Erik the Pink

by Matthew J. Metzger

  And Erik didn’t get it—but he also knew enough to know that the baby not being inside anymore wouldn’t necessarily let Andreas just bounce back to the happy, confident guy he’d been before.

  In the month since she’d been born, Andreas wouldn’t leave the house unless strictly necessary. He was overdressed, when Erik had gotten used to him wandering around shirtless ever since his top surgery. He wouldn’t leave the bathroom door open when showering anymore, and he wore pyjamas in bed for the first time in their entire relationship.

  He busied himself constructing the nest to perfection, so much so that the next thing he heard was the kettle whistling in the kitchen. The old cast-iron kettle that sat on the stove like a pot, which Erik never used. He sighed, straightening from his DIY, and padded out into the kitchen to prevent the sleeping pill and chamomile infusion going down—and stopped in the kitchen doorway.

  “Andreas?”

  Andreas was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in plain pyjama bottoms and one of Erik’s ancient band T-shirts. A blank sheet of writing paper and a pen were sat in front of him, and he was holding a copy of a picture that Erik had had printed off for the living room wall. Their gorgeous little girl, only three days old, cradled against Andreas’ neck and shoulder, with Andreas blissfully unaware and kissing the top of her head.

  “What’s up?” Erik asked quietly, taking both shoulders in his hands and squeezing.

  “I—”

  And Andreas stopped.

  “You what?” Erik prompted, nosing at the crown of Andreas’ head. When he got no response, he leaned lower and chewed on the top of Andreas’ left ear.

  “I was going to write to my mother.”

  My mother.

  Andreas never mentioned her. If he ever mentioned his family, it was his younger siblings, stories from their childhood. He rarely talked about his parents, and never called them Mum and Dad—or whatever Spanish people called their mums and dads. It was always my mother, my father. Never anything…personal.

  “And now?” Erik asked carefully.

  Andreas sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Erik bit his lip, and began a gentle massage.

  “Well,” he said. “What’s your options?”

  Andreas coughed a humourless laugh. “Say nothing at all. I never wrote and told them I was pregnant. Or about you. I wrote once when I arrived in the UK, gave them my address and everything, but they never replied.”

  Erik sighed.

  “I should tell them,” Andreas said. “I mean, they’re grandparents. She’s probably their first grandchild—Ana will only be nineteen now…”

  “But?”

  Andreas rolled his head back and stared blankly past Erik at the ceiling.

  “But part of me doesn’t think they have the right to know,” he admitted. “They just threw me out. I don’t owe them anything, do I?”

  “No,” Erik said honestly.

  “What do you do—”

  “I’d—

  “—if your parents called you right now and asked how your life was going?”

  Erik hesitated.

  He’d never met them. He didn’t remember them, or anything about his life. He’d been abandoned in a hospital, eighteen months old and left in a corridor in a buggy. After he’d left care, he’d asked for his files. And all he’d ever found out was the hospital CCTV showed a woman pushing him inside in the buggy, then turning around and walking right back out. They’d never identified her. And she’d never come back.

  Erik had always assumed he’d been abandoned at birth. But that had been so much worse. Someone had looked after him, perfectly well by all accounts, for a year and a half before getting sick of him and dumping him. He’d always wondered how, in eighteen months, he’d failed to make his mother love him.

  But if she called right now?

  “I think,” he said carefully, “that I’d tell her. That I’d tell her I had a great job, and my own house, and an amazing boyfriend, and a big fluffy marmalade cat, and the most beautiful baby in the world. And that when my baby is eighteen months old, I’ll still be taking her to play on the swings and sneaking her ice creams when her other dad isn’t looking—”

  “Oi!”

  “—and that if my baby ever tells me that she’s got a girlfriend, I’ll just ask if she’s nice. And if my baby ever tells me she’s a boy, I’ll just ask what her new name is going to be so I can start practising.”

  Andreas’ gaze focused on him and sharpened.

