Train Up A Child
By Simply Shelby

'Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it.'
-Proverbs 22:6

On Being Absent and Affectionate

He awakes blearily to a tickling across his scalp. Scrunching his face to get rid of the bothersome feeling, he realises it is a hand brushing his bangs from his face. Confused, he blinks his eyes open. His bedroom is dark, pitch, so he assumes it is probably early morning. His eyes adjust and focus on the figure standing beside his bed.

"Hey," Ian murmurs, a strange sort of affection tingeing his voice and warming Alex, "I'm home." And Alex freezes because Ian has never been one to state the apparent.

"Mmm… Ian?" Alex rolls on his side to face his uncle.

Ian sits heavily on the open space of mattress with a weary sigh. Alex figures he must be exhausted from his trip. For some reason the boy can't understand, his uncle always returns from business trips worn out and sometimes hurt. And always, when his steely eyes land on Alex, there is something hidden behind that the boy can't make sense of, though he desperately wants to.

"I'm sorry, Alex." And though it is too dark to see his face, Alex hears the words generally linked with regret and isn't sure he's heard quite right.

So, he struggles with the bedclothes in an attempt to sit up so he can hear better, but Ian places a firm hand against his shoulder, holding him back. "You need to go back to sleep," he commands gently, with a glance towards the clock on the bedside table, "You've had a bit of a long day from what I've hear."

The boy sinks back into his mattress in a disappointed huff, "Jack told you?"

Ian allows himself a slight smile. "Would you believe she refused to tell me a thing?" his tone was conspiratorial, "Said you had to be the one to tell me."

His nephew, flesh and blood, smiles back brightly. "We won," he announces proudly.

Pleasantly unsurprised, Ian asks, "Did you? By how much?" And he is struck by how much the boy looks like John. The same smirking mouth, observant eyes, precise manner. His cheekbones are dainter, though, he realises, and there is a bit of Helen in him too.

"Just a goal," he shrugs the win off, "it was a really good match." The boy's voice holds no accusation whatsoever, just pleasure that his uncle is taking an interest in a child's football match. He goes on to tell Ian the play by play, how he scored a goal, how there was one boy on the opposing team that had kicked him in the shin and a thousand other details that made Ian proud.

Over the years, Ian had missed many an important match and had stopped feeling guilty, just as Alex had stopped expecting him to magically appear in the stands. This sudden, middle of the night remorse had Alex confused. It was the first time Ian had ever felt compelled to apologise for his shortcomings as a father figure. "Ian…" he begins hesitantly, finally coming to a conclusion, "I'm twelve. Not two."

He can feel Ian's raised eyebrows. "I'm aware of this."

Alex assumes this is his prompt to continue, "I'm not about to start bawling because you missed one game. You've missed tonnes before. I never cried then."

Ian chokes back a laugh at his nephew's blunt words. "I know." He looks fondly down at his brother's child and resists the urge to ruffle his hair, "I'll take tomorrow off," he offers instead and almost flinches at the surprise written across Alex's face. "Anything particular you'd like to do?"

Alex's mind whirls with the possibilities.

"Something simple, mind," Ian cuts in, rubbing his left shoulder where it had hit a wall with extravagant force the day before and Alex catches the motion and somehow, somehow the teenager understands without Ian saying anything.

"We could go to the park," he suggests somewhat timidly, "And play football? Just you and me?"

Ian nods slowly, "We could."

They both know it will be more than a simple jaunt to the park.

"That was nice of you."

Ian sighs and closes his nephew's door all the way. Jack. "Despite your opinions about my parenting methods, Alex is my nephew and I do love him." He turns, meeting her eyes pointedly, "I don't enjoy disappointing him."

She was standing at the end of the hall; arms crossed over her pyjamas and her red hair a mass of tangles. "Then why do you?" she was quick to answer. The concept was difficult for her to grasp. But Jack, who'd practically given up her life for a boy she'd hardly known would never understand why he—the boy's uncle and last living, loving relative—couldn't give up one day.

"You do not understand, Jack." Ian voice is soft and void of frustration, "And I cannot explain it to you." He starts towards his bedroom door, pausing only to say, "You might as well take tomorrow. I expect we'll be back late."

Her eyes burn him in a way he finds hard to ignore. "You'll call—"

"—If anything comes up, yes. I highly doubt anything shall. Goodnight, Jack." He closes his bedroom door quietly behind him, as though shutting out all her doubts and accusations.

Still, he had his reasons. That alone sustained him.