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SORD He couldn't sleep in his room because of the cicadas screaming outside. Every thirteen years like some kind of stupid long-term insect clockwork. They are so, so, so god damn loud it is impossible to think unless you shut the windows, which is equally impossible because it is so god damn hot out. There is shimmery heat climbing off every scrap of road and roof and you guess heat rises, making your top-floor apartment even more unbearable. The giant air conditioner on the roof is good for maybe topping with a 2x2 Tetris block and not much else. The last time it was this loud and this hot your Young Ward (he hates that nickname because Robin's name is Dick Grayson and you're basically calling him "Penis") was six months old and cranky as a motherfucker. Pretty much just like right now, only cuter and louder and stupider. Right now Mr. Less-cute is sleeping in front of the TV, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and you can't help watching him breath through his mouth like he got lobotomized with a Lawn Jart. It kind of breaks your heart, how big he is, and you have to wonder when he grew up. He used to be so small. You remember:
Teething all over the place, cant find his god damn terrycloth puppet doll (eventually the all-important artifact was retrieved from the lost and found in the supermarket but during that one horrific sleepless week you bought so many stupid surrogate puppets they were hanging off your turntables and turning up in the blender of all places). Heat rash. Fevers and ice baths.
And then, oh god, the crawling. The asshole is mobile now, and you have no idea how to baby-proof a futon and a bunch of cinderblock furniture. You wind up duct-taping pillows to every edge in the apartment after he cruises into a concrete block at warp nine-point-eight. There's a giant red mark down his forehead that you're scared might be a permanent scar (you're also secretly scared it might have hurt him deeper than you can see, it goes right across the lingering softness of his fontanel and you have no idea what can damage a kid's brain). Turns out babies are actually tougher than most nightclub bouncers, because after three minutes of disconsolate sobbing he is once again grabbing at your throwing stars like a complete and utter tool. You're relieved and a little proud - his glasses stayed on the whole time. What a champ.
Your little champ is now trying to eat some cherry bombs that fell out of the ice dispenser. Things were so much easier three months ago, when he was essentially a screaming, shitting football.
Meanwhile teeth are exploding left and right out of his poor gums and the only frozen thing he'll chew on are the necks of Coronas. They're the exact right size and he's good about not biting down on the crimped cap so you toss one in the freezer every hour, pull the previous one out, and watch a baby chomp the hell out of an ice-cold brewski. It is hilarious. You find some baby boat shoes at the Salvation Army, dress him in a pink polo and pop the collar, take a photo and then strip him back down to his diaper because it is way, way, way too hot out for even the most ironic of clothing. You're in your boxers and when you pick him up your skin makes a gross connection to his and you have to kind of peel him off you.
Between the heat, the bugs, the teeth, the baby-pinball ricocheting off walls and furniture, and the missing soulmate-puppet you both get maybe an hour of sleep each night. This is an all-time low, down from the two hour average you got that first horrible week. The day is divided into four competitive segments: the food battle, where the objective is to spray the entire two-room apartment with a thick and even coating of strained peas; the low-speed chase, where the objective is to flee from one's elders (and betters) until one is either horribly injured or wedged underneath the futon, followed immediately by: the solo shriek-jam, a crying jag uninterrupted by the presentation of various sub-par puppet friend substitutes; and finally the diaper-bathtime-napping-getting-dressed-and-reading-Goodnight-Moon hour. You have been this tired before, but that was after Burning Man and that was a different kind of tired. This tired you can feel in your lower back, like you were some old man predicting rain.
And by god, your back is right. It rains like a motherfucker.
It is heaven.
The heat finally breaks, and drops down to an almost-frigid 85 degrees. The humidity clears up. No more heat shimmers coming off the road. The stupid terrycloth puppet makes a triumphant return and the inferior surrogates are relegated to the crawlspace leading to the roof (you have some ideas about how to use them, though). The little moron figures out how to look up when he's crawling, which drastically reduces the number of life-threatening injuries. And finally, miraculously, there are no teeth currently tearing up his mouthspace. It is the inversion of the perfect storm. Nobody dies; everybody wins.
In this three-day span of bliss you get your first solid eight hours of shuteye in half a year, with a freshly bathed, polo-shirted little dude passed out on your chest. It is an utterly perfect moment.
And now here he is, still a little dude but gaining on you fast, and you aren't sure you can handle it right now. You wish you could slow him down - maybe age a year every time the cicadas come back. One year for every thirteen. You could hang on to every beautiful minute, grab every horrible week with both hands and really enjoy it, really dig in and live it instead of merely enduring. You love this dumb fuck so hard it makes you choke, so you try not to think about it, but sometimes it catches up and you get caught up with the memories and you can hear him snore a little so you lean over and just -
brush the hair out of his face -
and whisper, so soft, you never say it but your chest hurts so bad right now and you just need to -
I love you.
He whispers back:
Pedo. 
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Topic: MSPA Homestuck (Read 5197693 times)