Blue and Black Checkered High Tops

Three months.

And here and there, there had been some attempts made.

Emile did have a landline in lieu of his usual cell. Hidden in plain sight, looking something of an antique behind normally locked glass.

However glass, is much easier to break into.

And a back door can be locked quickly. Once the procedure is locked to the muscles and memory both.

No fumble. No body beating at the door when he'd insisted on some company from the silence.

Only to run under his knees, head reared and bucking-- a bit higher than what he would have considered ideal-- but enough to tumble a larger, sturdier obstacle than a wiry child with no physical merits.

He had shattered the glass, taking out the phone onto his lap.

Failing since one) the cord for a landline only went so far before disconnecting, and two) unaccustomed to the frankly dim and tiny little box called a screen.

By then, he was found in a mess of broken glass, having shimmied back inside through a window. Of course. The windows as well. And two in this very living room.

Abel was scooped up, away from danger, and checked him over for shards of glass or blood.

Perhaps he should have grabbed a piece to wave around.

Then again, he could have cut his own eye out just as easily.

Emile unlocked the baby gate promptly at eight. The hour Abel would be expected to get up out of bed and do the morning chores while breakfast was made.

Mostly he meant to merely shove Emile out of the way as he dove for the stairwell.

Ideally, he could use the man's body to catapult down and with his head kept in his hands, protect from doing more than disorientating his captor.

Violence would be better avoided. If backed into a corner there was no guarantee Emile would not snap or otherwise decide-- no matter how much he may despise so-- that more overt means of restraint would be required.

Better to react in ways that did not take his few privileges away.

And admittedly, the morning had not been the most plausible or effective.

He was quickly caught. And scolded about shoving or how dangerous it would be if one or both fell.

Breakfast was confined to his room that day and he was not allowed outside for the chores either.

In three months, he'd celebrated his birthday.

He'd considered this execution better, if not simple and inelegant.

Emile had gotten a truly splendid vanilla ice cream cake. Perhaps enough to feed eight times more people than there were. Ergo, himself and Abel.

He blew out the candles, dug his face into one of the corners, for all the world, perfectly compliant and perfectly content doing so.

He placed the knife a distance away from either of their hands.

Throwing his hand onto the center of the cake to fling the sticky frosting and dripping ice cream at his head.

Sliding the entire thing onto the floor between Emile and more importantly, himself and the front door.

Abel fled, ran for absolute heaven and hot coals of bare gravel feet already swollen and teeming with crusted scabs.

He made it as far as the end of the dirt path, where a paved road lay.

Abel swallowed back a dry heave and would have marched on.

If not for the beacon headlights of Emile's tinted windows car, stopping slowly on the walk with a crunch.

"My gosh Abel, I do get it but still, you scare me to death you know that," his captor scolded. "Aww but you're okay," he tentatively looked down, "as can be. Come on."

Emile carried him by his back this time around.

"Honestly the most disappointing is that wonderful cake, we'll get another, but you won't be tasting it for awhile, and Abel I think you know I have to do this to you which is too bad, you were doing well."

Abel kept silent. Simply nodding. Showing nothing per usual.

"Can you, Abel can you look at me?" Emile tried, "so I at least know you aren't terrified, right now. Because I did say-- it's a game."

Both said that fact in unison.

"Back to full house arrest. Three weeks, and we clean up that mess before going to bed. No birthday activities I'm afraid."

**************************

It took half a year but he'd done it. He'd earned Emile's full trust and he said as much with a package one Sunday.

"Can I come in?" Emile asked needlessly.

"By all means," he humored eyes not leaving his book.

"Hey now I've got a surprise for you."

Positively ecstatic, he shook a bag at him.

Abel found a shoebox and sure enough...

A pair of simple denim blue and black checkered high tops.

What he did next was wrong. It was wrong, it was illogical and conveyed a terrifying message.

He cried. Not tears of despair or defeat, he dismissed those things like Father did the staff.

No, Abel cried in gratitude.

Of course, Emile jumped to dispel the distress.

"I know, I know, it got frustrating for a bit didn't it?"

Abel nodded, wiping his face.

"Yeah, but you taught me to be super, absolutely sure," he booped his nose which had stopped feeling inappropriate. Though for now too much else was going on to stifle a giggle. "Though, I never doubted for a second that you couldn't do this."

Abel wholly believed him.