A/N: The story uses the popular 'Dr. Loboto is Bobby Zilch's father' fan theory and this piece is an exploration of that relationship. Takes place pre-game.
Quiet days were good days, he discovered. When his father would be floored from work, walking in only to fall back onto the couch, briefcase by the door; those were good days. His breathing was gentle and comforting, presence languid and warm.
When he'd ask about his day and his only response would be "All a blur", sometimes 'of teeth' added to the end, others 'of patients', sometimes both.
"What about you? How was your day?" Him, how was he, how was his day; no other question made him feel more appreciated. Bobby always responded quietly, carefully, so as not to not spoil anything.
When he said that they'd done some drawing in class, his father asked, "Did you bring it home?" Indeed, he did. "Bring it here, let me have a look." His hand waved flippantly. The boy scurried away, softening his steps half-way through, and retrieved the artwork.
Caligosto had made a sound of genuine intrigue, gingerly procuring it from his son's anxious hands.
"You've got good lines," He complimented honestly, his long index finger following the curve. "Really nice and bold, good line of action," The last part made some sense to the boy, not complete sense but some; he thanked him.
"Put it on the fridge," His father said, "You've earned it." No sooner was it in Bobby's hands was it whisked away to the kitchen, plastered onto the refrigerator with masking tape.
The red-headed boy found himself yearning for more silent afternoons like that.
He waited patiently for them.
Another one rolled around three weeks later.
He'd been drawing during recess and lunch at school, practicing, collecting material to talk about. When Bobby had confessed that he had a drawing and asked if his father would like to see it he was greeted with the same, promising flick of his wrist.
"Bring it here, I want to have a look." The boy did as he was asked with a quiet excitement, softly treading to fetch it. He rummaged through his bag and found the exact one he wished to show; the best in his own, amateur eyes.
He placed it into his father's waiting hands. Caligosto hummed curiously.
"I love—"He began, wonderfully, "This line here." Bobby angled his head to see where he had gestured, finger hovering over the graphite mark in question. "It's light but strong and I really like— "His eyes followed diligently, "—how it connects to this part here, the arm, right?" The redhead nodded enthusiastically.
"Very nice. Dynamic." The boy thanked him again, not really knowing what 'dynamic' was exactly but a glance at his drawing gave him the gist of it.
A moment of thought.
"Can I have this?" Caligosto asked, lifting the paper a little and looking to him. What did he mean by that, exactly, Bobby wondered.
"I'd like to put it in my office," He didn't even wait for his son's question. "Liven up the place a little when I'm in-between patients." His father elaborated.
A giddiness overcame him and he stuttered out his approval.
"Whoa, steady there, boy, haha, it's just my office," He laughed lightly in amusement, "Might help remind them that I've got you to look out for, eh?"
It was uncharacteristic of him to say such a thing; he didn't really know if it meant anything. But the way his father was now, regarding him with light-heartedness and acknowledgement, Bobby could not believe anything else.
He wouldn't believe anything else.
Although encouraging, uplifting, meaningful, a long, tumultuous month and a bit rolled by before the next opportunity.
Even when it was bad, when his father came home in a mood or his usual, neglectful self, when he pointed and hissed, when he was berated, Bobby continued to draw at school and now, at home, whenever he was shut-up in his room as some form of punishment for actions he didn't really know were bad, were so upsetting, in his father's eyes.
It dawned on Bobby that this prolonged spiel of upset affected the man; his briefcase dropped to the floor before the door could close, jammed, and body practically flung onto the couch. He crept up and moved the briefcase away, placing it to the side and shut the door noiselessly.
He snuck around and peered at Caligosto. His arms were over his eyes, locked, shielding them. He decided that he'd let his father's exhaustion settle before he made himself known.
"Bobby!" Came the call through his room about half an-hour later. The redhead abandoned his comic at the sound, attending to his father with a repressed urgency.
Meekly, he presented himself.
"I want to see some." Sensing the confusion in his son, he elaborated with some force. "I want to see some of your drawings. Bring them to me." With a wave of his hand, Bobby disappeared into his room. Understanding that this sort of silence didn't guarantee patience with his father, he hurriedly searched through the collection of drawings on his desk and picked two (that was 'some', right?) that he liked and returned with them.
"I said some," Caligosto stressed, "But I suppose a couple will do. Make a note of it, boy." A note he did make, affirmed with a nod. The man lay on his back, the two pieces of paper at arm's length away; he was comparing them.
