5. Dean

Dean

First of all, I had no idea that Art had never been ice skating before. Really, that was total stupidity on my part. The guy never gets out, so of course, he hadn't been ice skating.

It was one of the things that popped into my head for an activity, though, and he seemed interested in the idea, so I figured maybe it was something cephalopods did as kids, just like humans did.

And maybe I had an image of us skating hand-in-hand around the rink. Sappy? Yup. But I'm a sucker for Art (pun intended), and the idea of holding hands with him was a definite perk.

Being wrapped in his tentacles, though? Well, that was a hell of a lot better than just holding hands. I spent most of the time we were skating trying not to let him know exactly how much I liked his tentacles wrapped around me. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he started to get the hang of it and ended up skating next to me by the time the Zamboni was ready to come out. We walked off together and are currently standing and watching the ice get resurfaced.

Art is mumbling under his breath, probably figuring out the mechanics of how the Zamboni works. It's kind of cute.

"Should we get some hot chocolate?" I ask when Art falls quiet. I think he's fully figured out how the Zamboni works, because he's turned toward me.

"Hot chocolate has caffeine and sugar, which are both addictive. Did you know that lab rats preferred cookies to cocaine in a study, since the sugar activated more neurons in the rats' brains than either cocaine or morphine?" Art asks.

I smile at him, but he tilts his head, and a tentacle reaches out toward me, lightly brushing against my arm. I try not to shiver at the sensation.

"I said something wrong, didn't I?" Art asks.

"Well…" I start, but I'm not sure how to continue. I don't want to hurt his feelings. And honestly, I think he's super cute. I love the nerd aesthetic, and I love that Art is just himself. Unfortunately, our boss and the lab techs don't seem to find it as endearing.

"I thought it was an interesting study. Should I not talk about scientific studies? I thought that because we're both scientists, you might find it interesting as well. Was it because the study involved animal testing?" Art asks.

Oh, boy. I lead Art over to a bench, because I can see he's wobbling a bit standing in his skates. His tentacles gently hold onto me as we make our way to the bench, and I feel flushed from more than just the exercise of ice skating.

Maybe ice skating wasn't the best first activity, because I'm sure Art has no clue what he's doing to me. I'm not even sure if he'd like the idea of what he's doing to me, and I definitely don't want to come across as a creep.

"You can take the skates off if they're uncomfortable. We can put them back on if we go back onto the ice," I say, although I sense Art might be done ice skating for today. I really don't want our time together to end, though.

Art sighs in relief, and I watch, fascinated, as hands and tentacles make quick work of getting the skates off.

I wonder how long it would take his hands and tentacles to get my clothes off.

Focus, Dean .

"So, I just want to start off by saying that I like you just as you are, Art. I like hearing about studies, and I like your quirky answers. I know you're just really inquisitive and have a ton of knowledge that you like to share," I say.

"I appreciate that, but I sense that there is a qualifier to that statement. Otherwise, people wouldn't get so mad at me," Art mumbles.

"Yes, well, some people are assholes," I mumble back. Art looks shocked at that, so I smile at him. "And some people just don't know any better. So, you're super smart, and humans, and even other cryptids, don't like to feel like they aren't smart. Sometimes when you're discussing technical issues or studies, people don't understand as much as you, and they feel stupid."

"Ignorance is not stupidity. Shouldn't they be excited to learn new things?" Art asks, and I can tell he is genuinely perplexed.

"Well, not everyone wants to always acquire new knowledge. Sometimes people just like to have fun. Sometimes people do things, like drink a caffeinated and sugary drink, just because it's enjoyable. When you tell them how bad it is for them and give them a lesson on it, it makes it not so much fun," I answer honestly.

Art looks thoughtful. "So I should not comment on a person's poor choices?"

I laugh. "Yes, that does kind of sum it up. People don't like to have their poor choices pointed out."

"But that could have catastrophic effects in the lab," Art argues, his tone a little more firm.

"Yes, well, if someone is going to harm themselves or someone else, and it's work related, then yes, you should tell them, as nicely as possible, that what they're doing is incorrect and why. People expect to learn at work. But when it comes to fun things, people expect to… Well, to have fun," I say, not sure how else to explain it.

