Chapter Text
It was a Sunday morning, and after going to church with his mother Alastor had run off to play in the woods of Cypress Swamp like he always did on Sundays. It was the one day that he didn't have to do school or work or help around the house. He got to do whatever he wanted. Usually, that included finding creatures in the backswamp or swimming in the river. Today, he was simply attempting to climb a tree to see how high he could get.
Alastor had just turned ten, and thought he'd gained much responsibilities he was still the shortest and lankiest in the class. He got bullied quite a bit for it. It didn't help that he had poor eyesight, and had to wear a thick prescription for glasses. So Alastor spent a lot of time alone, or fighting the other kids. He'd picked up a habit on biting people, which... also didn't help with the allegations that he was weird. But Alastor didn't care.
All he cared about was helping his mom. She had a lot of her plate, and his father wasn't around at all. He'd show up maybe once or twice a year and then disappear again. So Alastor was the man of the house and well.. he hadn't quite grown into that yet.
He had just heaved himself over the fifth branch, about ten feet high now, when he heard some leaves crunching below him. He looked down, thinking maybe it was a deer, or a wolf, but instead he saw another boy. He looked about his age, but Alastor couldn't tell very well from up here.
Instead he saw Vincent Whittman. The dumb kid that had thrown a newspaper at him on accident. Vincent is the paperboy in the French Quarter and Tremé, and just as Alastor had opened the door to start his day he got thwacked in the face with a thick, rolled up newspaper. Whittman was on his bike, but he shouted a pathetic SORRY before biking away.
Alastor knows his name because he had asked around. After all, he needed to get his revenge. He plucked a pinecone off the tree and dropped it swiftly over Vincent's head.
The boy shouted in pain, his hand shooting to his head to rub where the pinecone had assaulted him. Vincent looked up, and his eyes widened when he noticed Alastor. "You! Why'd you do that?!" He demanded, grabbing the pinecone.
Alastor was already laughed, but he laughed even harder when Vincent tried to chuck the pinecone back at Alastor. Too bad for him, he hadn't done it with enough force, and instead the pinecone returned to hit him square in the forehead again.
The darker boy almost fell off the tree from laughing to hard. "Try again!" He dared, laughing hard enough to make his ribs hurt.
Vincent was rubbing his forehead in defeat, glaring up at Alastor. He scoffed: "You're a jerk!"
It was amusing to watch as the white boy huffed and seemed to take deep, shallow breaths before deciding on vengeance. At least he was learning from his mistake, and approaching the problem with a new idea by trying to climb the tree. Though, poorly. "Do you not know how to climb a tree?" Alastor laughed.
"I know how!" Vincent grunted, heaving himself over the first branch, before deciding it was too high, and clutching on for dear life. "Do you know how to come down a tree? I bet you don't!"
A cute attempt, but Alastor could see through it. He rolled his eyes, leaning his head against the bark of the tree and grinning down at him. "Are you sure about that, Whittman?"
Saying his last name caught his attention. Vincent hugged the body of the tree as he finally made it to the next highest branch. "How do you know my name?"
"Of course. You don't remember me." Alastor rolled his eyes, smiling because he had the upper hand here: knowledge.
He could practically see the cogs turning in Vincent's little mind. "I...I remember you." He lied.
"Oh do you? Where did we meet, then?" He asked as he grabbed another pinecone, tossing it up in the air once, catching it, before chuckling it at Vincent and hitting his head again.
"Ow!" Vincent huffed. "Don't do that! You're gonna make me fall!"
That sounds like a lot of fun. "How about we play a game? If you can remember who I am and how we met, I'll stop throwing pinecones at you. If you guess incorrectly, I throw more. Fair?"
"Not fair!"
Alastor plucked another pinecone from the tree. "What's your first guess?"
It was so fun to watch him struggle to think. "Um.. um... the park?"
He chucked the pinecone harder at his head. "Nope! Guess again, Whittman." Alastor laughed.
Vincent cursed as he heaved himself up the next branch; he was certainly getting closer but he was clearly afraid. He hugged the tree again for a longer amount of time, giving Alastor a chance to climb up another branch to grab another pinecone. He heard Vincent groan. "I don't know um... at the market? The beach? Out here in the woods?"
Alastor threw three pinecones at him, and when Vincent dodged the third one he quickly grabbed a fourth to hit him to make up for it. "Nope. Nope. And nope. Really, Vincent, I'm offended."