Bobby waited, unmoving, and observed.
He turned each of them to their backside, searching for something; he didn't find it and flipped them back.
"This one is older," He flitted the drawing in his left hand, "Same sort of line work as your last one." He wasn't wrong.
Caligosto continued to analyse for another minute or so.
"I didn't tell you to start colouring these, did I?" He inquired.
Bobby stiffened, a claw of nervousness grazing his belly, father gauging him.
The man made a noise of confirmation.
"I hadn't thought so." He mused, directing his gaze to the offending paper, "I suppose lines can only take you so far. Good on you for taking the initiative."
A silent sigh of relief escaped the boy.
"You're not as good with your colouring, though," He pointed to the picture in his right hand, the piece in his left clutched to his palm."They get a bit muddy around here," The thumb of his right hand, long and calloused, tapped the paper.
Bobby felt his initial anticipation twist into disappointment; the slow responses were not helping this.
"Bring me a paper and something to colour with," He handed the two pages back to his son, "I want to show you something." The redhead made a move to place his work on the coffee table, halted mid-action and looked to his father. Caligosto nodded his head and waved his hand dismissively in approval.
He set them down, side-by-side, and set off. Upon his return, he found his father sitting up, looking at his drawings again; the slump of his shoulders revealed his fatigue.
The man sensed him a few seconds after he made himself apparent and beckoned him to come forward.
"I take that this one's your favourite colour?" His father examined the stub of a red pencil. Bobby grinned sheepishly. "I don't blame you," He said, setting the pencils in a neat line, "It's a great colour." His brow rose at 'great'.
The man set his paper straight and plucked a dark brown from his row. "I'll just doodle something quick." His wrist hovered over the page, mimicking the motions of drawing before he set his pencil down on it.
He was fast and he was good; Bobby was not sure if he was meant to suspect this. The boy voiced his thoughts and asked if he was an artist.
"I'm a dentist, not an artist." He corrected with a raised tone, dashing his curiosity.
The sound of sketching filled the room, the rhythm of his breathing breaking through as lines ended, and retreating when graphite scratched paper; an organic melody.
"A girl I knew in college was really good at drawing, much better than I," He stated, out of the blue. "Sat next to me and doodled the professor and the people in front of her," A thick, swooping line, "Really nice studies of teeth and the jaw, she sometimes did." His tongue slipped over his incisors.
He finished drawing.
"She dropped out." He set the pencil down and examined his work, hands settling on his knees.
"Now, pay attention." He instructed, one hand pointing to him, the other reaching for the blue, head craned in his direction.
Bobby inched closer and kneeled on the floor beside him.
"When I colour," He started, filling in the sleeve of an arm, "I make sure to stay in the lines; that you know, but, more importantly—" He stopped to gesture, "The colour doesn't go over them." Caligosto looked to him; his expression conveyed a teaching sort of mood; open and neutral, "It'll muddy everything if you decide to build on your colours, afterwards." His attention returned to his work, completing the arm.
He picked up a purple next and used it to shade.
"I pick whatever's closest to the base." His words seemed almost absent-minded; he was calming down. "Black and grey and white just ruin everything; make it all dirty looking." Caligosto snorted at this; Bobby couldn't help but think it was a playful jab at his person.
He didn't instruct any more after that, but instead continued to colour with Bobby by his side.
Truthfully, the boy was not fixating on every move his father made, but oversaw most of them. The man didn't seem to notice, or mind.
The picture of bliss.
The pressure of a neglected longing disturbed it. His father's tranquillity was inviting, stirring the need for physical closeness, for touch, in Bobby.
They were so distant, normally. Negative space and angled, sharp lines of bodies and arms between them; active and threatening, unstable. Here, now, they were steady, supported.
A fearful jitter in his heart scattered through his body. His father's leg, cloth hiding his thin build, foot covered by small, shiny shoes.
He'd just hold onto that. Just that. That was all.
Hesitantly, he threaded his arm through, the sofa pressing in from behind and his hand clutched carefully onto his father's shin.
"Friendly, are we?" Caught.
His tone, although not angry, prompted him to recoil, hand sliding along the fabric, unwilling to leave.
"No, no, it's alright, you can stay." Caligosto placated him with some interest. His upper lip quirked up, baring a peculiar half-grin at his son's flighty behaviour.
