Work Text:
He was seven when he struck the boy who called him ‘choccy man’.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ his mother said. He recognised that tone– it was the same one she used when he asked if he had a father. ‘Of course you’ve got a father; everyone’s got a father,’ she’d huff. Huff, but not elaborate.
A few years later, he tried dropping the second syllable. But he was still choccy man.
Then he met her. Her with the hair so black it nearly went as blue as her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Like the chocolate,’ she said.
‘Yes. Like the chocolate.’