Word Count: 689

Ice cream felt good on his tongue. It was cold, and numbed it into a state of almost non-feeling. The fact that it was alright to have dessert for dinner for once -- hell, the fact that it was even encouraged -- thrilled Paris as it would a child who didn’t want to eat his broccoli. That it was one of the few things he was actually able to eat without an excessive amount of pain was a blessing. Honestly, what could be a better substitute for a full meal than the deliciousness that was dark chocolate ice cream?

Television programming wasn’t nearly as good.

Paris flipped through the various channels that made up basic cable, but couldn’t find anything to watch aside from cautious newscasters wondering what the hell was going on in the city, and cheesy Lifetime romantic comedies in honor of this the most sickening of holidays. He was making his fifth run through the less than one hundred channels when his father came through the front door, looking grumpy and weary after a full day at the shop.

“Howdie, Pops,” Paris greeted him, slipping another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

His father stopped to stare at him after closing the door, narrowing his eyes in what looked like curiosity but what could have just as easily been suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“I skipped school.”

“Why?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Paris informed him, as if that explained everything.

“So?”

“So I didn’t want to be at school while everyone was going on and on about love and the dates they’re going on and the presents they bought and how they plan on scoring tonight,” he explained, careful with every movement of his tongue. He was speaking a bit slower than usual and had acquired a peculiar lisp he’d never had before.

His father took notice. “Why are you talking funny?”

Paris grinned, paused in his consumption of his meal, and stuck out his tongue for his father to see his newly obtained piercing, glinting silver in the dim lighting of the living room. His tongue was a bit swollen, and that plus the pain and jewelry were causing his speech to come out a little awkward, but an afternoon of consuming ice chips and a gallon of chocolate ice cream had kept much of the swelling down to a minimum. Now it was simply a matter of keeping his mouth clean, letting it heal and getting used to talking with the piercing in place.

“When the hell did you get that?” his father demanded.

“This morning. I figured it’d make a nice early birthday present. And it’s a lot sexier than this piece of crap,” Paris said, waving his broken left wrist -- encased in its awkward brace -- around.

“You’re not old enough for something like that.”

Paris shrugged and went back to his ice cream. “I wasn’t old enough to get a tattoo last year but I still managed it.”

His father looked at him with narrowed eyes again before saying anything, and seemed to be debating the pros and cons of asking whatever it was that was on his mind. Eventually, he seemed to decide it was worth the risk. “How?” he wondered, leery.

Paris grinned deviously and decided to be evasive. Let his father think what he wanted. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

A muttered curse and an insult that was best not repeated answered him, to which Paris merely laughed and returned to searching for something to watch on the TV. His father stomped by him to head into the kitchen, no doubt to grab himself a beer and dig around for something to eat.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Dad.”

“Could have at least made yourself useful and cooked something,” he mumbled dourly.

“Can’t. I’m handicapped,” Paris lied. The brace was unattractive, his life was being turned upside-down against his will, and the injury plus his recently pierced tongue hindered his normal day to day -- or night to night -- activities. The least he could do was milk it for the little it was worth in his father’s eyes.