Bobby resumed his hold; approval, permission. His head rested his on the side of his knee and the disturbance drained out of him. Eyes squeezed shut to imprint the moment, the sight, the feel, into his memory.
"Don't sleep on me." Came the gentle command, followed by the scratching of pencil on paper.
Sleep? He wouldn't even dream of it.
Bobby resumed observing his father, watching him use the haphazardly picked colours with what seemed like expertise. The drawing was taking on a life Bobby had never really thought colour could achieve.
Invigorated by his touch, the boy asked. If he wasn't an artist, how was he so good with colouring?
Caligosto smiled at the compliment.
"When your workplace is bleach white with smatters of chrome and mint green," A bit of his arrogance threaded through his words; complex language seemed to amuse him greatly, "You notice colours a lot more than the average person." The boy supposed that made sense.
"It does." His father asserted. He stopped colouring.
"You know," He began, conceit fleeing him in favour of recollection, "I had a patient comment on your drawing today." He placed the pencil back in its empty spot amongst the neat row.
Bobby couldn't repress his elation at the discovery.
"Yes, really." Caligosto turned to face the boy, still latched onto his leg, "Little boy about, so high," His hand plateaued just above his knee, "Came in for a check-up, asked if that was my drawing, on the wall beside my desk." He explained, almost lost in the retelling.
"I told him, 'No, that's my son's'," It felt good to hear such a thing, "And he said, 'You have a son, really?!'" Caligosto's voice mimicked the surprise of his patient, childish and chirpy, "And I said 'Yes, really' and yanked out his tooth!" The hard, gravelly curve of 'yanked' accentuated the swooping pull of the phantom tooth, hand clenched on the memory of dental pliers.
Bobby was startled by the sudden exclamation. His father returned to the present, unaware that his sudden re-enactment unnerved his son.
"He'd been hiding that flimsy milk tooth from his parents, apparently." Index finger wiggling, "Got it out as soon as I saw it. No time for blubbering." He stated roughly, palm cutting across the space in front of him. "I guess I have to thank you for that." He rested a hand on Bobby's shoulder. "Saved me a lot of unnecessary tears to deal with." It began to slip away, dragging his long fingers along his skin absently.
It couldn't leave, not so soon.
His hand captured the retreating touch desperately. Caligosto's head snapped to him and stared quizzically, lip in a line that twinged downwards at the ends ever-so-slightly.
Several apologies, some quiet, some cracking with emotion, were blurted out, thick hair hiding his face when he curled away.
A laugh.
Bobby looked up in spite of himself to see his father's head thrown back, practically cackling, with angled arms and clawed fingers. His shoulders were wracked with spasms and his eyes struggled to stay open, chest heaving.
His laugh spiked into a shriek. After that it oscillated but never reached the high note it hit earlier and finally tumbled down into a hacking, guttural choke.
The boy felt absolutely mortified.
"Oh," A resurgence of a chuckle, "Oh, my dear boy," His father petted him, "That was, ha, that was—You're just full of surprises today, aren't you?" He mentioned, breathily. Caligosto let himself fall back onto the back cushion of the couch, hand over his heart, the other cupping the side of his face. "I-I really needed that." He confessed.
The redhead was conflicted. Humiliated, confused; comforted by the second touch and relieved thanks, puzzled by his father's explosive laughing fit and embarrassed at himself.
He didn't understand, and that was what hurt the most.
"Oh, my goodness," A wavering proclamation, "That...That really wore me out..." He positioned himself on his side, arm propping him up "I'm going to...take a nap." Caligosto lay, resting his head, feet stretched over the arm of the couch at the other end.
Bobby felt his throat tighten, face aflame with shame and scuttled away, leaving everything as it was.
He hunched over in the safety of the corridor, right arm draped across his face, left reaching out to the doorknob of his room. The soft click of the latch bolt as it closed ensured his privacy.
His will to resist lay outside; his body trembled and he collapsed onto the floor. He wept pitifully, curled up upon his knees, tears dissipating into the carpet of his room.
There would be more quiet days to come after this one, and come they did, whenever his father willed them to. He'd still ask about his day, sometimes; it seemed that after this Caligosto seemed to forget to do so, or maybe he just didn't care as much.
The warmth would be present but, at times, unsettling and itchy; humid.
There were no more drawings.
A/N: I hope that was enjoyable! Loboto would be a very emotionally abusive father; a taste for sadism doesn't just come out of nowhere, you know! Every little bit counts.