Work Text:
Month 4
"Red goes on top," Tanwa insisted.
"What are you even talking about? You only see rainbows when you're high," Trin retorted. "Red goes on the bottom."
"On top!" he exclaimed, threatening him with the crayon as if it were a sword and he was a knight.
Paint the nursery, they said. It will be fun, they said.
And it had been for a while. Then, the colors of the rainbow divided them.
Trin and Tanwa were actually preparing the drawings on the living room table, and they were coloring with rainbow crayons, like two toddlers in kindergarten. They had a quarrel basically on everything, but laughing like crazy while doing so.
They had decided, not knowing whether the baby would be a boy or a girl—and not wanting to make it matter—not to simply paint the baby's room with pink or blue. Instead, they would paint the sky on those walls. One wall would represent the sunrise, one the daytime sky with a rainbow on it, one the sunset, and the last and most beautiful, the night with the moon and stars. Their child would grow up knowing that the sky was the limit.
But the two of them had their own limits, since they had been arguing about the placement of the colors of the rainbow for several minutes.
Normally, Kri would have resolved the dispute with her wisdom, but they both agreed that exposing her to the pungent smell of paint risked harming the baby, so they kept her away from the nursery as much as possible. You want to bore me to death, I know, she protested, but in the end even she had avoided the nursery for the sake of the child she was carrying. For a child she had decided to entrust to another family, Kri cared deeply for it. Perhaps she cared so much that she would entrust it to a family who would be able to care for it much better than she could.
Under normal circumstances, Tanwa would have resolved the aforementioned argument with his charm and a few subtle innuendos, promising to do anything as long as his husband agreed with him. This time, however, Trin gave in first, raising his hands and trying to smile.
“If you promise me this inaccurate rainbow won't give our child nightmares…”
“I'll give you nightmares, you idiot,” he laughed.
It seemed like such a cute scene, from the outside. Two parents-to-be creating the walls of a nursery. Nothing wrong with it.
When the time came to go into the nursery and paint, however, the mood had a sudden change.
It didn't start right away. They came into the room still teasing each other because Trin had said something silly about putting the right number of clouds in the painting on the wall.
They each grabbed a paintbrush, Tanwa uncorked the paints—one of each color and an infinite amount of sky blue—and they looked at the white wall in front of them, with only a preparatory drawing on it done in pencil a few days before, barely sketched to make the task easier.
Tanwa, for his part, decided to take off his shirt so as not to get any paint on it, revealing his chest. His husband looked at him a second longer than necessary.
“What, no treasure chest through the rainforest this time?” he joked.
Then, he froze.
They both did.
It was meant to be a joke, but remembering the last time they had painted a wall had been a huge mistake.
Trin had been careless in saying that sentence. And there was no going back.
Tanwa tried to fix it somehow, to joke back about it. "Um, yeah, I tried to get Kri to write it on my back, but she refused.”
The laugh that came out of Trin's mouth was fake and forced, the complete opposite of the sweet laughter from moments before.
They swallowed hard and dipped their brushes in the red paint, then began to paint that rainbow that, now, seemed to mock their embarrassment and sadness.
They applied the first coat of red in deathly silence. They didn't even look at each other. When Tanwa did, he felt Trin deliberately avoiding him, and when he was the one keeping his eyes fixed on the rainbow, he felt his husband's gaze on him like a dagger thrust into his bare back. It was cold, and he felt shivers run down his skin, but there were no tender hands to warm him as he had expected, nor smudges of paint playfully spread across his skin. None of that. Just an air as heavy as a boulder, and ghosts between them.
Every now and then he would let out a sigh, sometimes exasperated, sometimes sorry for being exasperated, and that was his entire way of expressing himself. As the red turned to orange, the use of words seemed forbidden in their little world.
Only once did a word slip, when Trin accidentally knocked over a jar of sky blue and swore. He, who was the picture of class, swore and repeated it in a lower voice when he tried to repair the damage.
"It doesn't matter, we have plenty of them" Tanwa had tried to console him, but Trin had been deaf to that attempt and had sulked.
It was impossible to go on like this. They were both suffering like hell, and it was pointless.
It was unusual for them to not be able to voice their feelings to each other, especially given how much they’d grown in the time they’d been apart and then back together. But some things still lingered heavy on their souls—that horrifying trauma from their shared past, for one.
Trying to avoid the topic had proven to be an unsuccessful tactic, Tanwa thought.
It felt like there was a ghost in between them—an impalpable presence, carefully hidden in the very back of their minds, that became, sometimes, just tangible enough for their souls to feel disconnected, and for their touches to feel clouded with its invisible shadow.
And that presence had a name.
Tanwa realized, in that moment, that it was pointless to go on avoiding him.
His name was Victor. He was there, in between them and everywhere else, screaming to be accepted, embraced, and for his name to be spoken outside of the occasional, bittersweet visit to his grave. He was in his husband’s heart, and Tanwa knew that he’d never, ever leave.
But Tanwa had an idea.
A completely crazy idea, to give life to that ghost. Was it completely stupid and childish? Probably, but he felt that it was the right time to reveal his intentions, and he was scared shitless.
