Chapter Text
(New Orleans, Louisiana - 1902)
You were in a house that was not yours. The decor differed from what you were used to, but you didn’t mind the scuffed floors and cramped rooms. Every nook and cranny had something new to look at, something that father wouldn’t dare allow into your house, and that gave you more than enough distractions from the boring conversations going on around you.
You had no interest in their grown up affairs, anyhow.
Your eyes roamed around as their words became muffled in your ears. Your legs swinging aimlessly against the chair beneath you. The back heels of your shiny bar shoes making a *thunk, thunk* *thunk, thunk* noise against the fabric covered wood as you did so. But the rhythm was becoming dull. And you were slowly becoming bored. Even in this new place you were running out of things to keep your eyes entertained. That was until you saw something utterly new. Or rather, *someone*, new.
A ray of light gleamed off of his glasses as he poked his head around the corner. You couldn’t see much more than that; the rest hidden by the shadows he was hiding in. So you promptly took a quick look towards your father, ensuring he was still inthralled in his conversation, before you hopped up off your chair and made your way over to the mysterious boy.
His head soon disappeared as you got closer, retreating back from wherever he had come from, but you didn’t stop your investigation. Your curiosity was too much. You followed down the hallway and through the doorway he scurried through, barely catching sight of his back as he fled.
But the house was only so big. Eventually you caught up to him. Accidentally backed him into a corner. A room that had only one doorway, one entry and one exit, that held the appearance of a bedroom. A *modest* bedroom, compared to what you were used to, but still a bedroom nonetheless. He stood in front of you, smaller than you expected, with a head of dark curls that stuck out at all angles, skinny arms held out in front of him in meek defense.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered.
You blinked in confusion. “For…what?”
“For eavesdropping. Spying on you. I…I know it was wrong. And I’m sorry. Please, just leave me alone.” His voice barely got above a high whisper. You could see his body start to shake, despite how calm he was trying to be.
You took a step closer towards him anyway. “Are you alright?”
He dropped his guard by just a fraction. His eyes digging into yours. “What kind of question is that?”
You began to rock on your heels. Uncertain of your actions. But your mother had taught you better than to walk away from someone in need. “I just…” You twiddled your fingers back and forth nervously. “You seem like you could use a friend, is all.”
He dropped his arms completely, his head tilted slightly to the side. As if he was analyzing you in his head. “You’re not from around this neighborhood, are you?”
“No.” You smiled warmly. “How did you know?”
He readjusted his glasses on his face, peering at you. “In these parts we’re not allowed to be friends.”
“Not allowed?” Your smile shifted into a frown. “Why not?”
“You’re white.” He stated plainly. As if that answered your question.
But you were just as confused as you had been before. “So?”
He scrunched up his brow, utterly confused about how you weren’t understanding. “Whites don’t make friends with the likes of people who look like me.”
It was your turn to tilt your head out of curiosity. You fell silent, taking in the sight of him. He looked different from you, yes, and his family had to be less fortunate than your own; his house and his clothes were apparent enough of that alone. But was that enough to say that he didn’t deserve a friend?
“Hmph. Well *I* think grown up rules are silly.” You stuck your nose up in the air playfully. “And *I* make friends with whoever I want.” You stuck out your hand, just enough for him to reach out and grab it, and just enough to give him room to walk away if he wanted to. “So? What do you say?…um…sorry, I never caught your name.” You asked with a sheepish smile.
He considered your hand for a moment. His eyes glancing from you to your hand and back to you again. But then a big toothy smile cut across his face and his hand grasped yours. “Alastor.” He said. “My name is Alastor.”
You reciprocated his smile as best as you could. Somehow his hand seemed to fit perfectly in yours. “My name is (y/n).”
“A pleasure, (y/n).”
-
The two of you had stayed in the room you had followed him into. His bedroom, he had explained. But you could never imagine how one could spend their free time in such a small space. But he was all too eager to show you around the cramped room, regardless. His shy and guarded demeanor had wilted away, giving way to a confident little man that intrigued you more than you would’ve liked to admit.
“And this.” He proudly showed you another one of his possessions. (Which you were slowly learning consisted of very few things.) “Is my piece of music.” He smiled that toothy smile again as he showed the cylinder to you. You recognized it, peering at its funny shape. A relic from your father’s study room, a tube of hardened wax securely encased in a flimsy paper box. Though his seemed more the worse for wear compared to the one your father owned.
“A wax recording?” You questioned.
He nodded enthusiastically. “Though we don’t own a device to play it sadly…” His words were melancholy but he still stared at the object with fondness, as if he could hear the music trapped within the wax even without a phonograph.
“You don’t have a house radio?”
Your question had been innocent enough, but it confused the boy in front of you. He pulled the recording back into his chest protectively. As if you had insulted the thing. “A radio? What’s that?”
