His hands are not things of beauty. The lines of his palms hide scars in their creases and his veins carry heated blood and battle cries. They are hands for breaking and fighting and destruction.
He cannot create—he cannot make something beautiful.
That thought is there, ever present, whenever she is with him. When he wakes up to her warm kiss, when she holds his hand while crossing the street, when she tells him "I love you, I love you, I love you-"
(how can I know beauty when you are everything I am not?)
He believes this until she proves him wrong, again, in that effortless way only she seems to know.
"We're going to have a baby," she breathes, her eyes glimmering like the first rays of sunrise. He is properly stunned. But her giddiness is infectious, and he dazedly wonders if they're floating when he twirls her around the room.
Their child has her russet hair and his brown eyes. He is tiny in his father's hands. Tiny and impossibly perfect. "Your son is beautiful," he tells her, brushing his knuckles against the baby's silky cheek. "Just like you."
She beams tiredly at him, her hair an autumn halo against the hospital sheets. "He's yours, too," she reminds him, and his heart ignites as though it is suddenly made of flickering fireflies. "But I was thinking…" she murmurs, "do you think Sora would like a sister?"
She is badly feigning a look of innocence when his head jerks up. Sora shifts slightly in his arms, but stays asleep.
"…What if he gets a brother?"
She grins mischievously and his heart trip-stops. "Then I suppose we can always try again."
And he will never again doubt what he can do.
yes, this was just an excuse to write babies into the story. because who doesn't love IchiHime babies?
sorry for the delay, by the way! I'll try update sooner next time. leave me a review? :D