Father

Summary: This story takes place two years after the end of the game, and we find Frederic, Jazz, Viola, Falsetto, and all five of the kids living together in the Antantino Hideout house. Frederic is busy learning how to be a father, a lover, a friend, and a confidante to a host of new people... and trying to figure out where his own needs fit in.

Warnings: Slash (JazzxFrederic), cursing, violence, domestic abuse, drug/alcohol abuse, cross-dressing. The rating will undoubtedly change as the story goes on.

*Edit* I wanted to write something about Frederic being a dad - you know, watch him squirm as he tries to answer all those questions about where babies come from. And I did. But a year and a half later, this fic has evolved into something a lot bigger than that, and I don't believe it's anywhere close to being done. Much love to those who have stuck with it this far, and please read at your own risk.

What happens when we die?

August 1 - Saturday

I must admit, I feel a little silly writing in this, but Jazz gave it to me and I would hate to hurt his feelings, so write I shall. I suppose he thought it would help me sleep when he was out on missions; perhaps it will. Time has yet to tell, although I feel certain that a journal (I'm sorry, Jazz, I refuse to call it a diary - a diary is what Aurore kept, not I) will not be nearly as comforting beside me in bed at night as a warm body. But I do admit that my thoughts often trouble my dreams, so perhaps writing will quiet those thoughts. If nothing else, I'm sure Jazz will appreciate my efforts and doubtless enjoy reading about my life while he's away. Assuming I let him read this; I haven't decided yet.

So, allow me to try and fill a page or two with the intimate workings of my day. The children have taken to calling me 'father,' although really only half the time. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it, although I have known they thought that way of me for a long time. Why, I have no idea; would not Jazz be more of a father figure than I? But I suppose the heart can't help whom it finds attachment with.

I ought to know that better than anyone else, hm, Jazz?

The children are terribly sweet, and I frequently find myself caught off guard by their innocence. Viola and Falsetto have been trying to teach me how to cook (Viola, mostly, since Falsetto is often needed back in the Andantino caves or to go on missions with Jazz), and the children love to stand around and watch me, laughing all the while. There is something about seeing me in an apron that just simply strikes them all as hilarious, and, although I was embarrassed at first, it is hard to be upset at someone who is laughing so hard that tears are coming to their eyes. Even sitting here and merely thinking about them makes me smile; they are in my count of blessings every night, and I wouldn't have them anywhere else.

Today Viola showed me how to make scones, which I honestly had never heard of before, and we sat at the table together and ate our fresh scones (am I spelling that right?) and watched the rain drip down the glass of the windows. Polka, Allegretto, and Salsa had gone off to dig through the attic, which left only March, Beat, Viola, and myself, with Jazz and Falsetto off on another assignment. After a while Viola said she ought to go and bring the goats in so they didn't catch cold, and the conversation died down considerably. I must admit, I made no attempt to revive it; I was too busy staring out the window, wondering where Jazz was at the moment. Suddenly Beat dragged me out of my thoughts.

"Where does the rain come from?"

I turned to look at him, and opened my mouth to ask if he had never learned that in school before remembering that Beat didn't go to school. Instead I just smiled and took another scone.

"Well, the clouds are made of water, so when the water gets too heavy, it falls back to the ground."

He nodded, looking thoughtful. "Is that why it snows, too?"

"Yes, and why it hails and sleets and all those sorts of things."

"How did the water get up there in the first place?"

"Evaporation." I laughed a little at the confusion on his face, and continued. "When the sun heats up the water, it turns to mist that goes into the air. Then the water cools down, and latches onto the dust and other water particles in the atmosphere, and turn into clouds. Then when the clouds get heavy enough, the water falls back to earth in the form of rain or snow."

"So it goes in a circle?"

"Yes," I paused. "It's called 'the water cycle.'"

He nodded slowly. "Are there lots of cycles?"

"Many. Most everything on earth moves in a circle of some sort or another."

"Do people, too?"

"I'm sorry; what do you mean?"

"Like, when we die, do we get recycled, too?"

I paused, my mouth half open. How do you answer that question to a ten-year-old? "Uh-um…" I looked down at the tea my left hand was stirring lazily, thinking. I owed him a response, but what was there to say? "You mean, as in reincarnation?"

"Uh, I don't know, I guess so."

I cleared my throat, still looking at the half-empty tea cup. "Well, um, some people think that once you die, your soul is put back into a different body, and you live another life in that body. Some people think that you die and go to heaven or hell, depending on how you lived in your time on earth. Others say you simply… die, and that's it." I thought about adding 'and rot in the cold, hard ground,' but decided against it.

"I don't get it, though – why doesn't life have a cycle, too?"

"Well, no one knows for sure what happens once you die. What you think really depends on what you would like to believe."

They were silent for a moment, and March asked, "What about you, Frederic? What do you believe?"

I looked up at her, surprised, and smiled. "I have died in one world and come back to exist in this one; what choice do I have but to trust in the concept of rebirth?"

"What did you believe before… all this? You know, back in Paris?"

I shrugged and smiled again. "To be honest, I never really thought about it. I was always so ill that staying alive was a day-to-day problem, so I never actually had time to consider such questions."

"You never thought about it?"

"Perhaps, once in a while, but not often enough to come to a conclusion. Really, my only thoughts on the matter were that I hoped there was a life after this one, and mostly those thoughts came late at night on bad days when I was coming to terms with my mortality."

She gave me an earnest look that seemed to understand everything in my soul, and then gave a heartfelt smile and shifted the conversation. I can't help but wonder sometimes what's going on in that mauve little head of hers.

All right, it is getting late now, so I suppose I shall call it a day. Hm… I expect I shall have to leave the book open or the ink will smear. Hopefully no one will come in my room in the night and find it… although I imagine my fears are greatly mislaid. After all, now that I think about it, the entire thing so far is written in Polish, which no one but me can read (I've been teaching Jazz French, but not Polish. Most all of my papers were written for the French population, not that of Poland.). Actually, I haven't written anything in Polish for a very long time, and it feels good to practice a little bit. It's rusty and almost certainly riddled with absurd little errors, but luckily no one but me will ever know. I shall say my prayers now and try to find sleep tonight.