You were baffled. Taken aback by his unawareness of something that was so prominent in every day of your life. “You know, a radio.” You waved your hand about in the air. “A box that plays music? With an antenna? Has a radio host in between songs that talks about the news and such?” But his face was still blank with confusion. As if he had never even heard of this new fangled technology you were talking about. So you thought twice about it and decided to just change the subject, instead of going on further about the differences between your life and his. “Uh…anyway…what’s on your recording?” You pointed to the box still held in his hands.
He seemed to forget about the whole radio incident. For now. His attention switched back to his music. His smile stretched across his teeth again. His eyes lit up with a new spark of joy. “Scott Joplin, of course!”
You had never even heard mention of the singer before. Yet he reacted as if he was one of the most well known producers of the time. Your little heart couldn’t handle dousing his infectious joy again. “Oh! Yes, of course.” You nodded along faux-knowingly. He beamed, his smile reached the corners of his eyes, as you told him that you knew of his favorite music. (Though he did not know you were faking it.)
With his spirits raised, his curiosity was brought back to the fancy device you had mentioned. “So.” He started as he went to put away his wax recording. He was hiding it; for what reason you couldn’t figure out. “What’s on this ‘radio’ you mentioned? How does it-”
“Alastor!” Someone yelled from the parlor room you had once been in earlier. Your head turned towards the noise and then back to the boy whose name had been called. But he had froze, halfway kneeling under his bed with his arm still lodged underneath the frame, stashing away his most prized possession.
“Alastor…?” You called out to him gently. Outstretching a hand towards him.
But he snapped. His ears hearing something that your untrained ears couldn’t. He stood up and spun around within an instant, grabbing your outstretched arm so quickly that he slightly startled you. But he cared little for how scared you were; that would be the least of your worries soon. “You need to leave!” He urged you.
“What? Why?”
“No time for questions just, just go!” He pulled you towards the door, silently pleading with you to *just* listen to him. “You need to get out of here before-”
But it was too late. As he backed up, trying to pull you out of the door, his back thudded into a grown up that seemed to appear from out of nowhere. Alastor’s skin grew cold against you as his eyes went wide beneath his glasses. You looked up to meet this person that struck such a visceral reaction from your new friend.
The man in front of the two of you was massive in stature alone, nearly taking up the entirety of the doorway he stood in. He wore almost the same clothes as Alastor, but that was where the similarities ended. He held a scowl on his face, set so deep in his skin that it left behind its lasting marks. His hair was flat, visibly dirty, and disheveled in a way that didn’t suit him. He oozed an icky negativity that you didn’t like. The kind that you could sense just by looking at him. The kind that conquered a room and seeped into every corner.
“Alastor.” The man said. His voice grated against your ears like sandpaper. You had to hold back a grimace.
Alastor immediately let go of your hand as if it was made of brimstone. “Father! I…she asked to be shown around! That was all! I swear it! We-”
But Alastor’s cries of explanation were cut short as his father’s hand made contact with the side of his face. Your heart stopped as you heard the sound, harsh skin against skin, before Alastor was knocked down to the ground from the force. “I’m not here for your excuses, *boy*. You know you’re not allowed to haggle yourself around white folk like her.” He spoke with poison dripping from his mouth.
You took a step forward, putting yourself between him and Alastor. Not giving a second thought to the consequences of standing up to an adult. Especially one you didn’t know. “We were just playing, sir. Honest. It’s my fault, not his.” You motioned to Alastor who was still on the floor. He was sitting slightly up now, nursing his soon-to-be swollen cheek. But this grown up was listening to you. And that was enough for you to gain an ounce of confidence. “I started to explore the house, sir, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. I apologize for any inconveniences I caused. The business meetings my father holds can be ever so boring.” You batted your eyelashes and looked up at him with the same eyes that you would use on your father whenever you pleaded for an extra treat.
His father seemed to be examining the situation in front of him, his eyes darting between you, Alastor, and the furniture within the little room. And then he gruffed something awful and spit on the ground near where Alastor sat. “Alright. Run along then.” He told you. But you couldn’t help but look back at Alastor. You wanted to stay, for him, but his eyes were watery. *Pleading* with you to just leave. “Go on.” His father told you again.
“Just go.” Alastor whispered, finally tearing his gaze from you.
You bit your lip between your teeth. Although your heart screamed at you to do the exact opposite, you obeyed. You didn’t dare look back, fearing that you’d change your mind if you saw the horrid scene again.
You ran back to the parlor room, meeting your father who had been waiting for you, already ready to leave. Your ride in the family carriage back to your home gave you plenty of time to think in silence.
You knew a parent was not supposed to act that way. Your father never did, anyway. What made Alastor so different that he deserved such cruel treatment?
You weren’t sure. But you knew one thing for certain. That man may have been his father, but he was *nothing* like Alastor.
*To Be Continued In Chapter 2...*