In sweetness, there is strength

You have no reason to serve him—Natsuo is a person, a grown one at that, just the same as you. You have no reason to put yourself beneath him, no reason to treat him like there is some invisible line between the two of you that puts him above. You’re his partner—his equal. 

Just let me do it, Natsu, you’ve always argued back, smiling like it’s the simplest thing in the world. There’s nothing wrong with taking care of each other.

It takes time, but Natsuo reluctantly lets you take care of him the way you want to. Lets himself learn that it’s okay if you love him and put him above yourself as long as he does it, too. That as long as he doesn’t demand it from you, doesn’t mistake your kind-hearted doting for weakness, then he’s not becoming the kind of man he spent his whole life despising.)

There is a bag by your seat—he’s been eyeing it since he sat down for dinner. You serve yourself your own bowl slowly, like you’re working yourself up to be brave about something he can’t quite decipher yet. One small inhale, and the bowl is set down. One shaky exhale, and then it happens. It happens with a quick, shuddered breath before you give him a wobbly smile and pull something out of that bag.

A bib, he realizes—you pull it out and set down a small, tiny bib on the chair beside you and murmur, “Next year, we’ll probably need a bigger table. We barely make do with just the two of us on this tiny one, don’t you think?”

He blinks. Once, then twice, and then one more time. He eyes the bib, then your trembling fingers as they fiddle with each other while you stare at him, and he blinks. He blinks, and he blinks again and again, and there’s a small, familiar stinging in the back of his eyes as he just keeps blinking.

He’s blinking back tears—he doesn’t even realize it at first. And then, you’re wiping tears from his cheeks before he can even realize that, too.

“We…?” he asks, voice thin, words suddenly impossible to form. “We…?”

“Yeah,” you nod, laughing a watery laugh as he stares at you dumbly. “I found out this week.”

He looks back at the bib. His mouth opens, then it closes. His hand comes up to cover it, like he’s trying to physically hold in whatever is rising in his chest.

“We’re gonna need a bigger table?” he asks quietly when he finally finds the willpower to form words. (We’re having a baby? is what he means.)

You laugh through your tears, nodding again. “Yeah, we are.” (We’re having a baby, you confirm.)

You’re pregnant. You’re having a baby. And it’s his baby. It’s unexpected, and he’s never planned for this, and…and he’s scared—he’s not sure if he’s old enough, or mature enough, or experienced enough to raise a child. He’s not sure if his schedule can make more time with the limited hours in a day he already has, and all the other things he needs to do, and heaven forbid he ever give his child an ounce less of the attention they deserve, and…and he’s having a baby.

With you.

You’ll be a mother of a child that has parts of you and parts of him, and they’ll be precious and small, and they’ll be his. He’s happy. He can’t imagine not being happy, and yet, somewhere beneath the joy, there’s a quiet and ugly fear that curls in his chest. A fear so instinctive he hates himself for thinking it now, of all times. A fear so instinctive, he thinks he may have been born with it—may have been doomed with it the second he was born into the household that he was.

What if he turns into his father?

Now is not the time to be afraid. Not when you’re looking at him so overflowing with joy, so delighted and hopeful and…and yet, it’s there. Fear has always been there. Fear has always made him wonder if he’s tugged you into his world of pain and misery and some inescapable cycle of doom. But then he looks at you—he looks at the tiny bib sitting beside your plate, and all he can think is that he wants this. He wants this with you, and he wants to do it right. 

He stands so suddenly it should give him whiplash, and you jump a little when he materializes at your side before you can blink. He pulls you into a long, wet kiss—it’s the only thing he can do. He doesn’t have the right words to say, so he settles for skipping them altogether. He kisses you hard and deep, and it’s nothing but sheer adrenaline and willpower that keeps him from collapsing as he continues to kiss you. You kiss him back, of course, giggling as he chokes on a small sob.

His hand lands on your waist and stays there for a second before he hesitates, looking at you like he needs permission. When you take his wrist and guide his hand to your stomach, his face crumples.

“You’re serious?” he asks, and it comes out almost like a breathless laugh.

You nod, smiling widely despite the way your lips shake. “I’m serious.”

He laughs for real this time, pressing his forehead to yours. He keeps his hand there, over your stomach, like he already has something to protect, even if he can’t see it. Even if there’s not really anything there just yet. Because Natsuo is going to be a father—a father to a child who is yours and his. And he is going to be a father who does it right. 

