Tanned leather repeatedly met concrete, concluding a footstep before giving birth to another. Feeble moonlight complimented the crisp southern air, as it shaped a pair of eager shadows strolling past another flushed lamp post to reach the next street that addressed their destination—one of the oldest Charleston hotspots Pierre knew with a burning passion that could easily spark another vintage affliction.
The stoplight interfered with a brewing conversation, as red transitioned into green. Abandoning the pavement, the duo walked through the pedestrian lane, connecting them to the soulful antebellum diner propping up the same flickering signage which kindled both nostalgia and appetite.
The bells rang once upon Pierre’s entry, then twice after Aiden followed his quiet path.
Grimsby’s hardly changed. The briny whiff of seafood still drifted all over the busy atmosphere, and the same checkerboard pattern decked the floors. A stream of smoke hovered above the blended noise of utensils and chatter, clouding Pierre’s senses with memoir.
Food, however, was the very last thing on the tycoon’s mind. Dinner had been more of a waiting shed than an actual gathering, with both father and son antsy to escape the table, so they could walk all the way here, right where things started and ended; a haven that toyed with Pierre’s heart from the get go.
Pierre made himself comfortable by the bar at the corner of the restaurant anyway, casting his thoughts aside. There were far more brighter aspects of the evening to trade such baggage for.
Noticing the bar stool beside him has not been taken, he reverts his attention back to his supposedly present companion, who is still soaking in every charmingly rogue detail of the restaurant.
Before he could call for Aiden to take a seat, the younger man tore him away from his comfort zone first.
“You and mom come here a lot?” Aiden asks, his tone untraceable. To anyone else it would have sounded blunt, but Pierre trusted his judgment enough to recognize the hint in his son’s question as melancholic wonder.
Pierre nodded, a faint smile stretching the dark scruff of a beard he possessed. He motions for him to sit, and Aiden takes his cue to join him, both noise and silence ensuing as retro rock music incoherently warbled all across the diner.
The pair fumbled with ticking time by quietly staring into the impressive stock of intoxicants situated before their easy sights—the Back Bar, specifically.
Aiden’s eyes skimmed over from one brandy to another. He may have looked concentrated on the multiple sets of Knob Creeks, but there were hardly a list of ways on how one should begin a conversation with their long, lost biological father and his brain wasn’t giving him the best idea right now when he needed it.
“Are we talking Bourbon now?” Pierre teases, catching his son’s gaze.
Aiden was surprised he wasn’t startled with the sudden icebreaker, unaware that Pierre had to draw a mountain of courage himself just to blurt it out loud.
He nervously shakes his head, “I’m fine with anything. I don’t mind ditching Scotch for it. I’m down for any drink you’d–”
Unexpectedly, a gruff, thick voice piped in with a ridiculously friendly manner. “Good evenin’ boys, what are y’all thinking for tonight?”
Both father and son flinched, the sudden arrival of the robust bartender catching them off-guard and thankfully breaching the tense air. Pierre’s full beard would have bowed in shame if it lived, in comparison to the bartender’s brushed Bandholz.
Leaning his inked arms on the drunken oak of the counter, the massive man chuckled, “Upset yer’ wives eh?”
Pierre laughed—an entire, full belly laugh—but not because he’d like to upset anyone. He just thoroughly appreciates the joke that much. Because what if in another world, he actually had someone to argue the littlest things about with. What if he actually had experienced the most tiring night of his life looking after a wailing newborn. What if he actually had granted a little boy’s pleas of getting a puppy. What if he actually lived.
Well, Pierre really lived.
Just not entirely.
“Ah, no. This one’s engaged, and I’m a complicated story but I’m hopeful anyway,” Pierre smiled, “Got sky-high Scotch?”
“Woah, never heard the words sky-high and Scotch bunched up together for years. Two bottles of Macallans are all we got.”
The tycoon casually hums, “Mmh, that’ll do. We’ll take them neat.”
“Coming up in a jiff,” The bartender nodded, leaving the liquor corner to retrieve the prized whiskey.
“Might as well talk now while we’re sober,” Aiden suggests with a grin, “Though I’m strong when it comes to Scotch, so, no worries.”
“I know, right?” Pierre chortled, “It’s like drinking water for me at this point. Closest thing I have to a wife.”
