Page 42 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

Dad slides a tentacle over her hand. “Let them sort that out if they choose to have children together. Young people these days don’t always want to reproduce, and even if they did, there’s no reason to think their egg donor would be related to either of them.”

“But I—” she starts, then glances at me. “Do you want me to ask for his genetic sequencing documents?”

I know Mom well enough to understand how loaded that question is. I’m their only child, and I’m aware that my parents want grandchildren. They’ve never asked me if I intended to reproduce before, but when I came out to them, Mom reassured me that there were plenty of options for gay men who wanted to have children of their own. She told me she loved me too,of course, but not until after she made it clear that I could still become a dad someday.

I’ll never forget that. It was one of the rare moments when my parents revealed a hint of what they hoped for in my future, rather than just supporting what I wanted.

“I’m not sure I’d make a very good father,” I say gently. “You know that I’m awkward?—”

Dean squeezes my hand under the table. “I think you’d be a great dad. If that’s what you want.”

My parents smile at one another. They like him. I’m not exactly surprised, but it’s still a relief.

I clear my throat. “I would not like to make a decision about any future plans to reproduce at this time. Also, I do not know Dean Miller’s opinion on the matter, and I would prefer to have that conversation with him in private.”

“Very well put,” Mom says. “We appreciate it when you clearly communicate your boundaries.”

Dean Miller raises his eyebrows. “Wow. That’s… awesome. You’re awesome.”

Mom nods. “We are excellent parents. Now that we’ve established the genetic compatibility of the match, we can share a meal together.” She gestures to the tin of lasagna.

Dad dishes himself up some crab legs. Once he has a few on his plate, he drags his suckers along the shell. It’s perfectly polite to taste your food with your suckers in front of other cephalopod shifters.

Dean watches him politely, like it isn’t a big deal. “I can’t wait to try this lasagna. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“We love Art fiercely and have always planned to shower his mate with affection as well,” Dad explains matter-of-factly.

Dean smiles. “That’s… nice. I mean, I like that you clearly communicate about things. It’s refreshing. I’ve always wanted a close relationship with my in-laws too.”

Happiness blooms in my chest. Dean Miller is so kind and always seems to say the right thing. Even with my parents.

“You can see why I chose him for a mate,” I say.

Mom’s lips quirk up. “Yes, I can. We should do a toast. That’s a human thing, right? We should incorporate human customs into this dinner too, to reflect Dean’s culture.” She raises her glass of water. “To wise decision-making.”

Dad lifts his glass enthusiastically and crashes it against Mom’s. Quite literally. Both of the glasses crack. He doesn’t seem the least bit surprised.

“Edward, what are you doing?” she asks.

“I was doing a toast.”

“You’re not supposed to break the glasses.”

He glances down at where his glass is leaking water onto the table. “I didn’t know that. I thought that was the idea. It always seemed a little dangerous to me.”

Dean throws back his head and laughs.

I was worried about him meeting my parents, but I shouldn’t have been. Dean always seems to understand me. Of course he would be the same with my family.

Dean

Christmas is always a little bittersweet, because I love the holiday so much, and I kind of hate to see it end. This year, though, I have so much to look forward to. I wake up to Christmas snuggles from Art, which quickly leads to Christmas morning sex, and I have zero complaint about that.

Over a lazy breakfast, we open our gifts. Art wanted definite parameters for gift giving, so we agreed on two gifts—one less expensive item and one more extravagant item. In true Art fashion, monetary ranges were also included. It actually made the process of choosing gifts less stressful, because I knew I wasn’t going overboard or not buying enough. We both make good money at the lab, and we agreed it would be fun to treat each other to something special.

We take turns, and he opens my smaller gift first. It’s the hand-blown glass ornament he was admiring at the craft fair.

“Dean Miller, you remembered!” He holds the ornament reverently, twisting and turning it around to see all the colors within its shape. “I shall cherish it all year, because it reminds me of the ocean.”

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