..Dad.. there is a monster underneath my bed.
It was a difference when he was the one getting no sleep, the father-of-four who was not so much being a dad nor husband, with all the time he spent out of house at work or in his home office wasting time and himself away. The very room he was sitting in this moment after being unable to fall into a much-needed slumber and deciding to sneak out of bed again without waking up his mate to get some more things done and hopefully have more time after. Exhaustion was getting more and more visible on his features, dark circles forming underneath his eyes becoming more prominent — especially on his moon-lit skin.
White hair is longer than usual, grown out of proportion and form; bangs hang in his face as he lifts his head to look at the door opened only a little with a boy in his pajama standing in the gap, hand on the handle his unnatural red eyes peer at him through the dark.
There was a pause at first. His boy was not supposed to see. He was not meant to see him sit here this late — in the middle of the night. Working again; working still. Gaze wanders to the papers scattered before him, followed by the pen being placed aside. It had the man remember the one-sided conversation he did have with his husband just a few days ago and he swallowed. He wondered, feared that this was the only thing he’d be remembered by. If this was all he would ever be: the hard-working man digging his own grave.
Not saying a word he got up from his armchair, walking over to his son with his hand quickly sliding in his hair; ruffling white strands resembling his own before his hand sank again, reaching for the far smaller one of his son instead to take it into his. He’d show that monster that his son’s bed was the last place it’d ever want to end up under.
