Tin Roof Rusted thought courtesy of my daydreams:
Ilya is 38 when his first child is born. A boy who comes into the world almost silently, though he has a pair of lungs on him when prompted. Shane is so strong and brave. The pregnancy was healthy but the labor was difficult and came to a head in the middle of the night. Their their son's birthday was determined by a matter of minutes--born at 12:04 AM, just past midnight.
It's four in the morning now. And Shane sleeps, half with the assistance of drugs and half under his own determination because he is taking sleep when the baby sleeps as gospel on par with the puck goes in the net. Ilya has been awake for twenty-nine hours. Yuna is passed out on a pink medical recliner and the baby rests in his bassinet. He's newborn fussy even in sleep. His squashed little face only barely peeks out from between the blue hat and swaddle. Underneath the swaddle, he's already dressed in his dad's colors--Boston Bayonet blue and 24 on the tummy. They have it in newborn, 3, 6, and 12 month sizes. Just in case.
Ilya doesn't know what else to do, can't let himself close his eyes, mostly because he suddenly needs to see that little chest rising and falling to be able to breathe himself. So he's sitting there, watching the rise and fall of his son's chest, and he thinks about fatherhood, and he thinks about how he can't stand the idea of anyone hurting this tiny person, even himself, and he thinks about--
It's nearly noon in Moscow. Ilya doesn't know why he cares or why he's thinking it until he has his phone in his hand and unblocking and dialing a number he hasn't called in almost ten years.
"Hi," he says, when the number goes through to voicemail. He puts his head a little closer to his son's. Wants him to hear this language he hopes to share. "I don't know why--don't think that this is--" He sighs, takes in a breath, and starts over.
"Hi," he says again. "I wanted to let you know. Shane gave birth today. It is a boy. Healthy. He has Shane's eyes and hair. My nose. Mama's nose." He waits for the lump to go down in his throat. "We named him David. After Shane's father. Little Davidka. He is...very small. And perfect. And I am a father. I thought you should know." He considers half a dozen more things he can say--updates spanning the last decade, pleasantries, even a threat or two. None of them can be compelled to emerge. Instead he says, "Okay. Bye."
He hangs up and reblocks Alexei's number, puts the phone back in his pocket. Strokes a finger down his son's precious, tiny cheek and then pulls his phone out and unblocks the number again.
