Chapter Text
In the night, the lights by the tarmac glitter like firelies.
Or stars: he closes his eyes and still sees the constellations there as lustering blurs, strewn along one another.
It’s beautiful.
The heel of his shoe scrapes the pavement like there’s something to be anticipated. The leather upper of it crinkles.
The evening is cold, crisp. He blows out a soft breath that shakes as it goes. Turns into vapor. Early December brings a chill not entirely comfortable, but Sylus doesn’t mind the thicker, cloudy skies one bit, or the gentle haze it drapes across the sun during daytime.
One thing’s on his mind. One thing only.
Propped against his car, hands stuffed in his pockets idly, Sylus tips his chin back. Overhead, your plane dips— a flashing set of red beams in the vast swath of darkness— the only one in the sky. Sylus watches it as it lands.
He lifts off from the car, then, and fully aware that the disembark will take some time, the sorting of the luggage and then the weaving between people and aisles to get to the front- where he’ll be waiting for you- minutes early, he goes to head in anyway.
You’ve come home.
✦
When you first spot him in the entrance, in a flurry of people bundled in coats- each from a different place but the same awed look as they watch the escalators- you’re almost stunned to see that same wide-eyed look on him, too. It… doesn’t quite suit him.
You note the absence of the twins with nothing beyond a small frown, albeit you’re internally glad for the reprieve- God knows you’re not capable of humoring three men in the state you’re in- but wonder why they chose not to come with their father to pick you up.
You wonder if it was their choice to begin with.
…But then again, you can appreciate the silence the lack of them brings. Between the boys and their father, you always got along a whit better with them despite their antics. Although… that makes it sound like you got along with Sylus to begin with. The truth suggests otherwise.
It’s also true that the truth has blurred somewhat while you’ve been gone.
Now that you’ve come back (temporarily; this isn’t a permanent arrangement- what it was before) you’re not so sure how these two weeks with your stepfamily will carry. Luke and Kieran were marginally easier to warm up to- though that was a chore in itself- but it’s always been a bit different with Sylus.
You’ve, always been a bit different with Sylus.
Estranged, but not... Cold as ice- but like a berg you’ve always got the implicit feeling that he could see everything below your waters.
It… unnerved you. Did all sorts of things to you, really, but that’s besides the point. For this small, temporary visit, it has to be.
For this trip, for the circumstances under which you’ve been summoned to Linkon, you’ll put all of your personal feelings (discomfort, bitterness- betrayal, even) aside.
You’re no longer a teenager balling her fists when things don’t go her way, stomping off to her room as a retreat- praying no one will follow but also praying they’ll care enough to come knocking later. And you’re no longer the woman you were almost seven months ago, the last time you visited. No, since then, you’re just a touch lonelier, although you’ll be hard-pressed to admit it aloud, and it softens some of your edge.
But for the sake of your coming here, you’ll put a lid on it all. The instability. The hurt. The…
“Sweetie, hey- Are… Are you able to talk? It’s…” A sigh on his end. “Important. I wouldn’t have pestered you otherwise.” You picture him with furrowed brows and minimize your distant persona as a streak of concern dashes through.
“Uh, yeah… I’m able. What is it?” To the point. No time wasted, no feelings worn. You want to be as bad-mannered as he’ll ever remember you. Unfriendly and unforthcoming— not that he’s ever been one to pale at the challenge that is loving you.
“I… have some news. Not the good kind. Find somewhere to sit down and breathe.”
Breathe.
He did say that: you remember, now. But at the time it all smeared together, all the seconds and minutes that you’d sat there hyperventilating.
The air outside is crisp. You inwardly curse yourself for packing your jacket; otherwise, you’d be putting it on now.
Stepping off the flight, you were shaky. A little strung out- as restless as you were fatigued. The bag you carry is heavy and requires you to constantly readjust it, but although Sylus is upright at your side and eager to take it off your hands, you wave him off.
“I-It’s fine.”
It’s not. None of this is, not really.
…But you came.
You wouldn’t miss it. Couldn’t forgive yourself if you did.
Overhead, the Ursa Major and Minor sit apart and form ladles. They fade in and out of view behind drifting clouds, hiding with other scattered, coruscating stars. You’re sure they have names, but you don’t know them.
