Us Against The World

"Alright, alright, I've got one," Cyrus laughed, the scratchy, rich sound flowing across the lake and echoing off the pine trees on the opposite shore. It was mid April and even for the south of France, it was an extremely warm day. The sun was shining brightly overhead in a clear sky, but Cyrus' face was dappled with the shadows of the branches far above. He turned to look at me, his eyes bright and playful as he grinned. "What did the zero say to the eight?"

"I don't know," I replied, as a bird in the treetops began to chirp a melodic song.

"But you never even try to guess," he exclaimed, stretching his bare legs out off of the dock and placing his feet in the warm, clear, lake water. If you kept them still in there for long enough, tiny minnows would swim up and begin to suck the end of your toes. Stephen had gained permission to use his parent's lake house on the south-western coast of France, and we'd all spent the past two weeks in glorious, warm sunshine whilst it was said to have torrential rain back home.

Everything seemed so much more relaxed out here; Stephen let go of the stresses of work and became his old easy-going self, Melanie lost her OCD cleaning side and was more content to relax in the old hammock in the yard, and Cyrus? Well, he'd outwardly become the playful, excitable six year old that he'd often try and close up. He seemed far more healthy out here, where the lake water crusted your hair with salt, and the air smelt of fresh pine and baked earth. He had recently had his hair cut shorter, so now looked more like duckling fluff and had been sun-bleached with dark maple coloured highlights. A light cluster of freckles had broken out across his nose, even after dousing himself in every bit of sun-cream he could find. However, he'd forgotten to put some on the back of his ears, which had quickly turned pink and become affected by sun-burn in only a few hours.

He scratched the peeling skin on one of them now as I shook my head at him in mock-disdain. "That's because I'm trying not to ruin your punchline!"

"Right," he leant in, and with a joking wink he delivered it. "Nice belt, you've got there."

"Oh, that's terrible," I moaned as he found it appropriate to howl with laughter.

"It's one of my favourites," he weakly said over his giggles. "Maths related humour just gets to me, for some reason."

"Dork," I muttered, sticking my tongue out at him as the bird's song came to an end before it swooped down, skimming over the water's sparkling surface and disappearing into the far woodland.

He didn't even find if necessary to reply with an insult as he stretched backward, lying down on the wooden planks of the dock, the soles of his feet still under the water. He'd even lost the need to cover himself up in heavy clothing, opting just for cargo shorts and t-shirts with truly cheesy slogans on them, seemingly no longer caring about people noticing the burn scars along his arms. They were harder to see in the bright sunlight, anyway. With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes and wriggled his shoulders against the warm wood. "It's seems like ages since I've been here."

Looking at his relaxed face, I had the strangest urge to reach out and touch his jaw, which was had the smallest dusting of stubble on it. "Did you come often, when you were kids?"

Only bothering to open his eyes for a couple of seconds, he looked a little surprised, "What?"

"Did you come here often with Stephen, when you where children?" I explained, picking up a brown pine needle off of the thick grass and twirling it through my fingers.

"Oh, no. I first met Stephen when I was seventeen, and we didn't really become friends until a couple of years later. Whatever made you think we knew each other before?"

"That story, you once told me in a fleeting passing, when he pushed you into lake and you threw a moody fit. It sounded like you were kids."

Suddenly sitting upright again, he scowled slightly. "It was last year."

"Oh," I could only whisper before laughing at how childish he could really be.

"Well, can you blame me?" He muttered, lifting his feet out of the water and standing up, leaving wet footprints wherever he stood. "I got miserably wet."

"It's only a bit of water," I smirked, which rapidly faded when I noticed the devilish look on his face.

"Just a bit of water, eh? We'll see how you like it, then." His eyes lit up in a fiery way this time, and before I knew what was happening, he'd scooped me up in his arms and was taking a few running steps towards the end of the dock.

