Emmy

Abel kept quiet in his seat. Even as the air having more reach of his face and his scalp was still a growing process.

Which he had tried to ignore since the morning when Emile had cut it.

Emile had promised that during their vacation both could sleep in and not worry too much about planning or lists or responsibilities.

Just getting away, spending some time together, and watching the motel TV when they weren't sightseeing.

Only for Abel to be caught well off guard when Emile nudged him awake just at sunrise-- 6:15-- commenting to the state of Abel's hair in a chiding voice.

Of which he had been much too confused to actually refuse or make a request.

Simply groaning and possibly making one or two whiny replies about being allowed to sleep.

Propping him onto the bathroom counter, he'd placed a couple of white towels that were surely complementary with the motel, and measured out his admittedly chin length waves of hair.

The end result being a low crop of hair and his sides buzzcut that all in all appeared quite fifties.

Prompting a fair question about the event's theme, "will it be fifties based?"

"Oh no, just a normal black tie and," he simply shrugged, responding in a hum, "I admit it's my fault your hair got so long."

Emile looked to the mess now made of the counter and sink.

"Not to mention unruly."

Abel had winced and glowered at Emile plenty as he had pulled at split ends and knots of hair.

Still, keeping his promises-- of a heating blanket and to send postcards to Violet daily--didn't go unappreciated.

And it was that warming blanket that he sank into from the front seat of the car.

Emile had been uncharacteristically silent through the whole drive as well. Quite obviously attributed to nerves and Abel could see why.

There were truly too many moving parts to even attempt to make Emile look less than the ever giving, doting, and understanding foster father who-- much as he loathed to admit-- loved Abel as his very own. With no... no contradiction to that statement.

Much less anything more severe.

Abel had been so tired. No other two ways, no silver lining much less a through line to explore about it.

Abel was simply… so tired.

Even the macabre image he'd conjured of how that "well-raised" young man in his head slowly silenced-- "smothered in a thick down pillow until it didn't move or even twitch anymore--" rang hollow.

He'd lost count of how many times he caught his thoughts-- believing in fleeting glances and of the serene, tepid repetition of the AC unit or the sound of intermingled voices, of silly poses from a horizon line or retro old arcades and disco glasses-- that he was a boy on a vacation.

Everything was fine.

Everything was fine, except Emile tapped, tapped, tapped the steering wheel with his fingers in a jilted, erratic rhythm.

He’d informed Abel of the rules quite early on.

Per usual stay close where he could be seen, ask when wishing to go to food or the restroom.

”You’d get lost or hassled without an invitation,” Emile reasoned, and then his face had shuttered closed— dark and bitter.

”And you show me a gentle adult with even a minutiae of power I’ll show you someone who is either high or touched in the head.”

And remembered himself and Abel around to just as quickly correct, “never judge an ill person. Never judge in general, things like that are invisible.”

Emile would not protect him should Abel choose to make a scene.

But of course, to be looked at as crazy, to be so indisputably ignored would be more than suitable punishment.

”Anymore would be just cruel,” he reassured but with no less frigidity in an otherwise placid expression.

No stealing or sneaking off. No violence or inkling of destruction—

He knew exactly what he was trying to do, appreciating the clever two-fold of making such a display of himself.

”You’re so sly,” such a simple admission and one that in Emile’s mouth enthused with beaming pride.

And while they had been sight seeing and Abel bounced around to see every inch of rising buildings and feel pavement on the soles of his shoes, Emile had also invested in buying him a new toy.

A simple handheld game that had a zombie shooter game and a similar knight themed game pre-downloaded.

He could play while the boring adults talked about landline phones and hippies.

Abel therefore, did not have to talk to anyone he didn’t wish to.

But he should shake their hands and make eye contact. Be polite.

Respond the way he would making a good impression upon Mr. Rossilini— Dad’s— clients.

The friend Emile was most eager to see had been in his loyalty from both home and school for many years.

Abel had studiously stored away as well as analyzed the fact that Emile had been in the foster care system— presumably aging out for unruly behavior without ever being adopted.

