𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒; jj maybank ² [𝐎𝐍 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃]

XII. sarah's wailing

— ⚓︎ ⚓︎ ⚓︎ —

ROWAN HAS REALLY BEEN TRYING to get through to his sister. For days it's been eating up his brain, all the guilt and the doubts that have resurfaced now that Arthur has returned home. It's starting to puzzle him how often he finds him and his mother discussing in whispers and in hushed mouthing of their lips, and it's beginning to become possible that perhaps he's not truly being as honest as he'd sounded when he first arrived. The young boy's feelings are conflicted, for he never really imagined or wanted his father to become the villain of his ideal upbringing and his once utopian lifestyle. But then somewhere along the way everyone lost the ability to decipher a lie, or to tell the truth from the hoax.

He's barely been able to step downstairs and face him, because his mind almost physically aches trying to figure out who's the deceiver and who's the victim. Neither of the Clifton children have been very loose around the older man, they all walk on eggs around him, not sure whether to let things settle back to what it all once was or be wary around a possible psychotic adult. It's uncomfortably silent in their large ritzy home, the nostalgic old buzz of laughter and childish shrieks has dulled down to the sad dripping of the ocean colliding against the legs of the dock.

It's not the same without Oakley, but it mostly isn't the same with Arthur back— Making everything stiff and forced.

Which he clearly notices.

As Rowan is sitting on his bed, leg bouncing as he gives up on his eighth attempt to reach Oakley's probably dead phone, the sound of knocking on his open door catches his attention and his blue eyes snap upward and lock with unreadable orbs and a bittersweet smirk.

"Hey," Arthur greets from the doorway and Rowan subtly shuts off his phone, offering a tight-lipped smile and a nod of his head, "Mind if I sit and chat for a bit?"

Rowan's gaze flickers around before he nods, "Yeah,"

With a smile, the man walks over and sits beside his son. The bed dips at his weight, and it reminds Rowan of when he'd feel him sit down beside him when he came back from work and he'd already be asleep. A distant breeze of a familiar scent that now lives far away from the home in his brain. It makes him gulp when his hands interlock on his lap.

"You're doing the right thing, Row," the man pats the boy's back and he allows himself to release a tense breath.

"I don't know, dad," he shakes his head, rubbing his face and resting his chin on his hand, "Something tells me she isn't gonna handle this nicely," he looks down.

"She'll come around. Cut yourself some slack, kid. None of this is your fault. If anything, I take full responsibility for what I put you all through. But you know I've been working hard to get back on track,"

His clear eyes feel blazing on Rowan's own eyeballs. With the way his eyebrows are raised in some form of threatening seeking for understanding and the sunlight grazes just on the side of his orbs, making the brown become a greenish amber, Rowan feels the obligation to either nod or turn away. Under the pressure of his eyes, he opts for the latter.