Maybe Trin would hate him; in fact, it was likely so. Okay, not hated—he would never—but it risked irritating him.
Still, he had to try.
He cleared his throat.
“Honey, have you thought of names for the baby yet?” he asked, with studied nonchalance. He wasn't even looking at him.
“Oh. Um. Didn't we say that if it's a boy, we'll name him Padoem, like your father?”
Tanwa looked at him sideways, a look that wasn't returned. Trin had answered correctly, but his mind was elsewhere, and so were his eyes.
Tanwa returned to their painting. “No, yes, absolutely, but… what if it's a girl?”
“No, I haven't thought about that yet. Do you have any ideas, Tan?”
It was time.
Now or never.
“Well, we could call her Victoria.”
“Why should we call her…”
And Trin painted a straight line of orange outside the drawing, the brush slipping out of his control, his gaze fixed on the wall.
Victoria.
Tanwa swallowed, waiting for Trin's reaction. He was unsure what to expect, but whatever it was, he trusted his husband.
Trin gave himself a few seconds to process it. Tanwa knew that, despite his blank stare, his thoughts were racing like a car.
When he finally turned to Tanwa, his eyes—those beautiful, lynx-like eyes—were bright with tears.
Please say something.
But Trin didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say. Once the shock wore off, he moved toward him, wrapped his arms around him, and pressed his face against his shoulder, allowing himself to be emotional.
Tanwa widened his eyes and let relief wash away the anxiety he felt. He held him as if his very life depended on it, one hand tangled in his raven hair and the other caressing his broad back. Feeling finally warm. The pain in Trin’s heart was so great, and Tanwa would have given anything to heal it. Because his husband might have moved on, but never forgiven, never forgotten. Naming the child Victoria wouldn't give Victor his unlived years back, but it would do him justice, it would be a way to honor his memory and to keep him alive. A small victory.
After a while, Trin freed himself from their embrace, raised his face, wet cheeks and faint smile, and placed his hands on Tanwa’s shoulders.
He pursed his lips in a funny grimace. "Well, then? What do you say?"
Trin didn't answer right away. First, he placed his hand on the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss so intense it only made him want to marry him a second time.
Then, he looked at him tenderly and answered his question on his lips:
"I hope it's a girl."
Tanwa had never loved him so much.
Month 5
Lately, Tanwa had put aside his typewriter for a bit in favor of the guitar. Not that he completely ignored it, he simply found a better balance between the two. He had started playing regularly again, and every afternoon new melodies filled the house, the ones he heard on the radio or on his records and then attempted to reproduce masterfully.
He knew that his housemates were delighted with his newfound musical activity, that Trin found his strumming very relaxing, and that Kri pretended to find it unbearable only as a little act, because she thoroughly enjoyed teasing Tanwa and hurting his actually untouchable pride.
What neither of them knew was that Tanwa was secretly preparing a little surprise for Kri, who, every time she heard Tanwa play the same passage over and over again, would repeat: You sound like a broken record. Professor, do something!
It was a clear afternoon, the sun was setting on the horizon. Tanwa was in his study playing music. From where he was, he could hear Kri and Trin in the living room chatting amiably, undoubtedly about something very serious, or perhaps about the baby on the way. By now, Tanwa, too, enjoyed talking about it and thinking that the baby was real, and he had gotten into the habit of thinking of the child sometimes as Victoria, sometimes as Padoem, in his head. It depended on the day. He was a little embarrassed to admit it, but sometimes in his mind he would talk to him, or her. If he saw a story in the newspaper that he didn't like, he would think: Victoria, what a world we're bringing you into. If he heard a beautiful song on the radio, he would say to himself: I can't wait for Padoem to hear this. He had begun to do that with everything. He had realized, slowly but surely, that they were halfway there and that this little creature was more real than ever.
So, when the guitar was well tuned, he went downstairs, where the others were already waiting for him by the empty fireplace.
“There you are, my love,” Trin greeted him, leaning in for a kiss. They had become very open and spontaneous in front of Kri, so they had no qualms about exchanging affection in front of her. She had effectively become part of the family.
In fact, the only protest the girl had was when she saw Tanwa with the guitar. “Why are you doing this to me? I'm pregnant. Do you want my child to be born with a trauma?”
With that, she placed a hand on her belly. It was now a visible bump, and there wasn't much she could do to hide it. Not that she minded it, and besides, she was so proud of her pregnancy. She was glowing, more beautiful than ever, and she felt proud to be doing her part to give her professor and his partner a child: they both knew it, even if Kri would never admit it.
“What a cheeky brat,” Tanwa teased. “And here I am, the one who prepared a surprise for your child.”
“If it’s not chocolate for its mother, it doesn’t care.”
“No, it’s a song.”
“I want to hear it,” Trin said, coming closer.
Kri sighed, feigning annoyance. “Come on, what song is it?”
