WORDS
A MAKING UP Bonus Short Story
Originally written for Elena's Bookblog
Copyright Lucy Parker 2019
(Set between the final chapter and the epilogue of MAKING UP, so contains a spoiler for the epilogue.)
As Trix breathed — high, tight breaths, nothing like what they’d practiced; her body felt odd, disconnected from her floating mind — she focused on Leo’s hands. Huge hands, wrapped tightly around hers, their fingers locked and laced together, like threads in a net, keeping them both safe. She knew the shape of his knuckles, the breadth of his palms, the warmth and roughness of his skin. With her thumb, she rubbed the scar that wound around the base of his index finger, a jagged line with little puckering creases where a chisel had skidded off stone and embedded in his flesh, nearly slicing through. Blood and pain. He’d barely made a sound. Stoic, whenever it was his own pain.
Shaking, when it was hers.
“Strong.” The word was gritted out. His beard rasped against her cheek as he moved his head, his face pressing so tightly into her neck, his breath rapid and hot against the sweat on her throat. He’d learned how to do the breathing, too, the way they said, the steady inhalations and rhythmic exhaling; but the moment the first sharp, angry-feeling pressure had tightened her belly as she stood still amidst the bare skeletons of trees, her boots sinking into a muddy, icy path, three weeks too early and a ninety-minute drive from the hospital, he’d lost it. Lost his calm, his cool, every little instruction he’d memorised and repeated to her at length for months on end until she’d wanted to take the birthing books and whack him around his impossibly handsome head. And lost his temper, when things had escalated rapidly in the back of Luc’s plush car on the way to London, speeding away from the country hotel that was meant to be a treat. A Valentine’s getaway for the four of them before Lily’s new show opened, and before Trix and Leo were plunged into the newborn zone, armed with nothing more than each other and Leo’s endless supply of horrifying textbooks.
“Would you stop swearing at Luc,” she’d snapped from her sprawled position in the backseat as they’d sped down the motorway. She’d been half draped over Leo’s legs at that point. She’d instinctively tried to get up on her knees and hunch over to hug herself against the cramping in her stomach and back, he’d tried to pull her into his lap and cuddle her — not today, thank you, All-You-Had-To-Do-Was-Orgasm-You-Smug-Bastard — and in the ensuing tangle she’d almost decapitated herself with the seatbelt. “He’s already doing the speed limit.”
Then within the space of fifteen minutes, the intensity level had sky-rocketed, she’d started making weird keening noises that she couldn’t control, Leo had pretty much lost his mind, Lily had muttered something to Luc about “might be too late for the epidural”, and Trix had started swearing, too.
She couldn’t even really remember how she’d got from that blurry state in the car, half aware of the scenery flashing by the windows and the pinched, tense muscles around her boyfriend’s beautiful mouth, to being here. In a room with beeping machines, a crappy industrial view out the window, her bare legs drawn up and heels digging into the bed, and Leo’s chest plastered hotly against her back. And his hands always, always holding hers.
“You’re so fucking strong,” he said again now, into her ear, just for her. There were other people in the room, uniforms and encouraging comments and voices reading out numbers on charts, but it was just the two of them. With the third member of their little crew imminent. “Every day, just looking at you, I don’t know how my heart can fucking stand it. How I can love you this much. More. Little bit more with every—” a kiss against her neck, an indistinct threadiness to his words as if he wasn’t totally aware of what he was saying, as if he felt the weird floating-ness as well; an indrawn rasp, “—breath.”
“Ca— Can’t—” Overwhelming, primal pressure gripped Trix’s body, forcing her spine into an involuntary arch, shoving her head back against his shoulder. It was more than pain now; it was…unreal. So intense she couldn’t…couldn’t even think… “Can’t do this. Can’t— Leo.”
“You can. You are.” His beard rubbed against her neck again. His fingers gripped hers tighter.
Another wave slammed into her and she pushed her feet down into the mattress, rocking back into him. She turned her head, pressing against the hot, smooth brown skin of his chest. She’d pulled fretfully at his shirt, wanting the comfort and smell of him…ten minutes ago? Two hours ago? She didn’t know anymore. He was still incomprehensibly self-conscious about his big, ripped body, hated having his shirt off in public, didn’t even like getting his abs out at the beach, but had ripped off his jumper and tee without a pause and surrounded her with the pure comfort of his arms.