"Wait! What the hell are you doing?" I shrieked, as he took one final step and sprang off of the planks and plunged into the deep, crystal water below, with me still in his arms all the meanwhile.

The water was pleasantly warm, it had been toasting under the sun all morning, but the surprise of the entire situation had shocked me, and I madly scrambled to find sure footing below as I coughed due to the water which had gone up my nose when we'd momentarily gone under. Clinging to the first sturdy thing that I found, which just so happened no be a madly laughing Cyrus, I scowled so hard that I swore my forehead split apart for a moment. "What did you do that for?"

"Your face," he spluttered, as water ran down over his face from his hair, droplets sticking to his glasses. "Has to easily be the funniest thing I've ever seen." He tightly wrapped his arms around me and moved towards a more shallow region before allowing me to stand on my own beside him. The sand on the bottom was soft beneath my toes as they sank down into it.

I began to shiver, more due to adrenaline than coldness, angrily shaking my head, wet strands of hair clinging to my face. "What were you thinking? The shock! The shock can't be good for the baby."

All laughter drained from his face and was immediately replaced with a horrified look of concern as he stuttered "Oh shit, I forgot. I'm so, so sorry." Taking a disjointed step towards me, he half raised a hand in the water. "Is it okay?"

Relief flooded through me when an agitated wriggling began in my lower abdomen. "Yeah, he's okay. He was asleep though, so he's pretty pissed at you waking him."

The tense expression slowly faded from Cyrus' eyes, as he worriedly bit his lip. "Really, I'm so sorry, I just didn't think-"

"It's fine, Cy," I interrupted, slowly exhaling as the angry movements subsided and the baby aimed one last kick at the side of my stomach before rolling over to sleep once more. "You didn't mean to hurt him, I know... Although I'm sure being called 'it' was rather degrading for him."

He gave me a weak smile over that he seemed to be forgiven and that I was already back to teasing him. "But you don't know it's a boy," he gently intercepted, wading nearer and placing one hand on my arm. "So how am I supposed to call something which has no gender 'him' or 'her'; you change your mind so frequently."

"Shut up. I'm pretty sure it's a boy, anyway," and with that, I turned and attempted to climb out of the water. It was a fairly difficult task - the banks were steep and I was twenty-four weeks pregnant. 'Over half way there' I told myself as Cyrus rolled his eyes and moved over to give me push up to dry land. It seemed so strange to look back over the past four months - back to that day only a couple of weeks before Christmas. I'd been so scared, so confused about what I was to do. Everything has seemed so frightening, from meeting Stephen's parents, Gloria and Phil, to going back to school. But it had turned out alright - they'd been so kind, just like grandparents (or rather, fostergrandparents) were supposed to be. They weren't uptight or stuffy or judgemental. They were very much like Stephen - relaxed, friendly and hilarious after a few classes of wine. And at school, everything seemed so normal. No-one stared or whispered or made nasty comments. They didn't know, of course, but I was petrified that it had someone been leaked; gossip spread like wildfire around school. Yet, it didn't. Everybody was so oblivious, I came to realise; they were too busy looking out for themselves that they didn't notice anybody else. It was easy to wear overly-large jumpers to cover up my growing stomach, to dodge questions about why I was always off sport. Mock-exams in January and the upcoming real ones in May distracted everyone so much that no-one was as observant as they used to be. Besides, it wasn't as if I had friends to be nosy. Ceri and Emerson hadn't talked to me since the confrontation in the hallway weeks and weeks and weeks ago. And to be entirely honest, I couldn't have cared less.