He leads you to the car, but doesn’t leave your side to walk ahead. As he does, you can’t find it in you to stop yourself from slowly relaxing in his presence. Oh, you’ve never liked it, per se, but this truth is as obvious as it is embarrassing on your end: You feel safe in it.
He’d never hurt you. You know that.
…Yeah fine, he has the role of ‘paternal’ nailed to a fucking tree, sure, but you’ll always believe it was meant solely for the twins— not for you. That will never change.
Because you already had someone who covered for you, in that regard.
Maybe your mother was easy to give him up, but you were different. And perhaps she’d gushed at the wedding ceremony and doted all over the big glittering rock on her finger and the opportunity to call another man her husband—
But you’d never call another man your father.
…You suppose even interlopers have a seat at the family dining table, though.
And you know Sylus, you do.
He’s familiar: from his rich, bergamot scent that’s meant to disarm with its sweeter vanilla undertones, to his resounding voice that always dips a suspicious octave when he addresses you (uncommon as that is when he’s feeling masochistic)- gentler compared to when he speaks to the twins— hell, even the way he moves. It all screams comfort, if only because you’re so used to it by now.
When you cross the street, you’re so tired you don’t even look both ways. You let him do it for you- and with pleasure he does, broad shoulder brushing you as he hovers a weightless hand at the small of your back, herding you carefully alongside him.
Coming off the plane, you’re positively exhausted. For so many reasons, you’re aching to throw yourself into bed and sleep away your last handful of hours spent traveling. In particular, the reason behind them.
…But you don’t want to think about that now, especially with him here. Even if that’s the elephant in the room you choose to ignore as you drag across the busy but quiet parking lot and struggle to keep ahold of your luggage.
When the heavy clasp starts to slip off your shoulder for the umpteenth time, and you’re sore and your jelly arms can’t hope to adjust it, Sylus swiftly reaching out to take it from you— you actually let him.
Everything is silent. The night carries but without a word.
The late night, wintry air and the massive parking lot stretching around you holds a certain peace in it. The thud of shoes over cement is hushed and the small clusters of people dotted under the overhang gather mutely, like they, too (just like the silver-haired man at your side, stealing glances you try not to notice) don’t want to get on your nerves.
You’ll make this work, somehow. Fourteen days, give or take— and then you’re free to go and cope with this in your own way, however ugly that may look.
Your own breaths are slow and uneven, but gentle all the same; for all your fatigue, you’re a little surprised that you take a moment to look up at the stars and admire the view, hands tucked under your armpits as Sylus rounds the car to the trunk.
Should’ve brought your jacket, you think for the second time, and look forward to the warmth his passenger seat has to offer.
You’re so drowsy and lost in the smoky, faintly spangling sky overhead that you don’t really notice the thunk of the back of the car or the figure that pulls to your side, lingering with you for a few seconds with mist for breath.
It recycles itself fast. Too fast, maybe... But you ignore that, too. Sometimes that’s your best course of action, you think- pretending that what’s there isn’t.
He hesitates before following your gaze, looking up to the hazy sky.
You vaguely wonder where he came from before picking you up; what fancy outing called for a sleek leather jacket and tailored, black jeans, the expensive, yet fine chain around his neck— his attire casually oozing refinement. What or who he’s dressed for. Too low-key to be a business meeting,… but too put-together to be loungewear.
Classy. But not trying too hard.
For a second, eyes flitting down to his chest thoughtfully, you wonder if he’s met with an old friend- before dashing the humorous idea to bits. He’s always been something of a lone wolf.
His voice is cashmere-soft when he speaks. “Are you ready?”
There’s so much he wants to say- to do- but he’s barring himself off from being too doting, too greedy. Each time you’ve come back to visit in the past five years since your moving out, sparse as those occasions are growing to be (not a fact he smiles upon), Sylus thinks you’ve mellowed out a bit, that you’ve lowered a wall to him— even if by a few inches. But he still wants to play it safe.
He thinks of game nights with the twins and your mother, uno cards and monopoly and a Jenga tower stacked meticulously upon the table— how one wrong move, the slightest brush of the finger, can send the blocks in a fray— and restrains himself.
For as good as he is at upsetting you, that’s never once been his aim.
