"Uncle? Are we getting a Christmas tree?"
"We?" Walter caught onto the word before taking in the whole question. "Would you be paying for it as well?"
"No…" Vincent confessed to his shoes and then looked at the blue eyes. "Are you going to get a Christmas tree, Uncle?"
Walter watched the direction in which they were moving. "No."
Vincent blinked, amazed by the answer while Jake's father watched the child's response. "Why not?"
"Because I have no need, nor any desire to bring a tree into my home, boy. They're a fire hazard, and they're messy and expensive, and I don't want one."
"Oh…" Vincent sighed out in meek disappointment. "But…Uncle…" The man frowned at the boy as he timidly brought his eyes to his uncle's glare. "But…where is Santa supposed to put the presents if there's no tree, Uncle? He's not going to know where to put them."
The glare and annoyance had fallen from the man's face, dropping like clattering stones onto the sidewalk as his steps ended and he stood still. Jake's father had halted as well, while Vincent carried on for a few more paces before stopping. Confusion filled the boy, twisted with a touch of fear as he watched the blank look coming from Walter and the man beside him. The moving crowd behind them, broke over the stationary obstructions, and they passed the three without paying them much mind.
"Santa?" Walter finally spoke to the wide red eyes. The boy nodded slowly, mumbling a 'Yes Uncle'. "You still believe in Santa Claus?"
Vincent stiffened, standing straighter as his chest filled with breath and his eyes blinked rapidly. "Santa is real, Uncle. He always eats the cookies and milk and he leaves a few presents under the tree and a handful of candies in everyone's stocking. Some people don't think he's real, but I know, Uncle. I know he is."
Jake's father sucked in a breath that split over his teeth and whistled faintly through his lips. Walter was still staring at the child, but now he looked away with a grimace, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his eye. He looked at Jake's father with a tired sigh. "How did you tell Jake?"
The man shook his head, occasionally glancing at the watchful child. "Didn't have to. He figured it out on his own, bright boy that he was. He was about eight, though…" The men stared at the boy.
"You believe in Santa Claus, Vincentimir?" Walter gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes to the side with another sigh when Vincent nodded vigorously and began to recount all of the amazing attributes owned by the large, red wearing man.
"But I don't believe in Rudolph. That's only a story."
"Good for you." Walter muttered through his cigarette as he leaned into his hand, shielding his lighter from the breeze and the air being pushed around by the moving humans passing them by. Walter puffed the cigarette a few times and snapped his metallic lighter closed. He tossed it in the air once before stuffing it, along with his hand, into his pocket. His lungs sighed out a seeping cloud of smoke that made Vincent edge away from him and shorten his breaths. "Santa Claus isn't real, kid."
Vincent eyes bulged and he gasped, taking in the cigarette smoke that irritated his throat and made him cringe. "Wh…what do you mean…he isn't real? Uncle, he is real."
"I'm saying he's made up, imaginary, boy. He doesn't exist."
Walter's legs moved forward as he began to walk again. Jake's father kept by his side, while the astonished child hesitated before jogging after him, rarely blinking. "But he is real, Uncle. He is!"
"Don't raise your voice." Walter growled back impatiently. Jake's father appeared as if he were going to discourage the man, but Walter spoke too quickly. "Santa is a fraud."
Vincent's chest grew with heated emotion, and he in turn frowned at his uncle and furrowed his little brow. "You're wrong."
The men's faces slackened, then Walter's stiffened with fury, stabbing a undiluted glower into the child, breaking Vincent's own anger immediately, and replacing it with terror as a fist yanked on his clothes and Vincent was forced to stand against a hard wall while his uncle stood over him. "What did you say…you little brat?" Walter hissed in a deep voice, his knuckles feeling the rapid beat of Vincent's distressed heart, held against the boy's chest as the man's fist remained holding the front of the jacket the child was wearing. Vincent's chest jerked with shallow breaths. Jake's father stood at an angle cutting the two off from the eyes of the night crowd. No one even blinked at the two men. They could not see the child in the dark shadow given off by the overhanging canopy that was fused to the face of the building that owned the wall Vincent felt against his back.
The pale face trembled as quivering lips were stilled for speech. "Santa is real, Uncle."