Given the number of strangers who’d seen her bits and tits today, he probably didn’t feel there was much room to complain.
“I can’t do it!” She was crying. She couldn’t feel the tears, but her nose was clogged and gross, and she couldn’t do the stupid proper breathing even if she wanted to. She couldn’t stop crying.
She’d been an emotional, leaking mess this entire pregnancy. Tears had come, first, at last, after they’d sat cross-legged on the floor of the tiny bathroom in their flat. The flat was tiny, too, and the oven was a temperamental piece of shit, but it was only a short trip on the Tube to the West End, and it was theirs. Their first time living together with no flatmates, just the two of them. Three. Three of them. They’d stared at the positive test stick on the floor in total silence for at least ten minutes. Then Leo had reached out and gripped her knees in his big hands, and she’d watched the new tattoo flexing down his forearm — just her name this time, simple and beautiful amidst the chaos of intricate swirling art around it — and he’d made a sound between a laugh and a gulp, she’d felt a sudden burst of unbelievable, indefinable warmth in her chest, and then she’d cried, and he’d cried, too.
“You can do anything, yeah? My Warrior Fairy? My stubborn little shit? She can do anything she wants. Anything.” He was shaking so bad. His palms moved to smooth repeatedly over her arms.
“It hurts.” She barely got the words out through the next wave and wash of sensation.
He cupped her cheek and lowered his head, and their eyes locked, and she saw everything that was in the depths of his. “Oh god, baby, I know it does.”
He’d held her head, looked into her eyes like this, the day that her building excitement and happiness had collided with her festering anxiety and strange, hollow, sinuous little echo of loss. Even with the intense shock and the increased strain on their finances, they’d been so bloody happy about the baby. She’d lain awake at night feeling the plane of her stomach with gentle fingers, just…amazed. Leo had started showing the scan pictures on his phone to all his poor workmates and was obviously going to be that dad who bored strangers to tears with anecdotes about his kid. She loved him so much.
And she loved that kid too, already, but she’d been caught off-guard by the rapid changes in a body she’d always been able to control. She knew every muscle in her legs, every tendon in her wrists, every weakness in a joint. She could get up on the silks and straps each night and soar above the crowd, trusting with utter faith in her own practiced movements and instincts.
She’d worked so insanely hard, for years, to get where she was. The star of the biggest aerial show in the West End. Literal dream.
The moment the second line had appeared on that stick, she’d seen her name fading off the playbill, the dream ghosting away. She’d been replaced by her understudy that very night. She’d seen the results of a fall on that stage before, and it was an unacceptable risk.
“It’s not forever, it’s just for now,” she’d said to Leo as he repeatedly tucked the same piece of hair back behind her ear, and buried the fear of the unknown.
When she’d seen the show for the first time as a member of the public, Leo’s hand had flexed on her knee when the new Doralina launched into the first routine, the crystals on Trix’s old costume catching a thousand pinpoints of light and turning the spinning figure into a flickering column of glittering stars, but she’d smiled.
It hadn’t been until almost two days later, when Lily had taken her on a completely unsubtle shopping trip to lift her spirits, that she’d broken. To her complete mortification, she’d started sobbing in the personal shopping room at Topshop, sitting on the floor in a dress she didn’t own, that wouldn’t do up over her swollen boobs, feeling like an absolute, ungrateful prat. Lily had ushered the hovering, staring staff out of their own shop space, and phoned Leo, and he’d dropped everything and come to sit with her for almost half an hour. With her arms and legs wound around his huge body, her face buried in the warm curve of his neck, he’d rocked her and made low sounds of comfort.
And then they’d looked into each other’s eyes, and told each other how happy and confused and scared out of their fucking minds they were.