…Yet you’re more at ease, tonight. If he had a few drinks in him, he might even venture to say docile.
It warms his chest as much as it squeezes it, a rankling wound with a persistent, cloying ache.
“Sweetie?”
You don’t look over to him, but you give a nod and let him carefully close the passenger door behind you.
The airport, with all its late night, hushed bustle and its strange, fairy light-like serenity, disappears into a speck.
In two weeks or so, you remind yourself, you’ll be back.
✦
The light from the streetlamps cuts up her face in subsequent flashes. It limns her with slate.
Sylus, unable to keep from glancing off the road every so often to give a cursory glance- the knowing that he needs to pay attention made a smaller thing with her right beside him- doesn’t see the harsh fluorescence, though, but silver.
She’s home. And it’s all he can think. Whether it was by her own volition or otherwise, under pleasant circumstances or not— she’s come back.
That means everything to him.
I mean— not that it’d be easy to— but there’s about a million things he wants to say.
That he’s missed her, for one. That it’s been a long time but all of it spent apart has done her better than it has him: she looks surprisingly well, all things considered. He hopes the darkness succeeds in masking some of the things he wears on his own face- the restless nights and the ‘why’ factor behind them, mostly.
But perhaps above all, Sylus wants to tell her that he loves her. That after everything that’s happened- the recent events and then the downright depressing phone call he had to make to her revolving them- he’s there for her. Whether she holds even half the bitterness she had for him years ago or still has her foot sticking out in the metaphorical doorframe of his life— it doesn’t change his availability when it comes to her.
He’s always had tough skin, but after living under the same roof as her for those couple years (a learning experience, to put it nicely), close to nothing can pierce through.
Except… Well.
Except her.
He swallows and looks out to the road.
Shadows eat at his periphery, blocks of yellow paint blurring in tandem. Outside the beam of the headlights, a vignette pours in.
On the drive in, he had some song playing on the radio- a poppy one, much too erratic for his liking, but to be fair, it did a good enough job at distracting him as his thoughts raced- but on the way back, he’s turned it off. Tells himself it’s to give the poor girl some peace and quiet— and that much is true, but it’s not the whole reason.
Sylus just has a little more trouble admitting he likes to hear the sound of her breaths, soft and even, as they occasionally cut back at the silence- and on paper it does sound bad.
He’s not like this with Luke, or Kieran. Helicopter parent taken to the max. Hanging on each word they say, every little move they make, internally grappling to piece together the why behind every seemingly trivial thing they do. Squinting at them through a crosshair but with his trigger on safety.
It’s just— his nerves are alight, okay? With her it’s all different.
Sylus can’t put a name to every emotion that flickers in him. Sometimes they pass like comets through his being, fast enough to blur by, but still hot enough to leave an impression— but for as compulsive as his thoughts around her are- as bad as it may seem- they’re not… nefarious. He cares for her an impossible amount, and yeah maybe he dwells on the idea of his stubborn, wayward stepdaughter a smidge often but it’s warranted. And it’s morally green in nature— she knows that, too.
So he can’t figure out for the life of him why some little bug in the back of his subconscious wants to flame him for it.
In any case. Sylus lets out a sigh, too soft to be heard, and spares a short glance her way, the corner of his lip quirking ever so slightly.
She’s come home.
And he’s thrilled- a little too fucking thrilled- but he knows she doesn’t do well with the doting so he tries his damnedest to keep it simple. She doesn’t like platitudes or small talk, oh, he learned that the hard way, but he also knows that she’d prefer it over the love bombing so that’s exactly what he settles on for the sake of lifting the somewhat dreary mood of the car.
…Hesitantly. “How was the flight?”
He wants to call her kitten but barely keeps off it. He wants to make his affection known but doesn’t want to upset her; he’s not exactly a man used to walking on eggshells, but he is the kind to make a sacrifice where the situation- the stakes- call for it.
To be clear, she- everything about her- calls for it.
Her response, placid from the standard wear and tear of traveling (but not entirely mean, not like she so often is) evens him out. Or maybe it excites him more, he doesn’t know.
“It… was okay,” she murmurs. “Good. The fanciest plane I’ve ever been on.”
Because up until now, she’s always made the long drive, refused the plane tickets he threw her way free of charge.