“You crybaby,” you sniffle.

“Yeah,” he snorts, pinching your nose lightly, “I’m the crybaby, huh?”

Natsuo is twenty-three, and he is going to be a father.

————— TWO MONTHS.

You want to have a baby shower.

It’ll be small, you promise him—just some friends, your parents, and…and Natsuo’s family too, you add hopefully.

Natsuo knows Fuyumi would be hurt if he didn’t invite her. He knows Shoto would make time for something like this, too, even as number two on the hero charts. He can’t imagine leaving his mother out, either, but that almost certainly means his old man will hear the news.

He hasn’t spoken to Enji in years. Hasn’t seen him, either. He doesn’t intend to change that any time soon—or ever, for that matter. His father won’t be invited, and he knows no one will give him a hard time over that, but he still can’t help the bitterness that rises at the thought of it all. The way, even now—even after years of cutting him off—Enji still finds ways to exist in every important moment of Natsuo’s life simply by being impossible to erase.

But Natsuo intends to give you your baby shower. It’s the least you deserve, after all.

He gave you no wedding ceremony. Just a day in court where the two of you signed papers and made everything legal, and then a dinner at a restaurant he had to save up for weeks to afford. And you were happy, of course. So happy just to be his officially on the documents, so excited to share a meal with him for the first time as husband and wife. So content with everything he could give you, as long as he was okay.

You shouldn’t have been content with just that, he thinks sometimes.

You should have wanted a wedding. A guest list. A beautiful dress and flowers and a cake. A day where everything was about you, where your family cried happy tears, took too many photos, and told you how beautiful you looked.

But Natsuo couldn’t afford that then. And he’s not sure that even if he could now, he would ever want one. Because by the time he can afford a wedding, it would only make him miserable to have one. To stand there and watch your side of the room be filled with normalcy—with parents who love each other, and relatives who laugh too loudly, and old family friends with fond stories of little you. And then, when he looks at his side, he’ll watch it carry all the ruin he has spent the last few years trying to outrun.

No matter how much you love him, how much you accept him, there is nothing normal about Natsuo’s family. Your parents would see it. Your friends would too. They would see the man you married as the son of a hero who was a fraud. As the brother of a man who killed thousands and nearly tore a nation apart. It wouldn’t matter that Natsuo wants nothing to do with any of it. It wouldn’t matter that he spent his whole life trying to separate himself from it all. The name Todoroki would still follow him. His blood would still tie him to everything he hates.

A wedding ceremony would only force him to stand in front of everyone and confront everything he is not and everything he can never be for you. So he chose not to have one at all, and you accepted that without hesitation because it was what he wanted.

You’ve always accepted his petty, ridiculous needs. You settled for a single day in court and a meal he barely afforded as your wedding, and somehow you smiled through all of it like you had been given something precious. You’ve always done what he’s wanted, and if you want a baby shower, then he is going to give you a good one.

Fuck Enji if he hears about it and knows he’s having a baby. Enji will have nothing to do with this baby if Natsuo has a say in it, and he does, so—

“Natsuo,” you huff, poking his bicep.

He startles out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

“You need to wash your hair,” you frown, eyeing the bleach that’s been sitting on his scalp. “You’re going to fry your hair off. The alarm went off.”

“Oh, right,” he shakes his head and turns off the phone blaring in the distance, walking to the bathroom sink and turning the faucet on.

Natsuo remembers the first time he dyed his hair—he must have been twelve. Big brother Touya’s birthday had just passed, and he missed his older brother more than ever. The red streaks in his hair were getting harder and harder to look at—they reminded him of his father, who may as well have killed his brother. Who let Touya die, and just continued as if nothing had changed. Who just kept training and training his golden child until the boy would fall over in tears and throw up. His father, whose red hair and flames haunted him, whose face, out of all of his siblings, Natsuo resembled the most.

He realized for the first time, then, that he hated him. Hated his father’s red hair and his long nose and his wide frame. Hated how everyone told Natsuo that he was taking after his father more and more as the days passed—how he was big for his age just like Enji was, and he might have his mother’s eye color, but those eyes were undeniably Enji’s.

