Archive of Our Own

It was already scary enough when Cathal saw his dad, Adhamhnán, get home covered in bruises, cuts, and reeking of whiskey. But it was even scarier when Declan’s dad, Cian, didn’t come home at all. And then a week later when policemen showed up at both of their houses, asking their parents questions? Safe to say both of them were terrified. Especially when they weren’t allowed to see each other for a month, and even when they did, their parents refused to talk aside from Siobhán dropping Declan off. Things were a little tense, but… well, it was hard to sense that—at least for both of the youngest kids in their families, who were nine years old and best friends that hadn’t seen each other in what felt like centuries. They’d known each other for seven years and been inseparable for three by now, so they were more focused on making up for lost time.

Meanwhile, things were weird all over the house. Adhamhnán wasn’t there (though it wasn’t too surprising given how often he’d be out at the pubs), Niamh was told to stay in his room all day, and Caoimhe, Cathal’s mom, was all dressed up. Everything seemed a little… grim. Granted, it was raining outside—it was always rainy in Ireland—but it felt unusually macabre. They’d been told to stay in Cathal’s room, despite the severe lack of things to do. There was an Xbox 360 with Halo 4, but Declan sucks ass at it and he’d cry if he lost. It also had Minecraft, but Cathal just liked burning down the forests and blowing up the villages. That left one option. Lego: Batman.

“But I don’t wanna be Robin!” Declan whined as he got handed the shitty, broken off-brand controller with the half-charged battery pack.

“Too bad,” Cathal retorted, flashing a cocky grin before saying in an overly exaggerated, gruff voice, “I’m Batman.”

The two played through the game and flew through the levels, being that it was one of two games Declan was good at. Though, it only lasted roughly four hours before Declan got tired, being that he’d been running on very little sleep ever since his dad had gone missing. When it got to the point he was barely keeping his eyes open, despite his very loud and whiny protests, the game was turned off and he was dragged into bed.

“I don’t wanna though,” he mumbled desultorily, only to be met with a ‘too bad’ and a hug as the two squeezed into the same bed. Declan’s part of the bed was still cold from his month-long absence, and so was his portion of the blanket and pillow—though Cathal’s body heat more than made up for it.

Of course, being the only one actually tired, Declan was the first asleep. It had been taking a lot longer to properly get sleep since Cian had suddenly vanished off the face of the Earth—yet at the same time it was a little easier since he didn’t have to hear those late-night arguments anymore—though it seemed to come easy around Cathal. It was a lot more comfortable, knowing he wasn’t entirely alone in the dark.

Peace never lasted for Declan, though. It was as if God hated him in particular—a thought that scared him whenever it crossed his mind both because it felt inherently blasphemous to assume and to be mad at God, and because he was worried that doubting God’s love in the first place would cause God to dislike him. The calm, comfortable silence in the room, broken only by their shared soft snoring, wouldn’t last. Soon Declan’s quiet snoring would be replaced by whimpers, his still body beginning to subtly thrash as his dreams soured into something more sinister.

Declan wasn’t stupid, at least not as stupid as it seemed. He had a faint idea why his father had suddenly disappeared, he just didn’t want to believe it. Accepting the truth would make it concrete, that his father was well and truly gone and never coming back. Sure, Cian was an abusive asshole to everyone, Declan baring witness to both his sister and his mother being beaten, berated and subjected to hours long rants about how a woman should act—Declan himself a victim to his fathers overbearing rage and need to show those around him that they were less than. Despite all that, a part of Declan still loved his father to some extent. He wasn’t entirely sure why, maybe it was just because he knew he was supposed to respect his elders, especially his parents, it was God’s will after all, right? 

Aoife had told him the truth. Their father was dead. Killed because he was a racist asshole who got what was coming for him. Declan had cried, yelled at Aoife, called her a liar. She’d yelled back, called him a baby, shoved him a little when he’d started trying to punch her. Their older cousin had told them both to knock it off, telling Declan to go to his room and wait for Siobhán to drop him off at Cathal’s house. Aoife had stormed out of the house, making her own way to her friend Orla’s house. Declan watched her leave from his bedroom window, his vision blurred with tears, but clear enough to see that Aoife was furiously wiping her own tears away on her sleeves. Everything was so wrong. His father wasn’t supposed to be dead, at least not until Declan was older, much older. Once, when Cian was in a good enough mood to put up with the fact he had two children, he’d told Declan that the time would come when he’d have to step up and be the man of the house, look after his mam and sister. Cian had promised it wouldn't be for a long time, that Declan would be older, with a wife—though that thought irked him for some reason unbeknownst to him—and children of his own, that he’d be ready for the responsibility. Declan didn’t feel ready at all, he was scared, he didn’t know how to be brave.

Declan didn’t know much about death. All he knew is that when someone dies, it means they’re gone forever and they’re up in heaven - or down in hell if they didn’t have their sins forgiven. From what Declan had overheard the grown-ups saying, and from what he already knew about his father, it was hard to imagine that Cian would’ve gone to heaven. The day he’d entered the pub for the last time, it was a Sunday. Declan knew that the only alcohol they were meant to drink was the wine at communion. Cian had always explained his actions away by telling Declan it was okay for him to drink more than that, because the next morning before work he’d go to confession and clear his sins. Cian hadn’t gotten the chance to clear his sins that Monday morning. Declan had tried to reason with himself since making that realization, maybe God would let Cian off because it wasn’t his fault he’d died before clearing his sins. 