Hence on the outside of their own arrangement, there was at least one person who could jump upon the smallest inconsistency or silent distress.

But more urgent, was the realization that even if Emile was certainly lying about having no family to trace and likely gaps of his life undocumented or otherwise scrambled to be a viable paper trail of warning signs, he’d nevertheless possess many years of experience to possibly exploit the system or plant someone who could.

And more than likely, considering the guile with which he got even stone hearts to indulge his sixteenth birthday with a car, he certainly could instill the loyalty or subservience to risk being fired. Much less the subsequent jail time.

Abel looked at Emile, his focus on the road in front of him— the map propped up on the dashboard with the address.

As he spoke next it was more to himself than Abel, “fifteen years, hah! Fifteen whole years and I bet I’m the first with a kid.”

Abel watched as he continued rambling.

“It’ll be hilarious what they come up with to explain the twelve years old!”

Emile smacked the wheel lightly as if it were the shoulder of an equally obstinately silly classmate.

However he seemed no less aware and no less detached from present place or time.

Which was quite fortunate for both Abel’s own nerves and that they were driving.

The hotel proper was two doors down on a street with other small prop businesses which included ample entertainment such as an arcade, a 24 hour convenience store, and a movie theatre just across the street.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, “you heard me— you’re the only kid.”

So he had been speaking to Abel? It could very well be.

And he settled with that off-bit detail.

“You might as well be on your own,” he joked but with such a needle to his levity that Abel’s shoulders sank just a little.

And he had quite the itch to pick at the fabric of grey washed jeans Emile had found in a bargain bin. But did the job to appear formal with an undercut collar v-neck.

With the upturn of the shift, they’d settled in a spot up on the hotel’s directed parking garage.

Back out onto the street Abel could more clearly see an influx of well dressed men and women conversing within their set little groups as they entered, were processed by a bag boy in stereotypical loud red and were let in.

At their turn Emile, with one hand on his shoulder, cleared his throat and crisply told the young looking Black man his name and the “Ringwell Party.”

“Hand,” he directed to which Emile complied.

“Welcome have a wonderful night, bar is open until nine but we have staff that’ll keep everything orderly,” he rattled off in a bored voice.

However he ended with quite a formidable glower, “so do act your age sir.”

“I wouldn’t think anyone who can’t has even that much audacity,” Emile remarked. “Trust me. And thank you very much.”

He tipped his hat to Emile and gave a mute wave to Abel who looked back, smiling much more softly.

The hall itself was-- well, for a small city it was modest-- but nevertheless exquisite.

In gold plating to the walls and an overall crystalline color scheme for a subtly elegant and black tie manner of space.

He hadn't been ready to completely balk.

Or a bit more fairly, he'd not expected to be thrown in such a familiar scene so... so soon.

A scene from his blurring memories of city skylines and the events within their own penthouse or a rented hall for the business social parties.

This one being equally suited for the men in either smooth black, typical suits or more threadbare but no less tasteful formal coats and women in all manner and types of dresses with just touches of makeup, that really did little to hide years and labors from their faces.

Emile nudged him, "if you're overwhelmed I won't mind if we have to go home," and his whisper sent an unpleasant pins and needles sensation across his extremities.

He shook his head. "Absolutely not," he said, putting on the mirror image smile that stretched his face in an odd way, "you don't get away on me learning all your embarrassing secrets."

"Okay then, well let me see if Timmy let me know where we would be sitting," he said, taking out his cheap little black phone.

And Abel had seen Emile "drop," his eleven model in the sink full of soapy water and dishes five months prior to the-- commitment of felony kidnapping.

He grit his teeth, even as the burning resentment settled quite unpleasant in his stomach.

"Okay! So Mocha'll be running a bit late but Will and Tim are already here, oh oh," and Emile now looked to bounce around, "I didn't tell you but Will works for a computer brand, nothing grand. Either IT or he moved to their financial department. Still, you could talk to him much more than I could at this point-- see he loves his work like I love Christmas."

"That-- sounds great," Abel replied placidly, yet his attention truthfully was on a close-knit, tittering flock of women.

