Finding You, Looking for Me: A Henry Cavill FanFic

Part 21: Oliver

We named him Oliver. He was laid to rest a few days after he was born, in a cemetery on the island of Jersey, where Henry was born and his parents reside. Only Henry and I attended the small service—we hadn't informed anyone of the details. Henry asked his PA to get in touch with our friends and families to share the news, before releasing a press statement about Oliver's death. We didn't speak to anyone—we barely spoke to one another, though we had remained together every moment since he died.

The silence along with his presence was all that could comfort me, though even that couldn't dull the ache that I felt. I was empty and broken, and Henry, who was my rock, was also broken.

We held each other at night, though I doubt either of us slept much that first week after Oliver died. Sometimes I would weep softly into Henry's chest while he held me, and sometimes Henry would weep with his head on my belly, while I stroked his hair. There were no words to offer one another. Comfort was nowhere to be seen.

Emily messaged me relentlessly, and I let her know that I needed to be alone and that she needed to take care of her brother during this time. I let them know that I loved them and that I knew they were all mourning, but so was I and so was Henry. Nothing could have prepared us for this.

In what I thought was a morbid gesture, the hospital suggested that we have newborn photos taken of Oliver taken along with his footprints. Henry immediately agreed to it, so I went along with it. Henry had kept Oliver's footprint with him since we buried him. The pain that cloaked him doubled my own suffering.

We wandered around the house, listless.

After that first week, Henry began going on long runs at odd hours of the day. I was happy that he was doing something, though I could barely find my way out of our bedroom. I would quietly take Klonopin, when Henry wasn't home—anything to numb the ache. I began trying to anticipate his return from his runs, and having a bottle of wine or a beer prepared for us at his arrival. He'd down the drink and get in the shower, leaving me to finish drinking the wine or beer by myself.

I found myself washing my Klonopin down with a bottle of wine every time Henry left for a run. I'd find myself slightly drunk, listening to Lovely by Billie Eilish on repeat, wiping my silent tears away. The sight of Oliver's perfect face, burned into my memory—the cleft in his chin and the shape of his lips—the spitting image of Henry. I just wanted this to be a terrible dream that I would wake from. I wanted to live in the world where Henry and I had brought Oliver home with us and spent all our moments doting on him.

The front door opened, and Henry came inside. Kal was immediately bouncing at his side. Henry knelt down and gave Kal a sad smile and some serious ear scratches. "Good boy," Henry said to him. He stood to his feet and his eyes settled on me.

"How was your run?" I asked him. It was midnight. I handed Henry a glass of red wine.

He nodded, and accepted the glass. "It was good," he said, taking a deep drink. He began walking towards the bedroom. I followed behind him, holding the bottle of wine in my hand. He set his glass down and began to undress. I sat down on the bed and watched him undress, taking a deep swig directly from the open wine bottle. Henry froze at the sight of my action, giving me a puzzled look, standing in only his underwear. "Sarah?"

"Yes?" I responded. My face felt warm, and I knew that I was drunk. It was now three weeks since we had buried Oliver.

"Do you need a glass?" was all he said to me. I shook my head and he pulled off his underwear and disappeared into the bathroom. He turned the water on.

I took another deep drink from the wine bottle and began to strip my clothes off. The sight of my body in the mirror was a fractured monument to Oliver—my breasts, were finally not engorged with milk, my belly was no longer swollen, the healthy and elated glow of a new mother was nowhere to be found. After stepping out of my clothes, I proceeded to finish the bottle of wine and follow Henry into the shower.

Entering the bathroom, I could see the outline of Henry's body through the glass door of the shower. His strong shoulders were slumped over, and he hung his head as the water fell on his back.

"Can I join you?" I said quietly.

His head jerked up—he hadn't heard me enter the bathroom. He popped the shower door open and invited me in. His eyes met my own, and I could tell that he was trying not to look at my body—no doubt for the same reasons it saddened me to see it in the mirror. This body had grown Oliver and when he needed it most, it betrayed him.

I stood in the shower in front of Henry. I loved this man so much, but I couldn't feel either my love for him nor his for me. The ache in my chest had enveloped all the love we had—I felt nothing but this pain. I felt like I had buried our love for one another three weeks ago when we laid our beautiful Oliver to rest.

Our eyes stayed locked. I moved closer to him, to share the stream of hot water with him. Reluctantly it seemed, he put his arms around me and held me to his chest. I wrapped my arms around him and stood with my face buried in his chest, as I had so many times before. We stood there, beneath the water, for what felt like forever.