"Just tell me already!" the boy shouted, and he didn't dare go up another branch.
Taking pity, and feeling a lot more even now with Vincent for the newspaper incident, Alastor swiftly climbed down to be a branch just slightly higher than Vincent. "You threw a newspaper at my face."
Now that Alastor was closer, Vincent could tell who he was. Vincent also used glasses, but he would leave them at home when he went out to play because he didn't want to seem like a nerd with his friends. He only used them when he absolutely had to -- it's why he had such poor grades. He never wanted to bring them to school. His vision had been the issue the whole time really, because he does in fact remember Alastor. The most beautiful boy he'd ever seen -- no. It's just because Alastor looks like a girl. That's what he thought when he first saw him, that he was a pretty girl with curly short hair and a sharp nose. A thin figure but wide hips; and Vincent had just chucked a newspaper at her face. On accident!
But then he realized the girl he thought he saw was actually a boy. Ashamed, he had pedaled faster than ever before and only yelled a pathetic sorry instead of stopping to formally apologize. "Oh!" Vincent squeaked, face flushed red. "You."
"Yes, me." Alastor eyed Vincent with a smile that made Vincent blush harder, he was hiding his pale face behind the tree so Alastor couldn't get a good look at him (and to save himself from staring at Alastor). Vincent knows these thoughts are... unnatural. He has only ever seen a man and a woman together, he shouldn't like a boy the way boys like girls. "My name's Alastor."
"My name's Vincent."
He heard Alastor laugh, and it made him blush harder. "I know that."
Vincent groaned into the tree. "Right. Sorry," he said and finally peeled his face away from the bark and managed to look at Alastor. Things hadn't changed about his face since the first time he saw him. Curly brown hair that fell perfectly over his hazel brown eyes -- that's what captivated him. "I'm sorry I threw a newspaper at your face. I really didn't mean to. It was just bad timing."
"It's okay, I've gotten my revenge." Alastor chuckled. "It's all out of my system now."
"Good. It was starting to really hurt," he chuckled, absently rubbing his forehead as if to prove it. "Um.. hey Alastor?"
"Yes?"
"Now that we're even, can you help me down the tree?"
Alastor laughed hard, and it was almost worth the embarrassment.
--
It took them some time, but eventually they managed to safely get back to the ground. They spent the rest of the day running around Cypress Swamp, they even found a box turtle with a curiously orange shell -- they fed it together. Apparently, Vincent didn't usually come out to Cypress Swamp, he tended to play more in the local park in the French Quarter. Today, thought, Vincent admitted that he was trying to not be found.
"My parents were fighting." he said quietly. It had gotten darker out and they were watching as the fireflies danced over the still water of the swamp. They had found the perfect seats just a few feet away from the swamp so they could see everything clearly (even without Vincent's glasses).
Usually, Alastor didn't care a lot about other people's problems. To be frank, he just didn't have many friends to talk to these things about. He had just met Vox, and though he still didn't entirely care... he did know how to be polite and listen. Besides, he had a lot of fun playing with Vincent all day. Vincent was almost the perfect amount of whiny and resilient, that it was still fun to tease and bully him but he wasn't going to go tattling or crying about it and he would be fine at the end of the day. He even made his own jabs throughout the day too, once he got more comfortable with Alastor. "What were they fighting about?" Alastor asked curiously.
Vincent shrugged. "I dunno."
"Did he hit her?" Alastor asked, because his father (when he showed up) would often hit his mother too. It was a terrible thing to witness. As Alastor had grown older, he had gotten in the way of many of his father's blows. So he knows how scary that can be. It pulled something in his chest that often remained dormant when he saw Vincent's head nod. Vincent was taller than Alastor, and a little chubby. His cheeks were full like a chipmunks, holding onto his baby fat. They were the same age, but Alastor felt a twinge of protectiveness over Vincent in that moment. "Did he hit you?"
"No," Alastor sighed in relief. "He didn't, but it was still scary. I tried to yell at him to stop but he didn't care. He just sent me away. He says one day I'll understand. Once I'm a man. But... I don't know. I don't think I could ever understand why I'd hurt a woman, much less a mom."