For whatever reason, he laughs at that, deep and hearty, like she’s told a good joke. She rarely ever sees him exhibit that sort of behavior even with his sons (albeit, most of the time, the twins are comedians only to each other), so she doesn’t really know what to take him for when he lilts in a pleasant tone, “Yeah? Good. I’m curious,” he adds with a slight dip of his chin her way, “Did they serve you anything?”
They did, actually. One of her favorite dishes. Which… was very convenient, but she didn’t really have the appetite.
“T-They offered,” she murmurs back, just a bit flustered.
I mean, look: she doesn’t particularly fancy the guy, okay? Nothing between them’s really changed since some years ago when she finally scraped up enough money to move out. At least, she tells herself so.
They go together about as well as oil and water. It’s just how it is.
…Perhaps it’s not entirely fair to Sylus to put so much blame on him, she’ll concede that much, but she can’t overturn the wedding, the uprooting of her and her mother from their small, beloved home in favor of a mammoth, modern estate- the way she was all but forced to leave her true father behind in the dust.
After enduring all that as a sixteen year old kid? sometimes it feels like a big ask for her to even act polite.
She will be… tame, though, in these two weeks.
“But I wasn’t really hungry.” Right then- embarrassingly loud- her belly gives a growl.
She shuts her eyes and prays the low purr of the tires over cement are enough to convince the silver-haired man beside her of her innocence- but to her slight horror, he just gives another soft chuckle.
Not deprecating by any means. Maybe she’d have preferred it that way, though, over the fond undertone in his voice- as subtle as it is uncomfortable for her to hear.
“No? I wouldn’t have guessed. Once we… get home,” he decides carefully, “I’ll have the chef make something for you. Would you like that?”
“It’s- It’s fine, thanks. I’m… I’m tired.”
“Ah,” he says as if ashamed, looking back on ahead at the road. “Why don’t you close your eyes and rest? I’m sure that the late night… ambiance will help you fall asleep.”
But she doesn’t want to, not in front of him.
It’s less out of not trusting him and more out of the fact that she doesn’t want him to take it as a sign that she so clearly does.
She’s always been stubborn.
And Sylus has always been patient with her, a trying man.
She doesn’t want to fall asleep here, to ‘turn her back to him’ in the more primeval sense, yet his voice is gentle,.. and the night is too, with its occasional groans of the engine and the silence that drones on in between.
She holds her eyelids open for as long as she can, but they want to droop.
On the plane, shot nerves and all, she was able to fight it off because that’s just what she does— she’s good at that- resisting. (And damn it all if the people directly involved in her life aren’t well acquainted with that simple fact by now.)
But now, she’s hanging on by a string. Her fiery spirit tires herself out.
She doesn’t like that his voice, all rich and throaty, every bit calming (albeit most of everyone else couldn’t say the same about it), is just like a lullaby. Like lyrics; simply set to the hum of tires as they roll over shadowy Linkon roads. The cadence they make is a languishing one.
And they slowly drift shut, her eyes. She inwardly tells herself that she’ll open them back up in a second; that she’s just resting them for a moment, but she’ll keep her ears open, her senses alert, her guard up—
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, “Rest.”
And oh, isn’t he good at that…?
Isn’t he convincing?
“I’ll wake you once we’re home.”
✦
He doesn’t.
No- contrary to his word, what you wake to instead is sunlight through sheer lace curtains and the foggy realization that you are not in the plane- or more recently, Sylus’s car. But what you slowly comprehend to be your bedroom.
Your surroundings prove to be… familiar: you catalogue them all as your mind lags a few seconds behind your eyes.
From a memory foam bed, you take in the cute frilly lampshade at your side (a little garish, yes, but it’s always lasted you), the floral quilt you’re comfortably tucked in and the posters strewn along your walls- cheap pops of color to enliven a lavish grey canvas.
When you moved into this room, sixteen years old and bitter- sixteen years old and hurting- you remember finding some joy in decorating your new, yet very much unwanted room with hot guys from vampire shows and wooden figurines your late father carved for you.
Right now, though, you don’t dwell so much on the wave of nostalgia that hits you as the confusion.
