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Siebren knows the routine, now.
It started years ago, back when he had a few less greys, a few less wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. He remembers the first time, actually, because it shocked him so profoundly.
He’d never been a big fan of his birthday. Between the extra attention and the reminder that time was inexorably marching on, it was just an uncomfortable time. Sure, he’d had birthdays that he’d enjoyed, special gifts and experiences bestowed on him by loved ones, but he was largely comfortable with it passing unnoticed as he got older. Sometimes he treated himself to a slightly more expensive dinner, or allowed himself to open one of the dusty old bottles of wine he kept around the place, but that was the extent of it.
He had assumed things would stay the same when he started dating a handsome fellow scientist a few months before one of his birthdays. Things had been going well, sure, but they were still keeping it relatively casual.
Siebren wasn’t expecting anything for his birthday, certainly not after the rather energetic night before. He awoke to an empty bed, and for a heartbreaking split second he wondered if perhaps his companion had somewhere else he had to be. Siebren couldn’t have blamed him, though – after all, he’d been the one to downplay his birthday at every turn. His fear dissipated when he heard a noise out in the kitchen, and it quickly turned to curiosity as he stood from bed, pulling on a nearby pair of pyjama bottoms as he wandered out to investigate.
He walked into his kitchen to see the back of a familiar silhouette, standing at his stove. There were a few stacks of unused bowls and containers on his counters – ostensibly moved out of the way by a man who knew what he needed but had to rummage through unfamiliar cupboards to find it – and one large, glass bowl containing a beige batter and a ladle. The smell was pleasant. The scene itself was even more so.
“… Good morning,” Siebren finally said, after allowing the chef to complete the precise act of flipping a pancake without interruption.
Harold did indeed startle at the words, turning around and staring across the room at Siebren. He reached up to push his glasses up his nose from where they had slipped, smearing a touch of batter across his bridge. He seemed entirely unbothered by it, though – certainly when compared to how he felt about Siebren’s intrusion.
“What are you doing?” Harold asked. Siebren raised an eyebrow.
“Seeing who is out here creating chaos in my kitchen,” he replied. Harold frowned deeper at that.
“I mean, what are you doing out of bed already? It’s –” Harold glanced to the clock on the wall, and his eyes widened just a fraction. “Is that the time already? Why do you have to be such an early riser, huh?” Siebren strode across the room towards Harold, who only looked a touch sheepish.
“Habit, I’m afraid,” he replied, reaching out to grasp Harold’s arm. Harold glanced down towards Siebren’s hand before looking back up to his face. “I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?” Siebren asked. The sheepish expression on Harold’s face deepened for a second before he finally exhaled, long and resigned.
“I was trying to surprise you with breakfast in bed for your birthday, you big lug,” Harold remarked. “Kinda hard to do when your boyfriend gets up earlier than the goddamn sun.” Harold gave a little waggle of his eyebrows at the deployment of the term that defined their relationship, and even Siebren couldn’t miss it. They hadn’t danced around labelling their relationship on purpose, but Harold using that term on this day felt warm and comfortable and right. Siebren’s smile broke into an all-out grin, and he slid his hand down Harold’s arm to interlink their fingers.
“Well, perhaps if my boyfriend had given me some prior warning, I could have attempted to sleep in longer,” he replied.
“Which would have totally defeated the whole surprise thing, wouldn’t it?” Harold asked.
“I think perhaps the surprise element has passed anyway, now, hasn’t it?” Siebren asked in return. Harold gave a thoughtful tilt of the head as he backed himself up against the counter behind him, keeping one hand tangled with Siebren’s.
“Well, maybe partially,” Harold said.
“Partially?” Siebren reiterated. Harold gave an affirmative noise before pushing back off the counter and swinging his free hand up towards Siebren’s face, swiping two fingers of pancake batter against the tip of Siebren’s nose. Siebren gave a dramatic gasp as Harold grinned.
“On my birthday?” Siebren asked, continuing the dramatics with a scandalised tone.