He hated every second of being Enji’s son, and he hated everything that reminded him of that sickening fact. So he bought the hair dye—Enji never cared to look at what his money was spent on, anyway. He dyed his hair—Enji never paid attention to what Natsuo did, and if he had, he clearly never cared to say anything. He made sure another red strand was never seen again—Enji never existed on his scalp if he believed it hard enough. 

And if he believed even harder, maybe Enji never existed at all.

“You ever think about whose hair our baby will get?” you ask, setting yourself to sit on the bathroom counter beside him as he rinses the bleach out of his hair. Your legs swing, and he eyes the mismatched socks on your feet for a moment and smiles.

“Yours, I hope,” he mumbles, grabbing a towel to dry off the dripping wet strands before inspecting the mirror. White, silvery locks, just like his mother. Enji never existed. At least, not in this way.

“Yeah, but I like yours,” you murmur. “You’ll never have to worry about looking too old—your hair won’t ever change.”

He snorts, giving you an amused look. “You want our baby to have my hair so it never grays?”

“I want our baby to have the best of our combined features,” you beam. “This would be a fabulous feature to have.”

He thinks about the possibility of a child with his hair. Maybe your eyes. And then it hits him—those stupid red strands might sit on his precious baby’s head, proof that Enji existed after all. He feels bile rise at the thought. Could he hate his baby’s hair? The same hair he’s hated on himself? He doesn’t think so; he doesn’t think he could hate anything about his child.

And that makes him more nauseous. Would he learn to love something that proves of his father’s existence? Proof of his father tainting his baby and their innocence and—

“Natsu,” you hum, pulling him out of his thoughts again. You tug him to stand between your legs, still seated on the bathroom counter. He complies, hands resting on your thighs as he gives them a little squeeze. “It doesn’t matter what the baby has—but I hope they have some of you.”

He smiles. He forgets Enji ever existed. You are all that exists to him now.

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, leaning down and kissing your jaw. “You’re a big old sap.”

“That’s so not true—”

“And it’s cute.”

“You think so?” You wriggle your brows. “Am I the cutest in the world?”

“In the universe,” he laughs, nodding in confirmation. “Our baby is gonna be one hell of a looker if they take after you.”

“Oh, stop,” you swat his chest playfully.

He laughs again—and all that exists is you.

————— FIVE MONTHS.

Your little apartment is quiet for the most part when it’s night—of course, the heater knocks every so often through the walls, and there’s the distant hum of traffic below, but it’s peaceful white noise, and it has all but lulled you to sleep as your breathing slows beside him.

Natsuo is not going to fall asleep anytime soon tonight.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, one hand tucked beneath his head while the other rests over you, palm spread atop your stomach. It’s become a habit lately. He doesn’t even think about it anymore, just reaches for you in the dark until his hand finds the once-smaller curve that has begun to show more and more.

His son is there. His son. He’s found out you’re having a boy—his first child is going to be a boy, just like his father’s was.

The thought of having a child still scares him enough that it constricts his chest so tightly, he thinks there’s no more room left for his lungs. It’s not because he doesn’t want this child. God, he already loves that baby more than anything he’s ever known. But wanting a child and being responsible for one are two very different things, and Natsuo has spent months realizing how little he knows about what fathers are supposed to be like. The cruelty of bringing a life into this world and not being what it needs from him is a cruelty he has always promised he’d be above.

He turns his head and looks at you. Your face is half-buried in the pillow, just barely awake as sleep starts to pull you under. You’re warm against his side, one leg thrown over his, one arm sprawled across his chest. You trust him so completely that it hurts. It hurts to think that who he is might one day be the very thing that betrays that trust. That sooner or later, he’ll find out he cannot outrun the kinds of curses that cling to people like his family.

He brings his hand to hold yours, thumb brushing back and forth over your knuckles. You hum at the gesture, eyes still shut. Before he can overthink things, or before the shame can rise and talk him out of saying anything, he hears himself speak to you in the dark.

“I don’t want him to have my last name.”

You stir immediately, rousing from your half-sleep state. “Hm?” You lift your head a little, blinking at him blearily.

Natsuo swallows. It suddenly feels stupid. You’re tired—pregnant, and exhausted, and it’s probably too late at night for a conversation like this. Too vulnerable a discussion to have at this hour. But he’s already said it, and you love him too much to let him sit with it for a whole night and leave him to wallow in his thoughts.

