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Mahito’s far too big for you to try holding him this way, but you oblige him. You can never say no—he won’t let you.
You both are seated on a futon, padded by blankets and pillows. Blankets are twisted and pushed aside and the pillows are worn and flattened, also scattered about. It’s a wreck, but comfortable.
You rock back and forth, tenderly. Arms around him, caressing along his back, rubbing in small circles with your fingers. He’s seated in your lap, pressing himself into you, hunched over with his forehead resting against your neck. His hands are tucked to his chest with his legs curled up defensively, trying to ball himself up.
He’s too big, too heavy—too hard to hold. He refuses to make himself any smaller for your convenience and ease. He wants to be held as he is, he doesn’t quite understand your discomfort and difficulty, and doesn’t care. He wants warmth, and love—and he will take it.
Still, you soothe his back, and he breathes peacefully against your skin, lolling to and fro as you swaddle him the best you can.
He starts to wriggle a bit, sliding further down, unraveling himself. You loosen your arms around him, allowing the movement. He scoots down and sprawls his legs out to the side, nearly laying himself down. Nuzzling his face just above your breasts, continuing subtly southward.
“Mommy,” he croons, grasping the helm of your shirt and lifting it. “Mommy—“
He pushes the fabric to your collarbone and latches onto you, trying to nurse. He nips at it almost desperately at first, as if something was going to cruelly tear him from you. You softly scoff, entertained by his senseless eagerness. You cradle the back of his head, carefully combing your fingers through his locks.
His suckling calms at your reassurance, a small hum escaping him. He places a hand over your other breast, kneading thoughtlessly. Milk dribbles and dampens his palm. You snicker at his selfishness, his neediness. But there’s no harm in it. He doesn’t have to share any of it—it was all his.
He continues gently and greedily, massaging and suckling. You pet his hair all the while.
He finally breaks away and sits up, wiping the drool from his mouth. Your hand moves to his face, cupping his cheek and guiding a thumb over his cheekbone, along the patchwork laid across his flesh. You chuckle: he was so tuckered out.
He slips further away, trying to lay down. Your hand follows as he rests down, gliding under his shawl and over his belly, earning a small grunt of pleasure as he goes limp on top of the blankets. His stomach was much softer than usual—at peace and vulnerable, less muscled. With no threat or desire to hurt or to fight, his soul fell to ease, unconsciously molding his body into something docile: something meek.
He sighs quietly, craning his neck sleepily and melting into the feeling of your palm on his belly. He relishes it a good while before finally turning away, wanting to sleep.
After one last caress on the head, you pull away, letting him drift off.