The sight of Alecto's tears, the expression on his face, the way he tries to hide his pain, rips the already gnawing wound within him asunder, spilling every vital part of him out into the sand. He feels gutted, like a gasping fish under the knife.
What did it matter, in the end, that Alecto had made some small happiness for himself, for them, here on dry land? The home they'd built, his marriage with Joshua, even their children - there was still no way to make up for that initial violence, that theft, of such an intrinsic part of his nature.
Joshua might be able to swim with their son, their future child, in either of their forms, even if they'd always outstrip him, leave him farther and farther behind as they grew; this was simply parenthood, the natural order of things, even if they didn't happen to be children born of love and magic and the rising waves. He knew - had always known - that was a part of them he could never touch. But for Alecto...
"Dearest," he says, quiet, subdued, almost choking on the simple syllables. "I...think I'll head back first." His arms ache to hold him, to wrap around Alecto and keep him close, to wipe those tears away with his rough fingers, his lips, to taste the bitter salt of sorrow mingled with the ocean's brine. But even if he wasn't the original source of those tears, he was at least a continuation of them, now. He had no right to attempt to ease them now, to attempt to fill that gaping void with his small self, what little he had to offer, though he would willingly pour it all out for Alecto, if he thought it would ease even a fraction of that pain.
He couldn't. But he knew what could, even if he had lost his own way, even if the thought of what would follow fills him with dread.
A package arrives the very next morning, directly to the house, the postman smiling indulgently when Alecto answers the door. "This is for you," he announces with a cheerful grin. "From your husband."
Joshua, eyes bleary with no sleep, watches Alecto accept it curiously, his heart sinking with every single passing moment. But the sight of Alecto, of their son running around the house with the excitement of interrupted routine, is always a quiet balm, whatever his other hurts, and he stores the memory up against their inevitable absence, these smaller, commonplace joys, of simply being together.
no subject
What did it matter, in the end, that Alecto had made some small happiness for himself, for them, here on dry land? The home they'd built, his marriage with Joshua, even their children - there was still no way to make up for that initial violence, that theft, of such an intrinsic part of his nature.
Joshua might be able to swim with their son, their future child, in either of their forms, even if they'd always outstrip him, leave him farther and farther behind as they grew; this was simply parenthood, the natural order of things, even if they didn't happen to be children born of love and magic and the rising waves. He knew - had always known - that was a part of them he could never touch. But for Alecto...
"Dearest," he says, quiet, subdued, almost choking on the simple syllables. "I...think I'll head back first." His arms ache to hold him, to wrap around Alecto and keep him close, to wipe those tears away with his rough fingers, his lips, to taste the bitter salt of sorrow mingled with the ocean's brine. But even if he wasn't the original source of those tears, he was at least a continuation of them, now. He had no right to attempt to ease them now, to attempt to fill that gaping void with his small self, what little he had to offer, though he would willingly pour it all out for Alecto, if he thought it would ease even a fraction of that pain.
He couldn't. But he knew what could, even if he had lost his own way, even if the thought of what would follow fills him with dread.
A package arrives the very next morning, directly to the house, the postman smiling indulgently when Alecto answers the door. "This is for you," he announces with a cheerful grin. "From your husband."
Joshua, eyes bleary with no sleep, watches Alecto accept it curiously, his heart sinking with every single passing moment. But the sight of Alecto, of their son running around the house with the excitement of interrupted routine, is always a quiet balm, whatever his other hurts, and he stores the memory up against their inevitable absence, these smaller, commonplace joys, of simply being together.
For as long as it lasted.