The thought of fault, of blame, of guilt, had started to fester in Declan’s mind. Sure, any rational person would place the blame on Cian for his actions leading to his death. But Declan wasn’t rational, he was a very irrational nine year old boy dealing with the idea of mortality for the first time. If Declan had just behaved, maybe his dad wouldn’t have gotten angry and needed to go to the pub that night. If Declan had just been less of a disappointment to his father, if he had just been tougher, been more of a man, maybe his dad wouldn’t be dead. Maybe his dad wouldn’t be in hell.

Declan’s eyes opened, his mind awake but his body continuing to lay stiff on Cathal’s bed. He could feel Cathal laying next to him, hear Cathal’s breath, but he couldn’t turn his head to look. He could only move his eyes. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dark and he was able to make out the shapes that were the furniture in Cathal’s room. The room was illuminated only by the moonlight seeping in through the window, making it hard for Declan to see anything clearly. As he scanned the room with his eyes, something out of place caught his attention. At first it looked like a heap of clothes piled on the floor in the corner, but as Declan’s eyes adjusted more to the dark, the shape began to shift and change, growing taller, coming closer. 

Then the sounds began. Faint breathing sounds that didn’t belong to him or Cathal. They were raspier, harsher, gruffer. Like a man who was in pain, like each and every breath this man took caused his lungs to burn. As the figure grew closer, the breathing got louder, and soon Declan could hear something, a word being uttered by this croaky, acrid voice. His name. It wasn’t just the breathing, and the figure rasping out his name in this way that made him want to cry out in terror, he could also hear what sounded like bones cracking into place as the figure loomed closer.

When the figure got close enough for Declan to make out its face, he wished he could screw his eyes shut and never open them again. The figure was his father, though his face was now terribly disfigured with burns. Burns from the fire and brimstone of hell. Despite the disfigurement, Declan could still make out how his father’s face twisted in disdain when looking at him. His fathers eyes flicked between Declan’s face and Cathal’s sleeping body next to him, his lips twisting up into a cruel smile as deep guttural laughter began to escape from him.

“You killed your own father so you could lie in bed with a boy, Declan?” He spat the word boy like it disgusted him to even acknowledge, his crooked, crispy hand reaching up to lightly close in on Declan’s throat. He sneered as Declan managed a whimper, tears beginning to spill from his eyes.

“You’ve always been such a pathetic little wimp. I have no idea how you’re my son. I suspect your whore of a mother cheated on me in order to give birth to such a little fucking faggot like you.” His hand tightened on Declan’s throat, making it harder for him to breathe without making these horrible, weak, gasping noises. His nails dug in, feeling like small knives.

The awful smell of sulphur and burning filled Declan’s nostrils, making his eyes sting and more tears stream out. He wanted to move, to try and push his dad off him, get him to stop hurting him. He wanted to speak, to tell his dad he was sorry, to beg for his forgiveness. But all he could do was lay there and listen while this unholy, wicked caricature of his father brutally picked him apart, making him feel smaller and smaller with each insult that dripped from his forked tongue.

“Look at you. Crying over this. What? Are you scared? Are you scared, Declan? You fucking baby. You killed me and now you’re crying. Well guess what, son? You’ll be going to hell with me. You can’t escape from this. You murdered me, that’s a sin Decky-boy, and no one is going to save you. Not your whore of a mother, not your little slut of a sister. No one.”

Declan’s chest felt like it was on fire, he couldn’t breathe properly, the weight of his father was bearing down on his lungs and he couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. He was going to die and go to hell and be stuck with his father for eternity with no escape. He tried to scream, maybe if he screamed he could wake Cathal up and he’d save him. Cathal might’ve been smaller than Declan, but he was always better at fighting, he’d saved Declan loads of times at school. School bullies weren’t exactly the same as whatever this demonic presence was, but Declan was sure that Cathal would save him.

The deteriorating flesh that was his fathers hand pressed down harder on his throat, making his vision blacken and blur at the edges, he leant closer, his grotesque face mere centimetres from his, contorted into an expression so full of rage that Declan was certain the devil would no longer scare him.

“You need another boy to come save you? Fucking fairy. This boy won’t want to be anywhere near your disgusting, perverted self. Especially now.”

Even if Declan could speak at that moment, he didn’t have to ask what his father meant. He’d felt the sudden rush of warmth soak into the bed beneath him, whimpering once again as his father’s claims of him being pathetic were confirmed. Turns out he didn’t have to scream to wake Cathal up—the wet sheets had done that for him.

“Huh? Oh- oh, gross!” He scrambled out of bed, making sure none of it got on him. “Dirty fecker…” After the initial shock and disgust wore off, he walked back to the bedside, gently cupping the taller boy’s cheek. “You alright? What happened? What’s wrong?”

Cathal’s indecorous awakening appeared to scare off the phantasm Declan had seen of his father, as it had disappeared swiftly, leaving him laying there, confused and afraid. His chest still felt tight and he was certain that he was dying, that he had been marked for death by whatever that thing had been. Every breath he tried to take felt too shallow, too quick. Any word he attempted to speak was lost, washed away by the endless flood of tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t even know what to say, how to explain what he’d just bore witness to, what had happened. He knew he wanted to apologise for being so disgusting, for making a mess, for being such a baby. When he began coughing, choking on his own tears and snot, he was filled with so much fear he was sure he would have a heart attack and die right there and then. He wanted his mammy, she was always good at calming him down, but she wasn’t there, and Declan had no idea how Cathal’s parents would react to him wetting the bed. Maybe Cathal’s dad would be enraged by him too, maybe Declan couldn’t escape a beating even if his own father was dead now.

