𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

ACT TWO FINALE

Y/n scrubbed. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, almost until the first layer of skin seemed to peel off, until it was red, mottled, and nearly bruised with the force. Until he shed off whatever impurities he had.

His legs ached. His body ached. It wasn't even a pleasant kind of ache; no. This was raw, primal pain at his fullest—every movement hurt, every breath he took hurt. The memories from the cursed night plagued his thoughts, rotting his mind, making the tears roll down from his cheeks.

Y/n felt like a monster in his own skin. He wanted to peel it off. He wanted to just...

Y/n hugged himself in the bath, shuddering. The water lapped over his skin—and Y/n wished to drown in it, feel the punishment of the cold, cold water freeze his bones and chill him, soak in it until he couldn't distinguish the days that blurred by, the seconds that crawled.

"...Is there even a God?" Y/n croaked out tonelessly, "even someone to...to listen to me? Was I right in believing that God was not—not..."

Not real?

The water sloshed to his neck.

Y/n shivered again.

Death was imminent, the agonizing, sweet release of death...Y/n could die here. Shiver until he froze, scratched his skin until the blood matted the water and turned it into a beautiful shade—

"Father?"

Y/n ducked his head underneath, drowning the voice out. If he listened, he would stop. He would stop his death...

The voice became more insistent, even though it was muffled.

"Father—!"

Y/n rose from the water, listlessly clothing himself with whatever garments or robes he found in the corner. When he stumbled out—(he could barely move)—Lucas rushed to his aid, immediately supporting him.

"Lucas," Y/n threaded his fingers through Lucas's soft, soft hair, "what is it, my dear child?"

He tried to keep his voice airy, light. It ended up sounding hoarse.

"Oh, I...I made some food for you," He twiddled his thumbs, "ever since Father Anton dropped you off, you looked really tired..."

Oh, sweet child.

My precious, darling child...

Y/n brought Lucas up, carrying him in his arms. The boy made a startled noise, but nevertheless, tucked his head into Y/n's neck, clinging on to him for warmth.

"Your hair grew pretty long," Y/n said quietly, "you look adorable. You're growing well."

Lucas hugged Y/n tighter, his small arms around Y/n's shoulder. The grip grew tighter, just a little more.

"Because you treat me so well, Father," The little boy mumbled sheepishly, "I just wanted to repay you. I love you, Father."

I love you too.

"You made food for me," Y/n said in awe, swallowing the choked sob down his throat, "you—you..."

"I'm afraid it won't be good."

Y/n shook his head, settling down onto a chair with Lucas on his lap. He kept one arm wrapped around Lucas's waist, supporting him, and the other picked up the plate, which had—

"French toast," Y/n blinked his eyes. "You made me French toast."

"You liked it. I tried making it," Lucas swallowed. "It was my first time, so maybe it's a little too sweet, or too tasteless."