They'd been the first to notice, in their high, obnoxious laughter of Emile by his lonesome standing just at the entryway. Seemingly last of the lot by the sheer volume of people.

Emile per usual wasn't phased in the least.

He in fact seemed to shine by all the attention.

A volume which sure enough, began to whisper. And all certainly much more gauche-- without even a child's attempt to be subtle in their pointing.

It began to itch at his skin again and he could feel the unpleasant splinters of so many EYES, did adults truly all have such an abhorrent sense of etiquette?

If so why did he have to learn it so absolutely?

Emile understood, he always did, and protectively put Abel's head in his hand so he could hide.

And yet not even that--!

When two men's voices assailed the pair, jostling his comfortable perch on Emile's side.

"Roderick! Shelly!" he enthused and Abel unconsciously looked up to the now identified men.

Well, somewhat. Unsure whether the red-head or one with a bald spot was either Roderick or "Shelly." Likely diminutive for a Shel-don.

"Hey woah! I figured you were actually-- uhh," the red haired one began, "well you know. How did you end up with a kid?"

A question that was asked in quite the shrill manner.

"Yeah spill it Prez," his friend agreed, who crossed his arms and looked at Emile with a pout too exaggerated to be genuine.

Emile sighed hugely but complied.

Though not without whispering toward Abel, "may I?"

Abel evaluated. While yes there was a glint in their eyes, they held drinks, and had a certain air of imbalance that suggested they were already somewhat "buzzed," he may as well not be the shy, asocial sort of child.

After all, he never had been within society functions which were often cutthroat and as his Mother and Father often described-- "political."

Emile pushed him forward. "His name is Abel and he's recently turned twelve."

"A pleasure, to both of you," turning to one and then the other as he presented his hand.

The red-head shook first. "And you know Emile, were you friends? Or did you bully him?"

Red-head laughed while his friend so figuratively threw him to the wolves as he nudged his shoulder.

"Nope, I assure you we weren't the types. Granted though," Red-Head said as a manner of shame became clear in his voice, "this town wasn't exactly-- friendly."

"Now Roddy, don't beat around the bush," Emile huffed, also taking a stricter, distinctly guarded posture. "My Abby isn't stupid. I'd say he's much smarter than any of us ever were. So do please not patronize."

Roddy laughed-- a bit awkwardly, turned head and stood up from his knees. Now looking anywhere else.

"Shelly" stepped in at that point.

"What my friend means is we didn't want to be jerks but--" he stopped, and after a moment looked to swallow an unpleasant something, "it was homophobia. No parents, quiet, always in his head-- the assumption was whatever was wrong with him came back to liking other guys."

"I mean no one was sure whether he wanted to kill the football team or was checking out the team," Roddy provided.

"I am twelve," Abel replied finding the entire turn of things distasteful.

Even if what he knew weren't limited to the detached and child-friendly fashion presented in a video health course.

His friend gave a withering stare to "Roddy," and Emile's expression twitched unpleasantly.

"Alright then we're done," he decided. And like that swept Abel along by the back.

"I am so sorry about that and seriously," Shelly said, "we do wish you well. Sorry for-- everything."

"Acknowledged," Emile decided. Coldly and unequivocally.

Emile sighed, hitching a smile back on his face, "they really weren't worth much notice frankly. I just-- honestly didn't have anyone to confide in back when they were worth the time."

From that he waved the topic aside before Abel could open his mouth.

At that point some women took their turn to dawdle and wave their hands about in Abel's face.

They too talked about school and then needled about what he did for work.

"Used to work for some rich families raising their kids for them, until I got my own," and then toward Abel, "this may be a minute okay, you go ahead and sit down at our table."

"They don't get to touch me?" he wondered a bit nervously.

Nodding toward a still empty table where there were certainly place cards for Emile and his friends. Though Abel simply couldn't quite believe Emile would-- let him leave. In any capacity.

"Yes Abby, I mean it," he whispered quietly, "don't worry I won't up and leave you. Five minutes on the dot."

"Okay," he murmured and rushed to sit.

Although he'd never answered the actual question.

Abel let out a breath as by the looks of it, he would in fact be left alone.