“M’sorry Cathy, I didn’t mean to, m’sorry.” Declan gasped out whenever he could, his lungs burning and his chest making this dreadful wheezing sound. It hurt. Everything hurt, and he was starting to get cold as well as being wet.

“Shh… it’s okay, Decky, I ain’t mad… nobody’s gonna hurt you, I promise… Christ, you’re shaking like a leaf…” Cathal murmured softly, trying to soothe the shaking boy as much as he could. “Want me to get my mam?”

Declan hesitated. Yeah, it would probably be a good idea for Cathal to go get an adult who could help them deal with this, but on the other hand he was still unsure on what the reaction would be. What if by getting his mam, his dad also got involved? What if his dad was just as angry with him as his own dad would’ve been? His indecisiveness frustrated him, and he was still worried that the entity masquerading as his father would return at any moment to drag him down to hell with him, and even though Cathal said he wasn’t angry with him, what if he was just saying that? What if he was lying? It was all too much, he was too overwhelmed, too many “what if’s” racing through his mind.

“I don’t know.” Declan mumbled, bursting into fresh tears. His sobs were loud, saturated with so many emotions, wracking through his entire body. He was scared, embarrassed, miserable, and guilty… Too much, all at once. He wanted his mammy, but he knew she was busy, dealing with all the adult stuff that came from arranging a funeral - because he was sure now, his dad was definitely dead, Aoife had been telling him the truth. His mam didn’t have time to be dealing with Declan right now, dealing with her nine-year-old son wetting the bed like a baby.

Seeing and hearing the intensifying cries from Declan freaked out Cathal, though he wouldn’t show it. Not when he had to put on a brave face for the taller boy. He called out for his mother, who entered a minute later and was clearly annoyed at having been woken up.

“Cad atá uait?” she said groggily, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Bhí timpiste ag Declan…” Cathal replied in a soft voice, trying not to bring any more shame to the poor boy.

Caoimhe sighed softly before starting to pull the sheets off the bed, taking them to the wash while grunting something about Siobhán needing to get her kid under control, which definitely did not help with the loud, ugly crying. Niamh slowly entered the room, just to see what all the commotion was about. Seeing the sheets taken off the bed and the wet spot on Declan’s crotch (and the one on Cathal’s leg), he made a quick guess as to what had happened and quickly ran back to his room to grab a spare pair of pants that he could change into. In the dark, it was hard to see Declan’s expression, but the glimmer of tears in his eyes and the shine of his cold sweat reflected the moonlight enough to convey how utterly pathetic he looked in that moment. Like a homeless dog that hadn’t eaten in weeks and been left in the rain overnight.

“Go raibh maith agat.” Declan mumbled quietly, still sniffling, taking the clothes from Niamh. He shifted uncomfortably, now incredibly self-conscious of getting changed in the same room as the others. Even though they’d always done it, because they’re all boys, Declan was now worried that doing so would mean he was gay.

Honestly, he’d never put much thought into it. He knew his dad hated gay people, so he always tried to fit in with whatever image his dad was projecting onto him. But, he had never had any interest in anyone, at least not that he’d noticed. He must’ve been doing something, though, because it wasn’t just his dad that thought he was gay. Declan remembered crying after a girl at school was dared to kiss him, because the action had made him feel sick and he was afraid of being sick. He didn’t quite understand why it had made him feel so gross. Did that mean he was gay? If he was, he probably shouldn’t be changing in front of other boys, right? While all this had been crossing his mind, he had just been standing there dumbly, holding the borrowed clothes.

“What, you forget how feckin’ pants work?” Cathal teased. “You put your legs in them if you needed a reminder, Decky.”

“No… M’gonna go to the bathroom.” He muttered, walking out of the room, staring down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.

“...is he okay?” Niamh asked quietly.

“Why the hell’re you asking me? I don’t fucking know,” the other replied, just as confused.

Once in the bathroom, Declan peeled the now very cold pants off of himself. He stared down at the soiled clothes for a few moments, trying not to start crying again, before grabbing some toilet paper to dry his legs as best he could. After getting changed into the pants Niamh was lending him, he went and stood in the hallway with his wet clothes in his hands, too scared to go give them to Caoimhe in case she got mad at him. As the washing machine turned on downstairs, it awoke the last person still asleep in the house. Adhamhnán came up the stairs to use the bathroom after being awoken, his tall, built figure not helping Declan’s lingering fear of being beaten.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Declan froze, just staring at him while his bottom lip began trembling again. He whimpered quietly, poorly attempting to hide the wet pants behind his back. An involuntary sigh of relief escaped him as the intimidating silhouette simply walked past him without acknowledging his presence. He quickly scurried back into Cathal’s room, still carrying the evidence of his shame with him.

“Still holding it for?” Cathal asked with more curiosity than anything else. “What, scared the washing machine’ll feckin’ eat your hand off? Or maybe the Sun Baby is waiting there.”

Declan whined, not appreciating the teasing remark. He still made no effort to go downstairs, now worried about more than just Caiomhe’s potential annoyance with him… What if the tellytubbies were downstairs?

“No… M’not scared.” Declan mumbled, glancing down to the left, awkwardly shifting in place again.

“I’ll take these down for you,” Niamh said, taking the wet pants carefully and taking them downstairs to the laundry room, leaving Declan and Cathal alone once again. Some of the clouds outside cleared up, letting the moonlight brighten the room a little more.