The door’s closed- which brings a small peace to your otherwise frazzled heart as you gradually come to. You take note of that and relax a little. You’re alone, and the home (a funny word when taking the sheer size of it into consideration; the too many rooms for the number of people it holds, the general lack of warmth) is quiet.
Tranquil, even, despite the lazy sort of bewilderment that notches your brow.
Did… Did he carry you in? But when…?
No, you let your eyes flutter shut and groggily plop your head back down. You pull an old stuffie closer and hold onto it, sighing out all your memory of the night prior as you bundle up again, ignoring the red lines of your digital alarm clock that tell you morning has long encroached on noon.
No, whether or not he carried you in- or maybe the twins, excitedly piling out the door as soon as Sylus appeared with your luggage in tow— doesn’t matter. All the events of yesterday, the stressful morning of packing and boarding, then the night which he stole after months of not seeing him- that fucking fond, almost breathless look he gave you as you stepped off the escalator—
None of it matters.
You don’t want it to.
✦
It’s almost 2 o’clock when you’re unpacking your bag and laying its contents out on the bed- still having not extricated yourself from the comfort of your room- when you hear commotion outside your door.
Ever so subtle but oh, you’ve grown the ear for it.
Your shoulders give a start at it.
“….think she’s still asleep?”
Then, they slump over and you sigh, hardly sparing a glance behind you.
“…I don’t know, bro, but the food dad left out for her is way too cold so I think we should just…”
The twins, no doubt, gumshoeing in the hallway, believing they’re sneakier than they really are as they press their ears to your wall, prying for information or- considering you’ve yet to visit the lower level or even the hallway- a sign of life.
Evidently, they’re not half the part of the secret agents they’d probably like to think.
…And you should be annoyed, you know. The bothersome pair of stepbrothers is lingering outside your bedroom under the illusion of secrecy and awaiting your next- your first- move since arrival: and it’s irksome. It’s not a hard invasion of your privacy, but it’s a nigh thing, and they’re well aware you don’t like all the breathing over your shoulder. That’s a fact that hasn’t changed since your teen years.
So the streak of endearment that comes, carving the smallest of smiles into your lips, is confusing to say the least, but you give in to it anyway.
Bed-head, dried drool at the corner of your mouth and all, you tiptoe over and open the door in a gust.
Luke and Kieran fall over and through like dominos.
Cursing, they climb to their feet and attempt to play it off. “Oh, hey sis—” (that’s Luke) “Oh, sis- good morning”— (and then Kieran) but you know better than to fall for their antics as they straighten out and cough up their excuses.
You also know better than to take any real offense to them; you suppose the seven or so years spent having to humor them will toughen up a person. It did you, anyway.
You cross your arms and let out a huff. “Boys,” you say in lieu of a real greeting.
And the whole scenario is distinctly familiar, like a memory reopened: their tumbling into you, your waking up in a too-big home and just praying the day will pass with as little contact with the big man as possible. You’re almost kind of stunned for a moment because it feels as if you never left this place to begin with.
As they rub the back of their necks and look sheepish, it’s hard to miss the interest in their eyes as they take you in- or the twinkle of excitement.
You wonder what they see as you stand there. If it’s the extra inches of your hair (mussed from sleep, a surprisingly pleasant one might you add) and the small physical differences here and there that are almost too subtle to spot- or if their eyes are raking over all that’s familiar. The parts of you they’re used to. The pretty, yet sort of mellowed eyes, the tension in your posture that never quite rounds out- the lips you purse into a thin line the longer they stare unabashed.
Luke is the one to break the silence when you dip your chin out of self-consciousness, snapping out of his daze with a grin.
“Sis- so good to see you again!” You can tell he means it. Oh, between the beaming look on his face and his hands that just barely hold off on yanking you into a hug, it’s pretty clear that he’s positively alight at your impromptu visit. But as your chest warms through, the best response you settle on is another huff and a dart of your eyes you can only hope appears nonchalant. Because it’s hard sometimes, okay-? to acknowledge you care for the twins a concerning amount.
The day you first met them— and their grandiose, debonair father, ever the expert at rubbing you the wrong way: he’s not to be forgotten— you made a vow to yourself to never accept them. Your mother’s second marriage ceremony you grudgingly attended with a new dazzling dress be damned— you were not a Qin, and all the legal documents she signed off on could burn in hell for all you cared.