"So you're calling me a liar?" The man growled, hating the stupidity of the child and the subject that consisted as the momentum behind this conflict.
Vincent stared up at them man, giving no answer for this question. "My mom told me that Santa Claus is real, Uncle. Maybe your mom told you he wasn't, but my mom told me that Santa is real, and my mom never lied. Never, since she was born. She never lied, because she said it was wrong…and that lies are bad."
Walter's temper had cooled some, but he was unamused as he moved the cigarette between his lips. "The fat bastard is fake, boy. She lied to you."
Vincentimir stopped breathing and his eyes dilated, staring at the man's cold face. A flame flitted into the crimson eyes, brightening the blue ones above them. "My mother was not a liar, Uncle."
The rigid voice was alien to the men's ears, at least, for it to be coming from the shy little boy that was being held against the wall. Walter glared. "I'm saying she lied to you."
"She was not a liar." The red narrowed into a pointed glower as lips receded from the boy's teeth, slightly, showing their white forms. "I don't care what you say, Uncle. My mother was not a liar."
Knuckles cracked and veins bulged on the man's fist, still grasping the black jacket that was keeping the boy warm. The child was steadily becoming less of a child, and more of a demon as the red eyes burned and the white teeth hissed at the man. Walter pushed against the boy, adding pressure to his chest as his rage boiled in his own veins. But they were in public… "We're going to have a talk, Vincentimir." Walter snarled, and turned his eyes to the man beside him after spitting out his cigarette, not even bothering to grind out its burning tip. "I'll get back to you after I take care of this brat…" Walter broke off his own sentence by dragging the boy down the sidewalk, pulling on Vincentimir even as the child attempted to keep up with him. They disappeared around a corner.
Walter shut the door after ordering the boy to enter their home before him. Now he stood, glaring at the child that returned the look. Infuriated by the red eyes, Walter's hand shot out to claim the b lack hair and twisted it painfully, tightening his grasp when the boy did not show any signs of fear or submission, like he should have. "You're in for quite a rude awakening, boy." The man spat out his words with growing hatred for the red eyes.
"My mother was not a liar!"
Walter snarled, marching forward so that Vincent had no choice but to shuffle his feet backwards, snagging them on the flat floor at times. "Don't talk to me like that, boy."
"She wasn't a liar! You can't call her a liar!"
"I can call her whatever I want, you insolent little shit! You don't know your place!"
They were passing the table with its mismatched collection of chairs, and the pain from Vincent's scalp was beginning to radiate with heat. He closed his eyes against the pain and the fear he was hiding. "You can't call her a liar!"
"You can't tell me what I can or cannot do, boy! I'll call her a liar! I'll call her a bitch, if I want to!"
"YOU CAN'T CALL MY MOTHER NAMES!"
"Shut up!" Walter hissed as he pushed the boy onto his couch, and stood, looming over it. He touched his belt. "Do you want me to belt you, boy?"
"YOU CAN'T….MFF!" Walter's hand was a vice, clamped over his nephew's mouth as the man hissed through his teeth.
"When I tell you to do something, you
do it! I told you to shut up." His volume had dropped as he spoke, and he tightened his hand over the boy's mouth with a snarl. "Don't you dare try to bite me, you fucking brat. I am sick of this behavior. I will not stand for it, boy."
The boy's glare was weakening as he seemed to gradually calm, so Walter scowled at the smaller face and released the child.
Vincent breathed in heavy, angry pants. "Do not call my mother names." He whispered.
Walter's eyes exploded with light and he snarled with bared teeth, startling a yelp from the boy as he grabbed Vincent and violently turned him over so that his face was buried in a couch cushion. A splayed hand pressed on the boy's shoulder blades, keeping him still as Walter's other hand undid his belt and caught its two ends to hold it as a comfortable oval-shaped loop. "Don't resist, Vincentimir, or I'll belt you until you can't sit down."
Fear stole reason from the child as his wide eyes beheld the belt, and the fear jerked his limbs, desperately struggling to escape. Walter grasped a moving leg and the belt collided with the back of the boy's thigh, producing a yell that was ended by a hiss as Walter ordered him to be quiet. The belt snapped against the boy's jeans again. Vincent yelped. The third time, Vincent stifled the sound the best he could, but the forth time tore a whine from his throat. Walter let go of the boy and held the belt in both of his hands as he watched Vincent's reddened face struggle to hold it the tears that were forming when his thigh continued to sting.