After that day, there was more excitement than fear, until Leo’s borderline stranger of a father had decided to show up unannounced at their flat to say hello to his son for the first time in years. He’d gotten drunk over the takeout they’d ordered, said one shitty thing after another, and kicked their door after Trix unceremoniously threw him out. She’d come back to find Leo sitting on the couch, his whole body stiff, staring at his hands. She’d stood before him and slowly crouched to place her fingers over his.
“No,” she’d said, and he’d looked up at last, and she’d been grateful for every acting class she’d ever taken when she didn’t flinch at the expression on his face. “You’re not like him. You won’t ever be like him.” She’d cupped his face between her hands, her jaw set. “Not ever. You’ll always be the best person I’ve ever known. The best grandson your Nan could have asked for, the best big brother Cat could imagine, and the best man I’ve ever met. This baby will think they hit the fucking jackpot having you as a dad. You got it?”
Three tense heartbeats, before he’d pulled her into his arms and held her.
And he was still holding her now, as the pain and the pressure peaked, and other hands gripped her legs, gloved fingers touching sensitive skin, but she felt itchy and restless and needed him to move. He shifted to let her fully brace her back against the bed, and took her hands again, letting her dig her nails into his skin as she pushed. Their faces were close together through it all, and her eyes popped open to stare into his when finally, finally, a screaming little brown body with a round tummy and long legs was laid on her chest.
Through her tears, she looked down into a tiny, perfect, slightly smooshed-looking face. He had a full head of matted black curls. There was one baby picture of Leo hidden in a drawer in their flat, a faded photo of a naked, angry infant, that he hated but his Nan had cherished, and it might as well have come to life in her arms.
“Oh god,” she choked out, laughing, smiling, crying, unable to stop. “Now there’s two of you. What have I let myself in for?”
How was her heart going to cope?
The love that seemed to keep swelling and swelling until it filled the room became almost unbearable when the last of the daylight faded and she sat with her cheek against Leo’s bare shoulder, watching as he cradled their son. Their baby looked impossibly, heartbreakingly small against the immense bulk of his father’s chest.
The room was quiet. She could hear footsteps in the hall outside and the distant beeping of monitors, but in here her world consisted solely of quiet, sleepy snuffles and the lingering tremble in Leo’s fingertips as he stroked the little round cheek.
Trix was sore and shattered, still finding the whole thing a bit surreal — and she wanted to remember every moment of this, always.
A door slammed somewhere, and startled a pissed-off sounding shriek from Mini Leo. They really needed a name ASAP, or that was going to stick in her mind and she’d have a very cross teenager on her hands one day.
Leo cupped the baby’s head and made a “Shh” sound as the cries continued. “Pint-sized, determined to have his own way, and grumpy as fuck when he’s woken up too early,” he said in such a soothing voice Trix didn’t immediately register the words. “You might look like me, champ, but I think we can see where your mum’s genes went.”
He grunted, laughing quietly when Trix’s elbow thudded into his biceps, then wrapped his arm around her as she ran her own fingers over the baby’s frustrated face.
She stroked softly until the cries wavered into a whimper. “I don’t blame you,” she informed her son with immense sympathy. “It’s been a very long and traumatic day for you, and I’m sorry you had to learn this soon that your father is a wanker, with such a questionable sense of humour.” She raised her head and looked at Leo. “And we’re so fucking lucky to have him.” A muscle jumped in Leo’s jaw. “You and me, kiddo, we’ll make sure he knows that his whole life.”
She watched the lines of Leo’s throat as he swallowed hard. He leaned forward to touch his brow to her forehead and then his lips to hers. “I love you.” He spoke against her mouth. “I love him, like you wouldn’t believe. And I’m going to be such a great dad to him.”
More tears clogged Trix’s throat. She curled her fingers against the scrape of his beard, stroking him. “I know.”
“But the way I love you—” Leo kissed her hard, stroking his tongue between her lips. His breath was jagged, fanning her mouth. “I tried to write you a Valentine’s card this morning, but… There aren’t the words. I don’t have the words for it. You’re it. You’re everything.”
She had no words either, then, could barely speak through the tears and the feelings. “Yes,” was all she could say. “That. Yes. Me too.”
