Work Text:
threads
As a rule, Hearthians are not the kind of species that are prone to wasting resources.
Take their clothing, for example. Peak Hearthian's fashion mostly consists of hand-me downs, stitched and sized up to fit the current person wearing it until they hit the next growth spurt or until the fabric gets too worn off. Ruined clothes are recycled into cleaning rags, blankets or curtains, which means there is little occasion to make new ones out of nowhere. Even most tadpoles and hatchling clothes are second-hand ones and frankly, everyone agrees there is no need to make new ones when hatchlings grow out of theirs at lightning speed. Gossan's current suit is brand new but it's kind of the exception to the rule: no one in Hearthian's history has ever been a pregnant space pilot before, so adjustments had to be made.
It's not a title Gossan thought they would get, frankly. They're still having trouble wrapping their head around the fact they're the second Hearthian who has successfully been into space and back to Hearth. First Hearthian pilot to get pregnant, at the tender age of twenty-one, was not a part of what they expected from life and yet, here they were, rubbing the distended skin of their tummy while rummaging into the box of threads Rutile got them.
They wouldn't change it for anything in the whole universe, though.
There is not much to do until the egg is laid and their hatchling born. According to Tektite, the size of an egg can be indicative of a hatchling's future height and weight but not by much and some appearances can be deceiving, especially when it comes to Hearthian eggs. "I've seen some tiny tadpoles come from eggs that were bigger than a log. Hard to say anything before birth." Hornfels wasn't more helpful, despite having given birth to the village's youngest hatchling years ago, so Gossan kind of resigned themselves to grin and bear it until the birth to worry about their future baby's clothes.
However, it doesn't mean that there isn't anything they can do.
They spent a lot of time touching the different material, feeling the fabric under their fingers, comparing the different shades of color before settling for a purple. They've been not so secretly hoping for the hatchling to inherit Feldspar's skin and markings— their shade of darker blue, their little constellations Gossan has spent so much time kissing and tracing by hand— and picking a color that subtly matches their lover's skin feels like asking silently for the universe to grant their wish. It feels a bit like something Rutile would disapprove of, a silly, vain hope. Most expectant parents Gossan have met wish for a healthy, strong hatchling, one who can become independent fast, accomplish their dreams, and find their own path into Hearthian society. They remember Hornfels wishing for Halite to inherit their scientific curiosity and their other parent's perseverance— the universe has just not seen fit for little Hal to be granted the virtue of patience and is probably still on the fence for the scientific mindset.
Gossan wishes all of that for their baby and even more. Health, strength, curiosity, happiness... They just want them to get Feldspar's genes in the midst.
Any Hearthian worth their salt can sew and stitch clothes and Gossan has spent the last few years fitting and designing space suits while they weren't busy flying their spaceship or testing Slate's new jetpacks (both in zero-g and in real atmosphere). Knitting a hatchling cap should be a walk in the crater in comparison but there is an unknown feeling that seize the pilot's heart anytime Gossan holds the needle, one that makes their throat swell with hiccups. It's not just any shirt or pair of trousers that got a tear off and that needs to be stitched so Rutile won't growl at them for walking in rags in the morning. It's going to be their hatchling's first clothing, a soft little beanie to fit over their head until they grow it out or the weather gets warmer. In a few months— a few weeks, if they're really unlucky— Gossan will watch Feldspar put the soft piece of purple fabric over their child's head and that mere idea is enough to bring quiet tears of joy to their eyes.
"Gossan is sad?" A high-pitched voice brings them out of their train of thoughts.
Small Gabbro is there, their face half-hidden by the door's frame. They look a bit nervous, which often means they're trying to get away from their own peers. Gossan can't fault them for wanting to sneak into a quiet place; at the tender age of two, Hal is nothing but a forceful little tornado eager to get in trouble and little Marl is— for want of a better word— a pest.
"No, Gabbro, I'm not sad." The pilot answers back, quickly wiping their tears off with the back of their hand. "Is there something you need?"
Gabbro shrugs, visibly unconvinced by their answer, but they don’t shy away from Gossan’s inquisitive gaze. They’re a bit of an odd one, keeping mostly to themselves instead of engaging in hatchling games with little Marl and Halite, although they seem to have made a friend in Riebeck, which brought a collective relief to the community. People have been worried about Gabbro’s upbringing— and their parents’ rapid demise— stifling their development but the hatchling seems normal, if only a little quiet.
