Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The needle and thread is rhythmic, hypnotic in a way. Hot light from Eric’s lamp flashes on and off the small bit of metal. The color of thread is barely visible in the dim light, a dark green hue. It’s bright enough to work.

The house is quiet. Still. The routine ticking of a clock keeps him grounded amid the late hour. Eric isn’t tired; he can’t sleep. The gnawing feeling in his gut pulls with every passing moment, tangled and matted, tugging the soft tissue of his stomach.

Remember to breathe. Hands moving faster under blurry vision- blurry. Is he going that fast? No- his eyes are beginning to water.

A shooting pain in the tip of his finger nearly sends Eric out of his chair, jumping with surprise. “ Ow .” Blinking away erratic tears, he looks down to see the light fabric of his embroidery loop beginning to bloom red, like ink in water. Gingerly, he pulls his hand from beneath it with a hiss of pain. He’s bleeding.

He’s bleeding.

It should be easy to hide, Eric assures himself. It needs to be. He finds an old spool of gauze tucked away inside a drawer beneath the sink, and makes quick work of his wounds. Maybe he could wear a hat, or press down his hair.

His father was mad at him, again. At least the plate had been mostly clean when it crashed down over his head. Eric cards through his hair with one hand, the other patting gently at the cuts along his forehead with a damp washcloth. A sharp breath is torn from him as he feels a shard of porcelain still stuck in his hairline.

Heavy footsteps thud in the outside hall.

Eyes widen at his reflection. Shoot. Alright, he needs to hurry it up. Teeth pressed hard, biting on the inside of his cheek until blood fills his mouth. The shard is deeper than he thought, shaky hands fighting to keep steady as he pulls it out.

“Eric? We need to leave! Hurry up!”

The porcelain clatters against the sink, blood swirling down the drain. A hiss sneaks out through his teeth as he fumbles with the gauze. A hat will cover it. He doesn’t want to know how much angrier his father will get if he can’t cover up the damage.

The memory makes him lightheaded, tripping over himself on the way to the bathroom. It’s just down the hall, but it feels so much further than it should.

Finally, he swings the door open, shoving his hand under the cool water from the sink. A sigh of relief, gaze still fixed on the small puncture in his finger.

His shaking has calmed down, now. The memory doesn’t stir him too badly. There are worse ones that sometimes poke out the edges of his head, memories that seem harmless until he pulls them the rest of the way out.

They used to cause him flashbacks, violent tremors attacking his senses. It’s been years since he’s seen his father, now. Now they just give him shivers.

Satisfied that the small cut is clean enough, Eric shuts off the water, reaching into the medicine cabinet for a bandaid. Whoever opened it last must’ve been in a hurry, because everything is shoved haphazardly along the shelves. Without thinking, Eric moves his hand to grab the small box of bandages, and a small tremble of the arm causes everything to spill out as loudly as possible.

“Aw crap!” he yelps without thinking, and cringes as he does so. Panic begins to swell in his chest out of habit as he picks up the various medicinal products that now litter the floor. “Breathe. C-come on, it’s okay.” In and out. In and—

Heavy footsteps thud in the outside hall.

Eric freezes, a bottle of ibuprofen clutched tightly in his palm. No. It can’t- it—

His father is right outside, isn’t he? He’s going to walk in and see the mess Eric made, see where he injured his hand from his stupid pansy hobby. He’s going to yell at him, shatter the glass again. Eric will bleed. Tight hands wrapped around his throat until he blacks out, another broken nose. He’s—

“Eric?”

The voice that calls to him is jarring, cool and monotone to juxtapose with the vivid memories of a hotheaded and angry man. Still, fear drips down his spine like ice.

“Are you alright?”

He can’t swallow around his tongue. Slowly, Eric turns to see Dark standing eerily still in the doorway. The hall light behind him flickers softly, shimmering across a simple but elegant black suit.

He’s been asked a question. He needs to answer. Fumbling over himself, Eric manages to choke out a weak, “Sorry.”

Dark’s blank expression changes almost imperceptibly, one brow quirking in confusion. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it, taking a step into the bathroom. Eric flinches, the motion audible as the pill bottle in his hand rattles like a maraca. Dark doesn’t comment on it.