He kissed her until the baby started to cry in earnest, and a nurse came in to help her feed again. Leo had refused to go home to sleep, and despite their exhaustion, they were still sitting up in bed in the early hours of the morning, leaning against each other and watching the plastic cot at their side.
“We need a name,” Trix said tiredly, tracing patterns on his collarbone. “We can’t put Leo 2.0 on his birth certificate. We need him to like us enough that he’ll sneak booze into the old folks’ home for us in sixty years’ time.”
“Ryan and Scott both offered the use of their names, for a very reasonable fee,” Leo said dryly, nuzzling his lips against her temple, and Trix snorted.
She missed working with both of their friends. Even though she fully intended to start training again as soon as the doctors gave her the green light, she didn’t see herself returning to The Festival of Masks. New era of their lives; new dreams to reach for.
However, she didn’t miss flatting with her former co-stars. She was still going to be living with one male who didn’t know how to clean up after himself, but at least this one had an excuse.
And was so bloody cute. She reached out and touched her fingertips to the side of the cot.
“Martin.” Leo’s voice was a low, drowsy rumble, but when she turned her head, he looked at her intently, levelly.
“What?”
He shifted to put his hand on her ribs, stroking up and down, his arm warm and comforting against the soft, now strangely pliable roundness of her belly. “Your foster mother loved you, and I know how much you loved her. And somewhere I reckon Marta knows you’re happy, and she’s happy too.” He needed to sleep; he was slightly slurring the words together, but she understood him. They always understood each other. “I think his name is Martin.”
Trix looked at him, and at their baby — at Martin — and yes, she was now officially the weepiest bloody person in London.
She fell asleep at some point, and when she woke up, the sky was still dark out the windows, the light above the bed still on. After a single second of confusion, her mind jolted back into gear and she immediately rolled to the side, anxiously checking the cot.
Martin was sleeping, his little face peaceful above the swaddled blanket. Leo was sleeping too, wedged uncomfortably onto the bed with her, his head at an angle that was going to crick his neck, his hand resting on her body.
There was a card under his fingers, and a pen under his wrist.
Carefully, Trix pulled the card out and grinned at the cheeky Valentine’s joke on the front. Then she opened it, and studied his handiwork.
No words, just a drawing. For the past few years, they’d been telling the story of themselves, for themselves, with a comic strip. They each did a drawing most days and left it for the other to find. Unlike their usual stylised, tongue-in-cheek style, however, this was a very simple line drawing — the curves of her cheek and shoulder and breasts and stomach, the fan of her lashes, the baby in her arms. The artist’s love.
No. He’d never needed words.
Shaking, when it was hers.
“Strong.” The word was gritted out. His beard rasped against her cheek as he moved his head, his face pressing so tightly into her neck, his breath rapid and hot against the sweat on her throat. He’d learned how to do the breathing, too, the way they said, the steady inhalations and rhythmic exhaling; but the moment the first sharp, angry-feeling pressure had tightened her belly as she stood still amidst the bare skeletons of trees, her boots sinking into a muddy, icy path, three weeks too early and a ninety-minute drive from the hospital, he’d lost it. Lost his calm, his cool, every little instruction he’d memorised and repeated to her at length for months on end until she’d wanted to take the birthing books and whack him around his impossibly handsome head. And lost his temper, when things had escalated rapidly in the back of Luc’s plush car on the way to London, speeding away from the country hotel that was meant to be a treat. A Valentine’s getaway for the four of them before Lily’s new show opened, and before Trix and Leo were plunged into the newborn zone, armed with nothing more than each other and Leo’s endless supply of horrifying textbooks.
“Would you stop swearing at Luc,” she’d snapped from her sprawled position in the backseat as they’d sped down the motorway. She’d been half draped over Leo’s legs at that point. She’d instinctively tried to get up on her knees and hunch over to hug herself against the cramping in her stomach and back, he’d tried to pull her into his lap and cuddle her — not today, thank you, All-You-Had-To-Do-Was-Orgasm-You-Smug-Bastard — and in the ensuing tangle she’d almost decapitated herself with the seatbelt. “He’s already doing the speed limit.”
