Chapter Text
Barty feels a strange mix of fondness and sorrow settle in his chest as he watches her. Her hair is plaited into two neat braids, the ends dancing over her shoulders every time she turns. He’s always liked that distinctive spring in her step — a little twirl built into her tread, like a small dance, a quiet ode to the innocence and joy childhood should embody.
She crouches in the flowerbeds, digging a spoonful of soil out from between her mother’s prize roses — which he knows she’ll be told off for later — and adding it to a messy little mound of sand and dirt she’s building on the stone edging by the terrace path.
Barty watches her for a while, content with the sight of her smile and the light bounce of her movements, and the sound of her humming under her breath or chatting to the dirt in her hands. Eventually, he gives in and lets out a low whistle.
Her head snaps up instantly, eyes scanning the garden for him. Then her whole face splits into a wide grin.
“Barty!” she yells, tearing across the grass. She launches herself at him, and he has to stagger backwards to keep from toppling as he catches her.
He laughs, spinning her once before setting her down and ruffling her hair. “Alright, little Maya?”
“You came!”
“I did.”
She stands in front of him and he notices one shoelace trailing loose. He crouches to tie it. “Careful, or you’ll end up with a scar like mine.”
Her gaze flicks to the narrow, jagged line beside his eyebrow, just under the barbell piercing.
“Did you get it from tripping over your laces?”
“Exactly that,” he says, nodding solemnly.
He does not mention that the scar had very little to do with loose shoelaces, and everything with hitting a bottle too much — and later, a Scottish prick across the bar. Sadly for him, the bloke had been a good deal less pissed and returned the favour with a bottle to the face and a cut deep enough to part his eyebrow.
“And we don’t want to ruin your beautiful eyebrows, do we?”
Once the knot is secure, he pats her shoe as if to seal the deal.
Maya’s gaze drifts to the travel bag resting on the grass beside him.
“So… you’re really going?”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “But I’ll come back. Can’t be away from you for too long, can I?”
She nods, though her mouth pulls down a fraction. It fortunately doesn’t take long for her to brighten again. “Mum’s making Kartoffelsuppe. She says it’s your favourite.”
Barty’s eyes flick towards the house.
Of all the places he’s supposed to belong, of all the heritages he can claim, this one has always felt the least like home. The worst kind of foreign: not the neutral unfamiliarity of something new, but the wrongness of something meant to be familiar and cosy and warm, yet feeling like anything but.
No, Barty feels nothing but bile rising in his throat as he eyes the house. It is, objectively, a fine house. Set in one of Munich’s better districts, three storeys and the dust gathered at the top floor testament to the luxurious sees of space.
From here, at the far end of the back garden, he can see through the glass kitchen doors to the blonde woman rummaging in cupboards, likely hunting down spices for that soup.
He instinctively takes a step back, then looks at Maya again. She’s holding out a crumpled fistful of dandelions.
“I picked these for you.”
Barty feels the warmth seep through his chest as he takes them — all crumpled and half their leaves gone.
It’s always struck him as the cruelest joke that something so good could have sprung from something so rotten. The worst kind of mockery, because it makes him unable to fully hate the piss-poor excuse of a man he’s forced to call his father. And he really, really, wants to hate him. Wants to despise him and loathe him with every fibre of his being.
But he can’t. Not when that same man, however indirectly, is responsible for something as beautiful and pure as Maya. And isn’t that just the most infuriating thing?
“Cheers for the flowers, love.”
Maya positively beams. “Come inside! We can watch Mum make the soup.”
“You go on,” Barty says, as he offers her a small smile. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
She nods cheerfully and twirls away, that same light-footed skip carrying her towards the kitchen door. He watches her vanish inside, the smell of the soup drifting across the garden.
Then he slings the bag over his shoulder, casts one last look at the house, and slips out through the little gate at the back.
God, how he hates this place.
*****
Evan slips into the kitchen quietly. Quiet enough that his mother doesn’t notice him straight away, giving him a moment to simply watch her at the stove. He watches her stir a pan of sauce, a loose strand of blond hair dying to tug free from the bun at the back of her head. He watches the fabric of her skirt crease when she leans her hip against the counter. Most of all, he waits for the faint sound he’s missed so much — that soft hum of a hymn under her breath, the one she used to sing while cooking, in another life.
