Boys Don't Cry

Wisp

[This one should be the final L chapter until the final chapter. Need to write more Near...]

"I would take comfort knowing that you knew how to operate large machinery, I agree with you, but you do have to learn something more domestic as well.

"You're seventeen years old, and you can't drive. I'm sure you could learn how very easily. When we leave the U.K., if and when, I want you to know how to help yourself. Don't tell me it's illogical, it's common sense."

"Yes, I suppose so... You don't have to raise your voice..."

"Yes? That's a fine decision. We'll do it tomorrow."

His right shoulder was skeletal and unnerving as always as I laid a gentle hand on it, unable to keep much warmth on it's own. They matched his chilled hands.

My boy would drive tomorrow.

He was at the point at the end of true youth when the somber truths of maturity and existence had begun to lighten as they were stowed out of active mind, never truly forgotten. He was coming out of melancholy aloofness, senseless agreeing, and thinking about the long term. He began to reach for it quietly, as he does a pawn in chess.

It made me happy, and was the first real sign that my battered little tree would survive the frost. I smiled out of his sight, and I hoped on a whim that he would get some enjoyment out of it. But, he never was one to outwardly take pleasure, just exhaust it in plain sight, but somehow hidden away, like a succubus.

That evening, I directed him to go to bed, even though how much rest he got out of it would be uncertain. He was as lively as he is on a daily basis, but when I checked on him ten minutes later, he was staring at the door. His eyes were bleary and unfocused from the exhaustion of insomnia, but sluggishly found me when I stepped in.

I never knew how to react to it, he was just so personal. He allowed me to pull the blanket over his shoulder, he was laying prone on his side. He let me slip a hand back under, and seeing he was cold, pull another quilt from the organized closet. As I laid it over the first, he looked back to the wall and murmured a thank you.

He was simply content in being cared for, and I enjoyed it. I never settled down, and regretted I didn't, because I did enjoy children and the idea of fatherhood and mentorship. I found that filler in L, albeit his ecentricites. He was "my boy", even though I could never know what he thought about me. It must have been some affectionate little glimmer, lost in the translation from thought to action to speech; it simply must have been. I pushed a section of slightly dirty, thick hair out of his eyes before giving him a gentle "Goodnight, L." He was completely exhausted, as previously mentioned, and closed his eyes fully. As I flicked the lamp off and softly closed the door, I hoped he'd get a little sleep.

I don't think he'd ever made a complete analysis of expectation. I don't think he understands either sides, that he has obligations, or that he isn't expected to fulfill all of them by people such as myself with his interest in mind. Which may be because empathy is still a hazy concept, or because he has achieved a totally independent mindset and functions accordingly, which would be unlikely.

It's shallow justification for his dull, stoic silence. Expectation is a mere representative- no, a placeholder.

I have learned to take advantage of all of his well-meaning symbolic tolerances and rare personal requests, pay excess attention to things he wished to move away from, and quickly correct the few things that would fluster him to blushing ear to ear. He wasn't very independent in his lifestyle as it was, but I wanted to provide an opportunity had I been stricken invalid or incapacitated. Or, the day I dreaded, if and when he'd leave.