The air was thick with humidity, and the sounds of the creatures of the night. On a night like this, two kids like them would be desperate to get back home, but not them. Alastor and Vincent were enjoying each other's company, and the peace of the swamp. "I don't think I understand it either." Alastor agreed. They shared a look, and Alastor was reminded of something, something that would change the topic. It wasn't natural, after all, for boys to talk about their feelings. "Why are your eyes different colors?"
Vincent flushed. "It's called heterochromia."
"Hetero...what?" Alastor chuckled, but there was no teasing in his tone, he just hadn't heard the word before.
"Heterochromia," Vincent said the end of the word slower. "It's a condition that just means my eyes are different colors. My ma says my dad dropped me hard when I was a kid, and ever since then they've been different." he shrugged.
Alastor doesn't like Vincent's father. "Fathers suck."
Vincent chuckled. "Yeah, they kind of do."
They watched as the fireflies traveled swiftly above the water. They could see the reflection of the stars among their own. It was one of Alastor's favorite parts about staying out here so late. The beauty of the darkness was underappreciated. Alas, Alastor did have to go home before his mother worried. He stood up slowly. "I should get home."
He watched as Vincent hurried to his feet. "Can we..hang out again?"
Strange. Alastor hadn't expected that. "Why?"
If Vincent weren't so pale, it would've been hard to see the slight flush on his face but...well, he is pale. "I had a lot of fun with you, and I'd like to be friends. That's why."
"Even after I threw all those pinecones at you?"
"That was to get even."
"Even after I scared you with that snake?" Alastor pushed, his brow raising further.
"That was funny." Vincent defended.
Interesting. "Well, I suppose...I'm here every Sunday. You'll have to find me."
What was more interesting, was how bright Vincent's smile is -- it could challenge the moon. "I'll see you next Sunday then."
They walked back towards the city together, and diverged paths eventually. It was definitely out of the ordinary to have a white friend but...well, it's not like anyone would know. They'd be friends in secret.
For some reason, that excited Alastor.
___
"Mom? I'm home." He said, entering the front door. He inhaled the delicious scent of jambalaya. Her famous recipe. She always made it on Sundays.
Odette Zeno was a humble, hard-working, black creole woman. Alastor nearly never saw her relax. She was always on the go. Either as a waitress, a maid, or even sometimes as a midwife. She had given birth to Alastor when she was only 16, and the little education she had ended when he was born. So she made it a point to make sure Alastor got one.
She had been through a lot, and Alastor wanted to make her proud. One day, he wanted to provide for her a wealth that would let her stop working and enjoy the simplicities of life. But that was a long way from now.
Despite her hard life, she always said she was fortunate. Her name meant wealth and fortune, ironically, and she said her fortune was Alastor.
Alastor sincerely doubted it. Sure he was also hard working and helpful around the house, but he also had trouble at school with the other kids. She always pushed him to be better, but she also would defend him: saying that he just had trouble with socializing. That's all.
Except he doesn't have that problem. In fact, Alastor was quite the charmer amongst adults. Especially when he was hustling around Tremé, trying to make a buck or two. It was just school. All the kids were idiots.
"Oh my sweet boy! It's so late, I was getting worried." She chuckled, going up to plant a sweet kiss on his forehead. Squishing his cheeks between her hands.
Alastor smiled, but pretended to be annoyed. "Ma.." he whined and she laughed and let him go. "Sorry, I was enjoying watching the night sky."
"I know dear," she said, and pushed his curls out of the way of his eyes. A mother's gaze, Alastor noticed, was always warm yet calculating. She was trying to scan him for injuries, physical or emotional. Searching beyond his eyes to try and walk backwards with him throughout the day. He was at the age where he didn't share every waking second of his life with her, and she had to do some digging to learn about his day. "I just worry about you. Please be careful out there... That poor Darius down the street, did you hear what happened to him? Poor boy was only thirteen." She sighed, her heart heavy.
Alastor had heard about him. He had gotten assaulted by a group of white men for venturing too far North in the French Quarter. He hadn't been doing anything wrong. But that didn't matter to them. "I heard. I don't go up to the French Quarter though, ma."
"I know." She sighed in relief. "Keep it that way."
They had dinner, and Alastor listened to his mother talk about her day. She told him about how she had helped Ms. Peters deliver her baby -- her third! And she was only nineteen.