The twins might always be troublemakers first to most of everyone else, you think, but to you, they’re… they’re your boys. As weirdly charming as they are cunning.
“It’s… good to see you, too, I guess,” you mumble.
They catch the tail end of your smile though as you try and fail to hide it with your hand, and it’s Kieran who ends up most emboldened by it.
Taking that first step forward, he wraps his arms around you in a brusque but warm hug before you can protest against it.
“Oh, c’mon, you know you missed us!”
In the next heartbeat, his brother joins, laughing at your ear as he slings an arm around you, pulling you from a clingy Kieran- albeit with some difficulty.
“How have you been? You know, we were waiting all morning to see you- we were so excited- but you’ve been a sleepyhead… You can’t blame us for coming up to check on you, right?”
You heave a laugh. “Oh, is that what the locals here call spying now? Just ‘checking in’?”
A chuckle at your left- Kieran, with his hand now perched at your hip as the two quietly settle on anchoring you between them. “Oh, please. By twelve o’clock, we started thinking you had actually died in your sleep.”
You shove at his chest- a fruitless action- but can’t bite back your laugh in time.
“Being the good brothers we are,” Luke picks up the sentence, seamlessly finishing where he left off, “We came to make sure you were still breathing.”
Maybe it’s bad taste, morbidly bantering back and forth about their assuming you’ve succumbed to this or that in your slumber- considering recent events, the ones that summoned you here, it certainly doesn’t look good. But the grim undertone flies over their heads.
It flies over yours, too, for a few moments as Luke tries to gives you a noogie and Kieran murmurs something about you missing breakfast, tugging absently at the fabric of your shirt (the one you’ve still yet to change out of) while he talks. But then one of them mentions something about how the last time they saw you was Mother’s Day and you just—
The world hiccups. You blink and push at their chests, respectively elbowing them away and this time they listen.
Backing up a touch, the boys watch your face as it falls and it’s not too hard to put the unseen pieces together- the three braincells they share irrelevant.
For lack of distraction, you fiddle with the hem of your shirt- already wrinkled from where it was toyed with- and back up to sit on your bed. Your half-unpacked things surround you and remind you of your initial task, which supplies you with a convenient excuse for them to leave.
“I- I’m not done settling in yet.” You blurt as if that’s a good explanation for your mini outburst, not looking their way. Partly because you’re too busy trying to swallow down the rising lump in your throat; partly because you’re only so immune to the kicked-puppy look they both wear on their faces.
You don’t cry anymore. Especially not in front of your stepfamily. However, the pang of grief that swoops down and seizes you is strong enough to take your words for a moment.
Breathe.
You curl your five fingers into your palm, and as every unique ribbon of hurt comes to you, you let it all go in a breath.
(Breathe: ah, that’s right, you remember it now. It was Sylus’s words; it was the phone call half your brain- the side absolutely bent on protecting you- wanted you so badly to forget.)
The boys observe you warily as you slowly puff out.
After a few seconds pass, you’re decent enough to flash them a smile (a too-tight one, but you hope they catch the hint and leave while you’re still polite about the how you give it aspect) and look to the door behind them. “And, uh… I still need to shower and get changed and stuff. Maybe I’ll see you both later.”
“In an hour,” Luke suggests in a light tone. “Y-You should come down then, okay…?”
It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s purposefully being more gentle with you after realizing they’ve unwittingly hit a sore spot- for all their pranks, they’re not some unfeeling jerks after all, and you’ve always been an exception to their nonchalance- but it kind of does.
You look him over thoughtfully, wringing your hands in your lap.
It’s always felt like a chore to get them to behave. Whether it be sitting still in their seats during class and keeping their limbs away from your own workspace, or quite literally pulling the rug out from the asshole who ‘accidentally’ spilled wine on the front of your dress at a business get-together your mother hauled you into- for as long as time, the twins have held a reputation for two things:
Being troublemakers; and their father.
…You wonder if he’s the one who gave them a talking-to before your coming. If they’re a little more mindful of their manners because they’re nearing 23 and finally maturing or because Sylus sat them down beforehand with a stern look and said behave.
