Maybe Christmas

Maybe Christmas...

That half-lidded smile was bugging him again. Really, really bugging him. The hooded crescent moon eyes and lips that gently tipped up exuded an air of pleasantness and condescension that grated on his nerves like nobody's business.

His eyebrows clenched as did his fists, his eyelids drawn low to veil his annoyance and discomfort. This was not, nor would ever be the best Christmas as was promised by his parents.

This was torture.

He glared at the gleaming, glazed roast turkey, stuffed with potato and running with juices that trickled down the sides in a viscous manner similar to jelly clinging to carpet. Traditional dishes flanked the sitting bird, Christmas decorations adorned the walls, and - in the place of honour - the Christmas tree, a tree of grandeur and pine green needles that shone like sparkling emeralds.

Sweat would have gushed down his body if he were in an anime or manga, but he wasn't, so it only flowed off Sable to be soaked in by his horribly woolly jumper. Grandma had made it for him and insisted he wear it. It wasn't even like he could rip and fling it off, she always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and gave him the death-glare of a thousand Cerberuses together. It was almost 50 degrees Celcius inside. Outside it was 42.

Christmas was always rather random nowadays, due to global warming, depleting ozone layers, rising sealevels etc, etc. The fact that Sable lived in Ecuador didn't help much either, any place on the equator being the most volatile of other countries.

Neither did the fact that his parents were devout followers of the English, both being fanatics of old culture. Where better to collect information on old societies than England? That said, he was obliged to spend time with the family in the English way.

With turkeys and cranberry sauce galore. And in handknit jumpers. Ecuador isn't COLD, dammit.

As though sensing his traitorous thoughts, his parents gave him a warning look interspersed with more than enough threats to shut him up.

---

Sable wasn't happy.

Their Christmas dinner had been a rather grand affair, for once. Many relatives and some friends and friends of friends had arrived and it was a huge, blown out party that took place.

He had been stuck with greeting duty, and though Mom and Dad had said "It'll be great! You can meet all your friends and your cousins!" and all that crap, he knew it was just 'cause they were going to be busy entertaining and cooking and barbecuing and running around the little kids.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

Although he had to admit, the friends of his cousins - girls, mostly - were pretty cute compared to the locals.

"Hola, tiene una buenas noches. Espere que usted disfrute de - oye, agradable verle!"

"Si, it's nice to see you too Sable, but I can speak English perfectly fine, you know." said Uncle Giorgio. Uncle G lived in Mexico, manning his taco shop in the most crowded tourist square. Sable hadn't seen him for so long that he'd almost forgotten the large handlebar moustache that curved from below his nose that he'd so often tugged and pulled at.

"Uncle G, sorry... just that almost 98% of people in Ecuador speak Spanish and... sorry, I'd forgotten. But I'm neglecting the doorway so... either Mom's going to skin me or I can finally make a move to hide out now that a distraction has arrived - you." said Sable, smiling disarmingly at him while mentally sending out brainwaves that he hoped would communicate to Giorgio just HOW MUCH HE WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS CROWD.

It appeared that either Uncle heard him loud and clear or just went off on a tangent and decided that standing in lieu for Sable was a brilliant idea as he could meet and greet his long lost relatives.

Sable guessed it was the latter. Uncle Giorgio was never the best at mental or memory games.

Now that he was free to roam until either his parents caught him or Giorgio did, Sable had no idea what to do. One of two choices - go sit in the toilet and sulk or go out, probably clubbing. He did not want to 'enjoy the party' as Mom had suggested when she rushed around his room with a feather duster that was falling apart. There were too many lame people around.

He decided to go to the toilet.

But he had to go carefully if he wanted to do that.

Good thing - there were so many people around that people would hardly notice him in the roiling rush.

Bad thing - everyone knew him and called out in varying degrees of soberness or drunkeness.

So he had to keep low and discreet.

Crawling around the garden in the near dark was never a good idea, so it was even less appealing in the boiling heat with a jumper over his head and people bumping into him every second minute. Nevertheless, he eventually made it into the house, where although hotter, it was considerably less crowded. Figuring that since he had made it this far, Sable crept into the brightly lit kitchen while closely hugging the walls.

Flipping open the pantry silently, he stole into its deeper recesses and stopped. Gazing up, he stared at the masterpiece that was his Mom's Surprisingly-Not-Rock-Solid-Cake-of-Chocolate. Of all her creations of crud, this was the only cake that could not be placed in that category.

And he was about to steal some of it. Before it was cut. And Mom was going to freak out when she found out.

'Cause she would find out. She knew everything.

After he'd succeeded in completing that detour of his, he continued to the toilet where he proceeded to bring out his carefully disguised plate and sit. Not on the toilet seat - because, eww not hygeinic and very germy - but on the table on which lay an array of magazines that occupied you while doing your business.

Idly eating and rubbing his onyx hair, Sable glanced around the room - which was quite spacy for a toilet - and cast about for inspiration. Glimpsing something from the corner of his eye, he swivelled around to look at his reflection in the mirror.

Grimacing at the lumpy jumper, the fifteen year old shrugged the monstrosity off and flicked his hair out of his eyes. To keep the boredom at bay, he grabbed a pen and started doodling on a blank bit of a magazine. The picture soon turned into another of his unintentionally incredibly detailed drawings. Using the mirror as reference, he carefully drew his finely boned features - sharp chin and cheekbones with lightly tanned (although it only came out light blue) skin that stretched over it, trademark of those with mestizo - or Native American Indian - blood.