“The baby,” he says quietly. “I don’t want him to have my name.”

You’re silent for a moment, trying to understand where this is coming from. Then, softly:

“You’re saying…you want him to have my last name?”

He nods, swallowing thickly.

“Are you sure?” you press.

That question nearly makes him laugh—of course, that’s what you’d ask. Not why? Not what brought this on? Not what will people think? He smiles, ever so slightly, at how easily you deal with him and his nonsense, and he looks back at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he breathes as his throat tightens. “I think I want that.”

“He’s your son, Natsu,” you murmur. It’s your name, too, is what you mean. As if he could ever be anything more than that disgusting name. 

“I keep thinking about school,” he says quietly. “People heard that name and had this idea of who I was before they knew me. And my teachers acted weird, and the parents of other kids stared too long when they picked them up. It just sucked—and then they’d ask about him. What it’s like to be Endeavor’s kid. How cool it must be. Fucking pissed me off.”

You stay quiet. He grits his jaw.

“I hated it. It’s like no matter where I went, he was there first. Even when he wasn’t around. And then, even when I stopped talking to him, everyone still knew who the hell I was because of that name, and now it’s not even always a good thing to people. Not with everything that’s happened. I can’t let our kid deal with that same thing.”

Natsuo has always hated being Endeavor’s son—he doesn’t quite remember when it started. Maybe when he was a kid, maybe when he realized his father was only a father by title and nothing more.

Natsuo is five. He’s at his friend Haruto’s birthday party, and it’s the first birthday party he’s ever been invited to. His mother kneels by the front door before she leaves, straightening the little collar of his shirt, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Be on your best behavior, Natsu.

He grins so wide his face hurts. I’m always good, Mommy.

Her face softens. Of course you are. You’re my good boy, Natsu.

Then she’s gone, and Haruto grabs his wrist and drags him inside before he can even wave goodbye.

The house is much smaller than his, but…it’s somehow nicer. He likes it better here already. Of course, there’s no big brother Touya or Mommy or Fuyumi here, but still, he likes this house better. There’s laughter everywhere. The walls are filled with pictures of Haruto and his little sister. There are drawings hung on the fridge, and this house is nice and happy, and he quickly knows that he likes it better than his own house.

Natsuo doesn’t know what to do with that.

He stands in the doorway of the living room, clutching the gift his mother picked out, when Haruto’s father appears. Haruto’s father is tall. Not as tall as Natsuo’s father, but tall enough that Natsuo has to tilt his head back to look at him.

The man smiles at Natsuo, and then it grows even wider as his eyes land on Haruto.

“There you are!” he laughs, scooping Haruto up under the arms when the boy runs at him. “Birthday boys are supposed to help me carry the drinks, remember?”

Haruto squeals when he’s lifted. Kicks his legs. Laughs louder when his father blows a raspberry into his cheek. And something in Natsuo stills—he stares, good and hard and long. He tries to remember the last time his father kissed his cheek or lifted him like that. Isn’t that mommy’s job? Isn’t that what Haruto’s mother is supposed to do? Aren’t mothers supposed to be the ones who offer things like this? That’s what Natsuo has always believed for his five years of life.

Natsuo is five, and his father has never picked him up just because he wanted to. His father has never smiled like that just by seeing him. His father has never looked at him as if seeing him walk through the door made the whole room brighter.

Is there something wrong with his father? Is Haruto an extra good boy in a way that Natsuo isn’t? Is—

“Natsu?” Your hand cups his cheek, and the bedroom you both share materializes back all at once. The dark. The soft hum of the heater. The blanket tangled around his legs. Your face inches from his, brows drawn with concern. His breathing is shallow. He didn’t even notice it changing. Your thumb strokes over the tense line of his jaw. “You blanked out on me.”

—and Natsuo blinks hard before he realizes.

Natsuo is twenty-three, not five.

His father has not been in his life for four years. He has a wife now. A baby on the way. A home of his own that, despite being small, is warm and cozy and nice. And still, all it takes is one thought, and he is five years old all over again, standing in Haruto’s living room that is somehow nicer than his, and realizing that other boys his age are loved differently by their fathers than he is.