Despite how Pierre’s words blended with humor like a convo chameleon, Aiden quickly detected the lack of banter that curdled the guised nonchalance of his father’s last words. Pierre mentally chastised himself, a low grumble slipping from his throat which made his dejection even more evident.
If there was something Aiden had learned during his improvements and took note of, it was how self-loathing is one of the hardest habits to disconnect with.
Aiden laid a hand on the brunet’s shoulder, understanding the latter’s state. Ironically at the moment, booze wasn’t so necessary to boost his confidence.
“Is that how much you’ve gotten used to it?” He quietly asked.
Pierre dispatched the admonishing voice in his head and steered his eyes away to somewhere else than his son’s which were misty with sympathy.
“There’s a lot of things I can figure for ‘it.’ Like crying underneath the Eiffel. Lavishly shit-spent forty seven years. That one damn idiot who lives alone in Paris because he gave in. So many choices.”
The tycoon then sighed, taking a minute to fetch the red pack of Dunhills polluting his pocket.
“What about you?”
A couple of glasses flawlessly raced past Aiden’s perception, as if they were trains riding on new rails. The bartender has unnoticeably returned, a pair of thirty-year-old bottles clinking in his grasp before he settled them on the counter. Taking his eyes off the whiskey, liquor became an awakening flame at the cliff of a cigarette withering between Pierre’s lips.
What’s your ‘it’?
Aiden hastily searched for an answer in his head, reluctant to share the one written in scarlet red letters on every ornate bit of him, as he looked at the alcoholic waterfall the bartender poured into its glass wharf. Graying flashes wobbled the nameless intention he struggled to form, straining his voice from picking up the sharp, glinting pieces of what he threw away in exchange for bliss.
“I don’t have the prettiest things to remember either.”
Pierre inhaled all that he could from the cancer stick and blew what smoked leaves would discharge. He closed his eyes throughout the decaying stream of air. “Can I know more than that?”
“Depends if I can tell them to you and I’ll be able to keep on going,” He bit the inside of his cheek.
“I’m sure you can,” Pierre encourages, tossing the remaining half of the cigarette down the nearby ashtray. “That is what tonight is for. Knowing more than what ‘enough’ can mean. I… I want to know who you are, mon fils…”
The tycoon grabs his respective glass, and angled his arm higher—raising the drink to urge Aiden to raise his own—to say something, to tell him everything that had happened when he should have been there for them.
“I want to know my son.”
Pierre’s subtle plea broke the wall Aiden’s been trying to completely build around him, making the younger man in awe of the tenuous skill. ‘Want’ may have been the word the brunet used, but to Aiden’s ears it echoed as ‘wish.’ And denying that wish almost felt like a crime waiting to be committed because regardless of being his biological father, he’s still a stranger and he’s terrified, terrified that perhaps telling him would be a mistake.
However, every quickening pulse of his heart told him that it isn’t.
So he accepted the invitation, clicked his glass against Pierre’s; and started talking.
“Mom and I didn’t land on an easier life even though that must have been what she intended to have when she ran away… from you,” Aiden began, exhaling the tension collected in his lungs softly as he did his best to continue.
“I guess fear worked its magic on her to be able to stay with the man who based both of our lives on being hurt, physically and emotionally and everything else in between. I-i don’t want to name him, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Pierre soothes him, gently willing him to go on while he inches himself closer to assure him he is his only listener, “I understand.”
Aiden formed a small smile, appreciating the nonexistence of pressure.
“And u-um, he.. He drinks. Though more than he should. He works, but he hardly spends a dime on us. He…”
His voice shrunk, as well as Pierre’s composure the second Aiden completed his sentence.
“He spends violence instead.”
Pierre’s throat dried, and the manner of his gaze darkened. Aiden caught sight of this and removed eye contact, uncomfortable with witnessing the silent fury settling on the French man’s face.
Pierre gritted his teeth. “Explains the…”
“The scars on mom’s shoulders?” Aiden grimaced.
“More or so. I don’t know how she is right now, but I really, really want to let her know I don’t and won’t ever hate her. Flesh and bones, blood, sweat and tears, she did everything she could to give me a normal childhood. And I… I love her for many more reasons, but that, mainly. Even though it hardly turned out to be a happy one.”