Wordlessly, he crouches to the floor, and begins picking up small boxes and bottles.

Eric starts, lurching to help. “Sorry,” he mumbles again, refusing to look Dark in the eye. Still, he stays silent.

It doesn’t take long to finish putting everything away, neatly this time, as to avoid another mess. Dark hums, satisfied. Eric twitches, unsure of what to do, but still trying not to look at him for too long. “What are you doing up, anyhow?”

His voice is light and airy, and strangely, Eric doesn’t feel interrogated. He glances at his hand, and sees that it’s started to bleed again. “Oh-“ Sheepish, he quickly fetches a bandaid from the newly organized medicine cabinet. It’s a plain tan color, and Eric folds it the right way so it’ll stay on his finger. It’s something he learned as a kid. “I was, um, doing e-embroidery.” He grins, shy. For the first time, Dark doesn’t seem too scary. “I wasn’t tired yet. But, I uh-”

“Nicked yourself?” He nods. Dark mirrors the action, and smiles gently. “Eric-“ His voice turns somber. “I don’t mean to pry.” His eyes, usually terrifying, seem almost warm now. “Are you alright? You-“ a swift clearing of the throat, “-seemed rather shaken up when I first walked by.”

The younger man frowns, hands rubbing nervously. Like a fly, his father used to scold. He stops as quickly as he started. “Just remembering my dad.” A simple shrug. “I heard you outside- it reminded me of when I, uh.” He blanks, not sure he wants to relay such… private information. “You know.”

“May I?”

Eric blinks in surprise, registering Dark’s open arms. A hug; he’s offering a hug. Without thinking, he falls into the older’s embrace.

“I can’t imagine treating your own child so poorly.” Eric can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest. He holds him tighter.

“He broke a p-plate over my head. Um, it wasn’t too bad. It was clean this time. But, I needed to clean it up in time for shooting. He kept rushing me, you know? I could hear him pacing outside.” Dark’s grip on him tightens and loosens in brisk succession, a quick squeeze. “There was this one shard of p-porcelain stuck in my head. It um, got infected later, I think.” His head is buried in Dark’s shoulder, tears absently fogging up his glasses. “I heard you outside, it reminded me of him. That’s all.”

Dark exhales shakily, breath laced with rage. The two stand there for a moment, and Eric finds himself noticing small details about Dark he hadn’t before. His suit is soft to the touch, somehow, and he smells faintly of honey and jasmine. Eric breathes it in, the feminine aroma enveloping him alongside Dark’s arms, lulling him back to peace.

There’s something damp on his head, pressing down on his hair. He pulls away gently, Dark’s arms having little resistance, and Eric sees the entity’s eyes watering.

He smiles through the tears. The sight is jarring, so uncharacteristic for him. Dark clears his throat. “Apologies, Eric. I’ve been awake for too long. Come now, let’s get you to bed.”

Eric decides not to question it, letting Dark guide him gently down the hall back to his room. He thinks the older man glows faintly as he walks, illuminating the way like a nightlight, but it’s hard to tell as sleepiness tugs at his senses.

“Goodnight,” Eric yawns. “A-and, thank you.”

Dark pats him on the head, ruffling soft hair. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

Chapter Text

“Eric! Eric, Eric look at this!”

Yan bursts out of the kitchen, a singular dainty cupcake in hand. Eric, startled from his book, smiles to see that the chocolate cupcake is comically tiny, resting gently in Yan’s palm. It has a swirl of brown and white frosting on top of it, and a small piece of wafer sticking out of it. It looks practically professional.

“Jeez, where’d you get that from?” Eric asks, smiling. It’s nice out today, most of the other egos busy with channel takeover plans. It leaves the younger ones with the house for the day.

Yan grins, bouncing on her heels. “I made it!” She holds out the tiny dessert, and Eric takes it gratefully.

“Whoa, n-no way! That’s impressive.” He unwraps the heart-printed foil to take a dainty bite from the side. It’s delicious- chocolate cake with hazelnut and vanilla frosting. Eagerly, Eric pops the rest of it in his mouth. “It’s really good!”