An hour, like Luke proposed, is plenty of time for you to wash up and get dressed. Your shampoo bottle is with the few toiletries you managed to stuff inside your bag- and clean clothes are already strewn along your fluffy comforters; you need forty minutes at tops to make yourself presentable.
…But that’s not really the issue. The reason why you’ve been stalling on going downstairs and revisiting the airy living room, the kitchen (with, apparently, your cold breakfast), the sunroom that you loved to escape to with books and a handmade sandwich— now too cold to sit out in, you’re sure.
An uneasy swallow. Eyes trailing down a lanky set of legs, they eventually land on the floor as you open your mouth.
“I mean- even after I wash up, I still want to unpack my stuff, and…” To the boys’ credit, they’re patient- but you try to find your words quickly. “I just-“
When Kieran makes an unimpressed noise, his sibling jabbing his side, you close your eyes and drop the charade entirely.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to see him right now, okay? I just… I’m not prepared to deal with him right now. That’s all.”
Your act was poor to begin with. Everybody and their mom (well.) knows you’re not on the best terms with your stepfather. That’s putting it lightly.
But you’re trying. Oh, for the sake of this depressing, loathsome trip, you’re trying to put aside your own reservations about him.
One crosses his arms and taps his foot. The other sighs softly.
It’s Kieran who comments, “you know, you’re the only one who can get away with talking about our old man like that… Like he’s an overgrown toddler.”
Funny, the both of your step-siblings. Right now, though, you don’t laugh.
“He won’t punish her for it, bro, you know that so just let her get it off her chest-“
He pointedly ignores him, pulling away from the hand that goes to nudge him, continuing, “But he’s not gonna bomboard you with questions as soon as you go down the stairs or something… I mean, what’s the big deal anyway, Y/n? You saw him last night, didn’t you?” He asks. “Surely you squashed at least some of the beef with him-“
“It’s not just ‘beef’,” you snip back before resigning, “But… yeah, I mean- I did see him, obviously. But it was already late and I was tired. So… we didn’t really talk that much.”
Kieran blinks. Mulls over your words for all of three seconds before saying—
(And oh, damn it all if his brother doesn’t try to stop him, revving up an elbow to thrust straight into the pit of Kieran’s belly before his lips can get too loose.
…But Luke thinks that their own shortcomings, sometimes so preventable it’s painful- all their foolish slip-ups and fails- are just as unable to be helped as the sun rising every morning.)
“What? But dad said it actually went really well-“
“Bro! Shut up! Dad said not to tell her that stuff because it might make her slink back into her shell or whatever-!”
As the wave of confusion crests over you, and then something… else that puts a distinct awkwardness in the air as you digest their words, Kieran has the gull to look flustered as he unfolds his arms and stammers.
“Ah- W- shit, man,” he curses before glancing to you- slumped on your bed as if to disappear inside yourself, a whit embarrassed despite your indifferent facade- frowning. “Don’t tell dad I said that, okay?”
Luke, fairly innocent in it all, joins his cause and begins pleading, too. “Please, sis. He’ll get mad at us both... Just don’t tell him we told you any of this, okay?”
You heave a sigh, weighing your head in your hand. “Just- can you two leave? Please?”
“Pinky promise you won’t tell him first. Oh- and-,” he steps closer, bold but innocuous, and extends his finger with a hopeful twinkle in his eye. “Pinky promise you’ll be down soon, too. The three of us can have a late lunch, yeah? We really missed you, seriously.”
You’re afraid of that proposed three becoming an unwanted four, but you’re growingly reaching your limit with them both- your daily dose of the twins being literally fed through a needle into your veins- and you just want them to scurry out and go.
To that end, you twine your pinky with his- and then his just as eager brother’s- and nod. “Yeah, okay... Bye, now.”
“An hour,” they chirp in unison, heads peeking out from the door as it swings shut behind them.
“An hour, sis~! Don’t forget!”
Two weeks, you close your eyes and tell yourself, shoehorning each pesky feeling that squeezes in your chest before it finds the chance to erupt to the surface and bleed.
With a long, shallow breath out, you return to the pile of clothes, some folded, others strung out from your carelessness, and begin stuffing them in your otherwise empty drawers.
Two weeks until you attend your mother’s funeral, and then you’re free to go.