Declan glanced up, timidly meeting Cathal’s gaze. He originally meant to apologise again, considering he hadn’t peed on just the bed but on Cathal too, but he forgot how to speak for a moment. The thought of potentially being gay returned, although this time he wasn’t lying to himself as much. He did know why that girl kissing him had made him feel so gross, because it had just felt wrong. There was only one person that Declan had ever really wanted to kiss him, and that person was standing right in front of him, illuminated with a soft, pale glow by the moonlight behind him. He remembered the first time he’d had that thought, before he had forcefully attempted to forget. They’d been at the cinema and Cathal had suggested they go sneak into another movie to try and watch something they weren’t supposed to, some weird Canadian movie that everyone in school seemed to be raving about, but Cathal had snuck them into the wrong screen and they had stumbled upon an entirely different film. All Declan really saw before Cathal dragged him back out, was two adults doing something together while naked. The image had stuck with him, because during that brief glimpse something became clear to Declan, whatever those adults had been doing, one day he wanted to do it with Cathal.

As he stood there, letting all this run through his mind, Cathal was just waving a hand in front of his unblinking eyes, snapping his fingers and trying to bring him back to reality. “Oy, Dec!” Only when he lightly slapped Declan on the cheek did he come to. “Thank feck, I thought you suddenly got paralyzed like an Irish Christopher Reeve.”

“Ow, my face. Why’d you do that?” Declan rubbed his cheek, pouting slightly.

“I barely touched you, you sensitive twit.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Because you were having ‘Nam flashbacks. What, did the laundry pile look like Po?”

Declan whined again, lightly shoving Cathal, “Shut up.”

He tripped over a loose cable on the floor, the back of his head smacking into the edge of a shelf. “Ow, fuck! You knobhead!”

“Tá brón orm. Tá brón orm.” Declan quickly exclaimed, dropping to his knees and shuffling over to Cathal’s side. He cautiously reached out to try and check if Cathal was okay, a little worried that Cathal would get mad at him and beat him up. Instead, he was pulled into a tight hug, hearing soft sniffles and quiet whimpering from the injured boy.

Declan’s heart immediately dropped, worry and fear once again filling his body. He’d just hurt Cathal, hurt him so bad he was crying. Friends don’t do that to each other, what if Cathal wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore? He kept apologising repeatedly, feeling the familiar sting in his eyes and lump in his throat as he clung desperately onto Cathal.

Caoimhe entered the room with some freshly-washed sheets, seeing the two boys crying and rolling her eyes with a sigh. “Tá sé ró-luath ar maidin don seo…” she mumbled under her breath, putting the bedsheets on. “Téigh a chodladh, a pháistí.”

“But I gave him brain damage!” Declan cried out, sobbing pathetically again.

“Bhuel, ní hé an chéad uair a bheadh ​​sé. Beidh gach rud go breá ar maidin.”

Not wanting to directly disobey an adult, Declan did as he was told, crawling back into bed, staring at Cathal in concern. The other slowly climbed in beside him, and they were both tucked back in and given a quick forehead kiss before being left alone once again.

“Do cheann ceart go leor?” Declan whispered into the dark, still staring at Cathal’s silhouette in the dark.

“It hurts a little, but it’ll be fine by morning, I’m sure. Ná bíodh imní ort faoi.”

Declan hummed quietly under his breath, trying to think about what his mam would do in this situation. Whenever Declan hurt himself - which was fairly often because he was terribly uncoordinated and unbalanced - she’d usually kiss it better for him. Maybe Declan could do that for Cathal? He didn’t think to ask, scared that asking would make it weird, and that Cathal would say no. He just leant over and pressed a quick kiss to the back of Cathal's head.

“...what the feck was that?” There wasn’t exactly any fight or anger in Cathal’s voice. Just pure confusion.

Declan felt his face flushing red, but he tried to play it off and act nonchalant. “I was just kissing it better.”

“Why?”

His performance of being casual about his actions was crumbling, but he still acted nonetheless, shrugging as he spoke, “It’s just what people do.”

“No?” Cathal said, much more confused with every word.

“Uhm, yuh huh.” Declan replied childishly.

“Nuh uh.”

Trapped in a hole of his own digging, Declan resorted to his magnum opus, “Shuddup or I’ll hit you in the balls.”

“Nuh uh.”

Declan raised his fist as if he was going to do it, but quickly reconsidered upon remembering how Cathal had retaliated the last time Declan had done something like that, “Oíche mhaith, Cathy.”

“That’s what I thought. Oíche mhaith, Decky.”

They were awoken the next morning by Caoimhe, being handed some button-ups and dress pants. Cathal was immensely confused, while Declan had a feeling he knew why. Unfortunately, the bathroom was occupied by Adhamhnán taking a shower, so it was either they change in the same room, or Declan waited 20 minutes for the privilege of privacy. Declan really didn’t want to make things weird, so he pushed his gay thoughts away and just got dressed normally. Unfortunately, he turned around before Cathal had started re-dressing again, so the thoughts he’d pushed away had suddenly shoved their way back into his mind forcefully. His face was burning redder than his hair, a very obvious sight and one that could not be explained away heterosexually. So, with his terrible acting skills, Declan pretended he had suddenly become extremely warm and opened the window. As it actively snowed.

“FUCK! Why’s it so feckin’ cold!?” Cathal yelped as the freezing air slammed into his bare back like a hammer. He spun around to see Declan’s shitty acting. “Openin’ the goddamn window for, y’feckin’ eejit!?”

“Uhh… I’m warm.”

“You’re actively shivering!”

“They’re… Warm shivers.” Declan stumbled over his dumb excuse, glancing away so he didn’t have to look at the half-nude Cathal.