Gossan offers a tentative smile as a reassurance; the hatchling barely registers it. They seem oddly fixated to the piece of fabric the pilot has put over their knees, the soft purple oddly striking over Gossan’s faded pair of black pants. With a twinge of guilt stringing their heart along, they try to remember who knitted Gabbro’s hatchling cap— was it Iolite? Astro? Esker, perhaps? — but the knowledge, if they ever had it, slips away from their grasp.
“Like me?” Gabbro asks, showing off their arm. Gossan blinks before smiling, patting their knee to encourage the hatchling to come over; they don’t wait for permission to hop closer and grab a corner of the cloth into their little hands. Sure enough, the purple Gossan has picked looks a bit like Gabbro’s skin color from afar— a faded, dull version that would look like a sick variant of the hatchling’s vibrant complexion.
“Not quite, little one. Your skin is a bit more colorful, I’m afraid.”
Upon seeing the cloth, Gabbro pouts, their little ears peaking down with disappointment. Gossan bites their own lips, a bit contrite to have caused the hatchling’s sorrow.
“I’m making a beanie for my own hatchling, little one.”
“Gossan has a hatchling?” Gabbro asks, their disappointment instantly melted like ice on a sunny day. “Where?”
“They’re not here yet. You’ll have to wait a few months to meet them.”
“Why can’t I meet them now?” The child frowns, offense written all over their small face. It’s such an adorable sight it makes Gossan’s lips turn up with mirth. “Are they grounded? In trouble?”
“No, they’re not grounded,” The pilot answers with a laugh, their eyes growing misty with tears of delight. Is their own hatchling going to ask such innocent questions, in a few years? Are they going to want to meet other playmates as well? Most unlikely, since neither Slate nor Hornfels are planning to have children and Porphy is still too young. “They’re in my tummy for now. You’ve seen how round it is, yes?”
“Feldspar said you ate a rock.” Gabbro’s immense eyes are wide with wonder and a shroud of anxiety.
“Feldspar is just making fun of me, little one. Did you ask Esker?” Gabbro shakes their head up and down. “What did they say?”
“They say you’re having an egg. But— but why you making a beanie if they’re in your tummy?”
Gossan smiles and puts the needle away before patting their knee, a silent invitation for Gabbro to hop in and make themselves comfortable. The child still doesn’t look convinced, but they climb on Gossan’s knees nonetheless, putting their hands over their bump with innocent curiosity. The adult shivers, not used to anyone except Feldspar and the occasional healer touch their stomach but Gabbro’s fingers are oddly shy, careful not to stay too long at the same spot, if they were afraid to hurt the egg sleeping under the skin.
“It’s warm up there,” Gossan begins to explain. “But they can’t stay in my tummy forever. When they come out, they will need clothes to keep their head as warm as it is now, so they don’t fall sick.”
“No sick.” Gabbro repeats with intensity. “Sick is bad.”
Gossan gnaws at their lip, guilt striking again. Gabbro was too young when Iolite passed away but they may have been old enough to remember Astro’s illness and Esker’s subsequent mood. It had been a hard time on everyone’s morale but especially on the fifth founder, which made them withdraw from building the space program for a while.
“Yes, little one, sick is bad. Hopefully, it won’t happen.”
“Because of the beanie?”
If only…
“Because of the beanie.” Gossan confirms, hoping very hard that time won’t make a liar of them. Gabbro seems a little more appeased upon hearing their promise though, and it’s what the pilot was trying to achieve so they don’t feel much guilt for their white lie.
Stars know the child doesn’t need to worry about hatchlings getting sick right now.
“Hey, I have an idea.” They offer, hoping to get Gabbro’s mind out of the perspective of sickness and death. The child tilts their head up, their big eyes glistening with curiosity. “Why won’t you go look for the most beautiful, special thread you can find in Rutile’s box and bring it back to me?”
“A thread?” Gabbro asks, puzzled.
“Yes, a thread to sew the beanie parts together so it will fit over the baby’s head. Can you do that for me, little explorer? Then I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“It helps? No sick?”
“It will help, I promise.”
If Gabbro ends up on Gossan’s knees, watching them sew until Esker’s voice is finally heard back all around the village, it’s really nobody’s business. And if Gossan’s hatchling ends up with a mostly purple cap stitched together with lots of vibrant green and violet threads all over, well...
That’s for nobody to judge either.