He swallows, throat painfully dry. And because the memory has left him feeling more restless than he wants to admit, he turns his face into your palm and closes his eyes. You shift closer, your hand moving to his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone delicately.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “What were we saying?”

“You want our baby to have my name,” you say carefully.

“Well,” his voice comes out rough, “the name could be ours. You know?”

Your brow furrows. He turns to look at you again, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression that he knows makes your chest ache. Natsuo is always causing so much trouble for you. So much burden to carry and deal with, even though he’s tried cutting it all off. He doesn’t know why he can’t just carry the weight by himself and stop crushing you under it.

“Our name?” you ask, confused.

“I want to take your name too.”

He’s been thinking about it for a long time now. He never let you take on his last name and marry into the Todoroki family. He would never insult you like that. Never force the curse that seems to cling to that name onto your shoulders when you lived such a harmless, peaceful existence before he came along and selfishly took that all away. He couldn’t add more hardship to the peace he has already destroyed.

You’re so very quiet for a moment, he thinks you might have just finally hit your limit. Might have just finally decided that you are over this bullshit that he keeps bringing onto you and all the ridiculous heaviness he seems to always drag along into everything. For a second, he looks ashamed of having said it—he almost expects you to laugh or tell him he’s being dramatic. That of all his unreasonable, broken little requests that you quietly agree to because you love him too much to say no, this one is just too absurd to entertain.

Instead, you just smile.

“If you want, yeah,” you hum. “I’ve always wanted us to have the same last name. If this is what you want to do, I’m happy.”

“I know it’s stupid,” he says quickly, but you cut him off.

“It’s not stupid,” you frown. “I think you should do what you want, Natsu. If it makes you feel good, then it’s not stupid.”

He exhales shakily. “You think so?”

You smile at him, sleepy and warm and impossibly kind. So patient and adoring, he wonders how love like this could exist for someone who came from no love at all.

“Yeah,” you yawn, curling into his chest. He wraps his arms around you instinctively, the weight of you against him familiar and safe. You’re safe, and it’s because of him. That’s good. “Plus, if you have my name, I can say I’m like the man of the house, or something, huh?”

He laughs, chest lighter than air. “Yeah,” he chuckles, kissing your head. “I suppose you could.”

————— EIGHT MONTHS.

You and Natsuo argue tonight. It’s his fault, of course—and now he’s faced with the reality that he cannot even be a husband to a pregnant woman, and yet, he dares to imagine himself as a father to a child. Dares to imagine himself guiding a little human and instilling lessons, and principles, and discipline to raise a functioning member of society.

How ridiculous of him to believe he could do something like that. How ridiculous when he snapped at you over something so stupid. You’re pregnant—pregnant with his child, carrying his baby, suffering all of the things you endure just to bring his son into this world, and you ask for cake from the convenience store a few blocks away. Sure, it’s almost midnight, and it’s raining a little, but you deserve your fucking cake.

But Natsuo can hardly be a husband, let alone a soon-to-be father, so he snaps at your request.

He’s tired from a long day at work, and he’s stressed from trying to apply to a position with a higher salary now that he’s a bit more experienced, and it’s raining and cold, and it’s winter—despite having a quirk of literal ice, Natsuo’s body feels more like it’s suited for heat. Imagine that. Yet another curse he’s been inflicted by his bastard of a father.

So he snaps.

It’s almost midnight. Can it not wait until tomorrow?

It comes out louder than he intended, sharper, and the second the words leave his mouth, his stomach twists. Because Natsuo is not kind. Not like Fuyumi or Shoto or his mother, who endure and endure and endure despite being thrown to the ground and then some. He is not kind, nor is he patient, and he has the temper of his father. So he says words with the same cadence as the man who raised him on harsh yells and snarled words that he’d cower behind his sister and listen to. He yells because it is only inevitable that Natsuo cannot be a husband, let alone a father.

He can’t believe he spoke to you that way. He knows it was only a matter of time. He would never speak to you that way. It’s only in his nature to do so. He can’t fathom hurting you like this. He is only the byproduct of his upbringing, and the truth is that he is the son of a violent, abrasive man.

Natsuo remembers being little and understanding, before he could barely even form words, that the whole house bent around his father’s mood. If Enji was angry, everyone knew. His poor mother and the way she couldn’t decide whether to sit quietly and take it, if only to avoid the repercussions, or to say something for once and end his father’s boiling hatred and rage. He remembers his father’s towering figure and that terrible, booming vibration of his voice on the walls. Not even Fuyumi’s hands over his ears were enough to keep the sound from invading his eardrums.

