Eric the Pink

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Andreas didn’t realise he was napping until the crying woke him up.

Just like in hospital, his brain came online all at once, leaving him disoriented even as he was already rolling onto his side and trying to reach for the Moses basket. She was crying. Everything in him reached for her, body and soul.

“Hey, it’s alright, I’ve got her—”

“Give her here,” Andreas snapped.

“Um, okay, okay—hey, don’t squirm, sweetie, I got you—sit back, then, you can’t hold her like that—”

A flicker of irritation sparked in Andreas’ chest. He wanted to bite back. Wanted to ask how Erik would know, given he’d barely held her twice yet. And that damned crying—

“Sit back.”

It wouldn’t help, and it was unreasonable anyway. Andreas groaned as he relaxed back into the sofa cushions. Moving still hurt, but she was crying. His hands itched to touch her and make it stop, and Erik probably wasn’t helping. They were weirdly smart, new babies. They knew when they were being held by someone who didn’t want to hold them—they just didn’t understand why someone didn’t want to hold them.

And so he sighed, the tension leeching out of his body entirely, as she was carefully transferred into his arms.

“Hello, darling,” he whispered in his own language, and she quieted. The flailing arms slowly calmed, and the kick against his elbow was delivered once more, sharp and savage, before they curled back up into their favourite position and stilled again. She continued to cry quietly, and then a warm bottle was pressed into his hand.

“Thank you.”

She latched on hungrily, and the tantrum stopped at once. Andreas peered tiredly down at her, nestled into his chest and shoulder and suckling contentedly, and the ache in his abused gut eased.

“Better?” Erik asked, perching by his hip on the very edge of the sofa.

“Yeah.”

“English,” came the gentle scolding, followed by a gentler kiss. Beatriz squeaked around the teat, and Erik chuckled, bending to kiss the top of her head.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” Andreas said drowsily.

“It’s fine,” Erik said, squeezing his thigh gently. “Hey. You mind if I get a picture?”

“Of what?”

“Of the pair of you,” Erik said, rolling his eyes.

Andreas grimaced. “Oh right, sure. I still haven’t been able to wash my hair or have a shower.”

“Camera doesn’t pick up your smell,” Erik said breezily. “And who cares anyway? My boyfriend feeding my baby. It’s pretty much as beautiful as you get.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment, to be honest…”

Erik grinned. “It is. Let me get the proper camera—I’m going to get a paper picture for my wallet.”

Of course he was. Andreas rolled his eyes, but nodded. As Erik bounced up off the sofa and rushed off to find his camera, Andreas smiled down at Beatriz. She was still pink, her face still squashed up in residue annoyance at her ungraceful entrance into the world. But she was going to grow like a monster, he could already tell.

“Going to pose for me and Daddy?” Andreas murmured to her in Spanish. She snuffled but didn’t open her eyes. When he tweaked a tiny hand with his thumb, she closed it gently around his nail. “I’ll take that as a no. I don’t feel like it either.”

Bottle emptied, he lifted her onto his shoulder and rubbed gently at her back until the deafening belch was released. She grumbled as he laid her back down in his arms, snuggling into his chest for hopefully another nap. Sighing, Andreas leaned his head sideways against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Gently, he lowered her to rest against his belly and lap, so he could n—

Nope. She began to cry again at once. Andreas groaned.

“What is it?” he asked. “Eh? Is it that you like it up here, or you like the sound of my voice? Hm?”

He lifted her back to rest against his heart, and she settled contentedly. That hand was still locked about his finger. The grip was powerful, and he smiled to himself as he closed his eyes again.

And—there it was. She began to squirm and cry again.

“You liked being talked to, don’t you?” he murmured softly, not moving. Instantly, she settled. “Alright, I get the hint.”

It was his own doing, he supposed. He liked to sing to himself when he was alone in the house, or when Erik was busy. She was probably used to constant noise. He hummed experimentally, just picking a tune out of nowhere, and smiled when she settled again.

She was perfect. He’d not really taken the time to have a good cuddle in hospital—too exhausted and in too much pain from the birth. But he stared down, listening to Erik crash around upstairs in his efforts to find the camera, and drank in the sight of her.

And the feeling in his chest.

He’d almost called off the pregnancy several times, and had become little more than a recluse in the last two months of it. The dysphoria had taken everything from him—the gym, his job, the spa, Saturday mornings in coffee shops while Erik was at work, even going to the pub for an evening meal to walk home with Erik after he’d closed up for the night. Everything. And it had been a struggle to remember it hadn’t been Beatriz taking it all away, but himself.

Still, Andreas knew better than to think emotions were rational, and he’d feared hating her even a fraction as much as he’d hated being pregnant. The warm tug in his chest said he’d been brilliantly wrong.

Then he heard the click, and pulled a face.

“What?” Erik said, grinning as he leaned on the back of the sofa to peer down at Beatriz. “You had the best look on your face. It’s wallet-perfect.”

“I’m sure,” Andreas said dryly, and rested his head against the back again. “I’m having another nap. It’s your turn to sing to her.”