Chapter 17: Milk Fever
The nursery was never silent. Beneath the soft glow of the amber nightlight, beneath the distant whisper of the city, there was a hum. It came from the climate-controlled glass cribs that were more like tiny incubators, from the silent pulse of monitors, from the very air being filtered and recycled. It was a sound of vigilance, and it settled into Phai’s bones like a second heartbeat.
He sat in the low-slung rocking chair, a masterpiece of modern design with clean birch curves, that felt absurdly delicate under his muscular frame. In his hands, their daughter was a slight, warm weight. Niran, the name chosen in a haze of fear and hope, meaning ‘eternal’. She was swaddled in a blanket of impossibly soft grey cashmere, only her perfect, miniature face visible. She slept, as she often did, with a profound seriousness that unnerved him.
The bottle in his hand contained the few precious milliliters of gold they’d collected the night before. He’d watched Fon seal it with a trembling label, marked with the date and time in his looping artist’s script. It felt like a holy relic.
He brought the silicone nipple to Niran’s lips. She rooted instinctively, a tiny, blind seeking, and then latched. Her suck was surprisingly strong, a rhythmic pull that echoed in the quiet room. Phai watched the slow descent of the liquid, each tiny bubble a measured triumph. He was calculating milliliters, feed intervals, caloric intake. It was data. It was manageable.
Fon stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the neon grid of the city. He wore one of Phai’s old university sweatshirts, the sleeves rolled, the hem hanging past his thighs. He was quiet, holding his arms wrapped around his still-tender middle.
“She’s taking it well,” Phai said, his voice low to avoid disturbing the quiet rhythm.
“She’s hungry,” Fon replied, not turning. His voice was soft, edged with a fatigue that sleep couldn’t touch. “I can feel it. It’s like… a phantom ache. My body knows she’s eating, just not from me.”
Phai didn’t know how to answer that. He focused on the baby, on the way her eyelashes lay against her cheeks like feathered shadows. He was about to suggest Fon try to rest when he saw Fon stiffen.
A sharp, hissed intake of breath.
Fon’s back arched slightly. His hands flew to his chest, pressing against the soft fabric of the sweatshirt. “Oh,” he gasped, the sound thin and shocked.
Phai’s eyes snapped from the baby to him. “What?”
“It’s… it’s coming.” Fon’s voice was a panicked whisper. He looked down at himself, and even in the dim light, Phai saw the dark, spreading patches bloom rapidly over the grey cotton. One, then another. Soaking through. A visceral, undeniable leak.
Fon made a small, wounded sound of embarrassment. “I can’t— it just—” He fumbled, trying to pull the drenched fabric away from his skin, but the damage was done. The sharp, sweet scent of fresh milk filled the space between them, cutting through the lavender and sterile air.
Phai’s mind, for a second, was a blank blueprint. Then it fired. Problem: waste of vital resources. Solution: direct transfer. The logic was impeccable, clean, cutting through any awkwardness.
Niran finished the bottle with a last, sleepy suck. Phai carefully lifted her to his shoulder, patting her back with an automatic gentleness, his eyes never leaving Fon.
“Don’t,” he said, the word coming out as a low command.
Fon froze, his eyes wide. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t waste it.” Phai stood, the baby a secure bundle against his neck. He crossed the short distance in two strides. He took Fon by the shoulders, his grip firm, and turned him gently but insistently away from the window, guiding him backwards until the backs of Fon’s knees hit the edge of the rocking chair.
Fon collapsed into it with a soft oof, looking up at Phai, confusion and something else—a spark of startled anticipation—in his eyes.
Phai didn’t break his gaze. He shifted Niran to cradle her in the crook of one arm. With his free hand, he took the hem of the soaked sweatshirt and tugged it up. Fon lifted his arms automatically, letting Phai pull it over his head and discard it on the polished floor.
The cool air of the nursery met Fon’s feverish skin. He was flushed, his chest visibly swollen, the evidence of the unexpected let-down glistening on his skin. He shuddered.
Without ceremony, driven by a practicality that felt almost feral, Phai stepped into the vee of Fon’s legs in the chair. He leaned down, Niran nestled securely between them, a tiny, sleeping bridge. He didn’t hesitate. He captured one peaked, tightened nipple with his mouth.
Fon cried out, his hands flying to clutch at Phai’s shoulders. It wasn’t the shocked gasp of the night before. This was deeper, a raw sound ripped from his core as the intense, painful pressure found sudden, shocking release. His head fell back against the chair, his throat working.
Phai drank. The flow was urgent, abundant. It flooded his mouth, warmer than he remembered, richer. He swallowed, his own body humming with the efficiency of it. This was nourishment. This was purpose. He could feel Fon trembling beneath him, hear the ragged, sobbing breaths that weren’t quite sobs. One of Fon’s hands left his shoulder to cradle the back of Niran’s head, his fingers tangling with Phai’s where they supported her.
It was a bizarre, sacred triptych: the father feeding, the baby sleeping, the source trembling in overwhelming relief.
When that side was drained, Phai pulled off with a soft, wet sound. Fon whimpered at the loss of contact. Phai shifted Niran slightly, leaned to the other side, and repeated the process. This time, Fon’s moan was a continuous, shivering vibration. His fingers dug into Phai’s scalp, not guiding, just holding on.
Afterwards, Fon was boneless, slumped in the chair, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Spent. Phai straightened up, his own lips damp. He looked down at the scene: Fon, exposed and lax, his skin sheened with a faint sweat; Niran, still miraculously asleep, her cheek now resting against Fon’s bare, softer stomach where Phai had placed her.
Phai retrieved the discarded sweatshirt. He knelt and wiped Fon’s chest gently with the dry parts of it, a clumsy, tender gesture. Then he helped Fon’s limp arms back into the sleeves.
Fon’s eyes were closed, but a small, utterly exhausted smile touched his lips. “You’re really good at that,” he mumbled, his voice slurred. “Better than the pump.”
Phai huffed, a sound almost like a laugh. He settled on the floor beside the rocking chair, his back against it, his head leaning close to Fon’s hip. He kept a hand resting on Niran’s back, feeling the tiny bird-like flutter of her breathing.
“It’s a more efficient system,” Phai said quietly, staring at the humming glass cribs across the room. “Direct transfer. Minimal waste.”
Fon’s hand found his hair, fingers carding through it slowly. “Your project management is impeccable, P’Phai.”
They stayed like that for a long time, in the humming, golden-dark room. The problem had been solved, the immediate crisis averted. But as Phai sat on the hard floor, leaning into the gentle tug of Fon’s fingers in his hair, with his daughter breathing softly against the skin of the man who bore her, he felt the clean lines of his logic beginning to blur at the edges. Efficiency was becoming something else. Something messy, and warm, and terrifyingly profound.