Sweet Dreams - Book 3

Twenty three

Warning: brief mention of mature content.

As weeks turned to months and the stifling furnace of June became billowing October monsoons, the family found themselves settling into a daily routine.

Like clockwork: Sharing night feeds between them - Mew taking the 11pm-3am shift, and Gulf reporting for duty in the early hours - all three would be up for breakfast together at 7 o'clock, before big kisses for Gulf, tiny jub jubs for Nahm, and Mew's time to depart for work with a pout (businessman one day, musician the next, and 'family days' whenever he could).

Then the world was that proverbial oyster for Dada and Nahm. Pastel-hued pram strolls in the city's floral gardens, organised splashing at Waterbabies swim classes, stretching out to "Namaste" on a floor mat at 'baby yoga'. Peekaboo hands were peekabooed, weaning (read: gagging) attempted, and...a wide variety of substances smeared over a wide variety of objects, under the pedagogical umbrella of 'messy play'.

In truth, Gulf's apparently effortless adaptation to parenthood had surprised no one more than the omega himself. Even on the gnawing days of two hours' broken sleep, four outfit changes grâce à vomit of the projectile persuasion, and the classic 'nappy-off-time-to-pee" moment - a surprise fountain for Dada. Yes even on those days, he thrived.

Since the cathartic release of the impromptu memorial for Lamai, Mew had observed, the younger man's tread was lighter, his disposition brighter, sense of self somehow more secure - not merely in the anarchic, defensive way of old, but as someone who had found his peace to cast away old grudges and regrets, finally locating the stepping stool to mount his own throne as righteous King.

The darkest chasm of torn family bonds and emotional scars, the years of aching solitude and protective walls as a boy, a teenager, a younger man...they had all made Gulf the person he was, of course. But his mate Mew, his daughter Nahm, his brother Kaownah - they now propelled him forwards to become the man he wanted to be.

Suddenly, life's possibilities were endless - and felt within his grasp. Daydreams. No - goals, ambitions:

To climb the mighty ladder at Safe Child Thailand and take their campaigns to the international stage. To build his family further - another baby, perhaps two, filling the den with a lifetime of helter skeltering giggles and chaos? To grow old together with Mew. To be a positive force towards a re-examination of ABO relations and societal structures. He wanted to...be the omega that did it all. The omega that changed the world for others that would follow. A new dawn.

And who amongst us would be brave or stupid enough to say that he couldn't, that he wouldn't....?

But for now, back to that daily routine - with the sands of time ever-flowing - the universe would surely scold:

By the time Mew returned home each evening - elastic band shadows, twisting and elongating in his headlights as he pulled into the building's garage, moon in full beam - it wasn't unusual for him to find his omega stretched out and dreaming on the sofa, one hand draped in guard over the basket in which their baby napped.

The alpha would quickly tidy around his slumbering partner, prepare Nahm's next milk bottle for when she awoke, then re-heat or order dinner, before sitting himself down at the dining table, to rest back in his chair and watch them.

The warm glow of his pride filled the room, golden. "Ahhh" - a sigh. It was his favourite part of the day, his deepest pleasure.

Just looking at his family.

Even at twenty eight and a parent, his faen could easily still pass for the youthful, fiery twenty-two year old he'd first encountered, the elder man reflected. His tall slender frame, lean muscles, dizzying smile and peeking cheek dimples. Yet this appearance belied the fact that he was the most powerful man Mew knew. And he was all his - a thrill. Would he ever tire of reminding himself of that fact? Would he ever tire of observing, admiring him? A shy chuckle, a shake of the head.

After some minutes in that scene, Nahm stirred to wriggle and squirm, soft whimpers of discomfort at her growling stomach (rarely ever a cry) - the movement of her basket bed rousing the omega; the next phase of their routine whirring swiftly into gear.

A returned alpha's big kisses for Gulf and tiny jub jubs for Nahm, before milk for the resident baby, dinner for the resident adults. Following, bath time bubbles and baby books with Phor, cuddles, soft pyjamas and a tinkling, twinkling musical night light with Dada. And then...sleep again, for little one. That eased-down time for cerebral connections to be cemented, developmental leaps to be hurdled and a bit of growing up to be done, every night.

The condo was the adults' kingdom then, just for a few, moonlit hours.

They would savour a slow bottle of lager out on the balcony as they chewed over the day's events. Then decisions: Sofa snuggles with a film, rowdy kitchen disco music hours, or outright battle on the games console. Either way, at the end of it all, more often than not they would make love. Mew's hand over Gulf's mouth to stifle his cries as he was taken, legs wrapped around his faen, up against the fridge, the door, the railings of the balcony, a wall. Anywhere they could.

A slight crackle of the baby monitor and the lovers would freeze, eyes wide, hearts galloping and ragged breaths held, agonisingly paused in the throes of forward-charging passion until they could be sure all was safe and all was well. Only then could they resume, give themselves to one another again, love groaned out with each intimate thrust, as they pushed each other up, up, to Everest's summit. And over.

Afterwards, freshly showered and teeth brushed together, they would fall into bed, arms loosely entwined as Nahm snored softly over in the nearby wooden cot.

In just a few short hours the cycle would begin all over again. But for now, a cosy, contented nest, smiles fleeting across lips as the family slept.

A daily routine.