  “You’d make her feel like you did better.”

  “Yeah,” Erik said simply. “Because we will. I don’t think she’s earned the right to know, but…if it were me, I’d rub her face in it a little bit. She’s got a beautiful granddaughter all the way over here in England, and she can’t see her because she was so shitty to her own son.”

  Andreas smiled, and stretched his chin up. Erik stooped to kiss him upside-down, then bit his nose.

  “Ow!”

  “Can you write that tomorrow?”

  “I suppose so…”

  “It’s just there’s a nest in the armchair, and a bottle of wine with your name on it…”

  Andreas barked a laugh. “Oh, you’ll be lucky. I’m not having sex for six months, minimum. You might put another monster in me.”

  “Would you accuse me of being cheesy if I said actually I got a bottle of your favourite massage oil, too and I wanted to soothe you into a coma?”

  “Yes. And I’d be suspicious. Why?”

  “You’ve not been yourself since the three-month mark. And I miss you, and I know I can’t make it better because it’s all tangled up with your body and how it makes you feel, but I love you and I hate seeing you down, so I want to make you feel good for a bit, even if it’s just surface good. So…”

  Andreas’ expression softened.

  “Thank you,” he said softly, and leaned up for a quick kiss. “You’re right, you can’t fix it. But a massage and a bottle of wine does sound good.”

  “Plus Jo might have impressed on me how big Beatriz actually is,” Erik added ruefully.

  “Ah, I see. So this is the apology for the promised apricot turning into a watermelon?”

  “Yes.”

  Andreas put the photo down and twisted around to kiss Erik properly.

  “Only if you carry me to the sofa.”

  “Fireman’s or bridal?”

  “Excuse me, not getting laid for a year if you throw me over your shoulder like some caveman…”

  Erik laughed, and stooped to do as he was told. So what if he couldn’t fix everything? He was a dad now, he’d have to get used to that. But he could at least fix some things—and why not start right here, with a massage and a bottle of wine?

  Chapter 5

  The bleeding finally stopped.

  The first day he didn’t have to wear a sanitary towel, Andreas cried in the shower, and didn’t even berate himself for it. Periods were—and had always been—the worst part of being assigned female. He’d hated having breasts. His bald face mocked him in the mirror every morning. He didn’t like doing anal because the lack of reaction was a cruel reminder of what he didn’t have. But they were all just kind of shit things. Getting his first period, at twelve years old? He’d tried to kill himself.

  So when he went twenty-four hours without any blood whatsoever, he broke down in the shower and cried himself hoarse.

  Then he’d gone downstairs, thrown the post-pregnancy diet to the winds, and made an obscenely large mug of hot chocolate.

  “You alright?” Erik asked when he went into the living room. He was sitting in the armchair, legs propped up on the footstool, cradling Beatriz against his chest. She was dozing, seemingly asleep but for the sleepy waves of her chubby little arms whenever an advert on the telly let out a loud enough squawk.

  “Bit better this morning,” Andreas said, squeezing into the little room remaining. The cushions sagged, and Beatriz squeaked. “Good morning to you, too, sweet
ie.”

  “I can’t lean over. Bring your face here.”

  Andreas obeyed, and got a kiss and a gnaw on his earlobe in quick succession. He grinned, and shrugged the attention off.

  “I was thinking,” Erik said. “You never said anything about getting her christened.”

  “What?”

  “You know, christened. Baptised. In a church.”

  “Why would I want to get her christened?” Andreas asked blankly.

  “Don’t you do that in Spain?”

  “Oh!” He laughed. “Not so much these days. And you know I’m not a Christian.”

  “In which case,” Erik said, “we need to sort out our wills.”

  “Bit morbid for a Saturday morning, isn’t it?”

  “I’m just planning ahead,” Erik retorted. “If something happens to us, there’s nobody else she’s related to except your family. And no offence, but I’m not having my baby girl going to live with some homophobic, transphobic strangers. Especially if she turns out to be as gay as us.”