“You’re an idiotic gobshite and I hate you,” he grumbled, slamming the window shut and feinting a punch at Declan’s flushed face. “Making my feckin’ nips look like the Spire of Dublin.”

Not wanting to think about Cathal’s nipples, fearing he’d start thinking of even gayer things, Declan quickly ran out of the room, saying something about being really hungry for breakfast as he departed. The second he ran out of the room, he bumped into Niamh at full speed, both of them falling to the ground.

“Ow! Runnin’ for, Dec?” Niamh groaned as he slowly stood up, extending a hand out to Declan. “And why's your face all red?”

Declan panicked, his words tumbling out before he could give them any thought, “Nipples. I mean, uh, I-I, I meant nigh m'aghaidh, I wanna go wash my face.”

“...ohhhkay,” he replied, just passing it off as Declan being a weirdo as always.

Declan laughed nervously, passing by Niamh and trying the bathroom door. It was locked because Adhamhnán was still in there showering, so Declan just slammed his face into the door instead.

“Ow…”

Cathal heard the thud and saw Declan on the ground as he left the room fully dressed, laughing hysterically. “Feckin’ dumbarse…”

Declan looked up, smiling slightly at Cathal’s laughter - even if it was at his expense - trying to be as normal as possible about it. He picked himself up off the floor, going downstairs for breakfast with the other two boys. Caoimhe wasted no time with setting the solemn mood for the day, talking about how they’d be leaving for Declan’s house in just a few hours. It was easy to immediately forget about his blossoming gay thoughts when the reality of what today was, came crashing down on Declan. Now that mortality was back at the forefront of Declan’s mind, he wasn’t paying much attention to what he’d been given for breakfast by Caoimhe. He absent-mindly reached for the glass that she’d set down in front of him, not realising that it was full of whole milk. Cathal smacked his hand away gently, making him realize what he’d almost drunk.

“Tryna shit yourself for?” he asked sarcastically. “You already pissed the bed last night, you don’t need to get skidmarks on the chair.”

Declan just mumbled “Oh” under his breath, dropping his hands to his sides and just staring at his breakfast, suddenly not that interested in food. He recalled what the unhuman bodach version of his father had said to him last night, remembering that it was his fault his father was dead, and suddenly his stomach was in knots. He couldn’t stomach the thought of eating, even though he felt guilty seeing as Caoimhe had made him the food. Cathal gently rubbed his back, trying to help him feel better after seeing he wasn’t in the mood for their usual play and teasing. He cocked his head to the side, silently asking him “What’s wrong?” without any real pressure to answer in case he didn’t want to.

Declan looked down at his lap, fidgeting with the fabric of his pants, “Tá mo bholg ag cur tinn.” He mumbled, not delving into why his stomach suddenly started hurting, despite him being totally fine just mere seconds ago. Cathal just nodded quietly, hugging Declan like he was a delicate puppy that would end up with its soft bones deformed if he held on too tightly.

“Do you need to go lie down?” Cathal asked softly, keeping his voice light to avoid pressuring him. The taller ginger nodded quietly before the other looked up to his mother with a pleading look in his eyes. Caoimhe excused them both from the table and they both went over to the couch, with Declan laying down and whining about his stomachache. Cathal gently carded a hand through his best friend’s hair for a couple minutes before running back upstairs to see if there was anything in the visitor’s bag that could help him feel better. Digging through the bag, he found Declan’s favorite blanket; a small piece of cloth given to him by his mother with a little duck on it. He carefully pried it out, making sure it remained in pristine condition, before bringing it back down to Declan.

Declan gratefully took it from him, holding it up to his face. It smelt like home, the laundry detergent his mam used and the faint scent of his mam's favourite perfume, which helped a little in calming him down. His stomach still hurt, though he knew it wasn't because of anything physically wrong, it was just because of the bad thoughts he was having. 

He could very vaguely remember when his great-granny Lúile died when he was five, she died of COVID because she was already very frail. He could remember how upset his mam had been, so upset that she wasn't even crying anymore. Declan knew his mam really liked her granny Lúile, she’d given Aoife granny's name as her middle name. They all went to granny Lúile’s house and her coffin was in the front room. All of his family on his mam's side gathered, saying goodbye to Lúile and praying around her silently. Declan could only imagine that today would be much of the same, but instead of granny Lúile in the coffin, it'd be his dad.

Under his poker face, Cathal knew just as well as Declan what was going on. He just didn’t want to show it. He had always been Declan’s rock, a sort of anchor that put on a brave face to keep him from freaking out completely. Inside, he dreaded the sight he’d see inside that casket. With how bad his own dad looked when he got home, and considering he was the one who won the fight, how bad would Cian look? With all the blood and broken glass Adhamhnán had on his hands that night, probably not very good. He was already an ugly bastard to begin with.

Trying to take both their minds off the events to come, Cathal turns on the TV and starts searching for something Declan might like—throwing in a little teasing about his fear of Tellytubbies to try and lighten the mood—before stumbling across a channel playing a show that quickly piqued the taller boy’s interest. The show was named after his favorite color, blue, so it seemed pretty simple to just throw it on and let him watch it.

“Blue,” Declan mumbled simply, sounding as though he had severe brain damage, pointing at the screen with one hand, the other clutching the blanket to his face.

“Nooo, that’s red,” Cathal said sarcastically, lightly punching Declan in the arm before sitting down on the floor directly in front of him.

Declan just mumbled incomprehensibly, chewing on the corner of his blanket while he stared at the television screen, watching the cartoon about some Australian dogs.

“Quit gnawing on the damn thing,” Cathal interjected, though without too much bite behind it. “Feck up your teeth, have you lookin’ like an Englishman. You wanna look like a Londoner?”

