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Your childhood bedroom looks exactly the way you left it. It's a bittersweet view, these four walls you've spent so much time in are now shrouded in a muted grey, much bleaker than the sunny day which was shining the last time you've been here, thirteen years ago.
The books on the shelves are still all there, but their pages are decaying, small stains of brown and yellow covering the previous white paper. Your old uniforms on the closet, plaid skirts and white shirts that you doubt would fit your body nowadays. Bed neatly made - sheats, blankets and stuffed animals as clean as ever - Grace's work, you assume.
Everything is the same. Nothing is the same.
You've gotten the news of the death of your father - the word felt strange, foreign in your mind, you haven't called him that in a long time - early in the morning, while having breakfast in your tiny apartment in Paris. It was late at night at home, you figured. The first thing that passed through your mind was… "finally". It wasn't the kindest, or the most elaborate, thing to think when someone so integral to your life passes, but, nonetheless, it was sincere. The second thing was the butterflies invading your stomach at the thought of reuniting with your siblings.
You were anxious, mostly because you didn't know how things would go down. The eight - six, now, actually, but to you, you'd always be eight, no matter what - of you under the same roof were a recipe for disaster, a tragedy just waiting to happen. You didn't want to see Vanya after reading all that she had to say (which you never blamed her for, but it stung anyway), you were scared to see Klaus, worried of how you'd find him, and you definitely didn't want go through Luther's "number one" act all over again.
There was one person you wanted to see, though, but you tried not to think about it too much lest the butterflies in your stomach take over and swallow you from the inside out.
Leaving everything behind - not that you had much, moving practically every year doesn't leave a lot of room for keeping things - you got into the first flight to Detroit.
The house now looks more like a museum than a home - if it ever was one, to begin with. It's filled with Umbrella Academy memorabilia, like a mausoleum of your dead childhood.
The only place in the whole mansion that didn't make you feel terrible was your own, old room. Outside, you could hear some commotion in the lower floor, but you don't have the courage to face whoever's home just yet. That's when a voice reaches your ears, creeping up the stairs.
"At least I'm wearing black."
The voice lures you to the corridor, like a siren's call. You can't believe your ears, you need to see it - him - to believe it.
You don't even take the time to open the door, phasing right through it, but quiet as a shadow. When you turn to your right, there he is - and now, you can't even believe your eyes.
The man you see coming your way, at the end of the hall, is taller than you remember. He has a certain confidence in his walk, too, something that you don't recall ever seeing before either. All black clothes, black boots, black hair cropped short. He is a dark vision heading your way.
Diego is exactly the same - raw power and impulsivity - but, oh, so different.
When he notices you, standing in the middle of the way, wide, watery eyes looking through him, he looks like he's seen a ghost - and to him, you might as well be one.
His brown eyes meet yours halfway.
"Are you real?" He asks as he stops, almost tripping on his own feet, his voice barely resembling the defying, harsh tone you heard him use before.
"I think I am." You answer. "Why don't you come find out?" A coy, almost shy, smile takes over your trembling lips, but not stopping your chin from wobbling.
There's no need to ask twice. In a second, you're sweeped off your feet and into his embrace, strong arms envelop you, holding you tight into his chest. Swallowing your tears, you stand on the tip of your toes, locking your arms around his shoulders. He's warm and grouding and here. He's home.
The best hug in the world it's his and it's all yours again.
You don't know how long you stay like this, wrapped around each other - it's like time stopped. Diego untangles himself from you, bringing one hand to the side of your face, moving your hair so he could see you better. The other rested firmly on your waist, locking you in place.
"I was scared I would forget how you look like, but you haven't changed a bit." He admits. You realize that seeing you so close after such a long time must be overwhelming for him too, because his voice is slightly choked, and soft as a dream.
"I don't know if that's a good thing."
"It is to me." As he says it, he brings his other hand to your face, too, and lifts your head to place a kiss on your forehead. His lips leave an imprint on your skin.
When you lower your eyes to his chest, you notice a thick leather strap holding at least two knives. A stranger contraption you haven't payed attention to before.
"What's with the harness?" You question, holding it in one hand.
"You don't see me in years and the first you wanna talk about is this?" Diego holds your wrist and removes your hand from it, delicately. His face is serious, but his lips twitch, hiding a smile.
"Jeez, sorry." You laugh. "I'll let you pick the subject then."
He huffs, shaking his head and looking away, but grins just the same. Just now you notice he's still holding your hand to his chest. You pull back and Diego opens his hand, letting his fingers brush your palm as you lower it.
“There’s something I gotta do first, wait for me, okay?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” It's more than just a statement, it's a promise.
Diego nods eagerly. "Good."
It's only when he has his back to you and almost turning the corner when you think of asking “D… where are you going?”
“To prove Luther wrong.”
Yeah, you’re officially back home.