Yan giggles at Eric’s muffled praise, twirling her red hair. “Thank youuu! I originally was perfecting the recipe so I could give them to Senpai, but apparently baking is just really fun.” She unties Wilford’s ‘kiss the cook’ apron that she’d been wearing, folding it neatly in her hands. She’s one of the youngest of them, only 16, but she’s been 16 for about 9 years now. Eric tries not to think too hard about how all the egos work. “I have a whole plate of them in the kitchen I need to decorate. But hands off! I wanna give at least one to everybody first.”

Eric nods solemnly, wiping his hands on his jeans before picking his book back up. In his periphery, he can see Yan migrate her cupcake decorating supplies out to the living room, sitting in the armchair beside him to continue diligently frosting her desserts. It’s nice, peaceful. It feels more like a home than anything Eric’s used to, despite it just being the two of them at the moment.

The thought gives him pause. “Hey, Yan.” She hums, not looking up from her work. “You’re close with Dark, right?”

“Yup!” Eric’s eyes are entirely off his novel, now, watching as Yan’s face lights up. “Dark ‘n Wilford are like my parents.” Like parents, huh? Before last night Eric would’ve found that impossible to believe, but now it seems far more likely. Besides, Yan can have a strange effect on people.

“Dark- do you know if he ever had kids?”

“They,” Yan supplies. Eric just stares at her, and she takes a moment to set her piping bag down and return the look. “Dark isn’t a boy.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I mean, they are a boy, but they’re also a girl.” She shrugs. “I dunno.” It takes Eric a moment to process- he used to think Yan was the only non-male ego, but if she’s right then… Well, it’s not so far-fetched to think that something like Dark that isn’t entirely human also isn’t entirely male. Yan rambles on, “But I dunno if they’ve ever had kids. Probably not, I think I’d know by now. Just lil ‘ol me!”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

Yan doesn’t look away from Eric’s inquisitive face. She hums, thinking hard. “Y’know, I know who to ask. Wait a sec, lemme put all this away.”

“Why hello there my sweet girl!”

Yan practically jumps into Wilford’s arms. “Hey pops!” When the two finally part, she brushes past him, letting herself right into his room. Dark’s room? Eric’s actually not sure whose it is. Perhaps they share it.

“Eric! It’s nice to see you, young chap.” Wilford pats him on the arm, firm hand warm through the younger’s shirt. Eric smiles sheepishly, stuttering out a quiet greeting.

Yan plops down at the classy mahogany desk by the window, spinning idly in the office chair. Not sure where else to go, Eric stands awkwardly beside her.

Wilford shuts the door behind him, crossing broad arms over his chest with a grin visible beneath his pink mustache. “Whatever can I do you kiddos for?”

There it is again, kiddo. “Well we were actually wondering about something with Dark.” Suddenly, Yan seems nervous. She twists the fabric of her skirt in her hands. “Um, could you sit down?” Curious, Wilford obliges, sitting at the bed resting against the wall.

Yan takes a deep breath, looking as if she’s about to do something she regrets. Eric opens his mouth to ask her what’s going on, but she talks before he can. “William.”

On cue, Wilford’s eyes fog over, a confused look plastered on his face. “I’m sorry, dear, who’s—“

“Did Celine ever have children?”

Eric’s eyes flit wildly between the two of them, too scared to say anything. Who on earth is Celine? He grabs Yan’s shoulder, who just shoots him a harsh look and makes a small shushing motion.

“Celine? Oh, no. I remember she used to be so adamant that it would take away her freedom.” Wilford looks wistful as he speaks, leaning back a bit where he sits. “That changed. Mark and her- well, it was an accident when she got pregnant.”

The two younger egos perk up in sync, Eric at the mention of someone named ‘Mark’ and Yan at the mention of this ‘Celine’ person being pregnant.

A sad look crosses Wilford’s face. “Mark offered to pay entirely for her to terminate it, but Celine had a change of heart.” A low chuckle leaves the entranced man. “She talked with me for hours about potential names, and I talked for hours with Mark about his anxieties regarding fatherhood. Celine wanted twins, had a dream of a brother and sister frolicking around the mansion.” Wilford sighs deeply. “I think she settled on Sera for a girl or Samael for a boy.”

