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childrearing in night vale: part ii.
There was just a week before Cecil's daughter (Emilie, Cecil said proudly, the name rich and impossibly warm) came to stay, and Carlos had what he felt was a series of rather important inquiries weighing on his mind. He managed to restrain them for a few days, but ultimately, as always, his scientific curiosity got the better of him.
The two of them were standing in a room that had, the last time Carlos was here, been a rather extensive storage space full of various musical instruments, weapons, and multiple jars of glowing insects that Carlos was not entirely convinced were fireflies, seeing as how Cecil claimed he'd caught them as a child. Aside from an artfully-arranged series of luminescent jars on a shelf, there was no trace of the room's previous inhabitants. Now, the walls were painted in a pleasant shade of lavender, a sheer-paneled canopy bed perched atop an inexplicably large (possibly) sheepskin rug dominating the center of the room. Everything was decked out for a princess, ostensibly, and while Carlos couldn't help smiling at how obviously doting a father (mother?) Cecil was, he would also not be deterred from his questioning.
"Cecil," he said.
Cecil turned luminous eyes and an equally luminous smile on him. "Yes, dear Carlos?"
"Would you mind," Carlos began, fairly certain he already knew the answer, "if I asked you some scientific questions?"
Pleased as expected to be the object of Carlos's scientific interest, Cecil dropped onto the edge of the bed, propping himself on his elbows. Carlos reflexively quashed the urge to come closer and wreck Cecil's sharp creases and flawlessly knotted tie.
"Of course not! I would be honored to have you ask me some scientific questions." He mimicked Carlos's inflection on the word 'scientific,' which had been deliberately suggestive. Carlos only wished he'd thought it through beforehand, because hearing it parroted back from Cecil wasn't helping his desire to unravel the man.
Clearing his throat, Carlos glanced around the room and seated himself in a royal purple beanbag chair. It was decidedly not meant for a grown man. He shifted uncomfortably until he spotted a quirk of Cecil's lips and brows that suggested he was watching.
"Come sit on the bed," Cecil said smoothly, running his fingers over the bedspread.
Carlos looked on cagily (there was a high chance Cecil was preparing to seduce him) before he hefted himself up off of the dainty beanbag and repositioned himself on the edge of the mattress, turning to half-face Cecil.
"Your daughter was — fathered by another man?" he asked, pulling out his Blackberry to begin taking notes. At Cecil's nod, he clarified, "And she is your biological daughter?"
"Yes, of course." There was a chuckle attached to the words, and Cecil offered no further explanation. As Carlos suspected, he didn't seem to grasp the peculiarities of the situation. (That is to say, they probably weren't peculiarities in Night Vale.)
"So, then... did you give birth to her?"
One of Cecil's hands crept over his stomach in that universally fond and protective maternal gesture. "I know," he said with a playful, preening note like unexpected cherry mousse in a chocolate, "it's hard to believe, isn't it? Some mothers never get their body back, the poor dears."
Carlos's thumb moved over the keypad. Carried baby to term, he typed, and then What is term?
"Was the pregnancy normal?"
"Well, there was nothing unusual about it." Cecil was sitting back again, studying the gauzy underside of the canopy above. "I grew four extra tentacles — some mothers wind up with as many as sixteen, so I got lucky, really — and the nightmares lasted almost the whole time."
Four extra tentacles, Carlos typed. He paused. There were already seven tentacles that didn't look like they could plausibly be hidden the way they were, and it didn't make much sense to grow more tentacles when you were planning to force a baby out in the vicinity. Maybe he was missing another piece.
"Where did the extra tentacles manifest?"
Cecil's hand reappeared, this time to untuck his shirt from his hip and pull it up, displaying some of his tattoos. They were the small black spots, two on each side, that rarely shifted with the others.
That made much more sense. Two per side - meant to protect baby? "And what about the nightmares?" Carlos pressed. "They're normal?"
"Aren't they?" A politely perplexed note entered Cecil's voice, the one that always did when Carlos implied that something in Night Vale was unusual. "The horrorterrors can't just enter your body without a price of some kind."
His blase tone made Carlos shake his head slightly. Horrorterrors. "Did you just call children 'horrorterrors?'"
Cecil's eyebrows did inexplicable things. "The horrorterrors place the children in their mothers," he said, "to replace the monster."
Carlos transcribed that sentence word for word. "And the horrorterrors give you nightmares?"
"So does the monster," Cecil pointed out reasonably. It seemed reasonable enough, anyway, when he said it like that.
When Carlos finished his current notes, he asked, "And was the birth normal?"
"A little long," Cecil admitted. His hand was on his stomach again, tracing a slow line along the buttons of his shirt. "Maybe if I'd had more tentacles to help it along, it would have gone quicker, you know?"
Carlos skipped up to append to an earlier note: Meant to help the birth along.
"How do the tentacles assist in the birth?" On the list of questions Carlos never thought he'd ask, even in the name of science, that one was pretty high.
Cecil's hand dropped, pulling his shirt up fully this time. Carlos let his eyes light on the familiar lines of the tattoo, long and zigzagging the length of Cecil's stomach from diaphragm to somewhere south of his belt.
"They help pull the baby from the mouth," Cecil said, and very abruptly, Carlos understood the long, zigzagging lines.
They were teeth. There was a massive vertical mouth tattooed on his boyfriend's stomach, and at some point in time, a baby girl had been pulled out of it by a quartet of tentacles. The fact that Carlos was more fascinated by this revelation than disgusted or alarmed spoke volumes about his ability to adapt.
"Carlos?" Cecil was sitting up, his voice laced with a soft whipping cream of concern.
Carlos smiled at him reflexively. "Sorry," he said. "Science."
