Work Text:
Daley started the tradition, of course. He was oblivious to his mother’s hesitation, assuming she was just sad, like him. Even as a man, he couldn’t think of a time when he was more heartbroken. When his mum held him tight, the confusion flurrying in his head. When the collective pain hit so hard that they wept. They wept, just them. Not his dad, who got teary at TV Christmas specials.
His dad used to bring him a cup of tea when he was upset. It would warm his belly and bring a smile to his face, the way his dad swung an arm around his shoulders. So he stood shakily, a boy of eight, and made his mum a cuppa. It had too much milk, and the mug handle was slick with tears he’d rubbed from his face frantically, trying to focus. It only made her cry more, and Daley wondered what soothing part of his father he didn’t have.
The days bled together. The house was quiet. He couldn’t hear the low murmur of his dad’s radio, or the most popular song blasting in the kitchen. No whistling while cooking eggs in the morning. His mother’s weren’t same. Daley picked at them for most days, eating out of politeness and fear of upsetting her.
Morris tried to play catch with him one day, while Daley had a sick twist of disgust in his heart. He threw the ball over the fence.
They got a lot of cards in the mail. Through the seas of ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ and prayers, Daley felt the emptiness deepen. It wasn’t just his dad he missed, but the part of him his dad brought out of him. The excitement of joining scouts next year. Cooking s’mores over the stove late one night, upsetting his mother the next morning when they forgot to clean up the sugary mess.
It was the passing joy. The momentary glimpse into careless happiness and abandon. Being just happy and nothing else. That’s what he missed.
When the anniversary came, Daley felt resolute. He kept picturing the moment he arrived, that his dad would be teaching archery, and he’d realise it had been a year long dream. That he’d join in, and be as good as his dad. That people would look at him and see skill, but on the inside, it would feel like a little tie. Everything he did would be a secret message to his dad. A tiny homage to him, in every cup of tea, and Christmas toast.
So his mother couldn’t say no, really, when they visited Button House. And every time, Daley would pour his heart out in words like they used to, like the divide between them opened. If only for a moment.