Pierre was impressed he could last this long from breaking down due to the amount of guilt brimming and taunting him like a devil standing menacingly by his ear.
“I.. I saw things children shouldn’t see. Heard things I should not hear. The very least of a luxury mom did her best to give me to save me from those was hiding me in a closet.”
Aiden’s vision blurred, and his voice trembled; granting himself the vulnerability that begged to show on his eyes.
“J-just wait here for a while, darling okay? She’d tell me with a smile that could fool you it’s real. Then when I come out, there’s blue on her cheek. Blood by her lips. The evidence of hurt, all over her. I still hear everything sometimes; I still see everything sometimes. And that’s why I’m very scared of shattered glass. We had to see those, off and on–get cut by those.”
A choked noise tainted Aiden’s self-restraint.
“She gives herself less credit for successfully raising me. But I swear to God, she endured so much just so she could. Thankfully, one day… He finally left. Everything ended so briefly.”
Pierre nods, “And…?”
“At least, for her. It hardly left traces on her. She didn’t allow it. She was savoring the taste of life, she didn’t leave any room for any phantom from the hell she just came from,” Aiden smiles a little, but it disappeared sooner than Pierre liked.
He trails off, wavering. “Then there’s… me.”
Pierre prepared himself for what he was about to hear and comforted him with his gaze.
Assuring him that there’s no need to hide behind anything anymore.
“I often had night terrors. And the things I don’t like seeing keep showing up when I’m emotionally distressed. I’d stare into space, feel nothing then feel a lot later on. I wasn’t very fond of mirrors. Every time I come across one I never liked what I saw. Just a man who wouldn’t know himself if he allowed himself to heal and live and just forget about it. I did try to forget about everything, I promise. But it was splattered all over me. I even acknowledged myself as good as nothing.”
“But that’s not true,” Pierre frowned after taking a great gulp from his glass. Aiden followed suit and looked down at his drink, a Rose of a reformed and loving expression blooming its petals softly on his face.
“I know. I had the best days of my life realizing that. I wouldn’t have known that without her,” He sighs. “I’m too much of an idiot to realize it on my own.”
“Her?”
“My darling,” Aiden clarifies warmly with a growing smile, mirroring his fiancée’s earlier description of him.
“Ah, future wifey. Now I have hundreds of things to thank that angelic woman for,” Pierre clapped. “I’m familiar with the first meeting and whatnot. But how… did it all go in your perspective? Whenever I see you both I don’t just see any conventional couple.”
Aiden takes a meager sip, taking no less than a few seconds to unveil his reply.
And if Pierre looked really, really closely, it was as if her name was engraved on his eyes.
“My soul dropped to its knees the moment I saw her. She’s a masterpiece that would torment someone’s patience, because we can never get to caress art; we just stop and stare and only in our dreams can we have them. But she looks at me as if I am one too. Holds me like she’s never going to be able to see me again. She either tells me those three words, or she’ll say it with her smile. She makes me feel... as though I mean something, for once in my life. More than a broken vase. More than someone who couldn’t easily sleep or willingly wake up.
Because I believe,
She’s every bit of what makes a tomorrow.”
•••
An eye of blue greets its lighter hue in a silly union, while laughter tickles the atmosphere with its ecstatic fingertips. The moon wasn’t going to leave any time soon, but the seconds were sprinting, and Elsa liked to take that thought into discretion to keep her sweet baby girl sleeping early.
It was already two hours past her bedtime, and forcing slumber upon cheeky, little four-year-old pirates was no easy task when they can easily convince you with the most irresistible pout that could blind a parent’s restraint. Plus, Elsa did want to play pirates with Claire.
“Is that all the best you can do, you heinously adorable scallywag?” Elsa gruffly (albeit playfully) boasted. Carton threatened carton, but Claire still bore a confident grin as she managed to save her paper hat from falling off her head.
“My sword is stronger than yours, Mama!” Claire giggled, “And I’m not good for the crocodiles to eat too!”
“Ooh, but that is where you’re wrong, matey,” Elsa strikes, yet Claire ducked and hid beneath one of the safety pillows scattered around the room, “Crocs like their meal with extra freckles.”
“Nooo!” Came Claire’s muffled whine of despair, abandoning her friendly weapon, “I’m not tasty, Mama, I promise!”