He drew his game console from the deep pocket in his black windbreaker.

Switching it on, he chose the zombie game not bothering with keeping the volume at a discreet level.

If he was reading things right, impolite disruption would be swept under the rug and something Emile may even enjoy seeing from Abel.

Believing that the world existed for his convenience.

Around an hour and a half later is when Emile joined him, looking less tired this time.

This time, with three men at his left and right, who also-- took seats.

Abel couldn't help but stare at the three.

Emile leaned toward Abel whom had decided to rest his head.

"Are you hungry yet?"

He turned onto one ear, nodding in response. "I can go by myself."

"Oh if you'd like I could--"

"Oh no please Timmy it's fine," Emile insisted.

"I told you Em, it's Theodore now," he huffed.

"Hey it is just the right wall," another man mediated-- diverting-- "and hey, you seem like a smart kid. Just don't ask for beer," looking to Abel with a secretive, good natured smile.

"Why would I do that? I'm sure it doesn't even taste good," Abel replied.

Making the men in the table laugh. "He has a point there!" Theodore said slapping the other man on the back.

"Okay, okay but seriously, go ahead Abby. Food's over there. Oh and you'll find plenty, turns out it's a potluck."

"Yeah again sorry about that," the second man said. "Ugh Shaley up to her old bull again. Never liked when you of all folks got class president."

Abel let that conversation continue while he stood up and quickly pinpointed a long length of tables laden with all manner of dishes and platters of stacked foodstuffs and snacks.

A couple of ladies were there. And so was another man. This one with his own jacket tied at his waist.

One lady, blond and with a taudry glittering dress that completely clashed with her choice of makeup palette, tried to strike up close and intimate conversation with the man-- who in a soft but clearly irritated voice-- rebuked her at each turn.

But Abel focused back on the food and-- froze.

Pastries in boxes and a metal pot of steaming curry.

A couple other dishes of possibly Indian and Meditarranian culture were present at his right.

Abel just stared. Plastic and pre-made. Store bought. Just add water.

Just like-- just like home. In the city.

From there Abel was certain the night for him would be ruined.

As his knees folded under him.

_________________________________________

Michael had spent a long time frankly trying to run away from a lot of things.

His parents, his past, his reputation as the poor kid. The ol' Kenny in the flesh.

The people who had insisted on being 'Mom and Dad' here were really hardly worth a mention.

And he supposed, he had tried to run away from being involved in who knew what Emanuel Shaw had in mind before he also left for the big city.

Or no, he went by his birth parents' surname now. That he had done upon graduating. Old enough to legally change his name.

Michael had come to this party a hopefully fully realized adult. Having had as many good times as bad in school-- and if he happened to find out whether Emmy ended up in a good place despite those dark looks he would sometimes get-- or the way he talked about having a child "all his own," then-- Michael thinks he'd be satisfied.

How that ended up, catching the one child here before he fell-- possibly with low blood sugar or possibly falling into an epileptic fit-- both were unlikely but he couldn't be sure either way-- Michael knew very little.

Simply that the child's glassy eyes as he stared at the food was concerning.

Michael caught him by his shoulders and from there, kneeled down a bit, hoping to keep this kid grounded here and now, and steady. Make sure the child with dark blue eyes kept a steady pace of breathing.

"Are you alright? Can you hear me?" Michael said, each question asked quietly and kindly.

"Do you know where you are? Can you, can you look at me? My name is Mike."

Four letters. Much easier than "Mi-cha-el."

Slowly, the child turned around. Which made a smile break out on his face.

Which he carefully tempered down.

From what he knew about this sort of thing, he and the kid were hardly out of the woods yet.

"Hi there," he said voice even and a tepid smile on his face.

"I-- I don't--" the boy stammered. He closed his mouth, but Michael could sense the tension in his jaw, gritting his teeth similar to a self-imposed gag.

A habit Michael himself had used once upon a time.

"That's okay," and he meant it. And Michael nodded as an affirmation.

Until-- Emmy, came into his life...

Taught him just how powerful speaking just a little bit too much could be.

