Sub-Culture

Excerpt From: Sub-Culture

"Fuck, not again!" Shifting, Noah snatched the duvet under his arm, turned around and buried his head in the pillow.

"Uh, it’s your turn, love," Pierce reminded him, struggling a little to recall how to work his voice, if only he wasn’t so incredibly, mind-numbingly tired. He dragged an eyelid open and glanced at the clock on the nightstand, but only because it was there anyway, straight in his blurry line of vision. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered.

An assembly of cool, greenish dashes informed him that it was half past two. That meant he would have three more hours of sleep until he had to get up. Noah would have four—in theory.

"No way!" Noah’s protest was muffled by the pile of pillows and duvet he’d buried himself under, but was nonetheless vehement. "It was my turn last night already."

"Sorry," Pierce mumbled, half apologetic, half relieved and completely anaesthetised with fatigue. "That was the night before last."

"Fuck." He felt the mattress bounce as Noah sat up. There was a noisy inhalation of breath—Noah yawning. "Shouldn’t he be able to make it through the night without another feed by now anyway?"

Right on cue, another long, heartbreaking and ear-splitting wail sliced through what was left of the night’s peace and quiet.

"Try telling him that," Pierce retorted.

"Pheebs stopped needing night feeds—"

"When she was six months old. I know. But Phinneas just isn’t Phoebe. He is who he is and he happens to need his milk at night so we have to give it to him. You have to give it to him."

"Yeah, right," Noah grunted but pushed to his feet. "Coming," he grumbled on the way out into the hall, then, seconds later, his voice sounded much gentler as he said, "Well, hello, you little sleepless gremlin. Got the munchies again, haven’t you?" More words followed, but they were too low for Pierce to make them out. Knowing Noah, it was a mix of sweet little nothings and good-humoured insults, which was his usual way of dealing with the baby whenever he was overtired and needed to vent some of the resulting grumpiness. Noah would never allow himself to let the fiery side of his temper show around either of their two children. It was what made him a wonderful dad—part of it, anyway. He was patient, generous, funny… Pierce found it increasingly hard to focus on the noises Noah was making in the kitchen while he was preparing the baby’s bottle.

No, they weren’t in the kitchen any longer. Already, Noah’s light-hearted chatter was growing louder as he approached their door on the way back to Baby Phin’s bedroom. Listening to the soothing, familiar tone of Noah’s voice, Pierce let the sweet melody of the faint accent in it lull him back to sleep.

The peace didn’t last long. Thirty minutes, according to the cool, greenish dashes on the alarm clock. The mattress bounced again but, instead of Noah’s six foot tall, hard-muscled body, something—or rather someone—significantly smaller, and also a lot bonier, crept into Pierce’s bed. A tiny, but pointed elbow hit him in the ribs with an accuracy that would have made a professional wrestler proud.

"Fu—Phoebe!" Pierce gasped as the air left his lungs a lot faster than he’d intended it to. "What are you doing here?" He rubbed the spot just left of his sternum. It was going to turn into a nasty bruise.

"Phin woke me up," Phoebe complained.

"That’s no reason to be out of bed at this time," Pierce pointed out.

"But I can’t sleep."

"No, of course you can’t sleep when you’re walking around and—Oi!"

Occupying the space Noah had deserted only half an hour ago, Phoebe had snatched the duvet in a very good imitation of her father. Just like he had earlier, she turned around, buried her head in his pillow and started snoring. So much for not being able to sleep.

Pierce knew he should move her, but the notion of getting out of his warm, almost comfortable nest was more than he could face. Besides, his own limbs felt like lead. How he was supposed to move with the added weight of a twelve-year-old if even his own body was too heavy for him to drag out of bed was beyond him. He was still contemplating whether or not he should try to carry her back into her own bed or simply ignore the late-night visitor and go back to sleep when Noah returned. Another half-hour had passed, as the numbers on the alarm clock pointed out.

"Taken," Pierce warned and indicated Noah’s side of the bed.

"Fan-fucking-tastic!" Hovering in front of the bed, Noah glared down at his sleeping child. "Why didn’t you tell her to go back to her own room?"

"Couldn’t. By the time I realised what was happening, she was already rolled into that duvet, tight as a tick. What was up with Phin? You’ve been gone quite long."

"I know." Noah let out an exasperated sigh. Or maybe it was just another yawn. "I had to change him after I fed him, then he was awake and wanted to play, puked on himself, so I had to change his clothes again—the usual." He watched Phoebe for another moment, then he murmured, "What do you think I should do about her now?"