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Keralis shoved the door to his home open, eyes burning and head ducked.
He needed to hold himself together. Fuck, he needed to hold himself together. What a piece of work he was, it was meant to be a happy day. Grian and Scar had just announced their pregnancy. They had been celebrating Mother’s Day, with various Hermit family members joining them for the festivities. Bdubs, Impulse, Skizz, Tango, Joel—they’d all invited their wives and their kids. They’d been calling Beef and Doc and Ren, who had all been off-server, while Wels and XB had been traveling.
And then Grian and Scar had shared a look with one another. And Keralis—he had known, as much as he wanted to hide it, because he had been around pregnant people before and he’d even been around pregnant avians. Grian had started eating more and his face had brightened, somehow. And he’d known Grian and Scar were trying.
He also knew they were struggling. And as much as he hated it, Keralis had almost—he had almost hoped. That someone would understand the feeling. That someone would know how it felt to look at the others and know he would never get that. He would never hold a baby and have it be his own, half him and half Xisuma. Half his husband. Not that they had to be—
But he couldn’t adopt, either. Not knowing what some of his Hermits had gone through. Not knowing how Impulse and Tango had struggled as avian hybrids, how Zedaph had fought to survive when he was on his own as half-Enderian.
Pausing at his sink, Keralis settled his hands on the cold porcelain. Focus, he swore to himself, biting back a ragged noise. Focus, Keralis. He’d made it through the party. He just needed to—he needed to calm himself. He had to calm himself down.
He thought he had made his peace with it.
He had made his peace with it, but clearly not enough, because now his heart was aching like it’d been ripped out all over again. They’d never even had a chance. He’d met his husband just a bit too late in life, with a body too damaged.
He’d thought he’d be okay. He’d handled the party fine. And now he was squeezing the sides of his sink, desperately attempting to hold back tears and refusing to look at his own face. He knew it was going to be blotchy and reddening and awful.
Gasping, Keralis bit the inside of his cheek and rocked forward. Come on. His fingertips cracked the marble. He would need to replace it, or ask Xisuma to do so.
He had never had a chance. Growing up, his mother had warned him when she realized what he was capable of—that he could carry a child. He was a carrier, it was considered a blessing among the druids, but he had his own curse. Something he had inherited from her. She’d apologized so much, been so soft-hearted. But he only had until his twenty-fifth year to have children. Not unless he wanted to have a severe amount of difficulty, and even then—
With a hiccupping sob, Keralis dropped his head forward. Tears ran down the inside of the sink, pooling around the drain. His heart ached, eyes and nose burning.
He didn’t want kids.
He had told himself he didn’t want kids.
(Was it really that he didn’t want his own children? Or was it that he had given up, deciding not to risk miscarriage after miscarriage, heartbreak after heartbreak? To risk heartbreak as his children struggled with the world’s own hatred? Why was it that he couldn’t be weary of the world, after so long living in it and all the pain that came with it?
Why couldn’t he grieve without someone suggesting he and his beloved try something else? Why did he have to suffer from endless questions about when he and Xisuma were having children? It wasn’t a possibility, it was easier to say he was barren—except he wasn’t barren, he was somewhere between that and infertile. He was just broken.)
Rocking himself back and forth a bit, Keralis squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He heard the door to his and his husband’s home click open. It closed, softly, and he bit back the next sob. There were soft footsteps, someone walking through the kitchen. From the sound, it was Xisuma. Keralis continued to fight off tears, whimpers, weak noises. Something had torn into his ribs, his heart, his lungs.
“’Ralis.” Xisuma was at his side, touching his shoulder.
Raising his head, Keralis looked at him. He was messy and weak and shaking.
Eyes softening, Xisuma looked at him. He’d stripped himself of his armor at some point. Reaching up, he cupped Keralis’ cheek. “Love,” he started.
Keralis shattered, like glass struck by a rock.
Shoulders slumping, he turned to Xisuma, let himself be pulled closer. A hand tangled in his hair, blunt nails rubbed against his scalp. He sobbed, the sound pitching louder and shaking. It was humiliating. He was throwing a tantrum over Grian and Scar’s good news. What kind of friend was he? What kind of person was he?
Gently, Xisuma began to pull him backwards, through the hallway. He was helped to their bedroom, sat down on the bed. Kneeling, Xisuma undid the laces of Keralis’ boots. Keralis, meanwhile, continued to sob. There was a soft chirrup, and then their cat landed beside him. She crawled into his lap, purring loudly. Apologetically.
“I’m sorry.” He sobbed.
Xisuma glanced at him. “What are you apologizing for?”
Keralis didn’t have an answer. Slowly, Xisuma helped him strip and then redressed him in softer clothes, something fluffy and blue and likely Cleo’s work. Then, Xisuma changed himself, slipping into bed beside Keralis and pulling him over. He wrapped his arms around him, pressed Keralis’ ear over his chest.
They laid there for a long moment.
“I’m a terrible friend.” Keralis lamented. Fingers carded through his hair, the blankets tangled around him. “It’s not about me.”
Xisuma’s hand massaged Keralis’ shoulder. Softly, he continued, “We don’t always get what we want. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. The pain…it’s still there.”
Tilting his head back, Keralis looked at his husband. Xisuma was staring at the ceiling, a mournful glaze to his eyes. “Shashwammy…” He started, taking a slow breath.
Lifting his own head, Xisuma smiled at him. “I know. It sucks.”
That just made Keralis start sobbing again.
Xisuma dragged them both upright, wrapping Keralis in a hug and holding him tight. Burying his face in Xisuma’s chest, Keralis clung to his arms. The sobs ripping their way from his throat were an ugly breed, ragged and wet and torn. Thorns wrapped around his throat.
It was just so simple. Grian and Scar revealed that, while neither of them were women and they weren’t mothers, they were celebrating Mother’s Day anyways. They didn’t know what terms they’d use to refer to themselves by. Everyone had been excited for them. Keralis had been excited for them, but now—
He didn’t have the heart to fight the grief anymore.
And maybe they could have adopted, once upon a time, but he wouldn’t be a good parent. He’d be an awful parent, actually. He was selfish and broken and he didn’t have control of his own powers. He didn’t know if he would be able to face what might happen if his kids did something wrong. When his kids did something wrong, whether it was breaking a dish or something even more serious than that. His hands were too bloody for that—centuries of fighting, of bloodshed, of defending his people. Sure, they joked that he was the Server Mom, but that only made it hurt more. Gem, Mumbo, Pearl—they were great. They were lovely, Keralis loved all his Hermits dearly, not the same as Xisuma but not any less than his husband.
Keralis was crying so hard he was gagging, stomach convulsing as he hiccupped and gasped.
Brushing a hand through his hair, Xisuma whispered soothing words into his ear. Like he wasn’t struggling, too. He was quieting apologies in their tracks, continuing his soft ministrations of petting Keralis’ hair. “I know, I know. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Keralis continued to sob into his husband’s chest.