Damn it, people were starting to crowd. The women beginning to whisper and coo-- all the while helping being the last thing on their minds.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the child said quietly and made to stand up.

"Everything's okay," Michael soothed, "where's your Mom or Dad? I can get their names if not yours, or do they call each other nicknames?"

He didn't reply.

And seeming to realize the contact, his eyes widened and he shoved Michael aside with the meager strength a child his age and build could have.

"Geroff!" Recoiling and whirling back around with the ferocity of a viper burning in his dark blue eyes.

He really was a rather skinny boy.

Michael gently helped along all the same, helping the kid get his bearings.

He was at a party, in a hotel, and yes, some people were around now. Any one could call whomever he needed or get him in a seat if he wasn't up to walking yet.

Some began to get closer as the child huddled into himself, one hand clutching his other arm in a nail biting vice.

Michael looked up at them with a withering stare-- one that quickly abated once he caught what some were actually whispering.

"Emmy actually has a--"

"SHH"

"So young."

"He's so young," coming from a shrill, especially scandalized source.

One that Michael could pin from a hazy freshman year. Knowing that particular gumshoes from the very beginning.

"Someone should get--"

"Where'd he go?"

"But why did the poor thing go--"

Why indeed.

What did make a kid his age react that way? Any answer he could come up with wasn't a good one.

But, that wasn't exactly the focus right now.

"Hi there," he started, "my name is Michael and--" looking around a bit he dipped his voice a bit, "listen I'm part-time at a Boys and Girls Club, you know what that is?"

The boy, dubiously, nodded. Dark blue eyes alert and keeping close watch on what Michael did.

"Yeah, so I see kids go through this, they can get overwhelmed sometimes. Sights, sounds, and even smells."

"That sounds scary," Abel replied, "it sounds awful and scary."

It... is," Michael agreed, deciding honesty might be better suited than a bracing lie. "I... know some breathing exercises that can help. What about you? Do you know one that you like?"

Abel thought for a moment, hand to his chin now and then just shrugged. His expression becoming an anxious grimace.

There was a bit more uproar. Something about a 'Roddy' on search duty.

If it really was the same-- Michael didn't know how worse that would make the situation. So, it became especially important to get this kid situated.

He and the kid went through two rotations of the 4-7-8 technique, which luckily served the kid well but still-- the three sent to look gave no word.

That was-- disconcerting.

And by the looks of things he didn't have any means to contact his guardian himself.

"Are you-- do you feel better?" Michael asked softly. Much of the initial crowd had died down, plenty going back to their business once it was clear nothing "too interesting" would happen, plenty more simply at a loss once someone else looked to have things handled.

The child just nodded.

His eyes-- proved it. In a way. They were alert, and by how they hardened, certainly calculating.

"Is there anything you want to ask me?"

Kids usually had a million and one questions, even ones who had been in tears or otherwise going through separation anxiety when they met him-- but he instead, just introduced himself.

"Thank you. My name is Abel. I used to live in the city and yes, Emile is my foster parent," he said primly, putting out a hand to shake. "He loves me very much."

"Okay. Okay then," Michael agreed-- color him shocked-- but accepted the gesture all the same.

"Then do you miss it? The city?"

"I do," he said.

'Is Emile a good-- Dad?'

"So has that-- ever happened to you? Did you learn how to-- manage. When your emotions are-- big?" Michael wondered, gesturing "big" with his hands as a giant mass.

Again, he simply shook his head.

"Hey," Abel asked, "are you-- you're Mocha? Aren't you?" He tilted his head and had a special kind of questioning look. The kind where a kid figures, he's right either way.

Asking, was just being polite.

"Yeah, I am. But 'Mocha' isn't exactly professional. So I go by Michael," he joked.

"Listen, how about we go back to where you were sitting. Your Dad can get you some food," he offered.

"Hm," Abel replied and that was it.

"Okay," Michael stood himself up as he turned his back. "Come on."

Looking back, Michael could see a moment of confusion on Abel's face making some aborted gesture to reach his hand but then followed him without misstep or hesitation.

"Okay so where were you...?"

Abel tugged on his sleeve pointing not too far away at an empty table where only a Black man with a shiny bald head sat. And if that couldn't be...