Tanwa rubbed his hands together, having prepared a speech. “So, you know we live in interesting times. There are protests and student movements, and justice hangs in the balance. But we’ve managed to create an oasis of peace, right? Good, so I thought I’d sing this song to the baby so he knows better times will come as soon as he gets out of here,” and he pointed to her belly.
For the first time since she had come to them seeking hospitality, Kri seemed unsure of herself. She had been friends with Victor, even though she wasn’t directly involved in the student protests, and she had understood what happened to those who longed for peace. So, timidly, she asked:
“What if they don’t come?”
Tanwa considered the question seriously, but his cheerful demeanor never waned.
"We'll always be there to protect our baby from everything."
The girl seemed satisfied with this answer, because she visibly relaxed.
Once this was clear, he picked up his guitar and began to play.
The song was new, just a few months old, and it was the soundtrack to an American movie. The radio stations weren't playing anything else. It was called Knockin' on Heaven's Door, and it was apparently about death and rebirth, justice, and a better world. When Tanwa began to sing, he sang directly to her belly, as if it were his own child.
He wanted to pass on to them everything he knew, everything he had learned. The pain he had felt and what he had learned from it was part of him, but he didn't want his child to know pain, but hope. Despite everything, they were here, the three of them in a Garden of Eden, waiting for them, and they had to know there was always a way to have a happy ending, despite life's tribulations. And Tanwa knew full well that he couldn't convey all of this to a pregnant belly, but that's just how he was. He had too much love inside, and if he didn't express it, he would probably die.
Trin smiled as he listened to him, his eyes closed to better enjoy his voice, as if he were a true artist, not a singer improvising in the garden. Kri, on the other hand, was touched. And neither of them understood a single word—it was simply his voice and the intention behind it that enchanted. He smiled the whole time, knowing that this moment was unique and there would never be another like it, not another clear sunset, hearing Knockin' on Heaven's Door in the living room for the first time, played by Tanwa's guitar. But there would be other sunsets and other songs, and that was the beauty of it.
The song ended, and a particularly excited Kri would have happily made a scathing comment about Tanwa's dubious abilities, had she not been abruptly interrupted.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, utterly astonished. "The baby kicked!"
Who did what?
Tanwa, still holding the guitar in his hand, casually threw it onto the floor; it made a terrible sound, but what did that matter at that moment? Even Trin's eyes widened and he rushed to Kri.
She was laughing with joy, clutching her belly.
“They kicked a little ball,” she blabbered. “Just when you finished singing! They love music, I can't believe it, I'm speechless!”
“Hi, daddy's little kicker!” Looking at her belly, Tanwa greeted them as if they were right there in front of him, and smiled broadly.
Trin placed a hand on his shoulder, and immediately noticed his hand shaking as he took it in his. They both harbored a desire they didn't dare express out loud, out of deep respect for Kri, but they were both dying to touch the belly that housed their future child. However, Kri had never mentioned it, and they would never touch someone without asking.
But, of course, the girl was too smart not to understand what they were thinking. It took her a couple of seconds to think about it, or perhaps to prepare, but finally she nodded.
"Look, you can touch me if you want."
Trin held his breath. "Kri, you don't have to unless..."
"I know I don't have to," she interrupted. "I say it because I mean it."
Kri lifted her shirt so they could touch raw skin instead of her shirt.
Tanwa didn't need to be told twice, and with a look of gratitude and respect, he reached out until his hand touched her belly. An electric shock ran through him. Her belly wasn't that big, nor that hard, but it was solid and warm. It was their baby's nest, where they were growing healthy and strong.
Trin immediately placed his hand next to his, his golden skin contrasting with Tanwa's pale skin and Kri's olive one.
Oh, no.
Now he felt like crying. He never cried. Not from emotion, at least. He cried from despair, from sadness, from heartbreak. He left the rest to Trin's tender heart. Yet, when he turned around, Trin was the picture of ecstasy and pure wonder, as if he were the first man in the world to have a child and discover what pregnancy was. Kri no longer felt uncomfortable; it was true. There was pride in her gaze, in the knowledge of having the power to create life. And emotion for feeling it.
“Tan, sing again,” Trin begged. “I want to feel it if the little one does anything.”
And Tanwa had to obey.
“Okay. Um… Mama take this badge off of me, I can't use it anymore.”
Boom.
The child had given another little thump.
“I heard it now too!” Trin shouted, and laughed, laughed with joy as if he had won the lottery.
“So it really is Tanwa's voice, poor me,” Kri joked.
But Tanwa paid no attention to either, because he had started crying like a baby as soon as he realized his voice was making the baby react.
“Don't tell me Tanwa is moved, it's definitely a day to mark on the calendar,” Kri teased.
Tanwa tried to respond, through sobs, but only a strangled sound came out. As he put his arm around his shoulders, Trin replied, “He's overwhelmed. You have to understand that.”
“You guys are really funny, professor,” she laughed. “Next time you want to hear the baby move, I'll choose the song, okay?”
“Okay,” Tanwa sobbed. “I'll play you whatever you want.”
Kri thought about it, grinning to herself.
“I like Father and Son by Cat Stevens.”
She laughed when Tanwa started crying again.