His expression changes, the air in the room seeming to shift. “The baby- they didn’t make it far enough along for Celine to figure out which name to use. The poor kiddo had no heartbeat.”

Eric feels his own heart sink, watching a somber look overtake Wilford’s face. Yan gets up, the chair spinning behind her in her haste to hug the man. “Pops, I’m so sorry.” She holds him tight, and Eric sees the cognizance return to him.

“Yan?” he asks tentatively, wrapping his arms around her. “Oh, whatever it is, it’ll be alright.” Eric stares, dumbfounded as Wilford apparently has no memory of what he just said. “I’ve got you, kiddo.”

Dark stands at the end of the hallway. They’re twitching, ever so slightly, as if their very form refuses to stay still. Eric swallows hard. It’s late. Most of the others are asleep. For the second time since meeting Dark, he can’t find it within himself to be afraid of them.

“Eric? Why are you awake?”

Their voice is cool, and Eric shuts his bedroom door behind him. His mouth opens and closes, unsure of what to say. “I- y-you, uh— Um.“ He remembers what Yan did, how Wilford changed so suddenly when she said that name. He takes a shaky breath, praying that this assumption has weight.

“Celine?” His voice is tentative, and within a millisecond, Dark is standing right before him in a flash of red.

“What did you just say?”

Involuntarily, Eric takes a step back. Their voice is deathly quiet, fear grasping his spine. Dark is staring down at him, expression entirely unreadable. He swallows roughly, toying with the edge of his shirt. Eric refuses to look away from Dark’s unwavering stare.

“You— y-you were going to be a mom. Right?”

It must only be a few seconds. The time seems to stretch indefinitely. They study him, never blinking. Dark’s head tilts slightly. From the corner of his eye, Eric can see the red silhouette of Dark seep into the carpet like liquid.

When they finally speak, it’s hardly louder than a whisper. “Who told you that?”

“W-W-William?”

Dark laughs, incredulous. For a moment, Eric thinks he is about to die. He folds in on himself, eyes wide beneath his glasses, breathing quick as a prey animal. Bracing for impact.

Dark blinks, edges softening. They exhale, and grasp his shoulder. Eric follows their lead, breathing deeply to calm his nerves. Dark’s voice is melancholy as they speak, “You- Eric, you didn’t deserve how your father treated you.” The way they say it is so earnest, as if they really mean the words. “I cannot imagine enduring what it is to make a life, and treating it so horribly.” He feels the tears falling before he realizes that he’s crying; Dark pulls him into a hug at the sight. “The man who raised you… I didn’t get the honor of raising a child. But he did.” Dark exhales shakily into Eric’s hair. “It isn’t fair, Eric. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Mornin’ Yan-chan.”

Yan huffs, holding her chin in her fist and staring adamantly out the window. Eric quirks an eyebrow, sitting beside her at the kitchen table.

“Dark grounded me,” she mutters.

Eric can’t help but giggle a bit at that. Given Yan’s disjointed explanation of what exactly she’d done and the details Eric had been able to piece together himself, it’s not surprising.

“Speak of the Devil,” Yan grumbles, rolling her eyes. Eric turns to see Dark walk into the kitchen, prim as usual as they put on a pot of coffee.

“Good morning, Yan, Eric,” they purr, voice rich and dark as walnut. Yan huffs again, reaching for her tall display of miniature cupcakes and popping one in her mouth. Dark mirrors the action. “These are lovely, Yan-chan.” The girl mutters something under her breath in Japanese, scowl plastered on her face.

Eric stretches in his seat, and absently pulls out his embroidery ring from his bag. He went to bed early last night and didn’t get the chance to work on it.

“Impressive.” Eric hums appreciatively as Dark makes their presence known behind him, internally quite proud of himself for not jumping. He looks back, seeing them standing with two cups of coffee. They pass one to him.

“T-thanks, uh…” Just try it. “Thanks, mom.”

Their eyes widen, and Yan audibly gasps. Their red silhouette brightens and dims rapidly, before settling back into place. Dark’s face relaxes into a small smile, and they straighten up, taking a sip from their mug. “Of course, kiddo.”