V (boyxboy short stories)

Vigrid.

Dedicated to PaintingRosesRed, happy birthday!!! (late but ily)

     Vigrid, at his 18 years, was slowly walking in a playground by himself. It wasn't just his age that made it rather odd, but his position in society- he'd taken over his mother's hospital once she passed away by cancer, which was ironic considering the fact she built the hospital with the purpose of curing said illness. It had a wing focused on that very research.

     Vigrid didn't run it himself, a doctor that was one position lower than him helped with all, and Vigrid was just there to take money because his family name was on the institution.

     Even now he could see the building peek between tall, swinging trees. He lowered his gaze to look at the happy kids skipping about with parents on their trails.

     Why was he here? No, not because of his mother's death, though it was what triggered the reaction of coming here. He was here to witness the wonder that was fathers.

     His own died in the 1902 war between Great Britain and The Aro Confederacy. He was so little he could remember not a thing about him, and he grew up seeking a paternal figure.

     As a child, his mother would leave him at this playground while she went shopping, and he'd try to approach dads by playing with their kids. The men would sometimes pick him up and help him on the slide like they did with their own children, and push the spinning wheel they were all on, but never would the dads swing him or hold his hand personally. He'd tried, they'd push him away and his mother would punish him for approaching strangers.

     And now? Was he expecting more now, as a 18 years old? Well, he didn't stop and asked himself that. In fact, ever since he became aware that his mother was ill, he grew numb to what was decent, rational, real, and what not. Not even kissing a man in an alleyway woke him up. A man, and this was year 1918, a man? It just happened one of these past days behind a bar, and he sort of went with it.

     Vigrid shook his head, tightened the strap of his coat and raised his collar against the cold autumn wind. He approached a man that was wearily watching a blonde little girl walk up and down a row of uneven logs.

     "Good day." he whispered.

     The man barely moved his head his way. "Good day!"

     If his paranoia of having his girl fall to her death any second now wasn't enough of a clue, the man was a young, inexperienced father. Which was just great because Vigrid was a young, inexperienced son.

     "Can you..." Vigrid began with a hesitant voice. He must've looked ill, with the pale skin and dark circles he'd encountered in the reflection of her mom's favorite shop. He could see it from here. "Could you swing me?"

     The adult gawked at Vigrid, finally focused on him and not the girl. "Pardon?"

     "I ask that you treat me like your son." Vigrid took a moment to observe his coat. Nowhere near a rag, but he'd seen fancier. "I'll pay you however much you want."

     The man's eyes lightened up and he took half a step back, biting his lip in thought. Of course, Vigrid deduced, the man was thinking this was a present from whatever superior entity up above. A lunatic ready to empty his pockets for as little as a push of the swing.

     "Very well..." he nodded, blond curls matching the little girl's getting into his vision. "Holly, dear..."

     "Only us. Please. The swings are just here."

     The man nodded faintly though the lad was already heading there. "What's your name?"

     "Just call me son." Vigrid sat down on the swing and gripped the chains with a rustle. He'd forgotten his gloves at home, though considering his recent attitude it was a wonder he didn't forget his shoes.