He wonders if you felt that same vibration through your body today, when his voice bounced off the walls and came straight at you. He wonders if you saw that same hatred that exists within him, as if it were just another limb. He wonders if you see him for all he truly is—all he was ever raised on, and eventually, inevitably, undeniably meant to be.

Natsuo stands abruptly, too hot in his own skin, and storms off before you can say anything. Before the man he is doomed to be takes surface, and he hurts you the way he is cursed to hurt the people around him.

The bathroom feels small. It’s suffocating. It’s what he deserves.

He grips the sink and stares at himself in the mirror, breathing hard. He hates that he can see it—the way he has his father’s blood pumping through his veins and the way his father is half of who he is. Hates that no matter how old he gets, his face still betrays him in the worst moments and reminds him where he comes from. No matter what, his father is still there, waiting beneath his skin, so cruelly and sinisterly patient enough to come out just when Natsuo is weak and on his knees and ready to crumble.

His hands shake against the sink.

You’re pregnant. Pregnant with his baby, and he got angry over some fucking cake. Some cake that would take him all of twenty minutes to drive down and get. He could have thrown a hoodie over his head, could have endured that fractional moment of walking in the rain from his car to the store’s entrance. He could have gotten you your cake and taken care of you because you are carrying his child, and because he loves you for it. Not because he expects you to just silently do it as if it were your duty.

But Enji is his father, and Natsuo is Enji’s son. They are angry, livid men—they hold onto their grudges and stubbornly keep them in their pockets, clutching them in their fists wherever they go. Their hatred never goes away.

The door opens with a low creak. Natsuo stiffens as soon as it does, and when he turns, you’re already standing there in the doorway, dressed in one of his old shirts for bed. Your face is softer now. The hurt has faded into concern.

You are always so concerned for him—always shoving down your needs to do what he needs instead. You are so much like his mother, it makes him nauseous. Makes him taste the acrid burn of bile on his tongue. You are so much like his mother, and he is so much like his father, and this is who he was always inevitably meant to be—his father’s son, who will hurt another man’s precious daughter like it is nothing. Like she is nothing.

You frown as you look at him. “Natsu, baby,” you say quietly, reaching to touch him.

He flinches, and your hand pauses in the air. He looks away immediately, ashamed. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“I know, I know you are, so please—”

“I…I don’t know why I got so…” His voice catches. “Why was I so angry?”

You step inside, gently draping yourself against his back, cheek resting on his shoulder. “You had a long day, okay? It happens—all couples have their moments.”

“But no one gets that mad over cake, do they? You can’t sit there and tell me there’s not something seriously wrong for me to get all—”

“Natsu, come on—you’re being hard on yourself. I’m sorry too. It’s the middle of winter, and it’s cold and rainy outside. I shouldn’t have brought it up that late—”

His head snaps up. “Don’t apologize. Don’t do that. Don’t ever say sorry to me, ever.”

“Hey,” you smile gently, poking his cheek. “I know you think I’m perfect—and you should, of course. But even I make mistakes. Just the kind of mistakes that perfect people like me make.”

He loves you so much. Only you could cheer him up so easily, and he fucking loves you. So painfully bad. He loves you and loves you and loves you, and he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but he’ll figure it out because he wants to love you. Wants to be capable of love. Wants to have a household where laughter bounces off the walls and not cold, harsh yelling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll go get you your cake right now—”

“I would really like it if we went to bed,” you kiss his cheek. “Will you come to bed with me?”

His eyes are wet now, tears gathering despite how hard he’s trying to hold them back. “We should talk about this.”

“We just did,” you point out gently. “But if you have more to say, then I’ll listen, baby. So—”

“I’m just like him,” he blurts abruptly.

You look at him with disbelief instantly. Before he can even comprehend it, you put both hands on his face and pull him toward you.

“Natsu,” you say, firm and strict. “You were grumpy, and you snapped at me over some cake. That hurt my feelings, yeah—that was mean of you, and I’m just a girl. Don’t do that again. But I’ve snapped at you way worse for far less, okay? Mistakes happen, baby, so don’t do this to yourself.”

