The house is warm and bright. It had echoed with children, with the sound of laughter. Always there, never changing. Two parents, a happy marriage, homemade cookies waiting with creamy milk, kisses and bandages for small injuries, stories at bedtime. There had always been a kettle singing on the stove, always something delicious cooking, flowers in vases all year round.
Even now, with your two sons grown, it's still the same. The house is still full of food, warmth, beautiful objects. Idyllic and perfect. A haven, a safe place for your family.
You hum the first bars to a song stuck in your head, your step lightening even as you flit around the kitchen in a flurry of busy hands and feet. You've all but demanded that the staff take the day off, intent on preparing for Diluc's birthday dinner on your own. You've made one of your specialities, rotisserie chicken and cheese, wrapped up in seasoned flatbread. It sits upon a tray, waiting to be popped into the oven, warm and ready for when your family returns.
If Crepus were here, you know that he would join you, singing along in his deep baritone, twirling you around the kitchen. And you would laugh, delighted. He would sweep you off your feet and into a dance, both of you singing and laughing. Diluc and Kaeya might peer in, fondly exasperated, and Kaeya might even poke his tongue out in disgust, a childish habit he's never been able to get rid off.
A key scrapes in the lock.
The front door is pushed open.
You can hear two sets of footsteps. Walking through the expansive living area with its squashy ivory sofas, past the gleaming piano and the antiques carefully mixed with modern pieces, and into the sugar-perfumed kitchen.
For a brief moment, you think it odd that Crepus hasn't announced his arrival as he always has, with a sweetly affectionate nickname – darling, love, angel – but you think that any minute now, you'll be picked up, whirled around in his arms, with your feet flying out behind you. And you'll smile, and scold him, with no real heat to your voice, and you might even press a kiss or two to the corner of his mouth.
"Are those my boys?" You ask, a smile in your voice. You're still preoccupied with the cake, and you allow yourself to feel a spark of pride at your creation. It's an incredible thing, towering with white icing and scattered with sugared rose petals. "Dinner's almost ready – And Kaeya, if I catch you pinching food, so help me –"
The answering silence is chilling, and tightens all the vertebrae in your spine. You know immediately that something is wrong, and you sense that a line has been crossed, and nothing will ever be the same again.
Your hands are still clutching the packet of candles when you turn your head. Your boys are there. Fear slithers in your gut, a sense of foreboding rises in your stomach. You've never seen them look so desolate, so utterly broken. Kaeya's face could be carved from ice. His eyes are rimmed with red, and he can't seem to look you in the eyes. Diluc's face is as grey as death, with deep shadows in all the angles and planes of his breath-taking face, so much like his father. The bleakness in his eyes frightens you. There's no life in him. Pressing the backs of your fingers to your lips to hide the fact that they're quivering, you have to fight back your own tears. You're a parent after all, and your sons are your priority. With that thought in mind, you take a step forward, your insides wrenching, all your instincts being called upon to soothe and protect and reassure.
Then your eyes fall upon Diluc's hands, the once white gloves adorned with red, blooming poppies.
His birthday gift, you think distantly. You had given them to him in the morning. And Diluc's face had been so radiant as he'd pressed a kiss to your cheek in delight.
"Diluc. Kaeya." You say, on a voice that is not so much breaking as is already broken. "Where is your father?"
Diluc's face crumples on the start of a cry.