"But Dean Miller, we were in the lab when the lab techs quit, so obviously these rules do not always apply."

Hmm. I never realized how hard navigating social situations really is. Different places have different rules, and that's where Art seems to be stuck. He applies the same rules all the time, never mind the fact that even in one environment, like work, there were work situations and then there were social situations, and a person (or cryptid) was just supposed to know which rules apply at any given moment.

I hum thoughtfully for a moment. How to explain?

"Ok, so when the lab techs asked you about doing stuff outside of work, like getting coffee, or ‘hanging,' or if someone asks about getting lunch or doing something after work, they're moving into fun mode. Or if people are talking about their weekends or their plans or their family or vacation—that's all personal non-work stuff, and so it requires the non-work approach to conversation. Does that make sense?" I ask.

"So what am I supposed to do in the non-work conversation? Just stay silent?" Art asks.

"I guess you just kind of answer. Like if you don't want to get hot chocolate, a simple, ‘No thanks' would work. And then if someone else gets hot chocolate, you just let them drink it and enjoy it without letting them know how much sugar and caffeine it has," I tell Art.

"I don't know exactly how much sugar and caffeine it has, so I wouldn't provide that information," Art answers.

I laugh. "But even if you did, you don't have to share it. Non-work or fun situations just call for a yes or no thank you. Or if someone is talking about their family or vacation, just nod along and say it sounds like fun."

"What if they're talking about something horrible? Am I supposed to lie? Flying through the trees on a small wire with a harness on doesn't sound like fun at all," Art insists, obviously remembering the last conversations about vacations where he'd told a lab tech they were likely to plummet to their death.

"Different people have fun in different ways. Some people think shrimp are gross, or they hate swimming. If they told you all the reasons swimming was awful and shrimp were bad, you wouldn't be happy," I say, hoping the comparison works.

Art looks thoughtful, so he must get it at least a little bit.

"Sometimes," I add gently, "it's good to try things, even if they don't sound like they'll be fun."

Art looks at me. "I am not putting on a harness and careening through the trees."

"No," I laugh. "I wouldn't expect that. But maybe you could try a sip of hot chocolate? You might even like the taste, and surely the caffeine and sugar will not be that detrimental if you have it one time."

Art glances at me, then glances at the ice, where skaters are venturing out again. I almost laugh thinking about him weighing the pros and cons of more ice skating versus trying a sugary and caffeinated drink.

As he contemplates the ice rink, one of his tentacles is wavering closer and closer to me, until eventually it rests lightly on my shoulder. I try not to gasp as it reaches over and rests against the bare skin on the back of my neck.

I'm not sure what sensory input Art gets from his tentacles, but they do seem to have a mind of their own—more than once Art has seemed embarrassed by what his tentacles have done, and I've seen them catch falling things when his back was turned. It's kind of amazing. I read once that each tentacle in a cephalopod has its own mini-brain, and so that would explain why they sometimes seem to do things independent of Art.

Still, there must be some sensory input to Art from them, because as his tentacle gently caresses the back of my neck, Art looks over, his face flushed as he starts to stutter.

Before he can get out what is probably an apology, I look down and place my hand along the tentacle that is lying across the bench, watching as the tip bends up toward me.

I run my hand along the tentacle and look up to see Art looking flustered. "Do you feel what they feel?"

It's probably an inappropriate question. At least, the way I'm thinking about it is highly inappropriate. But Art doesn't need to know where I'm thinking of having his tentacles.

"Each arm does have a cluster of nerve cells that's often called a mini-brain, and these allow my tentacles to work independently. They can gather sensory information, including taste, smell, feeling, and color, but yes, they do export that data back to my central brain," Art explains. He's trying to look scientific, but I can tell he's vaguely uncomfortable. I don't know if it's from talking about his tentacles, or the fact that his tentacle is currently exploring my neck, and now I know he is tasting and feeling my skin.

I smile at him gently. He can taste and feel me anytime he wants, and I think about saying that, but I don't want to fluster Art any more than he already is.

"How about some of that hot chocolate?" I ask instead, keeping my hand on his tentacle as we both rise up. He still looks flustered, but he agrees.

We walk all the way to the snack stand with one of his tentacles in my hand and one still lightly resting on the back of my neck, but I'm definitely not complaining.