It had been early February that I'd decided to say hell with it all and blow caution into the wind. Nobody else mattered. Just me and my family. Family - how I loved to say that. Comedic Stephen, Now-Motherly Mel, Artistic Gloria, Steady Phil, and of course, there could be no forgetting somewhat estranged and geekish Cy. They were the only ones that I cared about, and they were all I needed. There was also the babies - Stephen and Melanie's son was due to be born in only eight weeks. I'd never seen them so excited about anything else before. Stephen had already bought a miniature rugby shirt, convinced he was going to have a little star of a scrum-half, whilst Melanie had an entire wardrobe of tiny dungarees and sleeping suits with teddy bear motifs. And my own baby, the sex of whom Cyrus often liked to point out I didn't know. But I didn't want to know. I still wasn't even sure which of the two remaining options I had I was going to take. Pros and Cons - you were supposed to weight them up and decide, but it wasn't that easy. Life could never be so easy. Responsibility was a difficult thing to take on and it wasn't something that could just be chosen, yes or no, in any set period of time. But I wasn't going to rush it; I'd learnt many things in the past few months, one of the most prominent things being that fate was fate. You couldn't control what wasn't going to happen and you mustn't even try to, or fret about it. What will be will be and every day should be lived by that day, not worrying about what the next one would bring. I didn't have that loving rush of maternal instincts that you were supposed to have, but I didn't have any hate. None, whatsoever. My child was my child, boy or girl, it didn't matter. I knew their favourite position to sleep in, that their favourite time to be awake was between four and six in the morning and that they absolutely hated the sound of pop music played over speakers. But I had him, or her, and they had me, and we were to take care of each other. For the present time, anyway.

With one final heave, and an over-dramatic groan, Cyrus managed to push me up onto the shoulder-height bank before climbing out himself and rolling about in the grass in a vain attempt to dry and get some of the moisture out of his clothes. I watched him for a minute or so, laughing at his ridiculous idea, before turning and walking across the lawn to the back patio of the large house. Stephen and Mel were nestled up together in the hammock swung between two of the trees, both asleep in the cool shade. It was easy to forget about problems out here, where the only other signs of life within five kilometres seemed to be birds, fish and the occasional deer. It was silent, other than the sound of birdsong and the occasional 'plop' when something fell into the lake water. It was a perfect to relax and cast away worries - a fresh green idyll, where the rest of the world seemed so far away from. Nothing could harm you out here. Days and nights bled into each other, usually signalled by the sky lighting up a fiery red colour, which was reflected in the lake's surface, tinting everything a colour which didn't seem quite so harsh.

Evenings were spent out on the lawn with a barbecue burning away. The smell of smoke intermingled with that of the pine in the dusk, drawing the crickets to form a harmonious congregation in the surrounding trees. Stars were bright in the inky blue-black sky and the moon hung like a glowing orb, as if conjured there by a romantic poet. Sleeps were long and undisturbed, the only interruption being sunlight seeping in through the cotton curtains.

But yet, that night, I couldn't sleep for no apparent reason. After tossing and turning for what seemed hours, trying the get comfortable, the baby woke up and then there really was no hope whatsoever of falling to sleep. One of the main factors in my decision that it was a boy was how hard he kicked. Forget Stephen's scrum-half, mine was going to be a football player, or perhaps a swimmer. Having a stubborn baby kicking you in the side all night was a sure-fire way that you really weren't going to get any rest. Well, that along with a horribly strong craving for the tub of ice cream that I knew lurked in the freezer in the kitchen below. The morning sickness had come to a thankful end during the Christmas holidays and was replaced with a great urge to eat various sweet things. Cyrus simply remarked that it was just me being a pig and using the pregnancy as an excuse to eat crap. Pft, as if I'd ever do that. After glancing at the glowing digital clock on the beside cabinet, which told me it was two twenty-eight am, I figured no one would probably notice if I got up, stealthily made my way downstairs and found the ice cream.

Five minutes later, as I sat on the kitchen floor and cracked open the carton, I was rather proud of myself. Mission totally accomplished. The freezer here was even far better than the one at home - it was at such the right temperature that the frozen delight was easy to dig into and didn't bend the spoon in half when I tried to stick it in. Back at home in miserable England, you actually had the microwave the damn thing to make it edible... Although, not for too long, as Cyrus had unfortunately found out only the previous week. It had taken him half an hour to clean the melted substance off of the bottom of the appliance, all while glaring daggers at me, as I amusedly watched.

