Page 59 of You Weren't Meant to Be Human
“It is—”He tries, so hard, putting a knuckle to Crane’s cheek.“Okay. It is.”
Crane shakes his head. No, he’s not talking about his face. That’s not what he’s apologizing for. But there’s no other way to get the point across. He could finger spell the words, but he can’t figure out what words to use.
Twenty-Five
The apartment—750 square feet of landlord specials, paint splatters on uneven hardwood, and windows so horribly drafty that any furniture against an external wall is too cold to use four months out of the year—has a dining room, according to the management website. In real life, it’s a cramped corner across from the kitchen that can’t in good conscience be considered anything other than an awkward extension of the living room. Levi put the folding table there when they moved in, but they eat on the couch anyway, or in the kitchen, standing.
Crane leans in the dirty hallway, wearing Stagger’s jacket andsupporting his heavy belly with one hand, while Levi drags in a pile of curtains, poles, a torn-up box sporting a faded picture of a crib, and a few other things that all melt together in Crane’s head asbaby stuff.
This is, for all intents and purposes, none of his business. But while Crane knows absolutely fuck-all about raising babies, this doesn’t exactly seem like a lot.
Levi must notice the unimpressed vibe, because he snorts and dumps everything on the ground. Stagger, from his place half-awake on the couch, keeps an eye on the situation like a hawk watching a rabbit.
“Your ma was gonna give us a changing table,” Levi says, “but it was a cheap piece of shit. Dry-rotted.” He pulls out a quilt with the Goodwill tag still on it. “The floor’ll work fine.”
The folding table gets shoved to the side and Levi sets to work with the measuring tape and a step stool, grease pencil in his mouth, marking out tracks on the ceiling to cordon off a nursery with curtains. Screws lay scattered on the floor.
Crane wants something to do. He drags the busted crib-box to the designated corner and rips it open because it’s already in bad-enough shape.
“Screwdriver’s in the toolbox,” Levi mutters around the grease pencil, fumbling with the tape measure. This is more than Levi has spoken to Crane in weeks. “Allen wrenches too, if you need ’em.”
The instruction manual is two pages of actual instructions and three pages of YOUR BABY WILL DIE IF YOU LOOK AT IT FUNNY, which doesn’t feel like a great ratio. According to the manufacturer, anything will kill a baby. Pillows, draw cords, plastic bags, the crib itself if you’re not careful. Crane is both unsure of how the human species has managed to exist when their offspring spend every waking second attempting to destroy themselves, and also relates to this deeply.
It’s nice to actually build something, though. Even if it’s slow going, two fingers on the left hand out of commission and all. He lays out the pieces and the hardware and hopes he doesn’t have to fetch anything else, because sitting on the floor at thirty-four weeks without a plan on how to get back up is a bad decision he keeps making.
Levi takes the grease pencil out of his mouth, makes another mark on the ceiling, lets the tape measure slide closed with a slap.
“So,” he says. “You get what you wanted out of that?”
Crane looks up. Levi points the pencil in the general vicinity of Crane’s face.
“That. Is that what all this shit’s been about?”
Crane nods as he works a screw into one of the legs of the crib. All the blisters have popped, but the skin is still raw; his lips and eyelids have lost definition. He’s discolored and visibly changed.
It’s not as much as he used to want—certainly not as bad as Sophie always wanted it to be. But it’s enough to last.
“Huh.” Levi glares at his work on the ceiling for a moment before deciding it’s close enough, then drags the step stool over to plan out the other half. “Should’ve told me. I would’ve done it for you a while ago, if you wanted. Feel like it would’ve saved us some trouble.”
Across the apartment, Stagger growls, and Levi shoots back with, “It was a fucking joke,” but Crane is thinking about it.
Last year, if Levi had offered to disfigure him, it would have been the kindest thing ever done for him. It would have been a declaration of love. Nobody had ever loved him so much they would do something terrible on his behalf. As Crane mulls over the instructions, trying to figure out how the wooden feet fit onto the crib’s leg, he pictures it. Levi laying him down, arms pinned under knees, and a hand in his hair to hold him still, knife poised to open his mouth in massive gashes to his ears. Consensual vitriolage behind the gas station. Levi easingmatches from Crane’s hand and cradling him, whispering against his temple, “C’mere, baby. Let me do it.”
He would’ve been smitten. He would’ve been so fucking wet.
These days, though, he feels the dirt every time Levi gets too close. Even when it’s almost impossible to brush his teeth, he tries scraping the plaque away with a tissue, or the hem of his shirt if he can’t manage standing to fetch one. It never works. It’s still there.
At least Levi hasn’t touched him since the morning at the auction house. Hasn’t tried to put his cock inside him, or fingers.
Sometimes, instead, Crane thinks about fucking Stagger. Signingplease, signingcan I, stripping those ripstop pants off his thighs and swallowing whatever he finds down there.
With one leg of the crib done, Crane moves onto the next. Levi extends the tape measure, makes another few marks, then gets off the step stool and backs away to eyeball the whole thing. The baby shifts and Crane hums.Give me a break, I’m busy.
“You think it matters if there’s a gap?” Levi says. He crosses his arms, gives the measurements another hard stare as if that’ll make them shape up. “I figure it’s a baby, it won’t give a shit.”
From what Crane’s read, it willabsolutelygive a shit. It’s going to be one hundred percent Levi’s problem, though. Crane lets out a loud snort, and Levi sighs.
“I’ll figure it out,” he says. “Or Tammy will.”
