"What? Ethan, no, stop probing me about that," Annie furrowed her eyebrows. Although from her relaxed posture, they both knew she wasn't actually angry or upset- compared to what words she said. "But you can look at the ones in the box, I have another in the closet."
Ethan crouched down infront of the box that sat beside the easel, he hadn't had the time to finish looking through it all the last time he was there.
Now he was taking his time.
Annie went to the closet, pulled out the other box and sat down on the floor beside him, box in hand.
The air in the room shifted as they both settled onto the floor, the height difference between them vanishing as they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the faint, metallic tang of oil paints and turpentine.
Ethan set his cup down carefully on the hardwood, his movements slowing. He was usually a whirlwind of energy, all restless limbs and quick wit, but as Annie opened the box from the closet, he treated it with the kind of gentleness usually reserved for ancient artifacts.
"Alright, let's see the masterpieces," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its playful edge.
Annie pulled out a canvas showing a field of wildflowers caught in a summer storm, the petals blurred by the suggestion of wind. Then came a study of the local library's architecture, rendered with such precision it looked like it might breathe.
As she reached deeper into the box, she pulled out a smaller, unframed canvas. It was a portrait of a pair of weathered hands knitting a sweater. The detail was intimate- the swollen knuckles, the gold wedding band thinning with age, the soft glow of a lamp hitting the wool.
"My grandmother," Annie whispered, her thumb hovering just over the edge of the paint. "She taught me how to see light before I ever picked up a brush."
Ethan didn't crack a joke. He leaned in, his green eyes scanning every stroke. The light from the window caught the dark strands of his hair, and for a moment, he looked entirely captivated.
"You don't just paint what things look like, Annie," he said softly, turning his head to look at her. "You paint how they feel. I can almost feel the scratchy wool in this one." He nudged her shoulder gently with his own, his green shirt brushing against the patterned sleeve of her dress. "It's a little intimidating, honestly. Makes me wonder what I'd look like if you ever put me on a canvas. Probably just a big, blurry mess of 'annoyingneighbor' vibes."
Annie let out a soft huff of a laugh, hear cheeks tinting pink. "Maybe. Or maybe I'd just paint you falling off a ladder. For realism."
"Harsh," he grinned, but then his gaze drifted back to the paintings spread between them. He reached out, his hand hovering over a painting of the woods they used to play in as kids, but he didn't touch it.
"You've got a gift, Doll. Seriously. Your mom was right- you've got the best eye in the county, even if it doesn't involve painting, like the Annie i knew three years ago."
He looked back at her, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious for a heartbeat. The flirtatious "Pebble Target" persona flickered, replaced by the boy who had watched over her for years.
"Thanks for showing me these. I know you don't just let anyone into the 'vault.'"
Annie looked down at her lap, fiddling with the hem of her patchwork dress, her heart doing a strange little flutter that had nothing to do with the caffeine.
"Well," she murmured, her voice small but steady, "you're not exactly 'anyone,' Ethan."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that held everything they weren't ready to say yet- wrapped in grief, coffee steam, and the quiet acceptance of a "good day."
Annie showed him the therapy paintings she had done in the past, to Ethan they mostly either looked like a canvas covered in colours and funky designs, or he saw a very planned, methodical looking painting.
But to Annie she could feel the emotions she was going through the time the paintings were done. A reminder of where she was and how far she had come.
Once Ethan had seen all the paintings she had kept- because she had plenty more, but left them behind for the next owner of her previous home. He headed home to give her some space, he knew he was taking up all her time, but in a way- he wanted to make sure he was always on her mind somehow.
Annie put her paintings away, glancing at the time, Annie runs down the stairs to cut up some vegetables for a snack. There stood Kyson, grabbing a glass of water. His glare evident the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
The kitchen was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the aggressive clack of Kyson setting his glass on the granite. Annie kept her head down, her knife trembling as she sliced through a bell pepper. The silence wasn't peaceful- it was a physical weight.
"You're pathetic," Kyson said, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp.
Annie didn't look up. "I'm just making a snack, Kyson."
"No, you're performing," he snapped, stepping into her peripheral vision. "I see you every time Dad walks into the room. You slump your shoulders, you let your eyes get all watery. You're milking it."
Annie's knife slipped, nicking the skin of the pepper. "My mother died three weeks ago. I'm not 'milking' anything. I'msad. I'm allowed to be sad."
"We're all 'allowed' to be things, Annie," Kyson sneered, leaning his hip against the counter to loom over her work. "But you've had it all, haven't you? The biological mom, the biological dad, the house with the white fence. I spent eight years wondering why I wasn't good enough for a father to stay, and then I get dropped into your 'perfect' world as an afterthought."
"You weren't an afterthought," Annie whispered, finally looking at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her gaze was steady. "My dad loves you. He adopted you. He chose you, Kyson. He didn't have to, but he did."
"He chose a role," Kyson hissed, his face darkening. "He wanted to play the hero who rescued the fatherless boy. But we both know who the real child is in this house. Even now, with your mom gone, he spends every waking second he's home hovering over you like you're made of glass. It's always been about you."
Kyson reached out, his hand hovering near the knife she held, forcing her to still her hand. "But that's your brand, isn't it? The fragile little girl. I remember three years ago. We were finally settling in, things were finally quiet, and then- boom. Annie needs a hospital. Annie needs therapy. Annie tried to end it."
"Kyson, stop," she pleaded, her voice cracking.
"Did you actually want to die?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock curiosity that felt like acid. "Or did you just realize that my mom was starting to feel like a permanent fixture and you needed to remind everyone who the real priority was? It was a hell of a stunt, Annie. It worked. It always works."
Annie's grip on the knife handle tightened. A hot, stinging prickle of actual anger- rare and sharp, lared in her chest. "It wasn't a stunt. And the fact that you can stand there, and tell me I'm 'performing' her death for attention..."
"I'm the only one in this house who sees you for what you are," Kyson interrupted, his voice a jagged edge. "You're a black hole. You suck up all the love, all the pity, and all the time, and you still act like you're the one who's been cheated. You had a mother for seventeen years. I never had a father until I was forced to share yours. Don't talk to me about loss."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway, looking back with a look of pure, cold steel. "Go back to your paintings, Annie. At least the people in those don't have to deal with your fake-sweet bullsh*t."