Langst: One Shots

Warmth Within the Memories

*This is an old story I wrote back in October, which is why it is Thanksgiving themed. I revised it slightly, and decided to use it here because I was proud of it.*
*Religious References*
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“Hey, Mama…”

Lance McClain stood in front of the stone, his blue eyes the only true color in the dull November scenery. Trees in the midst of shedding their crumbled brown leaves, grass dead beneath the soles of his sneakers.

He wore his father's jacket, a yellow scarf wrapped up around his neck and slender hands shoved into his pockets for warmth. The boy stood in absolute silence, eyes searching the dull rock in front of him like he was awaiting a response.

There was none.

He chuckled shortly, breath billowing out in front of him like the smoke from a cigarette, sniffling from his tinted red nose.

“I know how much you loved Thanksgiving, Ma. I promised you I'd have my whole family to be celebrating my thanks with today, even the crazy cousins….”

He scoffed to himself, shaking his head with a smirk. Lance rubbed the scar along his jaw, eyes thoughtfully examining the dead flowers.

“But, Mama, it's not the whole family without you...”

His mind shifted, towards his mother and father. The ones who brought him up.

To his little brother, sitting atop a high chair and barely half a year old. Himself, only just hitting childhood.

~

“Mama!” The bright eyed boy ran up to his mother in the kitchen, cheeks tinted pink and his little nose scrunched.

She looked down at her eldest son, gasping. “Oh dear, you've gotten​ leaves all over you, hijo!” She smiled with a shake of her head. “What am I going to do with you, all dirty before dinner? Go wash up.”

Lance grinned, and instead of obeying her wish, he dragged over a chair from the table and clambered onto it to stand next to his mother. “Pie!”

She smiled sweetly, “Not yet, this is for dinner. Do you want to help me?”

Immediately, Lance nodded. “Apple?”

His mother hummed in affirmation, “And blueberry, for your father.” Her flour washed hands patting gently at the dough, creating perfect little folded crescents. She watched her son with a gentle gaze, small little direction here and there.

“Wash your hands.”

“Okay, Mama.”

“Stir the sugar into the blueberries, like this.”

“Okay, Mama.”

As the smell of baking pies filled the home, it was time for Mr. McClain to return home.

“Hello, dear!” Mrs. McClain called from the kitchen upon hearing his arrival, “Lance and I are in here!”

Lance's father grinned, slipping off his work boots, and made way for the kitchen.

Not before crouching in the living room, where little baby brother played on his back, doing whatever infants do.

“Hey there...” The parent cooed, rubbing the baby's stomach, “Doesn't it smell so nice in here? Mom and Lance are baking.”

“Dad!” Lance called from the kitchen, “Our pies are done!”

Mr. McClain grinned wider, grunting as he got to his feet and went to the kitchen, exaggerating a sniff of the air.