  “Neither of us are gay, you philistine.”

  “I’m not saying the q-word. I don’t care how liberal you young’uns are, in my book, it’s still a dirty word.”

  “Every word that comes out of your mouth is a dirty word,” Andreas laughed.

  Erik smirked, then the expression smoothed back into sobriety.

  “I just want to make absolutely sure that if anything happens, God forbid, then she’s taken care of. She’s never, ever going to end up like us, living with some awful bigots or dumped in the foster system.”

  “No arguments here,” Andreas said. “You going to ask Mike and Jo?”

  “Yeah. And put Lauren down as a back-up, if she agrees.”

  “You know they’d all agree, even if Mike would bitch and moan about it,” Andreas said. He stretched out. “We’ll talk to them next time they come over.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Er—”

  “I booked us a table at the carvery. Us and the girls. Mike’s going to join us after work, he’s on shift.”

  Andreas hesitated.

  He knew exactly what Erik was up to. Especially by inviting Mike. Mike was a policeman, and looked the part, too. Big, bald, and uglier than a reality TV catfight. It had taken Andreas—who came from a country where casual conversations with cops was just asking for trouble—nearly a year to even manage being in the same room as him without getting antsy. He just hadn’t trusted police, Spanish or otherwise. He hadn’t seen the difference.

  But when Mike’s response to the pregnancy had been to say, “Rather you than me,” and little else, it had changed Andreas’ mind. Slowly but surely. Mike had even driven them to the scans so they didn’t have to get a taxi or the bus and have strangers asking awful questions.

  Andreas knew full well what that was about. Mike hated kids. But he was insurance. He wasn’t coming to lunch with a baby within a hundred feet of him because he wanted to see the baby, he was coming to lunch as a security measure, because Andreas’ usual security measure would have his arms full of baby. Dumb remarks would be met by a wall of dumb bloke, just in case.

  And Andreas appreciated it, but…

  He didn’t want to go.

  He didn’t want to go out yet. He was still swollen up. He was still soft in all the wrong places. The idea of putting a fattening roast down his neck made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He wanted to stay home a bit longer, until he didn’t look—like this anymore.

  “I was thinking,” Erik said, resolutely looking at Beatriz and not at him, “that we could walk round, with Beatriz in her pram. I booked us into the conservatory bit, too, where it’s cooler. You know how hot it gets in the main section there, and how she kicks off if she’s too warm.”

  That wasn’t it at all, but the rush of gratitude was overwhelming. Andreas tucked himself against Erik’s side, and kissed his shoulder through his shirt.

  “I know what you’re up to.”

  “Um—”

  “Thank you.”

  Erik relaxed.

  “Walking round sounds like a good idea.”

  He could wear a big coat. And borrow one of Erik’s T-shirts with a dumb slogan, so it looked deliberate but would hang loose enough to hide his maternity trousers and the swelling.

  “You want to take her?” Erik offered as Beatriz snuffled to herself and, in the act of waving a fist, punched herself in the eye. She started awake, blinking owlishly. “I was going to make cocido madrileño for lunch.”

  Andreas bristled. “I don’t think so. You make it with Lincolnshire sausage.”

  “So?”

  “Ever seen a Lincolnshire chorizo? No, of course you haven’t. Because it’s not a thing. I’ll do it, you can look after Beatriz for the morning.”

  “We might not have chorizo!” Erik called after him as Andreas hefted his bulk off the chair and headed for the kitchen.

  “Unless you ate it whole as a snack last night, we have loads,” Andreas called back. He grimaced as he hefted the heavy pan out of the cupboard, and began rummaging for ingredients. Cocido madrileño was the one Spanish dish that Erik had fallen whole-heartedly in love with, even if he pronounced it like a two-year-old mastering her first tildes, and even if he did butcher the ingredients when left to his own devices. In the latter stages of the pregnancy, Andreas had had to put up with Lincolnshire sausage, fresh instead of cured ham, and even—one awful evening—a bastardised version with butter beans instead of chickpeas, because Erik had forgotten to restock the tins cupboard.