A sudden, heavy creak of the stairs, however, brought me out of my dairy-induced delirium. Praying that it wasn't Melanie about to walk in - she was fiercely protective of the ice cream as well - I was only half relieved when a tired-looking Cyrus appeared in the doorway. He stared at me, surprised, for a few moments before speaking. "What are you doing down here?"

Looking down to the three-quarter full pot, and the spoon in my hand, I reckoned it was fairly obvious. "Eating ice cream."

"My ice cream," he muttered, taking a step into the kitchen. He was dressed in pair of tracksuit bottoms, a t-shirt saying 'Potter for President' and had hair sticking up all over the place, as if he'd been running his hands through it a lot.

"It doesn't have your name on it," I simply quipped, spooning up another mouthful.

Crossing over to where I was sitting back against the fridge, he bent down and flipped the lid over. 'Quincey's - Do Not Touch' had been scrawled across it in black marker, unnoticed to me earlier. "It actually does," he said mildly. "I thought marking my food was the only way to stop the two of you eating it for your spawn, but seemingly that doesn't even work."

Diplomatically, I quickly assessed the situation. "Well, if you get a spoon, I'm very happy to share with you."

"Oh, are you now?" He remarked, giving me a wry smile but retrieving a spoon from the drawer and sitting down opposite me, nevertheless.

As he moved the pot over towards him and dug in, I suddenly realised that it was almost three in the morning - so why on earth was he awake? As he happily sucked on his spoon, he preferred that to licking it, I reached out my foot and pressed my toes to his knee. "So, what are you doing here?"

He blinked, slowly sliding the utensil out of his mouth before answering. "I don't sleep very well," he slowly explained. "I usually have meds to help with it, but I've run out and left my prescription back at home."

"Oh," was all I could say, as he avoided my eyes. He'd never seemed the type to have troubled sleep, but then again, it was hardly surprising that he might have nightmares or something of the sort due to his past.

The baby, who'd settled down somewhat when I'd walked downstairs, suddenly landed a rather hard kick just under my ribs. I raised a hand, out of instinct, to the spot. Cyrus didn't miss it and quietly asked "Is that the baby?"

"No, it's the Queen of Sheba." I remarked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, you know what I mean," he softly laughed, his arm twitching, as if he thought about raising it before thinking the better of it. However, only a few seconds later, he outstretched it towards me, asking "May I?"

Taking his cool fingers, I nodded, shifting beside him and placing them on the spot where he'd last kicked. "Sure. Just press down and he'll kick back."

It was somewhat a game, I liked to think the baby found it more fun than annoying, but sure enough, as Cyrus lightly pushed down, he got a nudging back for his efforts. A dull light seemed to flicker on in his eyes, as a small smile spread over his mouth. He stayed silent for a while before turning to look at me, his fingers still teasing the baby. "I... I really admire you, you know," he admitted stiltedly, as if it was taking a lot of effort to say. "For getting on and dealing with this. Very few people would be able to do it like you have."

"Only because of what you say to me. Inspirational, really." I was only somewhat slightly teasing him - he had, after all, been a great support. It was only a few weeks previously that I'd been due to visit the hospital for an ultrasound. I'd told Melanie and Stephen that Ceri was coming with me, as they had a big work meeting that day to secure a massive deal with a potential client - it was something niether of them could have really missed. Obviously, Ceri wasn't, and I'd caught the bus to the hospital, planning to go in by myself. It has seemed like an okay idea at the time, until I'd been sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by couples, and become scared stiff. Five minutes before my scheduled appointment, Cyrus had strode in, sat beside me, taken my hand and muttered "Next time, I don't want to find out you're lying by actually asking Ceri why she was in my lesson and not with you, and almost letting rather large and angry cat out of the bag." He'd stayed with me throughout the appointment, never once letting go of my hand, asking all the right questions I had nervously forgotten and only awkwardly stuttering and correcting the obstetrician when she had called him 'Dad'.