Cecil's own smile came slowly, but it was warm, and when he lie back down, he turned himself on the bed to put his head in Carlos's lap. "Science," he murmured.
The two of them were standing in a room that had, the last time Carlos was here, been a rather extensive storage space full of various musical instruments, weapons, and multiple jars of glowing insects that Carlos was not entirely convinced were fireflies, seeing as how Cecil claimed he'd caught them as a child. Aside from an artfully-arranged series of luminescent jars on a shelf, there was no trace of the room's previous inhabitants. Now, the walls were painted in a pleasant shade of lavender, a sheer-paneled canopy bed perched atop an inexplicably large (possibly) sheepskin rug dominating the center of the room. Everything was decked out for a princess, ostensibly, and while Carlos couldn't help smiling at how obviously doting a father (mother?) Cecil was, he would also not be deterred from his questioning.
"Cecil," he said.
Cecil turned luminous eyes and an equally luminous smile on him. "Yes, dear Carlos?"
"Would you mind," Carlos began, fairly certain he already knew the answer, "if I asked you some scientific questions?"
Pleased as expected to be the object of Carlos's scientific interest, Cecil dropped onto the edge of the bed, propping himself on his elbows. Carlos reflexively quashed the urge to come closer and wreck Cecil's sharp creases and flawlessly knotted tie.
"Of course not! I would be honored to have you ask me some scientific questions." He mimicked Carlos's inflection on the word 'scientific,' which had been deliberately suggestive. Carlos only wished he'd thought it through beforehand, because hearing it parroted back from Cecil wasn't helping his desire to unravel the man.
Clearing his throat, Carlos glanced around the room and seated himself in a royal purple beanbag chair. It was decidedly not meant for a grown man. He shifted uncomfortably until he spotted a quirk of Cecil's lips and brows that suggested he was watching.
"Come sit on the bed," Cecil said smoothly, running his fingers over the bedspread.
Carlos looked on cagily (there was a high chance Cecil was preparing to seduce him) before he hefted himself up off of the dainty beanbag and repositioned himself on the edge of the mattress, turning to half-face Cecil.
"Your daughter was — fathered by another man?" he asked, pulling out his Blackberry to begin taking notes. At Cecil's nod, he clarified, "And she is your biological daughter?"
"Yes, of course." There was a chuckle attached to the words, and Cecil offered no further explanation. As Carlos suspected, he didn't seem to grasp the peculiarities of the situation. (That is to say, they probably weren't peculiarities in Night Vale.)
"So, then... did you give birth to her?"
One of Cecil's hands crept over his stomach in that universally fond and protective maternal gesture. "I know," he said with a playful, preening note like unexpected cherry mousse in a chocolate, "it's hard to believe, isn't it? Some mothers never get their body back, the poor dears."
Carlos's thumb moved over the keypad. Carried baby to term, he typed, and then What is term?
"Was the pregnancy normal?"
"Well, there was nothing unusual about it." Cecil was sitting back again, studying the gauzy underside of the canopy above. "I grew four extra tentacles — some mothers wind up with as many as sixteen, so I got lucky, really — and the nightmares lasted almost the whole time."
Four extra tentacles, Carlos typed. He paused. There were already seven tentacles that didn't look like they could plausibly be hidden the way they were, and it didn't make much sense to grow more tentacles when you were planning to force a baby out in the vicinity. Maybe he was missing another piece.
"Where did the extra tentacles manifest?"
Cecil's hand reappeared, this time to untuck his shirt from his hip and pull it up, displaying some of his tattoos. They were the small black spots, two on each side, that rarely shifted with the others.
That made much more sense. Two per side - meant to protect baby? "And what about the nightmares?" Carlos pressed. "They're normal?"
"Aren't they?" A politely perplexed note entered Cecil's voice, the one that always did when Carlos implied that something in Night Vale was unusual. "The horrorterrors can't just enter your body without a price of some kind."
His blase tone made Carlos shake his head slightly. Horrorterrors. "Did you just call children 'horrorterrors?'"
Cecil's eyebrows did inexplicable things. "The horrorterrors place the children in their mothers," he said, "to replace the monster."
Carlos transcribed that sentence word for word. "And the horrorterrors give you nightmares?"
"So does the monster," Cecil pointed out reasonably. It seemed reasonable enough, anyway, when he said it like that.
When Carlos finished his current notes, he asked, "And was the birth normal?"
"A little long," Cecil admitted. His hand was on his stomach again, tracing a slow line along the buttons of his shirt. "Maybe if I'd had more tentacles to help it along, it would have gone quicker, you know?"
Carlos skipped up to append to an earlier note: Meant to help the birth along.
"How do the tentacles assist in the birth?" On the list of questions Carlos never thought he'd ask, even in the name of science, that one was pretty high.
Cecil's hand dropped, pulling his shirt up fully this time. Carlos let his eyes light on the familiar lines of the tattoo, long and zigzagging the length of Cecil's stomach from diaphragm to somewhere south of his belt.
"They help pull the baby from the mouth," Cecil said, and very abruptly, Carlos understood the long, zigzagging lines.
They were teeth. There was a massive vertical mouth tattooed on his boyfriend's stomach, and at some point in time, a baby girl had been pulled out of it by a quartet of tentacles. The fact that Carlos was more fascinated by this revelation than disgusted or alarmed spoke volumes about his ability to adapt.
"Carlos?" Cecil was sitting up, his voice laced with a soft whipping cream of concern.
Carlos smiled at him reflexively. "Sorry," he said. "Science."
Cecil's own smile came slowly, but it was warm, and when he lie back down, he turned himself on the bed to put his head in Carlos's lap. "Science," he murmured.