Elsa chuckled and lifted the pillow from the child, scooping her up in her arms cleanly right after, “Save that for the plank!”
“You can’t do that!” Claire laughed, brushing foreheads with her mother, “You love me tons!”
Elsa’s playful expense slackened, her heart skipping a beat to admit how much she is fond of hearing Claire acknowledge her love. Goodness, she couldn’t even say her L’s before. Claire could play Peter Pan and still grow up.
“Now I’m going to feel sad if I feed you to the crocodiles,” Elsa whispers, kissing the child’s cheek as she settles themselves on the bed. “Do you love me tons too?”
“No–like, one hundred more tons!” Claire corrected, grandly emphasizing her point by spreading her arms, “Like this more!”
Elsa purposely exaggerated her gasp, “That much?”
“Don’t you believe me, Mama?” Claire pouts. Elsa giggles and shakes her head, slowly tucking in her daughter underneath the milk pink sheets. She props herself up just beside the child and threads her fingers to stroke the sandy wisps of blonde, a ghost of a smile unwavering from her face.
“I believe you and Papa too much, it makes me doubt if you two are real sometimes, pumpkin.”
“But I’m real, Mama. Papa too.”
“Yes, yes you both are,” Elsa pecked her nose, “Maybe Mama just loves you more than a hundred tons she’s going to break if she loses you.”
“You can’t lose me! You chased all the monsters under my bed away.”
There will be more, darling, Elsa bites her lip, it’s not letting me off the hook easily. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Dammit, Elsa, stop.
“Mm-mmh. And I’ll keep doing that,” She strokes the chub by the little girl’s chin, “It’s getting late, Claire-bear. Do you still want a bedtime story tonight?”
“Where’s Papa?”
“He’s with Grandpapa right now, baby,” Elsa answers, sighing softly, “Your Papa’s probably asking him what’s his favorite color right now. Or his favorite food, or place. Because your Papa doesn’t know him well.”
“Aww. Why, Mama? He’s his Papa.”
“Darling,” Elsa quietly says, “You know Papa a lot, right?”
“Yes! He is twenty four years old, and–and, he looks like a prince, he likes to draw and create clothes, he loves you and me very much, he has a dog called Cyra, his favorite color is gray, and his favorite place is wherever we are.”
“Now I can tell how many tea parties you two have had,” Elsa chuckled, “I’m going to tell you Papa’s story, pumpkin. All ears to Mama, okay?”
“Okay,” Claire nodded with a grin, “Papa never told me his story, Mama.”
“He was probably too shy to tell you. So,” Elsa warmly begins, “Once upon a time, there was this young boy named...”
“Papa!”
“Yes, that’s Papa—or his name, Aiden. He has beautiful green eyes, and black hair. He doesn’t have any freckles like you and I. Let’s go back to the time where your papa is still a baby inside his mama’s tummy. His Papa… or your grandpapa, is a very, powerful man, and the world likes to watch him closely because there are a lot of things that heavily depend on him.”
“Oooh. I can’t imagine Papa very little though,” Claire laughs.
“He’s very tall, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“His Mama thought… the world that watches his Papa wouldn’t like your Papa once he is born,” Elsa murmured, treading carefully.
“But Papa’s really nice,” Claire frowned.
“I know. But his Mama was really afraid for him, and for herself. When people are scared, they can’t think clearly. So she went with another man who she thought was nice, but he’s actually really mean.”
“Does that mean he hurt Papa?” Claire sadly sunk under the blanket.
Elsa’s fist clenched by her sides.
“He’s been through a lot.”
Claire’s frown deepened. “So Papa wasn’t with his Papa for a long time?”
“Yes, baby. Papa didn’t have his Papa for a while,” Elsa sighs, “But he’s still very nice, right? He’s a nice Papa to you.”
Claire’s spirits brightened. Her teeth showed as she smiled widely, ear to ear, “He’s like the warmest Teddy Bear.”
Elsa laughed. “I told him that too.”
Claire yawns. Her eyelids sagged, her long lashes fluttering in weary abundance.
“Will Papa be here when I wake up?”
Elsa nodded, bending down and pressing a soft kiss on the little girl’s forehead.
“We’ll always be here when you wake up, darling.”
To be continued
on the next chapter…