Walter snapped the belt in his hands to get the boy's attention. He was wearing a deep scowl. "If you want to continue your behavior, the pants come off. This will hurt a hell of a lot more on bare skin, brat."
The child took in deep breaths, blinking with his watery vision. His body trembled, so he tried to make it stop, and did, before he spoke in an airy, stumbling voice. "U..Uncle…but…"
The man's eyes narrowed automatically and he moved the belt. "You want to continue?"
"No." Vincent gasped, rolling away from his uncle to cover his leg with the back of the couch. "I'm sorry…"
"Good." The belt lowered to the man's side and the scowl become shallower.
"But…" Red fell to the couch as the boy slowly brought himself to sit up, flinching when his leg stung a bit. "But…Uncle…"
Walter waited for Vincent to continue.
"…please…can you please not call my mom a liar…please?"
Now that it was a question, now that the boy was practically begging him, Walter considered the plea. His gaze narrowed slightly when he sighed. "I have no reason to cal your mother names. But you will not speak to me in the manner that you did, boy. Understand?"
"Yes…"
"See? It isn't that hard…but now you've wasted my time and disrupted what I was doing earlier..." Muttering, Walter began to fit his belt through the loops of his pants while Vincentimir watched sullenly from the couch cushions.
"I'm sorry Uncle. But…my mom told me Santa Claus is real, so he is real."
The man paused, in the middle of pushing the black leather belt through the last loop on his waist, and he observed the hunched child that was nervously tugging on his sleeves, and then his pants, and then the pockets of his jacket. Walter looked at his belt as he worked it through the loop and buckled it. "I told you that he is not real. Your mother told you a white lie, a fib a lot of parents tell their children. But she should not have kept this going for so long, Vincentimir. Most children learn that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny…" Vincent's head snapped up, and then he ducked it to his chest as he chewed on his lip. "…are not real, before they're eleven years old."
Vincent was quiet for a time, and his uncle waited for a moment, and then went to the open door.
"We'll see if Santa comes tomorrow, Uncle."
The man looked back from the doorway, and then continued on his way, and left the boy alone in the room.
The next time he saw the boy, Vincentimir had his face buried in his arms on the table, slouched in a chair. It was Christmas morning. Walter stood in the doorway that led into the room containing the couch. He watched the boy move his shoulders and then give up on fixing his posture. His throat was thick with spent tears. "My mom did lie to me, Uncle."
"So you're crying because Santa doesn't exist, boy?"
"I'm crying b…because she lied to me when she said Santa Claus was real, a…and she lied to me when she said she never l…lies." The boy let out a sob that darkened the man's face with distaste, but Walter let him cry for a minute.
"It's not the end of the world. If that's the worst thing she's ever done, you're pretty damn lucky." Steps brought the man to the table where he made sure the boy had stopped crying. Vincent was rubbing his face with his sleeves, making it redder as he tried to hide his disheveled appearance, not wanting to anger the man more than he already had. He sniffed with his nose a few times, and let out a deflating breath.
He continued to hide his face. "Merry Christmas, Uncle." Vincent wiped his hands on his jeans and then leaned over to pick up a red, tissue wrapped bundle hidden on a different chair, and the boy stood it up on the side of the table, closest to the man, and then dropped his arms into his lap and stared at them as his bangs veiled his face. "I didn't have any money, so I couldn't buy you anything, but we made stuff at school…so I made you a present. But…I don't think you'll like it." The boy mumbled as a hand appeared by the gift. "I don't know what you like…" The little red ribbon at the top of the gift, which had blended with the tissue paper, was undone and the noisy, crinkling paper was untwisted. In the midst of the red wrapping, stood a thin, almost vase-like cup made out of clay, with a thick base stabilized further by four clawed feet that were attached to a dragon whose tail lifted and curved back to form a handle while its neck wrapped around the cup, just under its rim. There were folded wings occupying the space left near its hind legs. It wasn't perfect. There were a few fingerprints hardened in the clay, accompanied by a sprinkling of trivial scratches and imperfections, and it appeared as if one of the clawed toes had fallen off. When Walter flicked his eyes to the tissue wrapping paper, he found the missing toe, and then looked at the cup again, and then the glum boy that had made it.
