It is in the middle of dessert that Alfred receives a mysterious phone call. Little jitters race through the tiny device and send a hum through the dining table. The sound reverberates in the room, hollow and noisy.
Ivan's eyes are drawn across the tabletop, past the empty wine glasses and the vase of yellow-headed sunflowers he'd purchased and given to Alfred two days ago, to the screen of the cellular device as it brightens with numbers. But he is unable to make out any specific details before Alfred is up and out of his seat, practically flying out of his chair in his rush to get to the other room. His husband gives an excited squeal through a mouth full of freshly baked apple pie and melted vanilla ice cream, a thoroughly muffled hello after that.
Ivan has half a mind to scold Alfred for hastily answering his phone whilst in the middle of chewing. Then decides against it. Been there, done that.
Alfred's voice filters through the closed door, words mumbled and indecipherable, though his excitement is easy to read. Matthew, maybe, Ivan thinks, scrounging up possible callers capable of invoking that fast-paced, whistling tone in the man's voice. Feliciano?
He gathers the dishes from their forgotten meal as Alfred's phone call draws on, obviously not just an open-and-shut deal. Lost in his thoughts, he absentmindedly scrapes the remnants off the plates and into the trash can, fills the sink with soap and water, and rolls up his sleeves.
He's squeezing the sponge around a dirtied spoon when Alfred returns to the kitchen, flouncing through the swinging door with a grin wide enough to show teeth.
"Guess what!" he yells excitedly, practically trembling in anticipation. If not for the lack of cellphone in the other's hand, Ivan would wonder if the damn thing were pulsing with another phone call.
Ivan, without good reason to be, is not nearly as enthusiastic and merely raises an eyebrow in inquiry to Alfred's sudden burst of happiness before turning back to the task at hand.
"Ivan!" Alfred whines, poking his head under Ivan's arm and into view. That one unruly tuft of hair tickles the underside of Ivan's jaw, then his nose. "You have to guess!"
Good-natured but somewhat exasperated by his inability to continue washing the dishes with his husband in the way, Ivan pulls away from the sink, suds and water dripping to the floor in a mess that'll need to be mopped up later. "And why can you not just tell me as you always do?"
"Because this time it's a surprise!"
Perhaps by chance, every other time had been a "surprise" as well, but Ivan fails to mention that. He doesn't say anything. He folds his still wet hands onto his hips and ignores the damp spots soaking through the fabric of his shirt. Silence falls between them, something Alfred can never truly stand. It's almost pitiful how easily he cracks.
"We're going to have a baby!"
"Very funny, Alfred," Ivan comments humorlessly, urging the man to the side now that the cat is out of the bag. "We're not going to have a baby. You cannot get pregnant."
In his peripheral vision, Ivan catches a glimpse of blue eyes dramatically rolling behind smudged lenses, like crashing waves. A response all on its own. Something along the lines of: doesn't stop you from trying, though, does it? He ignores this, too.
"The adoption agency called!" Alfred announces, miraculously having lost none of the elation from before, despite Ivan's gloomy nature.
Oh. The plate he has pulled from the sink slips through his wet fingers and tumbles to the tiled floor in a heap of jagged pieces. Yet another mess to clean up.
A gasp sounds and Alfred is horrified. "Oh, fuck, babe! Not the good china! We just got that."
Ivan barely registers this. "I am not ready," he states, calmly.
"'Not ready.' What do you mean you're not ready?" questions Alfred, retrieving the broom and dustpan from the corner and sweeping away the broken disaster that surrounds their feet.
"I am not ready to have a child, so call them back and tell them we do not want it."
Ivan dried his hands on a dishtowel and returns it back to its place draped around the handle of the oven. He leaves the kitchen in attempt to end the conversation, but he knows Alfred will be quick to follow once cleanup is complete.
Thankfully, he is given a minute to himself in the living room, to pace with worry and wear a trench into the carpet in front of the television. He takes a seat on the couch, his foot taps restlessly. He takes up the remote but quickly puts it back down. He stands, and the pacing starts again. This time, around the perimeter of the room. There is more space this way, more area to traverse.
Is he shaking? No, no. There is no need for melodrama here.
When Alfred enters the room, he stumbles directly into Ivan's back.
"Iv—"
Before he can finish the word, Ivan is whirling around, a heavy-handed grip settling atop his shoulders. He is guided to the couch and urged to sit amongst the cushions. Ivan settles bodily beside him with an uncharacteristic flop that sends the furniture skittering back a few inches across the floor.
"You do not understand, Alfred. I am not ready for a child," whispers Ivan, more so to the ceiling than his husband. "I thought I was ready but I am not ready. This is all happening so soon."
Alfred, sweeter than the dessert and wine they'd indulged in earlier, reaches out to clutch Ivan's hand warmly within his own. He strokes soothingly over the knuckles, gives a firm reassuring pat right above the wrist.
"I understand perfectly fine, Ivan," he says, closing the gap between them to capture Ivan's eyes. "I get it. You're nervous. Unsure. All of those things that come with thrusting yourself into an entirely new situation. But, Ivan, we've been waiting years for this. Years of hoping and wishing and—yeah, even praying. And we all know how you feel about that one, but you did it anyway because we wanted this. I've been waiting years before even that for this. I've always wanted this and I'm not sure I'm willing to give that up. So, please, don't ask me to."
Of course, everything Alfred says is correct. Without any embellishment. Years they had waited. Together. Constantly checking emails, never without a phone nearby. Chances came and went; a dangling carrot on a stick. Somewhere along the way, Ivan susposes he lost the hope Alfred still clearly holds. Filing the papers, answering the calls, waiting and waiting, actions that all blurred together. A sign of mindlessly going through the motions.
A dream of having a child. And a dream it became until, to Ivan, it fizzled away into something unrealistic, something that would never be gifted to them. He never truly prepared for the possibility.
Now it is here. No longer something that could happen but something that will.
"I am lost, Alfred. I do not know what I am doing," Ivan admits in a small voice, throwing his arms about Alfred's shoulders and pulling him into a bruising embrace. "I am scared."
Always one for physical displays of affection, Alfred snuggles in closer, hooking his hands under Ivan's arms. He rubs slowly up and down Ivan's back, switching back and forth between circles and nondescript polygons. When he speaks again, it is in a low mumble that Ivan feels against his chest more so than he hears in his ears.
"I'm scared, too. That's perfectly natural. Parenting is a big responsibility. Still, this is us, we're talking about. Ivan and Alfred. We can do it. Together, when have we ever not been able to accomplish anything?"
Ivan scoffs at Alfred's sentimentality and jokingly replies, "The Ikea furniture."
That earns him a half-hearted elbow to the gut.
"So … Are we doing this or what?"
Ivan considers it. Runs down a mental list of pros and cons. Then he thinks of Alfred mere minutes ago, animated and overjoyed at the prospect of having a child with him. Alfred's happiness, Ivan is sure that will always trump his own fear.
"Yes."
He wishes to hold Alfred a little more but the second he gives his answer the man is scrambling away, jumping to his feet with a puffed out chest.
"I, Alfred F. Jones, promise to help mold you into the best father figure there ever was," he declares at the top of his lungs. "I made you into an awesome Daddy once before and I can do it again."
Like that, the moment is ruined.
Ivan can only give a heaving sigh at the exclamation, pinching fingers at the bridge of his nose. He can already feeling the beginnings of the inevitable headache Alfred's antics are bound to bring.
"That, Alfred, is inappropriate."