Daddy [mxm]

23

Our shift is winding down the way it often does. Bret and I sit next to each other on an overturned crate, both of us in our firefighter getups with our names on our uniforms. My hand in his hand, entwined fingers stroking skin, as we sip from beer bottles and watch the sunset while Bret makes stupid jokes.

"You're such a fucking dad," I groan, stifling a laugh. "Seriously. We need a rule about dad jokes."

Bret isn't laughing. He simply lets go of my hand and stares ahead, looking aloof and a bit out-of-body.

Clearing my throat, I look away. Oh. Nerves are clearly setting in. It's all getting so...real. The baby shower is in a few days. The baby's doing well; he's coming home; a date has been set. He is real, our son is real, and soon we'll be holding him in our arms.

"What's up?" I ask, gently laying a hand on his arm.

"Nothing, I'm just...a bit scared."

"You know," I sigh. "You think you're a brute and a caveman, and too much like your dad, but you're not. You're a good man, Bret. And you're going to do such a good job. You're going to be a good father." Bret turns shining eyes on me. "Whatever happens, we'll face it together."

He scoops up my hand again.

"Part of why I wanted to do this was because it meant doing it with you."

"Same here." I squeeze his hand.

•••

Chelsea and her sister have set up a huge table in the Palmers' backyard, adorned with balloons, streamers, refreshments, carefully wrapped gift boxes, and floral bouquets. People have brought food, and we've got everything from tiramisu to strawberries to mocktails. Draped fabrics and string lighting and vases of white roses on every table complete the picture. They've even hired a photographer.

Bret and I are all dolled up in cable-knit sweaters and linen pants and velvet loafers. We stand by a fruit basket receiving blessings and advice. It ranges from:

We all fly blind into parenthood; don't believe 'expert advice' - you've got this.

to:

You know when your baby can sit up, but they can't crawl, walk, or talk? That's it. That's the best time you will have as a parent.

But we also spend an uncomfortable amount of time correcting people who assume we're together, even though we tried to be as clear as we could on the invitations. I can sense that Chelsea has reservations about two people who aren't a couple raising a child together. It's her belief that children need the stability of two parents in a loving relationship. I agree with her, though we might define those terms differently.

Meanwhile, others in attendance want to set me up with their gay friends. Which...Bret is standing right there, and it's just - it feels weird.

"They're not wrong, you know," Bret murmurs beside me. "You deserve happiness, Ev, and whoever gives you that."

I have been thinking of getting back into the dating game. I got all cleaned up, which is harder now that I'm looking to bottom rather than top, connected with some profiles on Grindr, and even came close to meeting guys a couple times, but I always talk myself out of it at the last minute.

"I am looking, kind of. It's just...a little hard to find a partner when I have a baby on the way and I'm kind of platonically shacked up with my best friend."

Bret winces and I lay a sympathetic hand on his arm. "Honestly, though, I could be single for the rest of my life, but as long as you were there, I'd be fine."