That was Oliver.
That was his son.
He filled his lungs until they hurt, blinking against the sting of the light, and pushed forward, pushed ahead until the light came into focus, and he could see their colors, at first a little faded, and then, in sprinklings of seconds, more vibrant, shade by shade.
It could have been a window into the past, Freddy thought as his heart slammed twice into his ribs and then got stuck there. It could have been him, just shy of five years old, on Patricia Hightower’s lap.
The boy noticed his grandmother’s pause in her reading and looked up, first at her, and then across the short wooden floor of the gazebo, to Freddy. He had wide, pale blue eyes that blinked twice, his golden lashes looking stark white in the bright glare of the sun.
He didn’t smile or otherwise move. He just stared, much like Freddy himself was probably doing.
He was the most beautiful thing Freddy had ever seen in his short, cursed life. More beautiful than any person, any natural wonder, any rare bird, any feat of art or architecture.
The boy—hisson—was perfect.
“Hello there,” Freddy said, a tentative smile on his face as he stepped into the shade of the gazebo. “I’m sorry to interrupt your story. You must be Oliver.”
“I am,” the little boy confirmed, though he glanced at his grandmother once more, just quickly, as though to ensure he actually was. When he looked back, he wrinkled his little brow a little, small hands fidgeting against each other, and he asked softly, “Are you my papa?”
Freddy closed the gap between them, kneeling at his mother’s feet so that he could be eye-to-eye with his little mirror image. “I am. I am your papa,” he said, swallowing down the crack in his voice, forcing his hands to still.
No matter how much he wanted to snatch the little man into his embrace or burst into tears, he could not. It would likely only scare the lad. His son.
He tried to remember how his own father behaved, how he had seemed like something akin to a god or a mythic hero to Freddy when he was a boy. It was the oddest thing. In that moment, he could not remember anything about his own father, not his voice or his face or a single thing he’d ever said to Freddy at a tender age.
He shook his head, dispelling the thought. Frederick Octavius Hightower II was not here this morning. Freddy was.
Oliver looked at his grandmother once more and she nodded with an encouraging smile. “That’s right, Ollie,” she said softly, “that’s your papa.”
“Oh,” said the boy, soft and uncertain, looking back at Freddy once more with a blinking scrutiny. Those blinks increased speed, realization spreading over the boy’s little face. “Oh!”
And then he launched himself right out of Patricia Hightower’s lap and into Freddy’s arms, squeezing as tight as his little body could manage, his little voice going high as he announced, “It is you! It really is you! My papa!”
“Oh, gracious,” said Patricia as Freddy caught the boy, pulling him close and cradling the back of his little golden head. “Oh, my loves.”
Freddy himself could not stop the tears then, just a couple, hot and fat, that escaped down the corners of his eyes and landed in Oliver’s hair. He pressed his cheek into the boy’s head and inhaled him deeply, the smell of grass and sweet soap and linen. He breathed in as much as he could, unsure if his heart was racing or still anymore, unsure of anything other than that this boy was his.
His.
They belonged to each other.
Freddy wasn’t sure he would feel that. He hadn’t known for sure he would feel anything other than shame and awkwardness. He hadn’t been prepared for this. He hadn’t even allowed himself to hope in any specifics.
He realized he had anticipated rejection. He had expected a repeat of what had happened with Claire, the boy shouting “No!” and fleeing him.
Not this.
When the boy pulled back, luminous and smiling as wide as he could manage, Freddy quickly pressed the tears from his cheeks and returned the grin.
“Oliver,” he said, taking a chance and pressing a kiss into the boy’s forehead, “I am very, very pleased to be here with you, at long last.”
“Me too, Papa,” said Oliver, reaching to hold Freddy’s hand. “We are going to have breakfast.”
“Yes, we are,” Freddy agreed, glancing up as a steaming platter of meats was set on the table. “It smells delicious, doesn’t it? What is your favorite breakfast?”
“Pastries,” the little boy said, tilting his head up as Freddy returned to standing, their hands still linked. “Very sweet ones. Cherries!”
“Oh, just like your grandmama,” Freddy said with a laugh, glancing up at his mother, who was teary but smiling. She shrugged as though she’d been caught passing on her sweet tooth. “I like cherries too, especially in a sauce. Did you know you can have cherry sauce on meat?”
