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The beach is alone in the night. Cold sand is swirled by waves that are still warm, being pulled back and forth like a swing. Nobody comes there when it's so dark besides one peculiar boy. His name is Damon Gant- or, rather, it's the only name he would want to go by. His real name is a burden. He knows the world does not see him as a boy, so he comes when there is only him and the beach. He wears an orange coat that would be impossible to miss if anyone was around. But there is nobody but the moon. A baggy t-shirt and sweatpants may not be ideal swimming attire for anyone else, but it certainly is for him.
His coat drags in the sand. It is too big on him- down to his ankles, in fact. The boy wonders if it will fit him someday, and he decides that it most likely will and gives it no more thought. It was a gift from his father, after all, and he knows best. Even if Gant has not seen him since last Christmas because of business trips and gambling and too many drinks. Even if his dad is such an infrequent appearance that neither of them quite remember each other's names. Even if his father never once stayed home for his own child's birthday or celebrated a holiday with him. Even if he hasn't seen his parents in a while and it's hard to know if they're alive or dead anymore.
But he is sure his dad and mom have good reasoning. After all, he is only a kid. A twelve-year-old boy who never learned to show his work in Math even though he's the top of his class. A kid who tells everyone he wants to be a detective and he is sure he will be, the kid who's scared of the rain and feeds stray cats and scribbles drawings of fire in the margins of his copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Yes, he is truly only a child. But when he is here, he can be anything, even if he may well be an idiot anywhere else.
It's the ocean that drags him in like sediments to a creek. The moon's reflected light makes spots all over the surface, white glimmers that look like large salt grains if he tilted his head just right. His fingertips slip under the water and room-temperature waves greet him, lapping at his knuckles. It is nice to be welcome by someone.
It is nice to be appreciated.
There is a flame in the dead of night. The spark of a lighter grabs Gant's attention. He's been in his office for hours, and what time is it? He reads the clock. One thirty-two in the morning and he isn't even tired. But who would be up now, he wondered. As if on cue, the chairman walks in. He looks concerned, and that certainly isn't usual for him, because as far as he knows Blaise Debeste rarely cares about anyone. Nonetheless, he seems worried, so Gant lets him in and offers him tea as his friend fidgets with the lighter.
"I'm fine, Damon- I'm worried about you, y'see." And that confuses the chief, because why would someone like Blaise worry about someone like him? People never fail to baffle him, he thinks.
So he shakes his head. "Why would you be worried?"
"It's one in the morning, y'know. You need rest."
Rest? He needed rest? But he wasn't tired, so certainly not sleeping would not effect him later if he had never been tired in the first place! And he says that, and Blaise sighs and takes him by the shoulders. "Damon, please. I'm not letting you keep yourself up all night." And he stares at him with the same spark in his eyes as he did when he was younger, and maybe that's what makes Gant promise to go to bed now and shut off the lights. Maybe he did go to sleep drawing more flames in the corners of case files. Maybe he did think a bit too hard about his friend, but that's fine.
It is always nice to be appreciated.