Chapter Text
Sometimes even just breathing was hard still. He often longed to fall into yet another unending sleep; at least during it he didn't have to feel the pain in his bones, his muscles, more importantly didn't have to endure the endless humiliation of his weak body. He was nothing but a burden to Erik now. The rock that sank him ever lower. On rainy and dark days he only wished for Erik to let him go. To leave him alone to rot, or maybe throw him off a cliff as a mercy.
But in moments like this one he was ever thankful for Erik's continuing patience and love. Thankful to whatever forces that allowed him to live and be a witness to this miracle.
They were alone in the room. Erik off on some errands; as soon as Istvan woke he returned to work, desperately trying to restore their position and safety. But as he could barely stand still, it fell to Erik to meet, arrange and sweet-talk. Which the young man never forgot to complain about when they were together in their rooms. And so—alone they were. Just Istvan and his little light, his Gyula.
Gyula was sleeping near him on the bed. Warm with fire and soft blankets covering them both, but also with Istvan's own body. He curled around the boy and listened to the soft breaths and little sniffles his son let out in his slumber. So small, only a couple of months old.
Istvan slowly raised his hand; it trembled with the effort, and as gently as he could, put it on Gyula's body. His palm covered both the small chest and tummy full of goat milk. And what a contrast they were. Gyula was all sweetness and baby softness. Skin unblemished by any hardship or pain. Istvan's hands were covered in scars from fires of his life. He hid them under gloves, always, and yet here he was just as vulnerable as his son.
His fingers shook as he slowly stroked the boy's cheek. All feeling in his hands dulled from damage, but he still could see how pliant they were, full and rosy, and he already expected them to be the same as his when the boy grew.
Gyula stirred in his sleep, eyes scrunching. Istvan leaned forward and brought his lips to his son's silky curling hair, as fair as his other father's.
"Sleep, sleep my dear, you need your rest to grow and to be strong, my lark," Istvan softly hummed.
And yet Gyula awoke still, but with no cries. He opened his eyes, the baby gray slowly going away, replaced by the ember Istvan knew so well from his own reflection. Gyula stretched as well as he could, letting out little grunts, before moving his head up to look at his papa.
"Well, I see you are stubborn enough, little one," Istvan whispered with a smile. He then leaned down and brought their noses together. "Good evening then, fiam."
Gyula only gurgled in response, wiggling, trying to free his arms stuck in swaddling. Istvan chuckled as he helped out. It took longer than if he was a healthy man; a little bit of cold sweat appeared when he had to flex his ruined stomach, but he did it, falling back onto pillows most ungracefully. But Gyula laughed at the fall—the sweetest sound in all the World—and so Istvan's fatigue didn't matter.
He opened his eyes again when he felt little hands catch the fabric of his gown. Gyula was smiling, cupid's lips no different than his own, stretched into an expression Istvan himself wore so many years ago last. His own lips morphed into an expression he wore almost every day now, in this peaceful, quiet room—a soft, warm smile.
Istvan took one of his son's little hands in his and leaned to lay a kiss on it. His eyes crinkled as father looked at his child. "Vajon miről álmodsz? Csak nem puha bárányokról, vagy talán az apáidról?" Istvan whispered; his answer was Gyula stretching and latching on his nose, smothering it in spit. The older man laughed. "Nem számít."
And so it went. Father and son, together for hours on end. Istvan had to admit, he could not ask for better company to spend endless hours with. He couldn't do much besides read, think, and write with the use of a table-like contraption Erik provided him with. During all of it, Gyula either sweetly slept near him or was the most curious, attentive, and cute companion he could ask for. He read aloud to him, "discussed" plans and ideas with his son, and Gyula was enraptured with his father's voice throughout. Istvan saw his boy even try to mimic his mouth's movements; he often chuckled at the realization that his son would surely talk much earlier than walk, much to Erik's dismay. Speaking of…
Istvan reached over to a small bedside table where, near a candle and documents, lay an assortment of toys carved by Erik. Horses, a wolf, cat, and several dogs. Istvan could only exhale when his love would bring yet another toy, hidden behind his back.
"What do you fancy today, Gyula? Who will be the hero of this story?" Istvan hummed. "How about a dog, hm? Loyal, smart creatures they are." The man picked up the small figurine, no bigger than his own palm, and brought it closer to his son.
Gyula reached up and clumsily took the dog in his hands, promptly bringing it to his mouth to taste. Istvan only chuckled and booped the boy on the nose. Gyula laughed as he chewed on the dog, eyes crinkled in mirth while looking at his father.
"Now, little one, there can be no story if you eat the main character, can there?" Istvan said as he gently took the toy out of his son's mouth. The little boy only whined but did not throw a fit—the most patient baby there was.
There were several moments of silence, breached only by the soft sniffles of a child nestled near Istvan's side. "Well, how about this…" the man finally started. "There once lived a little dog. It was small in size, but strong and big in spirit. It dreamed of growing just as big on the outside. Just as you will grow big, hm?" Istvan smiled down at Gyula, who was now concentrated on the movement of the toy in the air. "And so the dog studied and learned. It was hard. And the dog lost a lot of things as time went on. He thought it was how it was supposed to be," Istvan grew quiet at that, lost in the memories of the past. "To be strong and big you had to be alone."
"Are all your stories that depressing? That cannot be good for Gyula," an amused voice sounded, and Istvan realized he didn't hear the door creak open and closed. A troubling development; he was losing his touch.
"You have a tendency to catch me at my lower moments these days, that's all dear," Istvan said before answering Erik's kiss to his lips. "Just so you know, yesterday I told him a very sweet story about a kitten named Woof."
"Woof?" Erik asked with a confused tilt of his head. "Doesn't seem like a cat name."
"Well, maybe be here for the story next time," Istvan looked down at Gyula as he continued. "Your dad knows nothing, right Gyula, what can he judge."
Erik chuckled and leaned over Istvan to lay a soft kiss on his son's brow too. The boy giggled in response and reached a hand to catch Erik by the ear. Both of them were smiling now, and Istvan didn't think he ever saw, nor would he ever see, such a beautiful picture.
Erik turned and caught Istvan's eye. The expression on the older man's face was melancholic, but so achingly soft and content. Erik took one of Istvan's scarred hands in his and gave it a comforting squeeze.
"Well, I am here for this story. Why don't you continue it? I promise to be just as good a listener as our son is," Erik said and gave a cheeky wink at the boy before picking him up and laying down next to Istvan, putting their son on his chest. And so they were—together.
"Don't you want to report and discuss the events of the day first?" Istvan said, leaning against Erik and stroking Gyula's soft stomach.
"There is no need right now; it is evening already, I have no reason to hurry."
Istvan hummed. "When did you become so patient?"
"Love does that to you."
And wasn't that the truth.
And so it went. And now together, the story of the dog was not so sad anymore. It was still full of hardship. And the dog wasn't a good dog at all. But it might so be that not only heroes got a happy ending in stories.
"Szeretlek," Istvan whispered into the dark, long after the story was finished.