Someone hammered at the door.

Breaking out of the daze that drawing had put him into, Sable hurriedly let the pen and magazine fall to the table, striding to the window with his plate and depositing it on the ledge outside. Flushing the toilet to make his excuse plausible, he looked at the mirror one last time and brushed off the few crumbs that had settled on his face.

Even if it was Mom outside, he could always say that he'd only temporarily foisted off his job on Uncle Giorgio to go to the toilet.

He shivered. If it was her, then he knew he'd be in serious trouble.

Brushing the back of his knuckles against his reflection on paper, he whispered, "Sorry little fella, not bringing you into life." Turning the magazine over, Sable bounded over to the door and opened it with a flowery flourish. His heart stopped thudding when he saw, not his mum but some nondescript man who he'd never seen but was probably a friend of a friend.

His hiding place blown, or rather taken, he kept to the shadows and snuck around to the street outside.

Lamps and streetlights glittered coldly as did the stars in the inky backdrop that was the sky. He sighed and walked out of the yard, looking back only to see everyone gathering inside the considerably large house. It was almost a castle.

Walking along the classy avenue of broad-shouldered trees, he couldn't find anything but homes filled with light that spilled out of windows, cheerful voices carolling at doorsteps. Barely a few people wandered the lonely lanes, and then only when drunk or in groups of joyous intoxication. Sable could already feel himself wanting to turn back to - not warmth - the probably now airconditioned house. It was VERY hot outside.

Resisting the temptation, he continued on his chosen path - the path to nowhere. He passed shops that had closed for Christmas, crowds rushing to reach their families, glass windows lit by pinpricks of brightness emitted by glass bulbs which displayed gaudy Christmas items. Traffic was jammed and noise pollution reigned supreme on the roads. Fireworks flew high, leaving dusty trails of smoke on the canvas of the sky and the after-image of colourful explosions behind eyelids.

Trudging wearily over the pavement, Sable walked through and around many parks. Mom would've realised that I'm gone by now.

Finally succumbing to his tired feet's plea, he perambulated back to the nearest park using various shortcuts that included cutting into and through dark and seedy alleys. It was no trouble, he knew this place like the back of his hand - although it was fair to say that he didn't really know his hand all that well - and everyone knew him too.

It turned out to be one of his favourite, one that he'd not spent much of his chidlhood in. It was quite empty, and had a strangely comforting aura that spread like a blanket around him. Dreamily, he rambled to a rather conveniently placed bench below a shady overhanging monolith of a tree, although it didn't do much to keep away the heat.

A swan glided across the smooth surface of the lake before him, cleaving the water into rippled 'v's that floated into nonexistence. With barely a splash, it dove its neck beneath the surface of the water before drawing it out just as elegantly, this time with a small but still wriggling fish.

Taking inspiration from the moonlit scene infront of him, Sable pinched his fingers and appeared to pull a roll of something from the air, almost a cigar except much bigger and looser.

Straightening the scroll, he pulled a green as grass mechanical pencil from the loop that was etched onto the paper and quickly sketched the swan and the lake. More details were added, feathers a little more unruly here, a little more groomed there. The head gracefully arching twisted to an 's' shape as the wings were in the act of unfolding.

The end result: a sketch that would have most people swearing that the swan had swivelled its head to watch them squirm.

"Aww, you're so cute," cooed Sable softly, "now wouldn't you like to go keep company with that poor lonely swan over there? No one should be lonely on Christmas."

Geh.

Sweeping the tips of his fingers over his drawing, he smiled in an annoyed manner and envisioned his swan coming into life, fanning its snow white feathers and lifting clean off the page to gently flap its wings and buffet cool wind into his face, then wheeling away to join the other swan.

Grinning softly as silky feathers brushed his closed eyes, he pushed away his ebony hair and gazed at the swans intertwining their necks as they shared the recently caught fish.

Poor fish.

Maybe I should go home...

---

Sable wasn't what you'd call a 'thinking person', he was more the 'whoops, I didn't mean it' type. That explained his brief bouts of mischievousness and what always seemed to end with his parents glaring at him in the only united front they'd had for years. His mom was too, explaining why many formal dinners had ceased with a livid mother and vaguely unsurprised son ushering away guests politely.

Which is why her expression threw him off completely when he arrived at the dinner, hungry, worn out and expecting to hear an earful.

She was completely calm.

"No allowance, no Christmas presents, no birthday presents, no friends over, no phone, no TV, grounded."

"But you can't take away all that, you already have. I have immunity." He replied, smirking.

"That, and you're spending the day tomorrow with Grandma and me while we go shopping."

He blanched while desperately falling to his knees, begging at her feet and looking up with what he'd dubbed the 'puppy look'.

"And you're walking between us, 'Grand and Ma's Boy'."

A noiseless wail left Sable's throat as his eyes rolled back into his head. Snapping his head back, he tried to formulate the words 'noooooo!' and 'whyyyyyy?'. He didn't succeed.

---

That half-lidded smile was bugging him again. Really, really bugging him. The hooded crescent moon eyes and lips that gently tipped up exuded an air of pleasantness and condescension that grated on his nerves like nobody's business.

His eyebrows clenched as did his fists, his eyelids drawn low to veil his annoyance and discomfort. This was not, nor would ever be the best Christmas as was promised by his parents.

This was torture.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I won't say this is good because it isn't. TT.TT

GO easy one me, this is my first submission (is that even a word? I should know...)

Review please.