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Mumbo sighed in relief when the door clicked shut without a shriek following. Freedom, at last.
It’d been a difficult night. Florence was just beginning to teethe, and the experience left the poor thing nothing short of miserable and confused. Every attempt to lay her to sleep was met by cries no matter how he hummed, rocked her, set a steady hand along her stomach in hopes the pressure would ground her. Every minute of it made anxiety and doubt in himself creep up in his chest. Not in the decision to have a child- gods no, never that- but in his abilities as a father.
Not that he regretted a single second. There wasn’t a day passed when he wasn’t endlessly, overwhelmingly grateful for his noisy, demanding daughter. He just happened to be just as grateful for quiet victories- like this one- when Florence finally drifted to sleep. She was his little bloom, a dream made real, and more than he’d ever dared hope for that day in the kitchen when he nervously twisted his wedding ring and turned to B, voice soft but certain, and admitted he wanted a child with him.
Maybe there could’ve been a better moment, but it took a lot to work up the courage, and he seized the moment! It was worth the way B’s eyes lit up, then softened a way they had once before on a cold December night. They’d been bundled in blankets by the fireplace warming them with gentle flame, the room otherwise dark save for a Christmas tree. That was the night Mumbo asked to marry him, listing every reason he loved him until B stopped him with a kiss and a whispered, “Save it for the vows.” in place of a yes.
He shook himself out of wandering thoughts, but found himself smiling. The warmth he felt didn’t chase out the doubt entirely, but if he focused on it then the cold grip of anxiety loosened, just a little. Just enough to steady him until-
The front door creaked open.
Thank the stars- B was home.
Had he really been trying to put Florence down to sleep that long? He felt the doubt surge tighter, press into his chest until breathing felt like work. How could he call himself a competent father when it took him so long to get a four-month-old to sleep? Every night felt longer than the last. He wasn’t getting any better at this, was he?
And it didn’t help that he was supposed to have dinner ready by now. When B had a long shift, the plan was always the same: Florence asleep, the house somewhat tidied, food on the table. That way, when B finally came home after a long day, they could both fall into bed. Exhausted, but together, with the day behind them. Instead, he’d only picked up half the living room, there was no warmth of the stove or smell of dinner, and he felt as useless as he was tired.
He didn’t bother mentioning to himself that this was a self-imposed rule, one B didn’t know about. B had never asked for a sleeping Florence, a tidied home, or dinner ready. Never expected Mumbo to be perfect in these ways. But he always looked so grateful when he came home to a calm, sleeping house. That look of relief… it meant everything. So, no, Mumbo wasn’t afraid B was angry, it wasn’t that.
He was afraid of failing at caring for those he loved, those who loved him. Tonight, it felt like he thoroughly had.
He stood still and silent so long that the door shut. Everything past that blurred into silence, lost to the noise in his head. His arms wrapped around himself tightly, clenched the fabric of his shirt.
He tried. He tried to use the tool B had gently suggested years ago: “Ask yourself if you’re overreacting, just pause and ask.” So he did. He barely managed to form the question, ‘am I overreacting?’ Before answering with an immediate, resounding ‘definitely not.’
Then a warm voice cut through, a gentle whisper to keep the hall quiet outside the nursery. “Mumbo?”
He blinked. His husband was suddenly right in front of him. When had that happened?
He had a sentence ready- an eloquent excuse, honestly- but instead, all that came out was a pitiful whine. Miserable, not unlike the sounds that would escape him the first two weeks they had Florence, when he had no idea what was going on or how to live with it. Had he learned a single thing since then?
Then he was wrapped in his lover’s arms, held by someone he’d come to learn was warmth, guidance, and yet just as lost as him. He hoped B felt that way when held by him, as well.
As tears began to fall soft hands led him down the hallway, through a door into a dim room, onto a soft bed where he was cradled by woolen blankets placed by the same arms that now held his shaking body.
“What happened?” B whispered, now less to avoid waking Florence, and more to avoid further overwhelming Mumbo.
Mumbo’s breath caught in a sob that choked out his words, but he took in a shaky breath to regain his voice. “It took me four hours to get Flo down to sleep.”
“Oh, well that’s alright,” B offered without a second of hesitation. Why was that worse? “Are you upset that you’re tired? I picked up food on the way home- you didn’t answer my texts, but I got your favorite. I figured she was giving you troubles.”
Mumbo let out a ragged breath, buried his face in B’s collarbone and breathed him in deeply. For a moment he considered pretending that was the truth, that he was just tired and hungry. But B always saw through that. “No, that’s not..- that isn’t it.”
“What is it, lovely?”
