𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

SIXTEEN

PAST

"You bitch!"

Y/n shut his eyes the minute the shrill sounds started. He knew those sounds anywhere; high pitched, garbled, warped. The sound of his mother as she spat out fiery, sizzling words from her ruby lips, the telltale of her bright anger. She would smell of the five hundred dollar perfume that she liked to buy once a month: always the start of his parent's argument.

"You will buy so much perfume for your mistress, Brooke," His mother emphasized the words, "yet you won't spare anything for me? Your wife?"

"Who is even asking you to stay with me?" Y/n's father laughed, a cruel, cruel sound. "Ah, My wife. My wife? You have been nothing but a foolish, ignorant sinner."

"You would not have let me go even if I tried."

"You are right. I would not have." His father tilted his head, laughing. "But now I think I will."

She hissed. "Sometimes I think you need to experience the homicidal rage of a woman who has been wronged to truly ingrain it in your head that you are not God. You think you're god. You think you can walk over everyone, and never ever bear the consequences..."

His father smiled.

"Come here." He soothed her like she was a child, "you are just angry. Brooke? Brooke? She is nothing. She means nothing to me, she has never meant anything to me."

Y/n watched this unfold. The way his angry mother immediately melted into his father's embrace, tired and lulled by his sweet words.

Children who grew up in damaged environments were bound to become twisted, warped, different. They were bound to be dehumanized; bitter towards the world.

PRESENT

Y/n did not leave his house for a few days after that earth shattering kiss.

He spent those days almost in a daze—fingers reaching out to his bruised lips occasionally, wincing at the sharp pain that jolted his senses when he pressed too hard. The kiss had been more pleasurable than painful; yet the aftermath was terrifying.

He had let Anton kiss him. He had let Anton kiss him. He had—

Lucas tugged at his shirt. Y/n blinked dazedly, mustering up a small smile. The poor child had been concerned for him in the past few days; ever since Y/n had stumbled home, heaving sobs and then crumbling on the ground..

He knew his actions would influence Lucas. He knew whatever self-destructive behavior he was likely to adopt now, if he hadn't already, would influence Lucas in the long run, for the worse.

Children who grew up in damaged environments were bound to become twisted, warped, different. They were bound to be dehumanized; bitter towards the world.

In this current situation, if Y/n continued the way he was, Lucas would undoubtedly break. These were the formative years of his life. His childhood. If Y/n ripped those precious, sweet years away, that naïveté he had already spent so long trying to preserve...

"You must be hungry," Y/n said softly, raising one hand to ruffle Lucas's hair. "Why aren't you eating?"

No matter how tired he was, it was the bare minimum to take care of his child. Lucas was the responsibility he had taken on—so Y/n had gone through the robotic motion of it all: tuck Lucas in to sleep after reading him a story, making him meals and playing along with him. Somehow, he wondered if Lucas could sense it—the energy ebbing away from his body.

"You're not eating." Lucas mumbled. "You look sad, Father Y/n."

"Just refer to me as Father," Y/n closed his eyes. "For the sake of our sanity."