Three Means 1

The Days at Home

It had been at least two weeks since Dulce and Pierre had made the mutual decision to "start over" yet Dulce had barely considered the burden it would place on her. The days passed in a blur, slipping through their fingers as though they were outside the reach of time itself. Not once had they left the apartment, as if the world had stopped existing. Dulce had cut all contact with Arthur, and surprisingly enough, neither he nor Fleur had come searching for her. The craziest part of this was that Dulce hadn't thought of Arthur at all. His absence, which once might have caused a lot of guilt or regret, lived no longer in her mind.

She never asked Angelo if he had broken things off with Fleur. It seemed irrelevant now. The three of them existed in a bubble, which kept the outside world away. Angelo had abandoned his responsibilities at the bakery and the telephone at the house rang relentlessly with unanswered calls, probably from Claude. Their days were spent in silly pleasures like cooking, playing random games, and dancing around the apartment as if time was just constructed for their amusement. (A/N: Sorry to interrupt. I had to look up the past tense of construct because of the phrase "time is just a construct" and it IS "constructed" lol) In those moments, their laughter filled the heavy space with lightness, and even though they touched occasionally, none of them dared to put into words the tension that was evident in the air.

One Saturday evening, Dulce stood in the kitchen, looking down at a frying pan. The smell of burnt food was stuck in the walls and filling the apartment, reminding her of failure.

"Boys! Dinner is ready." She called, trying to force a cheerfulness she didn't quite feel, not that day.

Pierre and Angelo appeared in the doorway, with expectations. But when they saw the dish on the table, their expressions fell.

Pierre approached cautiously, his eyes squinted as he inspected the pan. "What... exactly are we looking at here?"

Dulce straightened her shoulders, forcing a smile. "It's lasagna." she informed, with a bit of shame because it had overly burnt edges and collapsed layers.

Angelo leaned over the pan and inspected it with a doubt. "Is it though?" He joked, poking the edge with his fork.

A defensive huff came out of her. "It's just a little burnt." She said, lifting her chin in defiance.

"A little burnt?" Pierre added in disbelief, as he sat down, still eyeing the food as though it might bite him.

Angelo took a bite but his face instantly twisted into a grimace and he placed his fork down with exaggerated slowness. "Nope. I'd rather starve."

Dulce glared at him. "You will. There's nothing left to eat." She snapped, pointing at the almost empty pantry, except for a jar of mustard and a few, probably moldy, crumbs.

The room fell into silence as her words landed. Pierre, with a sudden serious expression, glanced toward Angelo, who had already stood up to inspect the pantry. It was a reminder of their seclusion and its emptiness just served as a mirror of the life they had been neglecting. Even though it was painfully obvious, none of them seemed ready to face the reality they'd been avoiding.

Arthur glanced at Pierre. "Have we cashed all the checks?"

Pierre looked back at him. "All of them."

Dulce hesitated, then turned to Arthur. "But your parents are rich. Can't you ask for more?"

Arthur's answer came without pause. "I'd sooner knead dough with bleeding hands than let them know. They gave what they decided was sufficient. We'll make do with that." He then cleared his throat. "It's fine." He said, his voice calm, almost casual. "I'll go back to work tomorrow."