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It had been a long day for the both of you.
From the morning sun to the bright moon, there was always something to handle. Because today was a rare off-day for you, you took up the chores in the house, which was okay because you also heard the tiny giggles of your two lovely children. Their little squeals when you found the both of them in Rafayel’s closet while playing hide-and-seek, their little I love yous when you’d cooked their favorite meals, and their smiles when Rafayel finally came home made all of this exhaustion worth it.
“Love,” your husband says, exiting the bathroom after a fresh shower. His soaked violet hair frames his face beautifully, and you would never pass up an opportunity to admire him while he has his black tank top on. “Thomas was unbearable today.”
“Oh.” You scoot over a little to make space for him on the bed. “What, did he ask you to finish those paintings because your deadline’s coming up?”
Rafayel’s face when he’s caught by surprise will never fail to make you laugh.
“I guess I’m right,” you say, smiling.
As you make yourself comfortable in your blankets, Rafayel’s arm wraps around your waist and his face is buried in the crook of your neck. Your husband hums as he places kisses on your hair and shoulder, inhaling the feel of your existence and spilling the love that he cannot simply contain in his heart.
“Mmm, my hands hurt from holding a paintbrush, darling,” he whines. “I can hold you instead, right?”
The exhaustion that's put weight on you all day disappears with every song he sings in your ear. His hands, incredibly gentle despite his own tiredness, manage to hold you until the sound of his melodies turn into pleasant, sweet dreams.
He never grows tired of the sight of seeing you finally get the rest you so rightfully deserve. As soon as he hears your soft snores, your husband follows suit.
However, to Rafayel’s dismay, his own dreams do not last for long.
He’s pulled from his slumber when he feels a hand tug at the hem of his shirt with a small, fearful “Papa,” following it. Rafayel’s eyes immediately widen, and he sits up to see his son clutching his plushie like his life depends on it.
“Hey. Are you all right?”
His son nods, albeit a little hesitant. “I want to… to ask you something, Papa.”
Ask? Rafayel’s mind is barely awake, and his hands are still too shaky to grasp any sort of concept. Especially from his son, who possesses the curiosity Rafayel had lost a long time ago.
But his son is blinking, seemingly awoken by this new dilemma that plagues him, and Rafayel knows just how it feels to wake up to a relentless thought.
“Of course, sweetheart. Do you want to talk in the kitchen? I don’t want to wake up Mama.”
“Why?” His son tilts his head, unaware of your wrath when all he’s known is your grace.
But Rafayel, as much as he loves every part of you, knows better. “Because Mama doesn’t like it when I wake her up out of nowhere. You, on the other hand-” he boops his son’s cute little nose, “can do anything and she wouldn’t be mad.”
“Mama can be mad?”
Point proven, Rafayel thinks with amusement. Gently, with the everlasting stealth of a mischievous thief, he takes his arm off of your waist. He stands up, and with a couple of blinks to wake himself up, takes his son in his arms so they can walk together to the kitchen.
“Papa,” his son says, “Mama can be mad?”
Rafayel nods, swaying to the melody of the song his little speaker is playing. Nothing like a good r&b song to soften an already-lovely conversation. “Sometimes, but there’s nothing wrong with being angry, sweetheart.”
His son taps his chin, contemplating. He buries his head in his father’s shoulder, finding some comfort there, and Rafayel hums the same song he hummed to you only hours before.
“So, when I’m mad, Papa no hate me?”
That catches Rafayel’s attention. He stops his soft humming to respond to his son’s loud question, his eyebrows creased in confusion. “Of course not.”
He adjusts his son in his hold so he can try to figure out what possessed him to ask such a question, but what meets him is the same love that he sees in your eyes. It doesn’t help Rafayel’s heart that your son has your wondrous eyes, nor does he manage to catch the lump in his throat when he sees them crinkle as a smile appears on his little face.
“But Mama no-like it when I throw my toys everywhere, a-and I no-like it when Mama tells me to pick ‘m up.”
Rafayel takes a breath, trying not to smile at the thought of you and your son arguing about toys. “And are you mad at Mama when she asks you to clean up, hm?”
“No, not mad,” his son shakes his head, determined to understand his own emotions. “But no happy.”
“Ah.”
Rafayel feels his son fall back into his embrace, once again sharing the weight of a concept too heavy for his little body to carry. All he hears now are the melodies of his little fishie’s sleepy mumbles, and that’s the song he now chooses to sing.
“Papa, Papa, Papa,” he breaks his mumbles momentarily. “You mad? You always happy, Papa.”
“Of course I’m happy, sweetheart. I have you in my arms.”
And Rafayel places little pecks on his son’s cheeks, wide and red with utmost happiness. His little squeals melt Rafayel’s heart, and he has no intention to freeze it back up. However, the thoughts in his mind wander to a place he would rather forget — a life riddled with the thoughts of revenge, an identity full of the anger his son was just fearful of. Nothing like the softness of the moment.
He knows what you would say in this situation. “You deserve to be happy after years of suffering, my love.” Rafayel has heard that in his dreams countless times, and he’s desired the taste of kindness from the lips he loves so much, but there are some nights where it is harder to believe than others. Some days where the words just do not get through to his beating heart.
“Happy Papa!” his son breaks his train of thought. “But Papa… Papa can be mad too?”
Rafayel manages a small smile, one that hides just enough of his tears that threaten to flow like rising tides. “Of course, sweetheart. Nobody can be happy and smiley all the time. I just hope that you don’t think I’m scary because of it.”
“Scawy?” his son asks, curious. “Papa no scawy.”
“No?” Rafayel responds, blinking away tears.
“No. Papa is kind and nice a-and… he love me when I’m mad! So I love you too when you mad, Papa.”
The dam breaks with languid, heartfelt laughter shared between father and son. Rafayel laughs because it’s all he can muster as emotions rain on him until the flood builds up in his eyes. His darling son laughs because his father does — because as the angel learns all the different types of joy, he always comes back to where he first began to find it.
“Happy Papa…” his son exclaims once more, too tired for any more questions or quips. His initial question is lost to the wind as Rafayel takes him back to his room, where he sees his baby daughter still sound asleep like his entire world hadn’t just changed. Her soft snores elicit soft giggles in both father and son, delighting them immensely.
“Do you want me to read you a bedtime story, sweetheart?” Rafayel asks. “I promise to be very, very quiet.”
And the boy, clutching his blankets and his stuffed animal from earlier, smiles as he says, “Yes, please!”