𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

61 || Bedroom Eyes

TiO- ZAYN

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Adrik

Two tugs on my pant leg brings my attention to Four eyes, who speaks eight letters.

"I'm scared."

The face of my watch stares back at me. It's hand well past midnight.

We'd gotten home, four hours ago. She'd disappeared to take care of her hostage and I'd left her alone, to have her way.

All these evens irritate me, the fact that she's late makes it all the more worse.

I glance to the other side of the sofa. His feet dangle from his seat, while mine plant firmly onto the ground. "Children have bedtimes." European football's dance across his pyjama's while I'm still in my suit and tie from the ball. "Exercise yours."

"I'm not tired." Fatigue practically drips from his brown eyes, while he pathetically suppresses a yawn. "When will my sister come back?"

I sense his attachment issues, with Celina at the center of them and wonder how severe they are. "I'm getting scared."

Despite his fatigue, he's resilience tells me he's not leaving anytime soon. With a sigh, I lean forward, watching the seconds tick by, until she walks through the doors. "Fear is for the weak." I tell him.

"So you were weak too?" The statement makes me narrow my eyes at him. He squirms, uncomfortable under my stare. "B-Before you were strong."

"I was very weak." I turn away from the kid to my left while my mind goes back to a parallel that's played in my mind more times than I can count. "Until someone taught me not to be."

Only this isn't like it was then. The kid may have been like I was, but I'm nothing like the person I'd put my trust in, only to find out he'd betrayed it.

"What happened?" Curious eyes, so ignorant to it all, blink at me."To the someone who made you strong?"

I never wanted children, nor was I a reasonable role model, but I suddenly understand the importance that lies in a child's mind. It's delicate, they're beyond impressionable and it's all so detrimental to their evolution.

What happened to him?

Perhaps I should protect the delicate ignorance. Experience taught me it does more harm than good. "I sent him to hell."

"Why?"

Why?

Why...

"Why do you look so scared, boy?"

I don't know why I do it. I hadn't done it when mother yelled. Or when father hit. Not even when my sister cried for me to.

But there's something about this stranger that tells me he's different. Maybe it's because mother left us alone in her study for a phone call and he invited me to play my favorite game in the world. And maybe  it's because he's so good at it.

"I'm-" I try to say it like mother does to her friends. It sounds different from me. Maybe because I don't do this when anyone's near. "I'm born sick."