He tries not to do this. But he does. Every time, he does this again and again and again. And you deal with him. Deal with his baggage and his odd requests and his emotional breakdowns and the ridiculous little ways his mind spirals over nothing. It’s nothing—he should have apologized and bought you your cake. He should have fixed it and promised to be better. He should have been a good husband and not left it all up to you to come and mend and piece together.

Because it never really changes, does it? It never goes away.

Natsuo has tried—he’s tried to make it all go away. For his mother, his older sister, and his little brother. For you. For himself, even. For the sake of being happy, so he can enjoy his life, and maybe, if he does, it’ll make things easier for the people around him that he loves. He’s tried to make it go away despite all the fucked up shit he carries around with him—or maybe drags along, if anything, since it clings to him no matter how hard he works to rip it off. He’s tried to make it go away for so long, so many days and weeks and years, and it never fucking leaves him. Not really. It clings to him like a second skin, a skin that resembles his father far too closely.

He sees his old bastard of a father everywhere he sees himself. Hates his own reflection for it. Hates looking into mirrors, and back at pictures, and realizing he has the same jaw, the same nose, and that same look in Enji’s eyes when he’s deep in thought. That same awful, curled snarl they both wear when they’re angry.

Natsuo hates being angry.

He hates how easy it is for him to be angered, and how long he can hold onto it once it’s there. He hates that out of all his siblings, he is the only one who has his father’s rage. He is nothing like his loving, beautiful older sister, who gives and gives and hopes it will somehow undo the damage. He is nothing like his kind, growing little brother, who chooses every day to be better than the cards they have been dealt. They are both so much like his mother—so clearly her children in the way they share her resilience, in that quiet willingness to forgive no matter what they endure that Natsuo has never understood.

Because he is his father’s son. He always has been, no matter what he does to change it or tear it away from himself. He’s five, he’s twelve, he’s twenty-three. And Natsuo is his father’s son. He’ll die as his father’s son the same way he was born.

It never really changes. It never goes away.

But you are there—you are always there. You are the one thing that he has that hasn’t been tainted by his father or the shame that clings to his family. You are the one thing that he has that his father has not yet taken from him. That he has not fucked up by being his father’s son.

And you are wiping his tears as you cradle his face, as you kiss his forehead and his nose and his wobbly lips, as you whisper, it’s okay, Natsu. It’s okay—you aren’t like him at all.

“M’sorry,” he croaks. “I…I’m sorry I ruin everything and c-can’t be what you need a-and—”

“You’re exactly what I need,” you tell him as you shake your head, smiling and grabbing his hand.

It’s so much like his father’s. They have the same wide hands with the same long, bony fingers and the same square nail beds. It scares him so much. Scares him that his hands are capable of doing the same things as his father’s, and that your face is capable of looking as broken as his mother’s.

“I’m not,” he shakes his head. “I’m…I can’t do this. I’ll fuck it up—”

“You won’t, Natsu,” you say, still smiling. Like he is worth smiling for. “You’re good. Okay? You’re gentle and sweet, and you make sacrifices. You pay attention, and you do things without asking, and you listen. You give, and you hardly know how to take. You’re everything I’ve always wanted, and you’ve always been what I’ve needed. You’re the best thing I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t do this with anyone else.”

He’s crying.

He cries for himself and for who he always has to be for the rest of his life. He cries for who he could have been if it weren’t for the unfair cards life dealt him.

He should be calling his father. He should be asking him what it takes to be a man for his family. How to care for his pregnant wife and their growing baby. How to be a doting father to an infant, and what to do if they won’t stop crying. How to be patient with a toddler and survive the bratty, terrible twos. How to be kind to a young child and teach them right from wrong with compassion. How to be fair with a teenager and how to weather their rebellious, stubborn years. How to watch them become an adult and learn how to let go when they don’t need him anymore. How to do it all right, so his child—his baby—grows up to be his pride and joy.

But he can’t.

He’s never had those things, and he doesn’t know how to do them either. And he can’t call and ask because the person who was supposed to teach him chose instead to beat his mother, may as well have killed his brother, tore away his sister’s joy, and ingrained nothing but isolation into the only brother he has left.

