Author's Note: Read and Review. There is a great chance I will want to continue this if it is well-received. Enjoy.
Lunch
Meals are usually subdued affairs. My father and I normally sit in silence, eating food Alfred has cooked in silence. When we are done, I speak only to ask permission to leave. He speaks only to grant it. That is my interpretation of a civilised meal. As I sit at the head of another family's dining table, flanked by loud voices and too much buffet food to possibly sample in one sitting, I am beginning to question that interpretation. Here the father is also mostly a silent figurehead, occupying the other end of the table. But unlike my own father, Mr Gilt does pass comment on the current topics of conversation at regular intervals. These topics are all engineered by the mother, a comely woman who insists I call her Rosie. Thus far, they all revolve around me. Although novel at first to be the centre of this odd universe, after almost thirty minutes I am beginning to feel like an exhibit rather than a guest.
"I have had enough of your inquiries, Mrs. Gilt. I am not an exhibit in a Victorian freak show. Aside from my father's wealth and the luxury of choice such funds afford us, I am quite ordinary." I tell her bluntly when she asks whether my father has ever bribed someone to secure me something I want but otherwise cannot have. Both she and her husband look perturbed by this reply. Amber, who is seated on my left, does not share her parents' shock. Instead, she smiles at me in a way that suggests she finds my response both amusing and brave. A glance in Kyle's direction seems to confirm he feels similarly.
"Most boys would not dare speak to my Rosie like that, Damian." Mr. Gilt announces after a few moments of silence. His face is grave. It then lightens before breaking out into an amused grin almost identical to that of his eldest children. "We're glad you have a backbone. If there's one thing I hate, it's a spineless coward. Kudos." I manage to incline my head, although I inwardly grimace at the very idea I could be seen as a coward. My father is not in the habit of breeding cowards. I find Amber's father to be a very strange man, a libertine hiding behind the guise of an authoritarian. My father's public persona is the exact opposite. I thought it the same of all fathers. Clearly I have been mistaken on many facets of daily life in the manor constituting an ordinary environment. Still, I prefer boredom to bedlam.
"So, Damian, what do you like to eat?" Mrs. Gilt asks after I assume she sees me picking at the barbequed chicken skewers I have put on my plate. I have eaten enough not to be impolite, but nothing else. They are covered in some sort of sticky glaze I do not like. Extra sugar and empty calories are not conducive to efficiency on the streets. "Does your father have a strict diet for you?" I shake my head.
"No. He believes in sensible eating. I elect to be stringent with my intake for reasons of physical fitness."
"Damian is like seriously shredded, Dad. I mean like…crazy ripped." Kyle informs his father, "Must have a body fat of six percent tops. You know he overhead pressed me? Like a full lock-out and everything." The older boy demonstrates the position by straightening his arms above his head. His father does not look impressed.
"Six percent sounds dangerous for an eleven-year-old. Does your father encourage this kind of extreme dieting, Damian?" Mr Gilt inquires with too much probing for my liking. It is a leading question, but one I can easily diffuse.
"My father would never allow me to pursue anything dangerous. Besides, my body fat is almost eight percent and well within safety parameters for a child of my size and age group." I say before biting into my pedestrian food to demonstrate my lack of reservations.
"What's your dad's?"
"Also within safety parameters for an adult of his size and body mass. I wish to discuss something other than my physique if you please. I find it…superficial." I tell him with a hard stare. It is actually not. Currently, I believe my father's overall body fat is somewhere in the region of five percent. Were he not used to the stresses such a low fat count has on his body, I imagine my father would be very ill. Nevertheless, Mr Gilt holds up a hand of apology, an admirable gesture given his status as head of the household. He is clearly not without humility.
"Marty didn't mean to upset you, Damian." Mrs. Gilt says a moment later, "We're just a little cagey about those sorts of things. After Amber…" She stops herself from saying anymore. I notice her eyes have gone from me to her daughter. Amber is still eating her coleslaw and does not seem phased by the mention of her name. She looks at me and smiles sheepishly.
"My mom doesn't like to embarrass me in front of guests, but when I was eleven I was a little anorexic about my weight." I have no idea what is an appropriate response for this kind of discussion. Perhaps I am meant to assure her such things are in the past or maybe I should complement her strength of character in overcoming mental instability that might have once sent her to a sanatorium. I smile at her.
"Everybody has their demons, Amber." I say in a tone I hope conveys my understanding. I turn to her mother. "However, anorexia is not one of mine."
The meal ends shortly after. Cleaning duties are left to the four boys while Amber and I are excused. She takes me up to her room, a space that is dominated by posters of singers and starlets I have never heard of. We sit on her bed and I wait for her to initiate conversation. "I knew you'd be good at holding your ground, but that was pretty awesome lion taming with my folks." She says with a smirk. "Not even my oldest friends are that strong in the face of questions like those. Kudos."
"My parents taught me to never fear inquisition, merely to understand its importance. It is obvious your parents wish your friends to be a good influence on you and of good character. Although I find them somewhat…brusque in their approach, I understand their concerns." I reply, trying to be diplomatic when her father's accusations of cowardice still sting. She rolls her eyes.
"Come on: you don't really think that. You think my dad's an ass and my mom's a little too nosey for a woman. Admit it."
"I think in this scenario my opinions on your parents are not important." I say turning to look at her. "You have a good family and you are loved by them. It is a position many people in Gotham would envy you for, regardless of their more vulgar traits." I add with the utmost sincerity. Child abuse and neglect is rife in this city. She is fortunate indeed. She stares at me hard.
"Do you envy me for it?"
"No. I am in the same minority as you." I tell her. She frowns, unconvinced.
"Your dad seems like he's a little demanding of you."
