On my computer, there's a photo of Scott and I bathing Ianto. I haven't shared it online, because it's not the kind of photo I would want the world to see. I'm haggard and obviously still in shock from grief and labour, and Ianto is flopped between my arm and the side of the bath like a ragdoll. Neither of us were supporting his head, so a gloved hand is propping it up. He has my blood on his face, I have some meconium staining my shirt, there's blood on the bed behind us. It's incredibly upsetting and undignified for us. It's equally my most hated and most treasured photo of him.
It's the only one you can see his arms, legs, and body uncovered in. All of the other photos, there's clothes or sheets covering him. I stare at those long, horribly skinny limbs and think how they should be fat and chubby, around my neck or draped on my stomach as I cuddle him to sleep. I look at his knees and elbows, hardly even visible, and think he should be throwing tantrums in supermarkets. His stomach, his chest... The blood had already begun to pool in his little body. They were starting to turn dark when this photo was taken. His chest was so flat, it's like the lack of a heartbeat deflated him.
I wish I'd taken more photos of his little body before we wrapped him up. Before we said goodbye to it forever.