Then within the space of fifteen minutes, the intensity level had sky-rocketed, she’d started making weird keening noises that she couldn’t control, Leo had pretty much lost his mind, Lily had muttered something to Luc about “might be too late for the epidural”, and Trix had started swearing, too.
She couldn’t even really remember how she’d got from that blurry state in the car, half aware of the scenery flashing by the windows and the pinched, tense muscles around her boyfriend’s beautiful mouth, to being here. In a room with beeping machines, a crappy industrial view out the window, her bare legs drawn up and heels digging into the bed, and Leo’s chest plastered hotly against her back. And his hands always, always holding hers.
“You’re so fucking strong,” he said again now, into her ear, just for her. There were other people in the room, uniforms and encouraging comments and voices reading out numbers on charts, but it was just the two of them. With the third member of their little crew imminent. “Every day, just looking at you, I don’t know how my heart can fucking stand it. How I can love you this much. More. Little bit more with every—” a kiss against her neck, an indistinct threadiness to his words as if he wasn’t totally aware of what he was saying, as if he felt the weird floating-ness as well; an indrawn rasp, “—breath.”
“Ca— Can’t—” Overwhelming, primal pressure gripped Trix’s body, forcing her spine into an involuntary arch, shoving her head back against his shoulder. It was more than pain now; it was…unreal. So intense she couldn’t…couldn’t even think… “Can’t do this. Can’t— Leo.”
“You can. You are.” His beard rubbed against her neck again. His fingers gripped hers tighter.
Another wave slammed into her and she pushed her feet down into the mattress, rocking back into him. She turned her head, pressing against the hot, smooth brown skin of his chest. She’d pulled fretfully at his shirt, wanting the comfort and smell of him…ten minutes ago? Two hours ago? She didn’t know anymore. He was still incomprehensibly self-conscious about his big, ripped body, hated having his shirt off in public, didn’t even like getting his abs out at the beach, but had ripped off his jumper and tee without a pause and surrounded her with the pure comfort of his arms.
Given the number of strangers who’d seen her bits and tits today, he probably didn’t feel there was much room to complain.
“I can’t do it!” She was crying. She couldn’t feel the tears, but her nose was clogged and gross, and she couldn’t do the stupid proper breathing even if she wanted to. She couldn’t stop crying.
She’d been an emotional, leaking mess this entire pregnancy. Tears had come, first, at last, after they’d sat cross-legged on the floor of the tiny bathroom in their flat. The flat was tiny, too, and the oven was a temperamental piece of shit, but it was only a short trip on the Tube to the West End, and it was theirs. Their first time living together with no flatmates, just the two of them. Three. Three of them. They’d stared at the positive test stick on the floor in total silence for at least ten minutes. Then Leo had reached out and gripped her knees in his big hands, and she’d watched the new tattoo flexing down his forearm — just her name this time, simple and beautiful amidst the chaos of intricate swirling art around it — and he’d made a sound between a laugh and a gulp, she’d felt a sudden burst of unbelievable, indefinable warmth in her chest, and then she’d cried, and he’d cried, too.
“You can do anything, yeah? My Warrior Fairy? My stubborn little shit? She can do anything she wants. Anything.” He was shaking so bad. His palms moved to smooth repeatedly over her arms.
“It hurts.” She barely got the words out through the next wave and wash of sensation.
He cupped her cheek and lowered his head, and their eyes locked, and she saw everything that was in the depths of his. “Oh god, baby, I know it does.”
He’d held her head, looked into her eyes like this, the day that her building excitement and happiness had collided with her festering anxiety and strange, hollow, sinuous little echo of loss. Even with the intense shock and the increased strain on their finances, they’d been so bloody happy about the baby. She’d lain awake at night feeling the plane of her stomach with gentle fingers, just…amazed. Leo had started showing the scan pictures on his phone to all his poor workmates and was obviously going to be that dad who bored strangers to tears with anecdotes about his kid. She loved him so much.
And she loved that kid too, already, but she’d been caught off-guard by the rapid changes in a body she’d always been able to control. She knew every muscle in her legs, every tendon in her wrists, every weakness in a joint. She could get up on the silks and straps each night and soar above the crowd, trusting with utter faith in her own practiced movements and instincts.