Being the third child of five, Evan has mastered the art of moving unseen — of slipping into the background like a ghost. The only person who always noticed him, no matter how crowded the room, was his mum. But that, too, belongs to another life.
Now it isn’t until she turns to check the clock that she notices him. Surprise flashes in her eyes first, but then they soften with warmth.
“Oh! You startled me, mon chéri. Are you hungry? I’m making pasta.”
These days it’s always pasta. She tries to give it a twist each time — a different sauce, an unexpected ingredient. And as he doesn’t want to disappoint her, he eats it like it’s the best thing in the world every time. This time, however, he comes with an ingredient on his own.
He smiles, then almost theatrically sets down a small plastic bag on the counter.
“Let’s make it a bolognese,” he says.
It takes a moment for his mother to realise what’s in the bag, and then she gasps loudly, rushing over.
“You’ve got me minced meat?”
Evan smiles, excited at her enthusiasm. “Yes. From Monsieur Lefèvre.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, but that’s the best meat in all Paris!”
She pulls out a chopping board, but pauses halfway and turns to him.
“How did you manage to get this?”
Evan only shrugs, very much not wanting to explain. Fortunately, before he has to, the kitchen door bangs open and two girls tumble in, arguing at full tilt.
“Maman! Valérie hid my dolls again!”
“She’s lying, maman! She just forgets where she leaves them!”
Their mother sighs at the commotion, and Evan steps in quickly, knowing she likes quiet when she cooks.
“Alright then,” he says, coaxing them out with a strained smile. “Amélie, why don’t you help her remember where she last played with it?”
They scamper off, still bickering.
“Don’t forget to switch the lights off when you leave the room!” their mother calls after them.
When it’s quiet again, she turns back to Evan with a small, tired smile. “So. You went to see your father?”
Evan nods.
“And you saw Matthieu and Adrien as well?”
Another nod.
“They’re going to miss you while you’re away. As will I.”
He shrugs, trying to keep it light. “I’ll be back for Christmas.”
She crosses to him, her hand rising to cup his cheek, her touch gentle. Her voice softens.
“I know, mon chéri. But almost four months without my little one will feel like an eternity.”
He smiles back at her, but his throat is unbearably tight. “Valérie and Amélie will keep you busy enough.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “They are quite something without you here.”
Evan huffs a laugh, snorting just enough to mask the dryness gathering in his throat.
“Mum…” His voice cracks. He clears it and tries again. “Mum, I could—”
She cuts him off with a firm shake of her head, knowing exactly what he intends to say. “No, mon chéri. You’re going. It’s your final year.” She sighs softly. “My little académique.”
“But you’ll be here—”
“No.” Her tone hardens, though her eyes stay tender. “No, my darling. You’ve a future. And you’ll make the best of it.”
But all Evan hears is the silence between her words. You’re the only one with a future. And we’re depending on you.
She smooths her hand down his arm, as though brushing away his worries. “You’re leaving at eight, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you’ll have something warm in your stomach before you go.”
“I’ll set the table,” Evan offers.
Her smile softens. “Thank you, mon chéri.”
Knowing he’ll have to leave shortly, he immediately sets to laying out plates and cutlery. He feels her watch him for a moment before speaking again.
“But tell me, how were your brothers? Did they seem alright?”
Evan nods, not looking up. “Yeah. They were alright, I guess.”
He feels her smile, definitely long grown used to his brevity.
“They’re so proud of you, you know.”
He suppresses the snort desperate to leave him.
Back to London already, little scholar?
Think you’re going to save the family with a stack of books and a fountain pen?
Cut it off, Matthieu. Everyone’s doing the best they can.
Yes, don’t worry, Matthieu. Otherwise we’ll just shove Valérie or Amélie into something useful while our genius plays at university.
“Yes, I guess,” Evan mutters again, setting the last plate down with more force than intended. He knows, for a fact, that neither his brothers nor his father are proud of him, but he does not want to burst his mother’s fragile bubble.
He lays a towel on the table for the hot pan, and his eye catches on the suitcase against the wall. His mother throws the meat into a pan, the sizzle filling the room — yet it isn’t that he hears. Instead, it’s the voices of his father and brother, loud as ever.
No, they’re not proud. But for the first time, he feels the burning desire to make them.