Vincent's shoulders slumped when he heard the man return the cup to the tissue paper and then walk away, but a moment later an arm reached over his head and laid a familiar box in front of the boy. Vincent sucked in a quick breath, gaping at the blackened hand he could clearly see through the glass display window. The gape traced the progress of the man as he picked up the cup, took the missing toe and dropped it inside, and then walked over to the shelf and added it to the collection. "Merry Christmas, Vincentimir…" He looked back at the boy, but was stopped when a growth attached itself to his stomach. He frowned down at the boy, staring as the child hugged him warmly with a sniffling smile. Gradually, Walter permitted his hand to pat the boy's head. When the growth detached himself from his uncle, the man nodded to him with a finger indicating the box. "It's yours, but it's not a toy. You keep it on the shelf and you look at it. Nothing else." The boy nodded happily, and then Walter took his leave.
They were all nice memories, Vincent smiled as he headed for the kitchen. He heard some noise down the hallway, and figured William had decided to start fixing up Richard's office now. Once in the kitchen, the teen went to the counter and read the different labels on the cleaning chemicals, determining which one he would use to clean the cupboards, the sink, and the counter. He was in the middle of finishing up with the cupboards when Rodriguez threw his dirty rags onto the counter and dragged his feet over to the clean ones. The teen stopped, gazing emptily at the sloping row of dishes, platters, bowls, and glasses that Vincent was beginning to organize, placing them back in the confines of the cupboard. Vincent glanced at Rodriguez over his shoulder, pushing a stack of plates onto a shelf.
"What are you staring at, fat ass?"
Rodriguez flinched out of his stupor, and broke his gaze away from the hidden counter top. "You don't have to do all that too, Vincent. I mea
n, no one even looks in there." He stared as Vincent ignored him with a developing frown.
"No wonder there was so much dirt in there. I found dead moths in the corners, Rodriguez….along with crumbs and dust…"
"Oh, shut up…" Rodriguez mumbled bitterly and snatched up a handful of clean rags. He glared at the back of the sweatshirt. "I hate cleaning, so it's not my fault…and William is supposed to do that…" He received no response, so the blonde stalked out of the room, to finish with the smaller upstairs bathroom, but he stopped by the stairs when he heard Vincent call to him.
"Where's the other guest room you wanted me to clean?"
"Near the laundry room, just down the hall, on the…" Rodriguez turned, as if he were walking down the hall he spoke of, and he lifted his left hand. "…on the left. It's the only other door over there."
"Got it."
Rodriguez began to ascend the stairs while Vincent continued to put the dishes away, filling the kitchen with the sound of clinking glasses and other objects. While he was polishing the faces of the cupboard doors, William wordlessly entered and left the kitchen, dropping off a full bag of trash by the sink before she left. Vincent didn't know what to do with it, so he just left it there and worked around the white obstacle.
The downstairs spare guest room was…Vincent didn't want to admit it, but it was obviously much nicer and more accommodating than the up stairs guest room. The upstairs room was…blander, while this one had the atmosphere of a real bedroom. He cleaned a dark, mahogany bedpost, admiring stolidly, the luxury contained in every piece of furniture in the room. He might have thought that this room was nicer than the one he had slept in, but he preferred the up stairs room. He was more comfortable being in it, while this one was a little overwhelming. As he passed the laundry room door, a short feeling of pity for the neglected room passed through him as the teen made his way towards the white sitting room. He left the piano for last, and while he was tempted to play it, he resisted the weighing desire and closed the cover over the keys, spun on his heels, and left the room. Wandering around, Vincent opened a door that appeared to be a closet, and then wandered over to another door, and in this closet he found a vacuum cleaner which he hauled up the stairs and proceeded to vacuum the stairs and the hallway in addition to the guest room. Down stairs, all he had to vacuum was the 'luxurious' guest room. Afterwards, Vincent set to wandering again, searching for one of the Rodriguez siblings to figure out how he was supposed to mop the tiles and polish the wood flooring in the dining room. Rodriguez was found descending the stairs, and the green eyes blinked at the question. He remembered the sound of the vacuum cleaner from earlier, and he had noticed that the hallway and stairs had been vacuumed.
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