She’d worked so insanely hard, for years, to get where she was. The star of the biggest aerial show in the West End. Literal dream.
The moment the second line had appeared on that stick, she’d seen her name fading off the playbill, the dream ghosting away. She’d been replaced by her understudy that very night. She’d seen the results of a fall on that stage before, and it was an unacceptable risk.
“It’s not forever, it’s just for now,” she’d said to Leo as he repeatedly tucked the same piece of hair back behind her ear, and buried the fear of the unknown.
When she’d seen the show for the first time as a member of the public, Leo’s hand had flexed on her knee when the new Doralina launched into the first routine, the crystals on Trix’s old costume catching a thousand pinpoints of light and turning the spinning figure into a flickering column of glittering stars, but she’d smiled.
It hadn’t been until almost two days later, when Lily had taken her on a completely unsubtle shopping trip to lift her spirits, that she’d broken. To her complete mortification, she’d started sobbing in the personal shopping room at Topshop, sitting on the floor in a dress she didn’t own, that wouldn’t do up over her swollen boobs, feeling like an absolute, ungrateful prat. Lily had ushered the hovering, staring staff out of their own shop space, and phoned Leo, and he’d dropped everything and come to sit with her for almost half an hour. With her arms and legs wound around his huge body, her face buried in the warm curve of his neck, he’d rocked her and made low sounds of comfort.
And then they’d looked into each other’s eyes, and told each other how happy and confused and scared out of their fucking minds they were.
After that day, there was more excitement than fear, until Leo’s borderline stranger of a father had decided to show up unannounced at their flat to say hello to his son for the first time in years. He’d gotten drunk over the takeout they’d ordered, said one shitty thing after another, and kicked their door after Trix unceremoniously threw him out. She’d come back to find Leo sitting on the couch, his whole body stiff, staring at his hands. She’d stood before him and slowly crouched to place her fingers over his.
“No,” she’d said, and he’d looked up at last, and she’d been grateful for every acting class she’d ever taken when she didn’t flinch at the expression on his face. “You’re not like him. You won’t ever be like him.” She’d cupped his face between her hands, her jaw set. “Not ever. You’ll always be the best person I’ve ever known. The best grandson your Nan could have asked for, the best big brother Cat could imagine, and the best man I’ve ever met. This baby will think they hit the fucking jackpot having you as a dad. You got it?”
Three tense heartbeats, before he’d pulled her into his arms and held her.
And he was still holding her now, as the pain and the pressure peaked, and other hands gripped her legs, gloved fingers touching sensitive skin, but she felt itchy and restless and needed him to move. He shifted to let her fully brace her back against the bed, and took her hands again, letting her dig her nails into his skin as she pushed. Their faces were close together through it all, and her eyes popped open to stare into his when finally, finally, a screaming little brown body with a round tummy and long legs was laid on her chest.
Through her tears, she looked down into a tiny, perfect, slightly smooshed-looking face. He had a full head of matted black curls. There was one baby picture of Leo hidden in a drawer in their flat, a faded photo of a naked, angry infant, that he hated but his Nan had cherished, and it might as well have come to life in her arms.
“Oh god,” she choked out, laughing, smiling, crying, unable to stop. “Now there’s two of you. What have I let myself in for?”
How was her heart going to cope?
The love that seemed to keep swelling and swelling until it filled the room became almost unbearable when the last of the daylight faded and she sat with her cheek against Leo’s bare shoulder, watching as he cradled their son. Their baby looked impossibly, heartbreakingly small against the immense bulk of his father’s chest.
The room was quiet. She could hear footsteps in the hall outside and the distant beeping of monitors, but in here her world consisted solely of quiet, sleepy snuffles and the lingering tremble in Leo’s fingertips as he stroked the little round cheek.
Trix was sore and shattered, still finding the whole thing a bit surreal — and she wanted to remember every moment of this, always.
A door slammed somewhere, and startled a pissed-off sounding shriek from Mini Leo. They really needed a name ASAP, or that was going to stick in her mind and she’d have a very cross teenager on her hands one day.