It took a long minute to gather the right words. He had too many, didn’t want to overwhelm B with every thought at once. He felt a warm hand wipe away tears despite the fact they were replaced just as fast, and leaned into the touch. “I haven’t learnt a thing since she came home.”
He felt and heard B inhale, ready to argue, but Mumbo rushed to continue speaking, even as his words were interrupted by shuddering breaths. “I keep making the same mistakes. I still forget things she needs, I forget which cry means what. When she’s upset, and when I try to fix it, I only make her more upset. I thought I’d get better at this. I thought I’d feel like a dad by now.”
His voice broke, the room felt too quiet afterward. The weight of everything he’d held back hung in the air, and at first B didn’t speak. He just held him tighter, rested his cheek on Mumbo’s forehead as he breathed in and out with the rhythm that he’d learned years ago worked wonders to steady Mumbo.
Eventually he spoke low and steady, and Mumbo felt the vibrations of it in his chest. “You are a dad, Mumbo. Her dad.”
Mumbo let out a sob, followed by a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well- .. tell that to the version of me losing his mind at 2 AM because he can’t soothe his baby.”
“I would,” B murmured without hesitation, pressing a kiss to the top of Mumbo’s head. “I’d tell him he’s doing something that feels impossible with more patience than most. I’d tell him it’s okay- it’s normal to feel lost, even when you’re doing everything right.”
Mumbo shifted, pulled the blanket tighter around himself and tucked himself into B’s chest. “But I’m not doing everything right.”
“No one is,” B said gently. “But you’re sure as hell doing a good job.”
The fell quiet for a moment, and finally the self-doubt cracked just slightly, enough to consider that B could be right, to actually hear him out.
Then B added, “You love her. You try. That’s the part that matters. Not the perfect bedtime, or the clean living room, or the fresh homemade dinner.” He’d noticed Mumbo doing that? Noticed him thinking it was the important part? “Just.. loving. Showing up. And you do that, every day.”
Mumbo’s breath hitched again, but that time followed by a deeper inhale, softer exhale. He nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. Letting himself believe them, even just a little. “I wanted everything to be perfect,” he admitted, voice small. “So you’d come home and feel like everything’s taken care of. So you can rest. Bartending is so overstimulating, I just wanted you to come home to a quiet house-”
His rant was interrupted by a chaste kiss to the lips, and a forehead resting on his own. “Oh, Mumbo. I know,” B said, a hand coming up to gently comb through his hair. “But you’re what makes it feel like home. Not the food, or the calm, or that checklist you made up in your head. Just you and our baby.”
Mumbo let himself search B’s eyes through the blur of tears for any signs. A flicker of doubt, of lies, but he only found warmth, trust, even pride. B was proud of him.
“I think I just needed to hear that.” Mumbo whispered, and there was a long silence.
He was beginning to fall asleep when he realized he was, in fact, actually hungry.
“... My favourite, you said?” Mumbo eventually prompted, and B let out a soft giggle as they separated.
B left the bed with a gentle “stay there”, and made his way out into the hallway.
Mumbo could hear him checking on Florence, the familiar rush of white noise filling the hall when the nursery door opened, followed by a few quiet moments, and then the door softly closing again. Then came the rustling of a paper bag and clink of utensils from a kitchen.
They ate together, as always- the only difference from a typical night being that they were in bed, leaned on eachother.
Mumbo spoke first, told B of notable moments from his shift at the flower shop- namely someone who really wanted to bring lilies to a cat hybrid. Not a murder attempt, but such an intense allergen that it likely would’ve left them red-nosed and miserable for a week.
Then B shared what Florence got up to during the day- she tried to crawl, that had Mumbo’s chest tightening with pride (not just proud of Florence, but of himself and B as well.) and his eyes lighting up with a smile.
They were done with their food at that point, but B shared stories of the bar- drunk customers, terrible dancers, an 18th birthday party that couldn’t have been more chaotic. Mumbo didn’t share much stories of Florence’s evening. Instead his head fell against B’s shoulder as they laid back in their pillows.
He was falling asleep faster than he had in weeks, lulled by B's voice into a relaxed state, and the feeling reminded him of a night years ago. When he held a flu-ridden B, and, at his request, rambled on about flowers until he fell asleep. That night, he’d whispered his love for B into the quiet, knowing the man was too lost in a dream to hear.
With the last dregs of consciousness, he could’ve laughed at the switched roles as B flicked off the beside lamp and pressed a kiss to his temple, whispering a soft, “I love you. I’m so proud of you.”
Mumbo mumbled something incoherent, then he was asleep with that last thought, ‘I’m so proud of us.’