Even so, as we sat on the tiled floor, the soft look he was giving me reminded me a lot of of his expression when the baby's blurry profile has appeared on the computer monitor all those weeks ago. "Do... Do You know what you're going to do yet?" He hesitantly asked.

"No, everyone keeps asking me that and I just... I can't decide." He cocked his head to the side, his indication that he was willing to listen. I sighed and scrunched up my feet against the floor. "I know that adoption is the best option for him - I can't give him everything he deserves. I can't afford a lavish lifestyle, spoil him rotten, or look after him properly. I want to continue with school - I want to get a good job and be successful. It's not fair on him to have to wait for me to do all that and neglect him in the meantime, is it?"

"Stephen and Mel have offered financial support though, haven't they? And child care whilst you're at school." His eyebrows knitted together in his forehead, as if trying to understand it all from my point of view.

"I know, but I'd feel guilty taking that offer. I'm such a burden as it is-"

"I'm sure they don't see it like that," he mildly interrupted.

"Probably not, but this definitely not what they thought they were taking on when they fostered me, was it? He could go to a great family, a rich one, and they'd really love him - give him everything he deserves... But... But what if he doesn't get adopted? What if he's just shoved into and raised in care? You and I both know how shit that is. Even I could give him better than that - I'd love him, and he wouldn't get that in care, would he? I... I just don't know. What would you do, if you were me?"

"I can't answer that for you... I'm not in your position, I don't know what it's like to have to make a decision like this about your baby. But I..." Forcefully swallowing, he turned to look away, speaking so low and huskily that at first I didn't really hear what he said. "I was a father once."

It was a few moments before I understood his words, at even then, I could only whisper "Really," surprised beyond belief.

"Yeah…" he nodded almost unnoticeably "I was nineteen when she was born. I never met her."

I struggled for something to say, unsure of whether this was just another one of his stories, or the actual truth. In the end, I just ended up blurting "You still could, though?", wanting to kick myself as soon as I'd said it, as a dark pain entered his eyes. Of course it was real - he wouldn't have joked about such a thing.

Eventually he just shook his head, a soft, sad laugh echoing off of his chest. "Oh, no, Evangeline." Closing his eyes, he leant his head back, resting it against the wood of the kitchen cabinets, hesitantly continuing. "Back then, I was so young, so trusting and foolish. I was flattered when Angelica took notice of me. God, she was amazing; smart, charasmatic and bloody gorgeous. I was the dork holed up in his room, ignoring the entire social scene of university, but she payed attention to me. She was studying foreign history; she wanted to travel the world. We dated for a little under two years and I fell in love with her, so hard and fast - she was Stephen's little sister, you know... But looking back on it all, I don't think that she ever returned those feelings even slightly for me. She really wanted only one thing; a child."

Slowly opening his eyes, he exhaled heavily, as if he was letting out years of pent-up frustration. "And I was tricked into that. But I didn't care; I was going to be a father. I was so unbelievably ecstatic when she first told me she was pregnant - I ran out immediately and bought a pair of baby bootees, and a ring. It was a stupid, cheap little thing; not an engagement ring, but I promised her that I'd look after and love the both of them forever. She bought me one in return and I never took it off until Ceri questioned me about it that day." Subconsciously, he rubbed the spot on his finger where it had stayed for so many years, softly sighing and screwing up his eyes. "Angelica ran away as soon as she got her degree, though, making Stephen promise to look after me - that's why he cares for me as he does... She travelled around Europe and sent me a picture when our daughter was born. Eva Rose, she called her. I tried so hard to find them, but Angelica never wanted to be found, and made sure I could never trace them. She'd send me a picture every few months, though."