“Nothin’ wrong with my teeth.” Declan pulled the blanket away from his face and smiled to show off his teeth, though he looked a little more like a scared animal bearing its teeth. Cathal blushed slightly at Declan’s stupid look, mumbling something under his breath before looking back at the TV. The second Cathal turned back around, Declan returned the corner of his blanket to his mouth, he liked the taste of laundry detergent in a weird way. He’s the reason there’s safety locks on the doors under the sink.

The minutes quickly turned to hours, and soon enough, they were on their way back to Declan’s house, sitting in the back of Caoimhe’s car as she drove them there. It was just Declan and Cathal in there with her, Adhamhnán and Niamh had both stayed behind. Something about not wanting to have to buy a second casket.

The drive was quiet. Eerily so. Everyone knew why, but nobody wanted to break the silence. Cathal kept his arms firmly around Declan, trying to keep him calm and avoid him crying or anything like that. It wasn’t much, but it helped, even if it was just a little bit. It was enough to keep his eyes dry for the time being. The hum of the engine and the sounds of the tires against the road were all that occupied their ears.

As they got out of the car, Declan’s eye was caught by some dandelions peeking out of the small layer of snow. He picked a few of them to give to his mother, seeing as she’d spent all night and morning preparing the wake and funeral for her husband. Granted, they hadn’t been on the best of terms, but Declan didn’t want to think about that. He thought, or at least hoped, that somewhere deep down, they loved each other before his untimely death. At least some sliver of care was shared between them by the end. He ignored the cold snow on his hands, focusing on gathering the flowers for the grieving widow.

“So that’s why you made mam clean the sheets last night,” Cathal teased as he walked over to Declan. “Pickin’ wet the beds, are ya?”

“For mammy,” Declan explained simply, continuing to pick.

“Need some help?” the shorter boy asked softly, getting down on one knee beside the other. Declan shook his head no, and Cathal respected it, standing back up and just… watching him. It was a rare moment of peace for him. There’s always the stereotype of the Irish being lucky, and if that was true, Declan must have been adopted. Everything around him seemed to go wrong all the time. Especially in the last 24 hours.

Aoife was being dropped back off home by Orla’s mam, getting out of the car and coming up behind Declan, flicking the back of his head.

“Why're you picking those? Trying to start pissing the bed again?” She teased.

“Mammy said that's not true, picking flowers won't make me wet the bed.” Declan replied, getting back up with a fist full of the yellow flowers. His face flushed a little, a voice in his head reminding him that, no, he didn't need flowers to make him wet the bed, he could apparently do that all by himself.

“I said that joke first, knobhead,” Cathal spat at Aoife, his pure disdain for her evident in his inflection. “Get your own material, uafásach soith.”

“Shut up, you. Me feckin’ dad is dead, have some sympathy.” Aoife returned, though if she was being honest she didn't give two fucks about her dad being dead. It just meant there was one less person in the world who would randomly call her a slut.

“And how did he die? Starting fights and saying racial slurs. At least he died doing what he loved. Like if you died eating pussy, you feckin’ lezzo slag.”

Aoife was about ready to shove the small child as hard as possible, but hearing Declan sniffling pathetically stopped her. He was looking between the pair of them, his eyes welling with tears. Even if she didn't care about this whole ordeal, for some retarded reason Declan did, and she didn't want to make him cry any more than he already would.

Cathal, not noticing Declan getting upset, kept digging into her. “What, cat got your tongue? Some invisible cunnilingus?”

Aoife ignored him, wrapping her arm around Declan's shoulders and starting to usher him towards their front door, “Tar anseo, a dheartháir bheag. Téimis ag tabhairt na bláthanna do Mhamaí.”

Declan nodded, following Aoife inside of their house. It didn't feel like their house usually did, there was no smell of laundry and whatever mammy was making for dinner that night wafting from the kitchen. Instead the house smelt like a florist, everyone who had gathered having brought a bouquet of flowers for the occasion. All their uncles, aunts and cousins were there, all dressed similarly. Each of them looked over as they entered, wearing this expression of pity. Declan didn't like it, trying to hide in Aoife's side, tightly gripping the flowers he'd picked for his mam. Aoife must've sensed Declan's discomfort, because she pulled him closer, rubbing his shoulder supportively. 

When their mam came over and hugged them, Declan noticed she didn't look as upset as she had when granny Lúile died, but she definitely wasn't happy. 

“Fuair mé iad seo duit a Mhamaí.” Declan said quietly, holding the handful of dandelions out to her. She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes in the same way it usually did, and took them from him, kissing him on the forehead.

“Go raibh maith agat a ghrá geal.” Siobhán’s voice was a little hoarse from crying. As much as she had despised Cian in recent years, he had still been the father of her children, the man she had, at some point, loved enough to marry. 

Cathal entered shortly after, walking over to Siobhán and just clearing his throat nervously, not really knowing what to say. What do you say to a woman who’s just lost her husband? Granted, said husband was a racist, misogynist piece of shit that had it coming to him, but that was still her husband. After several moments of silence, he awkwardly stated, “Tá an teach maisithe go han-deas agat, a Siobhán.”

“Go raibh maith agat,” she nodded at him, “Did you boys have fun last night?”

“Bhuel, rinne mise, ar a laghad. Rinne seisean freisin, ach amháin nuair... ar athmhachnamh, ná bíodh imní ort faoi. Is cuma. Rinneamar.”