"He is. I prefer it that way. It makes me strive for more. I am grateful for his lack of complacency." I say. Her frown alters to one of confusion.
"Do you love him?"
I frown now. "What?"
"Most people when they talk about their parents and they have a good relationship with them always say they love them. You've never said that about your old man. You say you're grateful and you're thankful, appreciative and fortunate to have him, but you've never said 'love'. Is it hard for you to say?" She inquires before almost casually beginning to run her hand through my hair. The gesture is odd coming from a female who is not my mother. It feels alien, but strangely pleasant. Like Alfred's squeezing of my neck, it soothes me into answering despite how uncomfortable I am articulating my answer.
"Yes."
"Why?" She continues stroking through my hair. Her voice is probing but patient. It tells me I should not be afraid to offer more. I sigh.
"I don't know. My mother told me to express such a sentiment aloud was to display vulnerability to your enemies and offer them a point to attack. I never expressed such a convention to her either." She does not ask what kind of education my mother furnished me with from the cradle that included the stratagem of war. I am grateful. She merely tells me her opinion.
"That's sad, Dami. You should tell him that you love him."
"I am certain he knows of my affection for him."
"Yeah, probably, but parents like to hear it anyway. It makes them feel important, especially when you're growing older. If you don't, sometimes they drift further away from you." She suggests. I cannot help but scoff.
"My father would never react in such a womanly fashion if I continued to keep my feelings to myself. He would understand. He always understands me. That is why I do not envy you or your family, Amber. Many people misinterpret what I say or the way I act. They think me rude or antisocial, but not my father. He never shirks taking me to a civic function if I wish to attend or hides me whilst there. He is always proud to introduce me as his son. Always. For many in his position such parading of their offspring is a show to garner favour with other social elitists and nothing more. But not for him. He means every word he says regarding my character and my intelligence. He never wishes for me to meld into the shadows when in front of company. He wishes me to participate and make my opinions heard. That is why I…" I find myself faltering. I have told her in thirty seconds more of my feelings on him than I have revealed to anyone else in my life. To hear myself speak of him like this is terrifying, but also very liberating. She prompts me when I do not finish my sentence, still combing through my hair.
"Yes?"
"That's why I love him. Because despite all my failings as a model child, he loves me unconditionally. It is very rare to find a man like that, especially with his position and status. Impossible even. But he has always been an impossible man, a contradiction of expectation."
"You see now I understand why you're different from the other boys at that party. Your dad's a real catch, huh?"
"Like a white whale." I say. Her hand leaves my hair. I consider. "I also have brothers…of a sort. Would you care to—"
"I'd love to hear about them! Older, right?"
"How did you?"
"You play dumb, but you've wrestled before. The kind of scars you have only come from doing stupid stuff with older boys on a regular basis. So…tell me about them: what are their names?"
"Oldest one is Richard, but everyone calls him Dick…"
I leave the Gilt residence later than expected, around four. I talked about Dick, Drake and Jason at length, whilst obviously omitting several details. It was again a liberating experience that she was very interested in sharing with me. Her words about my father still resonate the deepest though. Her descriptions of him were less than poetic, but had a certain powerful simplicity I greatly admired. That is why as soon as I arrive back at the manor shortly before five, I immediately seek him out. I find him in the gymnasium, Olympic-lifting weights in excess of four-hundred pounds using a clean and split-step technique to finish the lockout. His dress of a vest and shorts serves to showcase his dense and muscular physique, a specimen that harks back to Grecian ideals of perfection. Sometimes it is incredible to think I share the same genes as him. He makes the exercise seem effortless such is his form and speed. I watch him complete five repetitions in less than ninety seconds before he stops and directs his attentions onto my presence.
"Good afternoon, Son. Did you enjoy your time at Ms Gilt's house?"
"Yes Father, very much."
"And might you be seeing her again?"
"I hope to meet her in the city next week."
"Excellent. Alfred says dinner will be ready in an hour. Will you be attending?"
"Yes."
He thanks me for my choice and turns back to his weights, but pauses when realising I am still standing in the gymnasium. He turns back to face me. "Is there something else you wish to discuss?"
"There is something I wish to tell you, Father. It does not regard courtship of Amber. It is something regarding our relationship." I say, aware my voice is trembling slightly as I prepare to speak further. He closes the distance between us until he is only a foot or so away. I do not believe he is even sweating as he awaits my statement.
"What is it?"
"I wish you to know…"
"Yes?"
"That I…" I feel my throat going dry and almost turn to leave. I take a step only for his hand to stop my progress. He comes down on one knee and his face offers nothing but patience…like Amber's earlier. I realise now how alike the two of them are in temperament. Neither wishes me to withdraw into myself. They always want to know more. His next words and the odd softness with which he utters them says as much.
"Please continue, Son."
"I love you. Very much. I love you very much Father." I say after several false starts. He raises his eyebrows slightly, but not so much as to make me feel awkward. Even if it is imperceptible to most people, I can see my admission means a great deal to him. It pleases me to no end to see such sentiment flicker briefly in his usually stoic eyes. Then he smiles and nods in appreciation. His hand squeezes my shoulder.
"Thank you for that Damian. I love you too." He rises back to his feet after clapping me on the shoulder to further demonstrate his gratitude. He does not expect an embrace or anything more from me and returns to his weights in silence. "I wish to know everything of your time at the Gilts' house during dinner. I will see you shortly." I believe I was mistaken. My father's body fat percentage is higher than five percent, closer to seven or eight if I am correct. I decide on seven.
"Yes Father. Thank you for listening."
"Anytime, Son." He says with his back to me before again seamlessly hoisting the bar to his shoulder. Amber is right: my dad is awesome. I turn and leave without another word.