to remember their mannerisms for one of his disguises. "This is what you'll be doing. You support his head right here, and he'll just lay flat against you. Got it?"
Wayne leaned forward, suddenly eager. Wax smiled and passed Max over to him. The baby hardly stirred, and Wax watched as Wayne cradled him delicately. His hands now free, Wax picked the knitted hat up off the couch and leaned over to put it on Max's head. Wayne tensed, as though worried the movement would wake him, and then relaxed when he continued sleeping.
Wax glanced up at Steris to make sure they hadn't disturbed her. But she was a heavy sleeper, so Wax wasn't surprised to find her still sprawled across the bed, fast asleep. He watched her for a moment. She had planned extensively for this day, of course. Next on the list, Waxillium, she had told him earlier, passing their son to him as her eyes grew heavy, I sleep this off, while you hold our child. The books say that's very important; father-son bonding. And ask if the nurses will bring some soda water when I wake.
"Why's he got hair?"
Wax turned back to Wayne, bemused. "What?"
Wayne reached out a finger to gently brush the tuft of dark hair peeking out from under Max's hat. "Thought babies were bald when they're born. Why's yours got hair?"
Wax hadn't really thought about it. "I don't know. I’m sure not every baby is bald."
Wayne hummed, skeptical, and then froze when Max's eyes started slowly opening. "Wax," Wayne hissed urgently. "He's waking up. What do I do?"
"Calm down, for one thing," Wax said. "He might not stay awake for long. He did that earlier, blinked around a bit then went back to sleep. Kid's had a busy morning."
Wayne nodded, falling silent as they watched Max's eyes open. His eyes were dark and bright, blinking sleepily up at them. Wax felt something deep in his chest crack open, soft and overwhelmingly tender.
"He's got your eyes," Wayne whispered. Wax glanced over at him. He looked exactly how Wax felt, captivated and reverent.
"Steris says sometimes babies' eyes change color," Wax said. "So don't get attached."
"Too late," Wayne said, voice soft. He leaned back against Wax, and Wax wrapped an arm around him. They watched silently for a moment as Max blinked up at them, gurgling softly. Then he yawned once, widely, and his eyes drifted shut again.
"Wax, he's…" Wayne trailed off.
"I know," Wax said.
“He fell asleep in my arms.” Wayne sounded dazed.
Wax tightened his arm. “Yeah. He trusts you.”
Wayne lifted a trembling hand and traced a finger down the curve of Max’s nose, his touch feather-light. He drew his hand back and curled it back around the baby just like Wax had shown him. "So little."
Wax hummed in wordless agreement. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he said, "You know, if you still think you're going to break him, I can take him off your hands."
Wayne turned to glare at him. "Get your grubby paws off. You got to hold him all morning." Then he snickered. "Can't take you seriously in that hat, mate."
"What hat?" Wax felt his head and pulled off the stolen nurse's cap. "Wayne."
Wayne just winked at him, grinning. He turned back down to look at Max. "You remember Rusty?"
"The stray cat you found in Weathering that got eaten by a hawk?"
Wayne stared at him, aghast. "Why you gotta bring that up?"
"Wayne, you just brought it up."
Wayne shook his head, looking back down at Max. "So rusting morbid," he muttered. "Nah, I was gonna remind you how little and helpless ol' Rusty was. And how I always remembered to give him his food and water by the front porch. Never forgot, not even once. And you remember I made him that braided string toy—"
"Out of my shoelaces," Wax said pointedly.
"—And I would've taught him his voices, except he never got 'em quite right, on account of him being a cat and all." Wayne paused. "Poor bastard," he murmured, holding Max a little tighter.
"I remember," Wax said. "You'll be great with him, Wayne."
Wayne nodded slowly. "Y'know," he said, contemplative, "I think I will be. Best uncle he ever had."
"You know he only has one uncle, right?"
"Best uncle."
Wax smiled, stretching out his legs and watching Max over Wayne's shoulder. "Yeah. Best uncle he'll ever have."