“Absolutely,” Harold replied, “it’ll keep you young.” He lifted his hand again to smear the remnants of the batter across Siebren’s lips. The taller man paused for a second, his tongue darting out to taste the batter. He paused.
“Oh, that’s actually very good,” he remarked. Harold puffed his chest out a little.
“It is, isn’t it?” he asked. Siebren shook his head.
“You can’t just take my word for it,” he insisted, reaching out with his free hand to grasp Harold’s waist, pulling his body flush against his own. A knowing look appeared almost immediately in Harold’s eye as he easily sunk his weight against Siebren.
“Oh, can’t I?”
“Absolutely not,” Siebren murmured, leaning in to kiss Harold fully, his hand scrunching into his own shirt, warm on the body of the man who he would spend many birthdays with to come.
The years passed, and Siebren learnt quickly. He got more and more used to waking up on his birthday and lying in bed, scrolling on his phone or just staring at the ceiling, usually listening to the sounds of Harold in the kitchen. The sounds were never as chaotic as that first birthday, owing to the fact that by Siebren’s next birthday, Harold was living with him, and by the birthday after that they had a whole new kitchen that was theirs, together. Every year, the ritual evolved just a little – after their new shared home came the first birthday with the gold bands that adorned their left ring finger, and only a few birthdays after that came the first birthday where it wasn’t just the two of them anymore.
“Aster, baby, are you ready?”
Siebren hears the clearly enunciated comment from just outside the bedroom door and assume the position. He lies flat on his back, head lolled slightly to the side, and shuts his eyes. He is, in the view of a clever yet not infallible three-and-a-half-year-old, fast asleep.
“Okay, go wake up Papa,” Harold says, again in that mock whisper. He tries, but there is no real bracing yourself when it comes to an Aster de Kuiper wakeup. Siebren simply waits for the onslaught. He feels the mattress sag near his feet, hears the most charming, determined little sounds as Aster clambers onto the mattress. He is grateful that she doesn’t attempt to ascend him like a hill, but rather makes her way to the middle of her fathers’ bed, laying herself down beside her sleeping dad and leaning her face in very, very close to his.
“Papa,” she hisses, clearly as loud as she can manage while still technically whispering. She gives him a solid millisecond to respond before reaching out and poking at his cheek, raising her voice immediately. “Papa. Papa. Time to wake up now, Papa.”
Aster lifts her hand to Siebren’s hair, clearly trying to mimic the way that her fathers might gently wake her up from a nap. Her coordination is still that of a three-year-old, though, and so she roughly drags her palm across Siebren’s scalp, tugging at the fine hairs instead of stroking them. Still, the affection he feels at the copied gesture outweighs the slight sting on his head.
Siebren opens one eye just as Harold sits back down on his side of the bed, a tray of breakfast in his hands. The pancakes of old have been replaced, temporarily, with toast – it was a switch that came in the year that Aster was an infant, because they were both so exhausted that anything more difficult to make than toast was unconscionable. Nowadays, it’s more that Harold isn’t quite brave enough to have Aster help with pancakes on his own – that’s a task best tackled with both dads, he’s decided. Siebren likes that just fine.
“It’s your birthday!” Aster cries, exuberantly. She pats Siebren’s cheek before flipping herself over, clambering up next to Harold. “Me and Daddy made breakfast! It’s for you!”
“Thank you, kleintje,” Siebren murmurs, glancing up towards Harold and mouthing a silent and genuine thank you. Harold smiles as Siebren sits up, preparing to receive his tray of breakfast.
“Aster spread jam on one of the pieces of toast all by herself,” Harold says, in a tone that lets Siebren know what’s coming before he even sees it. The tray is placed on his lap, and he looks at the two pieces of toast – one has a reasonable spreading of butter and jam, while the other has erratic globs of red all across a gouged and ripped piece of toast. Siebren laughs quietly at the sight.
“That one my piece,” Aster says, now sidled up against Siebren, pointing at the rather mangled piece of toast.
