In a state of obnoxious delirium I find myself lying on the too-small-for-two-people bed, Cleave's head resting pleasantly on my stomach. It's in this moment that we're both way too human, choked by the silence.

"My head feels like it's going to fucking explode."

"I wouldn't mind a tyke, you know. I'm rather—ah, fond of the little hellions."

"You're not seriously contemplating bringing this child into the world. You have to be kidding me."

I strain to recall when I even agreed to have sex with him.

And it's been awhile…since I could…hold my head up high…and it's been awhile…since I first saw you…and it's been awhile….since I could stand on my own two feet again, and it's been awhile since I could call you…

The iPod, the iPod that never turns off blares from its speakers. I wonder if God plans out shuffle to match with my life, but I contemplate that thought for a few minutes.

"Well, why-uh not?"

I don't even want to answer that. Why not? Because I don't want to bear his clown-babies? Because I'd like to take a shot at not being an unfairly pregnant twenty-seven year old with a kid who I don't want to deal with? Because I don't feel like producing the spawn from an encounter I didn't even want?

It's funny, how physical contact unintentionally brings one person closer to another, whether they want it or not. It's sort of like he feels more like my mate, by this point, because of—yeah, the questionable sex (I'm convinced it'd be an insult to call it anything to the effect of 'love-making'). Half of him hangs off the bed, his hands folded at his stomach, his feet flat on the floor. His toes wiggle in that fidgety way of his.

"It's so easy for you, isn't it? To live y-your freak life. It's so easy for you to forget all your fucking attachments and just blissfully go on with it, happily play the king while I play the pawn. It's so easy for you to just flounce on without the thought of the fucking magnitude of what you're suggesting."

"Oh, pu-lease, Harvey, do enlighten me with your in-fi-nite wisdom."

If I had the energy, I'd throw him off me and incredulously go around illustrating my rage. I'd throw things, I'd kick him in the fucking face and make him realize the horribly claustrophobic concept he's just dropping on me.

Oh yeah, Harvey, you basically have no choice. Have my freak-child.

"You're asking me to have your kids."

"Kid-uh. Twins don't—ah, run in my family." I raise my eyebrow skeptically, and I feel my nostrils flare like a fucking dragon. I don't really think that shit is the point, Cleveland, I think the point is worlds larger than that.

I wonder if he's selfish or dense. I don't think I've ever let myself get this angry with him, but it's coming. I can feel it, like a searing, bubbling sensation in my throat.

"Cleave, take a second to fucking think about what you're saying."

"Well, last I checked, ol' Harv, I ain't carrying the plague and you're not my sister, so I can't really see why—"

"No! Fucking—no!" My outburst that adds onto me trying to spring up from the bed is only stopped by his swift semi-smack, and the collision of his palm with my chest. He pushes me back down with the most ridiculous ease, and I really hate when he gets defensive. His defensive equals my claustrophobia. All in all, it doesn't end off all too well.

"Wouldn't suggest an abortion clinic, Harvs, unless, of course, you'd want the—" I listen to the jackal drag of his tone, and something flicks into my field of vision. It waves teasingly in the air, Cleave's form still lax, the shiny instrument of pure destruction snugly fit into his thin fingers, "—the—ah, home remedy."

"You wo-wouldn't have the nerve."

"Oh? I wouldn't, now, would I, girly?" I feel the cold press against my skin, running in sleek lines up and down. The feel of it is completely terrifying, and it grows so cold that my muscles flinch beneath it. I recognize it as nothing more than an oversized pocket-knife. He's a surgeon, nonetheless, I'm sure, "Don't ever say I would—ah—not, girly."

His eyes stay stuck to the ceiling, but his fingers, the ones not clutching death itself, reach up to stroke at my thigh softly and in the dark he growls, "Just because I don't wanna don't mean I wouldn't, sweetheart."

The knife grows a bit more malicious, presses a little deeper. I almost squirm beneath it, but I'm desensitized and shivering and numb to the pain hidden beneath the frost. I know how to play his game. Stay quiet, stay dead, play opossum long enough and he gets frustrated. When he doesn't have a game to play, he won't play at all.

And he takes shots at my intellect so often. I've outwitted him—no, I've matched him.

"Can you at least...let me think about it, you fuck-ass?"

The knife stops, and with a flick retreats back into its sheath. His hand withdraws, but his other keeps twiddling with my leg, fascinated by the skin.

"Well, let's see, now—ah, I don't remember saying you had to figure it out right here on the spot or I'd dice you into fleshy pieces and cook you into this fine eve-uh-ning's chicken katchitori currently baking within the confines of the oven."

Is that the smell I've been catching all afternoon? I assess it casually with a curiosity undoubted, since he always has the ability to move my mind to other places. Like places that don't involve the child of Satan currently developing within me.

"You really are such a freak."

I'm still convinced he took advantage of my 'injury', or just plain raped me. But I've learned, with Cleveland, anything is really possible, so the benefit of the doubt is a requirement. Or else, I'd be throwing accusations at him by now.

"Fuh-reeeeak is such a strong word, Harvey-cakes," He flips right off of me and tucks his chin atop my belly, his eyebrows risen innocently. His entire expression is playfully tremendous, and he burrows his cheek in such a way that I can feel his need for a razor against the pale-blonde stubble growing there, "I prefer abby-normal."