So he cries. And you wipe his tears, because you are the one good thing he has, and the only thing in his life that hasn’t been touched by Enji and burned bitter.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, sniffling as he buries his head into your neck. “I’m barely figuring out how to do things with you.”

“You’re doing things perfectly with me,” you rub his back slowly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he sniffles. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“I don’t want to hurt you and ruin our family.”

“You’d never.”

“I don’t want to make our son scared.”

“I think he’ll feel quite safe around you.”

“I don’t want to be bad,” he finally admits, voice cracking.

And you are the one good thing he’s ever had. The one good thing that keeps him together and quells his anger and teaches him to be something else outside of being his father’s son. You are the one thing that makes him good at being something else, and he is reminded when you whisper, “You’re never bad, Natsu. You’re only ever good to me.”

“I’m scared,” he says, looking at you desperately. “I don’t know how to be a father, and I’m scared. I don’t want to be selfish and…and not even realize it, or be an asshole and get angry all the time and ruin everything, and—”

“It’s okay,” you cut in gently, cradling his face before he can spiral any further. “I’m scared too.” Natsuo’s breath catches. You brush your thumb beneath his eye, wiping away the wetness there before it can fall. “I don’t know how to be a mother either. I’ve never done this before. But I didn’t know how to be a girlfriend either, remember? Or a wife. I figured those out.”

A small, shaky laugh escapes him. “You were always a good girlfriend. Maybe too good—you shouldn’t have dealt with all the things you did.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “I was young and immature sometimes—you just love me too much to say it out loud. Good thing, too. I’d send you to the couch.”

“I have no doubts,” he laughs, wet and soft.

“But I’m here because I had you, and I’ll be okay when the baby is here because I’ll still have you. And you’ll be okay because you’ll have me. We’ll have each other, and then we’ll have our son too. We’ll figure it out as we go.”

He stares at you, eyes red, breathing uneven. He can’t say anything—can’t bring himself to admit that he’s afraid he’ll never figure it out. But you’re confident in him—so scared, yet so confident, he wonders if he’d be doubting you if he doubted your conviction.

“We’ll be good parents,” you say, so easily, like it’s a fact and not a hope. “Probably embarrassing ones. I think I’ll be a little more strict than you.” 

That earns the tiniest huff of air from him, a ghost of a smile. You smile at that. 

“And you’ll be the one sneaking him snacks when I say no. You’ll pretend you’re not, but you’re terrible at lying, so he’ll absolutely know which parent to ask when he wants something.”

His mouth twitches wider despite himself. You lean your forehead against his, returning his smile. And he loves you so much, so, so much, he can hardly believe love like this could exist for someone who came from no love at all.

“You’ll probably let him stay up too late if he says he’s not tired. You’ll teach him how to break my rules without me noticing, and then I’ll catch you both in the act. And you’ll be the one in more trouble because you’re the adult, and you should know better than to break my rules.”

It’s so easy to envision it when you put it like that. So simple to picture this future of yours that you believe is possible with him. So painfully ordinary. So mundane. So normal and like everyone else. It’s everything he’s always wanted—a normal fucking family. Just a life. A small, regular one that he shares with the people in his house. A house that they make into a home. A home that he has always wanted and never believed he’d get to have.

His hand slides down protectively over your stomach. “Yeah, but I’m gonna mess up.”

“Of course you will, silly,” you whisper. “I will too. But we’re the adults, so we’ll apologize to set a good example, and stuff. Nothing worse than someone who never apologizes—we can’t let our son grow up to be one of those men.”

He laughs, tears spilling over before he can stop them. “Yeah, I guess we can’t,” he mumbles.

“I don’t let my husband be one of those men,” you hum, kissing his nose, “so no way I’d let my son be, either.”

He presses his forehead to yours as he closes his eyes. “Yeah, you do keep your husband on a tight leash, don’t you?” he murmurs.

Natsuo is twenty-three. He’s a husband—in fact, he’s your husband, and he’s done it right so far. You have loved him for years and years, and you’ve stayed happy all this time. It’s been because of him. He has kept you happy as his wife.

“What can I say?” you grin. “I’m the man of the house.”

His chest feels lighter as he pulls you into the deepest kiss he might have ever pulled you into.

Natsuo is twenty-three. He is his father’s son, but he is also his son’s father. He’s going to do it right, and you’re going to watch him be all the things he’s promised you he’ll be.