Very slowly, he reached into his trouser pocket and brought out his wallet - the same one that he'd been hysterical about loosing all those months ago. Opening the soft leather, he pulled out a small photograph and passed it to me. "You understand why I insist on calling you by your full name, don't you? I... I need to create a big gap between then and now."

I silently nodded, gently taking the obviously precious photo from him. It contained a chubby little toddler, no more than couple of years old, sitting on a rug on a beach with pure-white sand. She had pale blonde, curly hair sticking out all over the place, a tiny button nose and large, bright and very familiar, blue eyes. "She's gorgeous."

A wistful smile etched its way onto his face. "Yeah, the spitting image of her mother. It'd been a complete disaster if she looked anything like me."

"She's got your eyes, though."

He looked a little surprised. "Really? I always thought she had Angel's eyes."

Passing it back to him, I shook my head. "Nope, definitely yours."

Without replying, he slid it back into his wallet and closed it. "I received a letter just after she turned two from Angelica, saying they were coming back, and that they'd come and visit me. I was so excited; it was a moment I had dreamed about for years. It was a dark winter night that they were to be arriving; thick with fog and there was black ice all over the roads. Severe weather warnings were broadcasted most of that week. I waited and waited - for hours even after she'd said they'd be there. It was past midnight that there was a knock on the door, and of course, I stumbled over and could barely contain my excitment as I opened it - just thinking they'd been delayed by traffic, or something. But..." his voice cracked as he continued. "It was the police. They told me that they'd been hit by another car on the motorway, been in a horrific nine car crash. She'd had my address taped to the dashboard, and after salvaging the wreck, that was the only lead to contacting the next of kin. I still saw my daughter that night; in the morgue," Cyrus whispered, his eyes watery and unfocused. "I had to identify the bodies. It was the hardest thing which I've ever had to do. It took me months to leave the house after that - it was Stephen who managed to get me to in the end; I owe him so much."

It was only as a tear spilled down his cheek that what had really happened to him sunk in. He'd lost anyone who was ever close to him - his daughter, girlfriend, nana, mother, even his father. I'd never seen him cry before - upset, scared, angry, yes, but never crying. Slowly, hesitantly, I reached up and wiped it away, just as he had done for me so many times. "I'm so sorry, Cy."

Taking hold of my hand, he softly squeezed it. "It's okay," he said in a surprisingly strong voice. "It was awhile ago. Eva would be six now - quite the little princess. But I'm moving on - it's not good to dwell in the past. It's the future that matters, right?"

He looked at me once more - his eyes intense, as I simply murmured "Yeah."

"So," he held up his spoon, as if in toast. "To the future?"

I clinked mine against his, echoing "The future."

With a final smile, as strong and confident as he could muster, he placed his spoon in the now empty ice cream pot and stood up, holding out a hand to me to help pull me up. Shoving the pot in the bin and spoons in the sink, he turned to me, placing a hand on the side of my stomach, looking down and murmuring "Well, goodnight then, little one," before raising his head and wrapping arms around me in a tight hug, "Goodnight, Evangeline."

"Night, Cy," I whispered into his shoulder, suddenly wondering as to why the hug was different to any others he's given me. It seemed more personal, more intimate, than ever before. I was far more aware of his hands on my back, his breath in my hair, the warmth of his body penetrating through to my skin. As I drew back, his face seemed nearer, only a few centimetres away. The large, soft blue eyes, straight nose and pale lips. Even then, I didn't understand it. Why my heart sped up, why the air in my throat fluttered and why my arms tightened their hold around his neck.

His face seemed so clear one moment, but blurry the next as it came closer, his lips pressing down onto my own. His mouth was warm, soft, but reassuringly solid. It was there so fleetingly, so lightly, there one moment and not the next, that once he'd torn himself from my arms and fled up the stairs, I wasn't entirely sure that it had really happened at all.