Playing The Victims [BL]

Chapter One Hundred & Fifty Three | Fifth World

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Fahren had expected to be taken to his parent's apartment in the city, one they most regularly used when bombarded with work. But instead, they took the slightly longer journey out of the city and to the outskirts where the family home was located. The same home Fahren had been raised in and where he eventually dubbed himself too different from the rest of his family and left.

Aside from a few age-lines here and there, the building looked the same. The grandeur of the landscaped gardens along with the architecture of the building itself, tipped its hat to an old french influence.

It was a passion project; which meant that for pretty much the entirety of Fahren's childhood, he had to get used to spontaneous scaffolding and legions of people coming in and out of the house representing the mastery of their individual trades.

Fahren could practically still hear the bustling of life coming from every nook and cranny as he stepped through the large front door and soaked in the sights and sounds of his old home. It was a strange feeling, where once he couldn't remember the faces of his parents when undergoing the test, let-alone his childhood home, but now that he had returned he remembered things vividly. Like the scratch-marks on the doorframe leading into the kitchen, where his and his brother's names were scribbled alongside their heights throughout the early years.

Their mother being a stickler for traditions.

Or the meticulously placed vase which stood not too far from one of the sofa's in the hallway which no one usually sat in. The only reason he remembered it's exact placement, was because as a child he had once had to arduously move it to disguise a stain he had left on one of the new tiles. At that time, it felt like it would be the end of the world if either of his parents discovered his mistake.

In hindsight, it was probably easily washed away— heck, they probably cleaned it up years ago and just never said a thing. But to a child it was one of those things that felt irreversible. Quite like breaking one of the champagne glasses that was used at his parent's wedding all those years ago; a set his mother had dutifully kept behind lock and key to prevent breakage and only brought out on their anniversaries.

Which to the disbelief of both parents at the time, was not his sole responsibility. As his brothers had guiltily poked their heads around the door as Fahren was reprimanded, but didn't dare admit to their crimes.

Fahren smiled, remembering the absolute chaos of three boys who were so close in age, scuttling around like dogs who were unable to catch their footing on slippery flooring. Even when there were more memories of him and his brothers screaming at each other, they were at least proof that he had lived.

"I may have had to do some refreshing, but your old room is almost like how it was when you lived here." Hazel Westergaard, with her mature beauty and sheer fondness of her home entwined into one wholesome smile, tentatively approached Fahren from behind and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Almost?" Fahren mused. "Does that include the removal of my favourite posters?"

His mother laughed aloud, turning her head slightly to catch a glance of her beloved husband. "I wouldn't have touched them, but to the behest of your father, we compromised and stored them away. When the grand-kiddies came to visit we had to use your room as a spare, and I thought they were a tad young for such an awakening."

"What compromise?" Raphael huffed, removing his coat and hanging it up on the nearby post. "I wanted them gone, burned if needs must." He declared passionately as he recalled the handful of posters showcasing half-naked men flexing in all varieties of different manners. It was a topic once brought up by Fahren when they were having one of their usual petty arguments.