“Is it? Thank you, it looks very yummy,” Siebren says, picking up the piece that immediately flops upon being lifted from the plate. One glob of jam falls off onto the plate, and another valiantly goes into Siebren’s mouth as he takes a bite for the expectant Aster. Harold winces just a fraction, making a mental note that maybe his husband is a braver man than he is, but he manages to turn his expression into a smile as Aster looks back at him.
“Yummy,” she says to Harold, as if relaying to him a review of their impromptu breakfast restaurant.
“Very,” Siebren adds, just about managing to swallow down the cloying amount of jam currently in his mouth. Harold ferries over a mug of tea that he had taken off the tray, knowing how energetic Aster was, and how coordination could not quite be counted on her list of many talents. Siebren gives an incredibly grateful smile as he takes the mug from his husband’s grip, swigging the beverage and washing down the bite of toast before setting the mug down on his side table. As he turns back, he realises that Harold has handed Aster an envelope, which she thrusts into Siebren’s hands immediately.
“I did this for you too!” she exclaims, and Siebren can’t help but immediately grin. He looks at the envelope, which has several different coloured pencil scribbles on it, and ‘Papa’ written in Harold’s handwriting atop them. He opens the envelope to reveal a card with a cartoonish space background, complete with a little astronaut riding atop a rocket. To the best dad in the universe, it reads.
“Oh, is that me?” he asks Aster, who giggled and nods.
“Yeah, you’re in space!” she cries. Siebren glances to Harold, who is leant back against the bedhead, his arms crossed and his head lolled contentedly to the side as he watches his husband and daughter.
“Your capacity for finding space-and-dad-related cards is deeply impressive, my love,” he remarks. Harold shrugs with a smile.
“I try,” he replies. Siebren mirrors his smile before turning back to the card, opening it to see Aster’s latest masterpiece inside.
It’s a picture of the three of them – Siebren knows that he is always drawn as being twice as tall as Harold, and Harold is always sporting two circles on his face for glasses. Aster is, as always, nestled between them, and the three of them are surrounded by Aster’s best attempts at love hearts. Drawing is one of Aster’s favourite activities, and despite the frequency with which she draws largely the same pictures, it has not yet stopped making Siebren tear up.
“Oh, Aster, what a beautiful picture,” he says, keeping his voice as even as he can. She giggles and leans over.
“It’s me, and daddy, and you!” she says, pointing to them all in turn, before pointing to the other side of the card, where the message is written. “Daddy helped me write too!” Siebren turns his already hazy gaze towards the written words, and it simply sets him off all over again.
Dear Papa,
Happy birthday!
Thank you for being the best at hugs and at reading me stories. I love when we sing songs together and when we go to the park and look at the stars. I love you a million times.
Love love love,
Aster.
“Oh, Aster,” Siebren says, reaching out to pull Aster into a hug. She wraps her little arms around Siebren and snuggles into him almost instantly. “I love you a million times. This is beautiful. This must have taken you such a long time.”
“It took us half an hour to write, because she needed to tell me all about how you were teaching her big numbers like a million,” Harold adds. It makes Siebren laugh, even as he reaches up to wipe at his eyes.
“Half an hour well spent, I think,” Siebren replies. Harold grins, scooting in to get close enough to press a kiss to Siebren’s cheek, nestling Aster between the two of them as he does. He rests his head on Siebren’s shoulder, tired from a morning of wrangling Aster. Aster has all but curled up in Siebren’s lap, glancing over at the toast still on the plate.
“… Papa?” she asks, all but innocently. Both of her dads know the tone – Harold snorts as Siebren nods immediately.
“Go on, help Papa with his toast,” Siebren says, putting up no fight. Aster takes the piece of toast that Harold made, putting a corner in her mouth and biting it off.
“Mmm. Fanks, Papa,” she says, with her mouth full.
Siebren is acutely aware that there are going to be crumbs in the bed at least, perhaps even jam, and that Aster is probably going to need two baths today, and that Harold is already starting the day tired before it’s even really begun. But with his daughter in his lap and his husband at his side, he wouldn’t give any of it up for the universe.