Declan was glad that Cathal had left out the minute detail of him wetting the bed last night, he didn’t need Aoife to have any more ammunition against him, and he also didn’t want his mam worrying about him. Even if his dad had been wrong about a lot of things, he assumed that the need to step up as the man of the house was at least somewhat truthful, and the man of the house couldn’t be a crybaby bedwetter. When they’d entered the house, the door to the front room had been closed, their uncle Dagda standing in front of it. Declan had a feeling he knew what was behind that door, and he dreaded the part of the day when he’d have to go inside and see for himself. Fortunately, it seemed he had a few hours before then. His mam walked away to the kitchen, saying she was going to put the flowers Declan had picked for her into a glass of water.

“So, while we’re on the subject, what was that about last night? I think you owe me an explanation after pissing on my favorite pajama pants,” Cathal murmured to Declan, keeping his voice low so that nobody else would hear.

Declan mumbled quietly, hardly understandable, “Don’wanna talk about it.”

Thankfully, Cathal didn't get the chance to continue prying as Declan's grandfather and nanna came over to him. Even if his grandfather Lorcán was in his seventies now, he wasn't the frail type. He scooped Declan up into his arms as though he was still just a baby, hugging him tightly. Even Lorcán knew his son was a nasty piece of work, but no father wants to outlive and bury his own son. 

“Put the wee wain down, Lorcán, he was talking to his friend.” His Nanna Caoimhe tutted, though she too took the opportunity to give Declan a kiss on the cheek.

“Nonsense, he's not wee anymore, are you son? Almost as tall as your nanna.” Lorcán joked, finally relenting and placing Declan back down on the floor. Despite the jovial attitude he was trying so hard to perform with, Declan could see the way his eyes were misted over with unshed tears.

Nanna scoffed, turning her attention to Aoife and fussing over her and how ‘grown’ she looked now. Declan tried not to roll his eyes at the idea of Aoife looking anything like an adult. He'd seen her room, her bed was still filled with stuffed animals and she still cried when she watched Bambi—so did Declan but that was irrelevant. Speaking of Aoife's room, she eventually went up there with two of their older cousins, Edel and Síle, no doubt going to talk about dumb girl things that Declan had no interest in. He was just glad they hadn't dragged him up there with them to use him as a guinea pig for their random makeup ideas. 

Declan stayed downstairs, occasionally being stopped by an Uncle or an Aunt, being told over and over again that he'd grown so much since they'd last seen him, and how much they were sorry for his loss. Declan made sure Cathal was next to him at all times, not wanting to subject Cathal to the torture that was being stuck in a conversation with his family. Declan also tried to stay beside his mammy, seeking comfort from just being near her. Even his mammy needed a break, though, which he couldn't exactly blame her for, all this funeral business must've been stressful for her—he kept seeing her glancing up at the clock on the wall and muttering curses under her breath at the tardy priest. Mammy told Declan and Cathal to go sit at the dining room table and keep themselves entertained with random scraps of paper and broken crayons, and that she'd come and get them when the priest got there for the rosary prayer.

Once they were alone again, Declan absentmindedly scribbling on some of the scrap paper, Cathal asked once again why Declan had pissed all over his bed last night. Declan fell quiet for a few moments, the fear he’d felt during the night returning and making his tummy hurt again. He wasn't sure if Cathal would believe him, what if Cathal thought he was crazy and made fun of him? He quieted those thoughts, Cathal only made fun of him sometimes and he swore he only meant it as a joke whenever Declan believed him and began crying.

“I saw my dad…” Declan admitted quietly, “But he was all weird looking and mean… I think he was a demon.”

“...riiight,” Cathal said. “Totally believe you, mate. What, next you’re gonna say some crazy shit like Santa isn’t real? Get a feckin’ grip.”

Declan's face crumpled and he looked back down at his crayon scribbles to try and hide the fact that his eyes were once again filling with tears. It was a little hard to keep hiding his tears once he'd started sniffling, his bottom lip trembling, doing a terrible job at keeping him from making quiet whimpering sounds. He didn't understand, it'd felt so real, been so scary. Was he really just crazy and losing it? Maybe now that Cathal really didn't believe him, he'd get angry at him for wetting the bed too. Things just felt like they were stacking up, destined for everything in his life to come crashing down around him. Maybe he'd grow up to be one of those homeless drunkards that sat outside the pubs, picking up cigarette butts off the floor and shouting mean things at whoever stared too long while passing by.

He thought back to what the demon version of his dad had said, calling him a murderer. If Declan had just behaved after church that Sunday, his dad wouldn't have gotten angry and needed to go to the pub. And if he hadn't gone to the pub, he wouldn't have gotten into that fight and if he hadn't been in that fight he wouldn't have died. This all made sense to Declan, to pin the blame solely on himself. His young mind paid no attention to the fact that by most people's standards, Declan hadn't been misbehaving at all. All Declan had done was trip over his own feet on the way home from church, scraped his knees on the pavement, and cried. The only reason Cian got angry about that is because he thought that his son crying was inherently effeminate and humiliating.

As Declan started crying, Cathal quickly changed his tune, trying to comfort him. He held the taller boy close and ran a hand through his hair, mumbling ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I believe you’ in his ear. It physically pained him, seeing Declan cry. Sure, he was a little cute, all pathetic like this, but… the idea of him hurting was always awful for Cathal to think about, letalone to bear witness to.

Declan lifted his head again, tears streaming down his face and snot running from his nose, gasping for air between every word he spoke, “He said that I killed him and I'm gonna go to hell for it.” He left out the part about being gay, too scared to speak that out loud and get rejected.

