He isn't sure what to do.

The room, his Pipis Room, is practically full to the brim with its namesake. Pipis line the walls, stacked up in uneven rows, with only enough clear space for a tiny puppet body to carefully navigate between them. More are added to his brood every few days and few are removed, owing to their large numbers.

And "brood" isn't a description chosen lightly. Anyone could guess what the Pipis really are, despite each and every one being barren. The fact that he's spitting rather than laying them doesn't change the fact that they're eggs, either.

It's something Spamton's simultaneously embarrassed by and proud of. He's keenly aware of every other judgement or mental image it brings to other's minds but.. could anyone else handle such a massive clutch?

... it helps that they're all duds, useful only for the occasional battle.

....

... all save for one, now.

He can't be sure, not yet, but the fresh Pipis in his hands definitely feels different from the rest. It's warm in a way he knows his own body isn't, its shell feels more robust and the color more vibrant. Spamton's still in a post-egg-vomit state of confusion, but he knows something isn't right. He knows his Boys.

And this one isn't his.

Not just his, anyway.

Brad's waiting for him, it's late in the evening and they're both tired and Spamton just wants to drop this thing off with the rest and head to bed where Brad can hold him all night long and-

There's only one way he knows how to check.

When he finally gathers the nerve to leave the room, Brad's still up... If barely. The drunk is still upright, still looking at him, but Spamton could hardly call that awake. Poor guy looks like he's barely holding onto consciousness.

When he flicks on the flashlight and aims it directly against the base of the now very obviously occupied Pipis, however, that all changes.

It's days before he sees Brad again.

Their initial argument had been brutal, accusations thrown around and facts lobbied against them. The fear in the human's eyes was clear to see as it all sank in, as Spamton finally started to get it through to Brad that something must've sparked between them, that there must have been some kind of bullshit buildup of...

Spamton doesn't even know what!! Love? Determination, maybe? He doesn't know enough about his own body to guess!

When Brad finally ran away, letting fear get the best of him, it was the worst feeling in Spamton's life. Worse than the eviction, worse than the fall, maybe even worse than all his losses. It was the loneliest feeling of his life.

For a few horrible days, he felt the sinking dread of being a single father... and then Brad came back, unwilling to leave Spamton for good and even more unwilling to abandon a child.

They cried together, when he finally returned, holding each other tightly. Brad shushed all of Spamton's apologies, promised it hadn't been the puppet's fault, and received much the same in return. They both knew there'd be more drama to come, yes, but for now... it was better. It felt like their fervent embrace lasted hours (it probably did) and by the end Brad was ready to try looking at it again. At his...

"... I... think it's a boy..." Spamton isn't looking at him, carefully looking past both the oversized egg Pipis he's holding and his partner with that same sense of embarrassment he's always harbored, "... our boy."

It helps to make it more of a surprise when Brad's there to take and cradle their egg-son.

And then they kissed. It was really gay and epic.