iymnolu:

cedarmoons:

anon, this is a terrible, horrible, very bad prompt and u should feel awful for sending it

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His parents are always back before dinner. Dad had promised to make rajma-chawal for dinner, one of his favorites. They made dinner for him when they didn’t think they’d be back before sunset. But it’s nightfall now, and he’s hungry, and alone. Mom and Dad still aren’t back.

“Where are you?” he murmurs, rising on his tiptoes so he can peer out the window into the street. It’s empty; the last person he had seen walking by hadn’t been Mom or Dad. He falls back to his feet and runs upstairs, hand on the stair guardrail. When he reaches the landing, he goes straight to Mom and Dad’s room, rounding the bed to Mom’s side, carefully avoiding stepping on her prayer rug.

He has to use the stepstool to get into the bed, curling up on Mom’s side, resting his cheek on the pillow. It smells like her, soft and floral. He buries his face in her pillow and waits, hating the silence of the house.

Where are they? They should be home by now…

They’d left him books to read and games to play while they were gone, in place of lessons, but Dad makes the games fun, and the books are boring, anyway.

He doesn’t know how long he waits for them to come home, but he doesn’t move until his stomach growls. The house is dark, because he’s not supposed to light candles without Mom or Dad watching, not after what happened last time. 

Asra sits up and cups his hands in front of his chest, sticking his tongue out like Dad does when he’s in his workshop. He furrows his brow, concentrating, and he thinks, Light!

Just like Dad showed him, and the weird fox man.

A small orb flickers to life between his palms, floating up into the air, shining pale yellow. Asra laughs and claps, looking around before he realizes Mom and Dad aren’t there to see him do magic. Then he frowns and turns onto his stomach, carefully sticking his foot out and lowering himself down until he feels the stepstool.

Then he goes to the kitchen, Mr. Light bobbing along behind him, and finds the cookie jar. Cookies aren’t supposed to be eaten til after dinner, Mom always says, but he hasn’t had dinner and he’s hungry.

After he’s eaten every cookie except two (one for Mom, and one for Dad), he sits in the living room, Mr. Light hovering over his shoulder. 

“They’ll come home,” he tells Mr. Light, who bobs in agreement. Asra kicks his legs, staring down at his bare feet, tongue poking at the cookie bit stuck between his teeth. After a minute, he uses his fingernail to pry it out, then licks his finger and wipes it on his pants. He looks to Mr. Light. “They’ll be back soon, I just gotta wait for them.”

Mr. Light bobs again.

Asra waits, humming and daydreaming. When he gets tired, he looks out the window again—standing on his tiptoes just to see outside—but he doesn’t see Mom or Dad. “Huh,” he says, and even though he’s not supposed to, he goes upstairs, retrieves the stepstool, and unlocks the doors. He drags the stepstool aside and goes out into the street, Mr. Light accompanying him the whole way.

The streets are empty. He knows it takes a long time to get to the palace. They’re probably just stuck, is all. They’re coming. Satisfied, Asra goes back into the house, closing the door and dragging the stepstool in front of it. He locks all three locks, then, just in case, uses the stepstool to look out the windows.

No Mom. No Dad. But that’s okay. They’ve never been so late before, but they’ll be back in the morning. They always are. Maybe they can have pancakes for breakfast? Or maybe they’ll take him to the Milovan restaurant. He won’t get a bedtime story tonight, but Dad can tell him two tomorrow night, so that’s okay.

“They’re coming home,” Asra says, grunting under the weight of the stepstool as he lifts it up. He has to half-carry it, half-drag it back up the stairs. “They’re just a little late, Mr. Light. It’s okay.”

But he doesn’t want to sleep in his bed tonight, so he brings the stepstool to Dad’s side of the bed. After changing into his favorite nightdress, Asra climbs onto Dad’s side of the bed and crawls under the covers. Dad’s pillow is softer than Mom’s, but it doesn’t smell like Dad, just cotton. So Asra climbs out of bed and grabs one of Dad’s scarves, soft red cotton trimmed with golden tassels. He wraps it around himself and gets back in bed, moving around Dad’s pillow until he’s comfortable.

“Goodnight, Mr. Light,” he says, and Mr. Light bobs once again, sputtering out and leaving him in darkness again. Asra tugs Mom’s pillow closer so he smells her, and pulls the covers up over his head, a shield against the unfamiliar darkness. He doesn’t like how it feels to sleep knowing Mom and Dad aren’t there with him.

They’ll be back in the morning. They will.

He just has to wait for them, that’s all. 

He can wait.

I’m crying