"Theodore!" Michael called out.

The man turned from his phone, a serious expression on his face that quickly gave way to a mischievous shine.

"Michael! It's been a minute, oh and hey brought him back," Theodore turned to Abel, "what happened? Were you... not that hungry?"

Theodore raised his brow, and Michael could see Abel shrink a bit and just shrug.

Trying to answer though, he could quickly see his voice had been stolen again.

So Michael took that up.

A hard expression coming to his face. "So what happened is..."

And relayed the whole incident.

"Shiiii-- shoot," Theodore said, aghast. "I, seriously none of us well okay, okay we wondered about what took him so long. But Emile and us kinda guessed the kid was either wandering to entertain himself or he got stuck in conversation with some of the others around."

A note of skepticism continued on Michael's face. The two of them were still standing, and his sight strayed to Abel. Who mashed the buttons of his handheld game as if the entire incident had never happened.

"I know, I know. But Emile said his kid was gifted. It was expected he'd be bored and that's what we figured. We were going on and on, so he latched to someone with a cool job or some other thing. Besides," and Theodore sighed, which Michael could sense a shame in, "Em had said his son was getting better."

Which made Michael stiffen. He knew that sticky, awkward emphasis around "better" all too well.

"Better in what way?" he asked stiffly.

Theodore exhaled, "not sure if that's mine to tell."

And saying that made him look exhausted in a way, Michael felt himself-- slightly-- relenting.

"But you're completely right. I know, I know it was seriously messed up. We shoulda checked any one of us. But look we can relax now. And Thank God that things did turn out well."

Theodore slid a hand to the small of his back leading him toward the table.

Michael let himself be led where Abel while clearly frustrated as his game progressed kept the picture of polite if not distracted.

Emile along with Will came back not long after, and the former grinned so wide Michael idly wondered if he would like to see his face tear.

He could hear Will speak, about a Simon person who'd found some other engaging conversation with someone else.

"Mocha!" he squealed, grabbing his arm forcing him to stand. "Have you met my son? This is Abel."

Abel's lip simply quirked, mildly responding to his exuberance. "We've met."

"And we have to talk about that," Michael said and whispered, "look does he have a condition or some-- other thing," with just a slated look they were back to being sixteen and gossiping behind foster Mom's back about what damage she had.

"He had some kind of episode, dissociative or anxious I'm not totally sure and he hates being touched."

Emile took everything with steady horror growing on his face. He looked to be shaking a great deal before he swept up Michael. "I am so sorry!" he exclaimed. "And thank you! Thank you so much!"

Michael kept one eye on the pair as the table ate, talked, took turns with dance cards or swapping trivia and new gossip.

Emile, for all intents and purposes, was perfectly loving and attentive of Abel. In just that embarrassing, hovering way two foster kids could long for.

It was something to see though, that even Emile's touch elicited a bit of recoil from his son, not to mention, Emile should know better than to keep pressing.

And then... "did I do something wrong?"

And Emile, without finesse, replied, "absolutely not! Never think that Abby! But we will talk later. Just enjoy yourself for now."

"Talk later."

Michael knew he frankly had a great deal of trigger phrases and complexes surrounding just about anything that could be taken day-to-day- to day.

He knew he didn't react to things the way others did.

Including being told to go to a therapist. He still wasn't completely secure in believing his girlfriend wasn't subtly threatening him with it.

But enough "parents" had.

Possibly, he was just being paranoid.

Even if he was firm that something was off in just-- everything about the two.

Michael continued to sit on that, straight on watching the child, as he looked to unfurl once Will got to finally talk about his work.

"Right now we're working on advancing our computer languages on identifying inflammatory texts as well as other tracking software and trying some Swiss security measures that they use for their banking system's firewalls."

Will babbled on, with Abel asking questions with an equal measure of jargon.

"Oh my God! Do you want to be adopted?" Will gushed as a result, looking utterly starry eyed.

Emile laughed but on a switch glowered as he quite abruptly took Abel into a one armed hold that Michael was reluctant to call a hug.

"Easy there Will."