you were everything

Bye-Bye Ben's Statue

☂ dad sent me to the moon ☂  

We step outside, where rain lashes down in heavy sheets, drumming against the patio and pooling in uneven puddles along the stone. The air is thick with petrichor, damp and clinging, as if the sky itself is mourning.

"Great." Luther exhales, shaking his head. He reaches into the basket by the door and yanks out a handful of umbrellas, tossing them unceremoniously to the group. Klaus snatches the pink one, twirling it between his fingers with a delighted smirk. It suits him.

"How do we do this?" Alison asks, passing the urn to Luther before tucking her hands into her pockets, her expression unreadable.

Luther shifts uncomfortably, gripping the urn as though it might shatter in his grasp. He clears his throat, his broad shoulders stiff with an unspoken weight.

"Whenever you're ready, dear boy," Pogo says evenly, his own umbrella balanced neatly against his shoulder.

And with that, Luther turns the urn over.

The ashes spill out in a slow, sluggish clump, landing with an almost comedic plop on the rain-slicked ground. The silence that follows is thick, awkward. We stare at the dismal little pile, grey and sodden, dissolving into the earth like an afterthought.

"Probably would've been better with some wind," Luther mutters, staring down at what remains of our father.

Pogo clears his throat. "Does anyone wish to speak?"

We collectively exercise our right to remain silent.

Undeterred, Pogo presses on. "Very well. In all regards, Sir Reginald Hargreeves made me into what I am today, and for that, I am forever in his debt. He was my master and my friend, and I will miss him very much. He leaves behind a complicated legacy—"

"He was a monster," Diego interjects, scoffing. "A bad person and an even worse father."

"Diego—"

"My name is Number Two," Diego snaps. "Because our father couldn't be bothered to give us real names."

Mom, as oblivious as ever, tilts her head with a pleasant smile. "Would anyone like something to eat?"

I sigh. "No, it's okay, Mom."

"Oh, okay." She nods and steps back, hands clasped neatly in front of her.

Diego turns back to the group, undeterred. "Look, if you wanna pay your respects, go ahead. But at least be honest about the kind of man he was."

Luther's jaw tightens. "You should stop talking now."

Diego exhales sharply, taking a step forward. "You, of all people, should be on my side right now, Number One."

Luther doesn't move. "I am warning you." His voice is dangerously low.

Diego tilts his head, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "He had to ship you a million miles away."

Luther's hands curl into fists.

"Stop talking."

"That's how much he couldn't stand the sight of you."

Luther lunges.

His fist swings, but Diego ducks, fluid and effortless, and in a blink, they're a tangle of limbs and rage.

"Boys! That's enough!" Pogo warns, but the plea barely registers.

I roll my eyes.

"Come on, big boy!" Diego taunts.

"Stop it!" Vanya shouts, though it's painfully clear neither of them plans to listen.

"Hit him! Hit him!" Klaus cheers from the sidelines, grinning like this is the best entertainment he's had in weeks.

Pogo, with all the wisdom of someone who has seen this play out one too many times, simply turns and walks away.

Luther manages to toss Diego to the ground, but Diego rolls, springing back to his feet with infuriating ease.

"Get. Off. Me."

"I don't have time for this," Five mutters, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

Then, with a deafening crash, Ben's statue comes toppling down.

Alison sighs, already walking away. "And there goes Ben's statue."

That's when Diego pulls out his knife.

I barely hesitate.

"Alright, stop."

A flick of my wrist, a pull from deep within my core, and suddenly, both of them are on the ground, soaked and humiliated.

"You had no right—" Diego growls.

I fold my arms. "Did I? Because it sure looked like you were about to kill your brother."

Luther glares at me. "I was handling it just fine."

"Right," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm done watching you two fight. Do whatever you want."

Without another word, I turn on my heel and storm off, letting the rain swallow the rest of their petty argument.

Then—sharp, sudden pain.

A searing sensation flares along my leg, and I wince, inhaling sharply through my teeth.

Great. I'm having a Harry Potter moment.

It's not like I have a curse scar, exactly. But when I made the mistake of telling Dad about it once, he simply gave me that cold, analytical stare and said—

"It's all in your head, Eight."

Maybe he was right.

Maybe he wasn't.