Leo cupped the baby’s head and made a “Shh” sound as the cries continued. “Pint-sized, determined to have his own way, and grumpy as fuck when he’s woken up too early,” he said in such a soothing voice Trix didn’t immediately register the words. “You might look like me, champ, but I think we can see where your mum’s genes went.”
He grunted, laughing quietly when Trix’s elbow thudded into his biceps, then wrapped his arm around her as she ran her own fingers over the baby’s frustrated face.
She stroked softly until the cries wavered into a whimper. “I don’t blame you,” she informed her son with immense sympathy. “It’s been a very long and traumatic day for you, and I’m sorry you had to learn this soon that your father is a wanker, with such a questionable sense of humour.” She raised her head and looked at Leo. “And we’re so fucking lucky to have him.” A muscle jumped in Leo’s jaw. “You and me, kiddo, we’ll make sure he knows that his whole life.”
She watched the lines of Leo’s throat as he swallowed hard. He leaned forward to touch his brow to her forehead and then his lips to hers. “I love you.” He spoke against her mouth. “I love him, like you wouldn’t believe. And I’m going to be such a great dad to him.”
More tears clogged Trix’s throat. She curled her fingers against the scrape of his beard, stroking him. “I know.”
“But the way I love you—” Leo kissed her hard, stroking his tongue between her lips. His breath was jagged, fanning her mouth. “I tried to write you a Valentine’s card this morning, but… There aren’t the words. I don’t have the words for it. You’re it. You’re everything.”
She had no words either, then, could barely speak through the tears and the feelings. “Yes,” was all she could say. “That. Yes. Me too.”
He kissed her until the baby started to cry in earnest, and a nurse came in to help her feed again. Leo had refused to go home to sleep, and despite their exhaustion, they were still sitting up in bed in the early hours of the morning, leaning against each other and watching the plastic cot at their side.
“We need a name,” Trix said tiredly, tracing patterns on his collarbone. “We can’t put Leo 2.0 on his birth certificate. We need him to like us enough that he’ll sneak booze into the old folks’ home for us in sixty years’ time.”
“Ryan and Scott both offered the use of their names, for a very reasonable fee,” Leo said dryly, nuzzling his lips against her temple, and Trix snorted.
She missed working with both of their friends. Even though she fully intended to start training again as soon as the doctors gave her the green light, she didn’t see herself returning to The Festival of Masks. New era of their lives; new dreams to reach for.
However, she didn’t miss flatting with her former co-stars. She was still going to be living with one male who didn’t know how to clean up after himself, but at least this one had an excuse.
And was so bloody cute. She reached out and touched her fingertips to the side of the cot.
“Martin.” Leo’s voice was a low, drowsy rumble, but when she turned her head, he looked at her intently, levelly.
“What?”
He shifted to put his hand on her ribs, stroking up and down, his arm warm and comforting against the soft, now strangely pliable roundness of her belly. “Your foster mother loved you, and I know how much you loved her. And somewhere I reckon Marta knows you’re happy, and she’s happy too.” He needed to sleep; he was slightly slurring the words together, but she understood him. They always understood each other. “I think his name is Martin.”
Trix looked at him, and at their baby — at Martin — and yes, she was now officially the weepiest bloody person in London.
She fell asleep at some point, and when she woke up, the sky was still dark out the windows, the light above the bed still on. After a single second of confusion, her mind jolted back into gear and she immediately rolled to the side, anxiously checking the cot.
Martin was sleeping, his little face peaceful above the swaddled blanket. Leo was sleeping too, wedged uncomfortably onto the bed with her, his head at an angle that was going to crick his neck, his hand resting on her body.
There was a card under his fingers, and a pen under his wrist.
Carefully, Trix pulled the card out and grinned at the cheeky Valentine’s joke on the front. Then she opened it, and studied his handiwork.
No words, just a drawing. For the past few years, they’d been telling the story of themselves, for themselves, with a comic strip. They each did a drawing most days and left it for the other to find. Unlike their usual stylised, tongue-in-cheek style, however, this was a very simple line drawing — the curves of her cheek and shoulder and breasts and stomach, the fan of her lashes, the baby in her arms. The artist’s love.
No. He’d never needed words.