  But now he didn’t have an enormous baby and what felt like twice as much in fluid strapped to his belly, he was done with terrible English attempts at food. Even if he didn’t really feel like a fat-heavy stew.

  The positive side was that he could graze while he cooked, and in time was joined by Erik and the baby. Erik popped her in her borrowed car seat on the table, trying to entertain her with a rattle while she was too busy looking surprised at all the smells and sounds in the little kitchen. He only popped out once to change her, and then—once Andreas had plated up the lunch and boxed the leftovers for the fridge—sat cooing at her and letting her taste the stew off the end of his finger.

  “Good luck getting her to feed from the bottle after you’ve given her that,” Andreas said dryly.

  “I can’t wait for her to get proper food. I’m going to turn her into a foodie.”

  “You cannot claim foodie status when you think a Richmond’s sausage is even remotely comparable to proper chorizo.”

  They bickered about Spanish versus English food—with the only ground that Andreas was willing to give being the supreme beauty that was toad-in-the-hole with fat Cumberland sausages buried in the batter—and by the time Beatriz tired of everyone getting food except her and began to cry, he had finished a whole bowl.

  And judging by the sly smirk on Erik’s face, it had been entirely on purpose.

  “Git,” Andreas said, but didn’t have the heart to inject much venom into it.

  “Guilty,” Erik said, and beamed up at him. “You want to resolve this screaming, or shall I?”

  * * * *

  The minute Andreas had tucked the pram safely behind the table, Erik held out his hands.

  “Pass her here.”

  Andreas rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.

  They’d walked round to the carvery. It had been cold and windy, and Andreas had bundled Beatriz up in a puffy parka, so she resembled a fat starfish. It was the cutest thing Erik had ever seen in his entire life, and he itched to hold her.

  She was asleep, grumbling a little as Andreas passed her over, but she settled into Erik’s arms and dropped off again quickly enough. For a little while, Erik simply contented himself with stroking her delicate hands, while Andreas thoroughly ignored the pair of them and checked and rechecked his sports watch for how many steps they’d taken.

  Erik didn’t really mind, though.

  Andreas had worn his big
coat, and one of Erik’s old T-shirts. He looked…okay, yes, he looked on the fat side. Erik rather liked it—Andreas had always been a bit too skinny for his tastes—but one thing he didn’t look was feminine. And if it took counting his steps like it was an obsession and stealing Erik’s tops to make Andreas start to feel—and function—better, then what did Erik care? Whatever it took to get his boyfriend back to normal.

  “Hello!”

  Lauren arrived first. She cooed at the baby exactly once, then flung herself down into the seat beside Andreas and began to talk a mile a minute about some woman she worked with. Jo and Mike followed after another ten minutes, Mike eyeing the green bundle once and grunting before ignoring Beatriz’s existence, and Jo insisting she got the first cuddle once Beatriz woke up.

  That, of course, didn’t happen.

  Because true to form, she woke up roaring just as the starters had been served, and Erik wordlessly passed her to Andreas for feeding and got up to borrow the pub’s microwave for the bottle.

  “Christ, that’s loud,” Mike grumbled.

  “She has her dad’s lungs,” Andreas agreed a little sourly.

  Erik pulled a face at them all before lumbering off to the kitchen door. A heat rose in his face as the waitresses flitting in and out cooed at him and flirted, clearly thinking a great red bear dutifully trotting off with a baby bottle was the sweetest thing they’d ever seen—but when he returned with the warm bottle, and Andreas tipped his head back for a kiss as it was handed over, Erik couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

  And then Andreas jammed the bottle into that demanding gob, and the shrieking instantly stopped.

  “Thank God,” Mike said.

  “Actually we wanted to talk to you all about her,” Erik said once the apocalypse was averted for another couple of hours. “We wanted to talk—futures.”