He hangs around other kids, sometimes. Actually, he hangs around other kids a lot of the time, just because they’re the ones who can appreciate him best. Throw a breath of icy air at an adult, and they’d curse and swear, vainly rushing around to try to get their papers back in order (and they never, ever stopped to think: why did they have to get mad?).
But, throw the same gasp at a kid, and gasp they would, digging into their hoodies and jackets and maybe even smacking into friends. That’s what he liked best: if he could muster something strong enough, kids would just drop everything and go play. They got it. They could understand it. But adults? They were always too caught up in themselves to even begin to understand.
But, kids. There are rare times when he’s not causing trouble, and when he just hangs where he’d be unwelcome if he could get noticed. He just sits close to them, watches them play, tunes in to their conversations. And you know what kids are like? They’re self-centered. Every time he stops and listens, Kelly or Ben are complaining about their parents, their curfews, how they can’t stay outside to play. They wonder and wish, pretend how amazing it would be if their parents just didn’t exist. And that’s what kids think.
Kids don’t need their parents. And him? He’s no different.
But when he hears that not-statement from his dad (it counts, even if he isn’t really talking, right?), it’s kind of relieving. Something inside him loosens up, and the silence that hangs itself afterward isn’t that bad.
But: he’s a kid. And even when he tries really hard, he can’t keep his mouth shut, not for long.
'You should be!' he throws back, a new life to his voice that he tries to pass off as offence. He clambers to his feet and throws both his arms up, like almost every kid tends to do. 'I know paying attention is hard for old people, but this is really important.' His arms relax, and he twines his fingers behind his neck, finally looking away and starting to pace. He's surefooted on the ice, a smirk working its way onto his face.
Kids don’t need their parents. But having their attention is — nice.
'Today was really, really cold,' he reports, voice loud and excited. He exaggerates his footing, taking big steps, voice rising mid-stride and falling whenever he puts a foot down. It’s comical. And that’s the point. ‘I did stuff. But a lot of stuff just happened on its own. It was great.’
He spins on his heel once he reaches the center of his lake, doubling back.
'There was this one point!' he continues sharply. He skims his stick-rod-whatever against the ice, sending spirals through the otherwise-undisturbed surface. 'When these kids decided to have a snowball fight, right. During recess. Obviously, I helped,' he looks particularly smug here. 'And they got really, really into it. I guess the adults didn't like it? Because this one guy came out and started yelling at them. He looked really dumb.
'So I threw one at him. And then it got crazy! They kept playing for, like, an hour.’ And it’s obvious that that was the highlight of the day. For visual reference, he brings together a snowball, holds it aloft, and then chucks it towards the moon. It makes it far, but not that far.
His smile fades, but not that much.
He comes to a halt at the edge of the lake and wraps his arms around his staff-thing, leaning into it and turning to look back up at his dad. He doesn’t look that bothered.
'You'd know that, if you bothered to pay attention. If you had,' and he stops there. He wants to say, “we could've played,” but he doesn't. '-then even you would’ve liked it. It was fun. But you’re no fun.
'What makes you so boring, anyway? Are you like a vampire? Is that why you never show up, except when everybody's asleep?'
It's hard to say where this all started, but no one can be that oblivious about how they raised their own kind. Surely he can find a way around that, if he exerted himself more than he normally does. but is that what he really wants to leave in the lights of his son's eyes?
No he doesn't. The standard crop of fear that comes with parenting, thinking, wondering, is it too late. Have I done him in wrong.
And the answer is, yes he has. Many a time.
But even the worst of parents can be salvaged when their own kind is meritable standing on their own, which his son has done up til this point the whole time. Even without steady hands to wrap about, then support him, he can do without that. It's been proved, time and time again.
Much like the steady truth that he will never budge, never ever budge from his spot in the sky. At least, not forever, he would never retire this for the entire fate of this and their little kind dependent on it. It's his unassuming stoop, it's his watching place. Not for the benefit of his own, but it's only place in this world that he can ensure that his son is safe.
Was he willing to give that all up for more closeness, a little more involvement that's been long due; he'd like to think not. This was his responsibility, in the sense that what he carried on his shoulders belonged to him and him only.
He could not hand the duty off to just anyone he didn't fully know through insideout, and he could not share this umbrella task with his son. It was the one thing keeping them apart, and a while far apart, but from this view his son looked almost in reach. He was being approached, he was approaching him. He couldn't go anywhere, and he knew as well that his son could go about anywhere to the ends of the earth if he so pleased, but he was
here. Of all places. And that could make him light up, in an instant. Take him off his chair once and for all, if anything could do him in then that would do it.
And only if it could.
We could've gone. Tell me next time.
If he could project now, the thin smile wrung across his face would have been the only telling thing that conveyed the gaze he'd give his son. In person, the actual thing, he said a great deal less than he did when he was set apart. Like this.
You know where to find me. As you know, I don't know where you are.
He lets that satisfaction sink in, pray tell his son was very bright. The most concerning thing was, come a few passings of seasons there was no telling, maybe he really would outsmart the man.
