there is no shame like
discussing nsync bunnies
while playing Dylan.
Chris said, like he always said, "I don't see why Lance can't be the girl."
Lance fluttered his eyelashes prettily and stepped over Chris, who was sitting between Joey's legs, on the floor of the bus. Joey ran his hands soothingly down Chris' arms. "Lance is too big."
"He has birthing hips," --which Lance shimmied, before plopping onto the divan with one of Joey's books on labor meditation.
"I don't need his hips," he tugged on Chris' shoulders so that the other man was pressed against his chest, pelvis slightly tilted. He took a deep, even breath, to the count of three. "I don't need your hips. You're not breathing."
"I don't wanna breathe," Chris said, scowling.
Joey sighed, said, "Fine," and let go of him, moving to rise. Chris put a hand on his knee. "No, no, whatever, look, I'm breathing. But-- I better be, like, this baby's favorite uncle ever."
Joey grinned, pulled him back against him, reached around and put one hand on his chest. "You're breathing too fast, man. Slow down. In-two-three, out-two-three. Like, you're walking up and down stairs. Up-two-three, down-two-three. Remember-- you're, like, breathing through intense pain here."
"Actually," said Lance, looking up from his book, "the intense pain doesn't come 'til the transition stage of labor, later. Right now, he's just uncomfortable, and maybe thirsty."
"I am kinda thirsty," Chris said. He breathed deeply again, felt Joey breath deeply behind him. "But I'm not uncomfortable."
"Pretend," Joey said. His hand fell from Chris' chest to his stomach, where it moved in small circles. Chris said, "dude--" but Joey took another three-step breath, which was Chris' cue to do so also. "Just, pretend, man. You've got this huge belly and you're having a baby. And you're uncomfortable."
"You ever see that movie where Arnold Schwarzenegger had a baby?" Chris asked, after a moment of breathing.
"Junior, right? I thought it looked dumb."
Every time Joey took one of the breaths, he exhaled it to the count of three against Chris' neck, and his thighs were pressed tightly against Chris' thighs. Chris said, "It was."
"Okay," said Joey, and he patted Chris' back. "Lean forward." "what--" said Chris, and Joey pushed up his shirt.
"I'm supposed to rub your lower back. 'Cause the baby puts pressure on it, when it's moving around, and it hurts."
"It doesn't hurt," Chris said, reaching out without thinking and bracing himself on the chair across from them.
"We're pretending, melvin."
Joey put a hand on either side of his back, fingers slipping below where the pants bunched away from the skin, and dug his thumbs into the small of Chris' back. Chris' head dropped forward, and he said, "right."
"So," Joey said, and he started talking, explaining the process, reciting facts that he'd garnered from the book that Lance was reading now-- and his voice was deep and calm, soothing, like the man settled against him might be in intense pain. Every time he pushed his thumbs into their circles, the rest of his hand would squeeze, lightly, and Chris began to rock, lightly, in time with it. "You're doing great, honey, everything's going fine," Joey would say, and, "Dude, you're still breathing too fast."
After awhile, Joey's hands got tired and he asked Lance, who was banging around in the kitchen, how long this stage of labor was supposed to last. Lance answered, depends, few hours, and Joey said, "damn." Chris blinked because Joey wasn't rubbing anymore, and uncurled his hands from the chair in front of him. He dropped back against Joey's chest and Joey draped an absent arm across him, hand settling back at his stomach.
"How do you feel?" he asked, squeezing a little.
"Um--"
"Pretending."
"Yeah," Chris said, turning his head so cheek pressed against Joey's shoulder. "Yeah. I feel good."
reprimands.