Alastor loved listening to his mother's stories. She was so animated. She always kept his attention. If Alastor could picture her in any profession, it'd be as a radio star. She had the kind of voice people want to listen to. He had said this to her before, and she had swore up and down that Alastor did too. His voice being much like hers.
Though he appreciated the sentiment, he didn't know how to feel about being so similar to her. He already got enough teasing at school about looking like a girl. He had even tried cutting his hair shorter once, but it had ended up looking a mess because he had cut it in such a way that it looked like a bob with empty space underneath.
It hadn't been a good look. He had hope that he'd grow into his more masculine looks as he got older though. Unfortunately, his father, Louis Hartfelt, was quite the effeminate fellow. So, maybe there wasn't much hope for him.
At some point, his mother ran out of things to say, and so began her digging. "Did you find anything interesting today?"
"I found a box turtle. It had this curious orange markings all over it." Alastor said with a smile, remembering how Vincent had stared at the turtle with excited, wide, eyes and had pet it's shell gently. "We even got to feed it."
"We?" She questioned with an excited look.
Alastor blushed. He hadn't meant for that to slip out. It's not that he didn't want his mother to know he had made a friend but...she tended to get a little over-excited at the very mention of Alastor having a good time with someone his age. "Just me and..a boy I met in Cypress Swamp today. Well, I had met him before. He's the paperboy, but we just hadn't spoken before today."
Her eyes lit up, and set set her glass of water down from the sip she had taken to try and calm herself down. "What's his name?"
"Um, Vincent Whittman?"
It felt like a blow to the chest when her face fell. "Whittman? As in the son of Priscilla and Joshua Whittman?" She questioned.
Alastor had never heard of those names, so he shrugged slowly (his mother didn't like it when he shrugged, it's rude, Alastor. "I can't be certain. I didn't ask him, and it didn't come up. He did mention they live in the French Quarter. Why? Do you know them?"
Odette sighed softly, and she smiled weakly. "I clean their house, honey. They are..quite the family. Is Vincent a boy your age? With heterochromia?"
Quite the family was the phrase his mother used for dysfunctional and/or abusive. "He is.." Alastor admitted. "It's okay, I don't have to be friends with him..."
"No! No, Alastor--" she said, almost desperately. "--You can and should be friends with him. Just don't go over to his house. You hear?"
"Yes, ma'am." He said, curious but not enough to disobey her. Not yet, at least.
___
When Vincent got home, his parents were still arguing. He wondered if they had ever stopped. He wondered if they even noticed that he had gone.
"There you are," his mother, Priscilla, sighed in relief. She came over to him and engulfed him in a hug.
His father was sat on his recliner chair reading the newspaper. "About time, your mother was going hysterical."
"Sorry, sir." Vincent said a bit awkwardly. "I was just out playing with a friend, and I lost track of time."
"Don't let it happen again." His father, Joshua, snapped.
Sometimes, Vincent wished he was a different person. Someone stronger, in control, that could ban his father from the home. That he could protect himself and his mother from him. So that he didn't feel so goddamn scared all the time. "Yes, sir." Vincent said.
His mother ushered him to the kitchen, where she put together a cold sandwich for him and smiled warmly as she watched him eat it. "What friend did you go play with?" She asked softly, picking a leaf out of his hair.
"A new friend I made. Alastor...er, I forgot to ask his last name." Vincent smacked himself in the face for being so stupid.
Priscilla hummed. "Alastor...the name sounds familiar. Well, you should invite him over for your birthday party!"
Right. His birthday. He was turning 11 in a couple weeks. Having Alastor around might be nice... He smiled. "That's a great idea! I'll ask him next Sunday."
"Why not tomorrow at school?" She asked, watching as Vincent got up from his seat and washed his plate.
"He doesn't go to my school. Alastor lives in Tremé." Vincent explained with a shrug.
Living in Tremé didn't necessarily mean Alastor had to be black. The French Quarter and Tremé were so close that a lot of the neighborhoods were mixed in cultures, races, and ethnicities. There was of course very clear divided, still. Especially in shops and schools, due to segregation laws, but communities were quite diverse.
"Well, I'm excited to meet him." She said, and Vincent smiled softly. "Goodnight, my little man."
"Goodnight ma. Goodnight, sir." Vincent said as he headed off to his room. His father only grunted from his spot.
Vincent curled up with the shark plushie his mother had made for him, and he fell asleep dreaming of stars, fireflies, and Alastor.