The Biography of Us

By Megan

Notes: After very little feedback on this story, I must say I'm not surprised. The prologue was weird, and probably confusing. The early years are hard to write, because I don't much like children. Hopefully, once they get to the later ages (i.e., the teenage years you shippers thrive upon), people will pay more attention.

Ah well. Perhaps I should move this over to the DC section instead, since it could really fit into both. They seem to have more older writers over there…. I shall ponder now.

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Age One: Cognitive
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The first thing they learn is that no one is permanent, and that there is no connection between their parents. They cannot put 'mama' and 'papa' together in any sort of way, because after the first few months when they were still trying to understand sight and sound and touch, they never see them together. If their mother is home their father is gone. If their father is home their mother is gone, and they cried for hours on such occasions. When it failed to make her suddenly appear, they stopped, and learned to do without. By their first birthday, neither of their parents could be home, most times, so they began to rely on a string of nannies. They found their first constant with them—they were always women, always middle-aged with brown skin or elderly with white, and they each smelled either of pastries or powder.

Tim's family lived in Manhattan, where they could flaunt their riches enough to be respected without having to own a large house. The only time Tim noticed any sort of gathering in the place was when business associates would gather for cocktail parties. He'd learned when these parties were to happen by connecting them to the wearing of a tiny tuxedo-replica. It was really a one-piece, linen shirt that was patterned to look like the shirt, suit, and tie of a nice suit. He didn't understand what a suit was, or how his clothes fit him, but he liked the contrast between the deep black and bright white, and he liked having both of his parents in the same room, so he associated the two likes in his small mind. People, to him, had no value; had no worth measured by their character, only by how much he liked them. He loved his nannies because they were always there. He loved his parents because he had no reason not to. Others were appreciated for the color of their clothes, or the toys they gave him, or the tone of their voice.

On the other side of the Hudson, the Stone family ate and slept in a two-story home in Queens. Victor was dressed by his mother each morning in a pair of overalls and a white undershirt that snapped around his daiper. He was then whisked away from the house, which became something like a dream in his mind, to that of his neighbor, who had two small children of her own. At their house, when not playing with the others, he could catch sight of his home through the window, and not even know what it was. Moving between the two homes was like an adventure—every time he came home it was a new place, the only recognizeable sign being the stale scent of disuse.

The Stones paid their neighbor a generous amount for her services, but when it was found that the money was fed to her heroine addiction, they quickly withdrew their business, and there was a brief time where they would take time off to be with him while finding a new sitter. The house-smell was replaced by people-smells, like his father's cologne or his mother's stranger, darker scent. He always thought later that she'd smelled of burnt hair.

It was 1988, and the Cold War was finally coming to a close. Victor's parents were finally getting the rest the needed after a long, tiring race to the stars. They were thinking of buying a new house. They were thinking of sending their child to private school. The Drakes were ready for the nineties with a fortune growing on the stock market, and Mr. Drake smiled daily at Tim, imagining his future in business. All four parents, in fact, were focused on their sons' futures. So focused, in fact, that they missed the little beginnings. Victor started walking two weeks before they noticed, though they counted the first sighting as the first attempt. At the same time, Tim was putting together the tiniest fragments of sentences, taking the noises around him and spitting them back out happily. When his father turned to him, filling his 21 month old gaze with his face, and asked, "Tim my boy, do you know where home is at?" Tim's mind instantly grappled with the answer he'd heard a million times.

"Ah da money is at," he said, biting off the 't' like a length of licorice. His six tiny teeth clacked together, and his father roared with pleasure. "Janet," he screamed, "Our boy is a genius!" Tim looked about for his mother, mimicking the swing of his father's head. They looked at each other curiously when both realized she was gone. "I'll tell her when she gets home," his father promised, scooping him up. "What else can you say?"

On the other side of the river, Victor's father boxed with him playfully, marveling at the size and dexterity of his son. When the little boy's fist hit him square in the jaw, he allowed it to push him onto his back. His son beamed and tackled him. On separate sides of water, two fathers' faces lit up with pride. Their sons were the greatest children ever born. It didn't matter that Tim could not walk and Victor could not speak. It didn't matter that these were things children learned to do every day. They were their children, and it made them the best.

Phew. It's hard to write about such a young perspective. Chapters should get longer as the boys get older. I'm going to attempt to finish a chapter per week, if I can. As always, feedback is appreciated.