“He killed himself by being racist,” Cathal spat. “He picked the wrong fight on the wrong day and got what was coming to him.”

“B-But, I made him mad and that's why he went to the pub.” Declan wailed, wiping his snot on the back of his hand, “And now I made you mad and you don't wanna be my friend anymore.”

“First of all, Cian was an alcoholic and would’ve gone to the pub anyways. He just wanted an excuse. Second of all, I’m not mad at you and I absolutely want to still be your friend. I love you, Declan. You’ve always been my best friend and always will be.”

It took a few minutes before Declan managed to calm down and accept Cathal's words as truth. He mopped up his face as best he could with the table cloth and continued with his crayon scribbles, leaning his head against Cathal's.

“I’ll never leave you, Decky,” Cathal whispered gently in his ear, cupping his cheek and continuing to card a hand through his hair. “Not until the day I die and they drop the coffin… sorry, bad time to say that?”

Declan shrugged, murmuring softly. He appreciated the sentiment so he supposed he didn't care too much if it was tactless at that precise moment. A few seconds of silence passed before Declan whispered quietly, “M’scared Cathy, I don't wanna see my dad.”

“I’ll be right there, Dec. I promise, I’ll be right by your side. It’ll be quick, you don’t gotta be up there long.”

Declan hummed, tilting his head so he could look at Cathal's face, “...hold my hand?”

Without a second thought, Cathal nodded and slipped his hand into Declan’s. While Declan didn't mean for him to do that just yet, he didn't pull away or correct him, something about holding hands with Cathal just felt right.

They were still holding hands when the priest finally arrived and Siobhán came and got them, walking with them to the front room. Declan was very glad he had asked to hold Cathal's hand, because the second he saw the casket in the front room he nervously squeezed Cathal's hand. Everyone gathered, and the priest began leading the group through the rosary. The adults knew it a lot better than the children did, Declan mumbling the words a few seconds after everyone else, sounding like a quiet echo. The part about Jesus resurrecting made him shiver in fear, imagining what it would be like if his dad resurrected right at that moment and saw him holding hands with another boy. The rosary prayer was a pretty long one, and Declan had to fight the urge to fidget, scared that everyone would think he was being disrespectful and that he'd get in trouble. When it finished, Declan was relieved, thinking it meant he could leave the room now and never look at his father's casket again until the funeral tomorrow. Just as he turned to leave with Cathal, his mam stopped him.

“Hang on, we need to say goodbye to dad. Just us three.” Siobhán said, holding Declan's shoulder with one hand, her other holding onto Aoife's hand.

Declan stared after Cathal as he was forced to go wait outside with everyone else, his fear starting to creep in again now that he didn't have Cathal by his side to keep him safe. Instead, Declan cowered into his mam's side, eventually prompting her to pick him up and hold him on her hip. He instantly regretted that, because now he was tall enough to see into the casket.

His dad's face looked weird. He could see parts that didn't match his skin, having to assume that those were the parts of his dad's face that had gotten all cut up from the fight and the funeral director had tried to reconstruct. He wanted to hide his face, bury it in his mam's chest, but he was too scared to look away in case his dad came back to life and pounced at him the second his back was turned. Declan quickly glanced down at Aoife, seeing a similar mix of emotions displayed on her face, the same conflict playing out in her mind on whether or not she was supposed to feel upset that their father was dead.

“Slán leat, a Chian.” Their mam uttered, her voice even and steady, not much emotion to it. 

“Slán leat, a dhaidí.” Declan and Aoife both echoed a moment later. 

Siobhán leant down to give her husband one last kiss, just a small, quick, peck on the cheek. Declan once again regretted being in his mam's arms, being forced to also lean in close to the deceased man. It was at that moment, in the dim, candle lit room, that Declan could've sworn he saw his father's eyes snap open for a brief moment. The sight terrified him and he instantly burst into tears, clinging onto his mother even tighter than he already had been. His sudden outburst surprised his mother and sister, but they were quick to comfort him and take him out of the room, Siobhán muttering to him in Gaeilge and Aoife sympathetically patting his back. 

After the immediate family had been into the front room to privately say their goodbyes and pay respects to the deceased, the door was kept open for everyone else who had come over for the wake to do the same. Cathal scurried past the others into the room, and while nobody was looking, he spit on the corpse and gave it the finger, resisting the urge to punch Cian’s dead body—only because the rigor mortis would leave his skull shattered and leave a lot of evidence as to what he’d done. Immediately after finishing paying his disrespects, he ran to find Declan, grabbing his hand again and trying desperately to calm him down.

Siobhán looked at the boy, smiling at him slightly, “A Chathail, a ghrá geal, an féidir leat é a thabhairt suas go dtí a sheomra?”

Cathal nodded, picking Declan up like a groom does his bride and carrying him upstairs to his bedroom. Once in the room, he laid the scared boy on the bed, stroking his hair gently and holding his hand tightly. “Shh, it’s okay, Declan… I gotcha… what’s wrong? What happened?”

Declan just kept bawling, managing to mumble something about being scared. He curled up on his side, grabbing his tiny little duck plush and holding it tightly to his chest with his unoccupied hand. He stared at Cathal, his green eyes shining with tears, whining his name.

“I got you… I’m right here… what’s got you so scared? You got nothing to hide from me, you know that.”

“He looked at me.”

“Who, Cian?”

Declan nodded quickly, whimpering and hugging his plush tighter.

“I promise you, he didn’t look at you. He’s not gonna magically come back and torment you, okay? And even if he did just get up out of the coffin, I would never let him hurt you again. I’d sooner die than let Cian or anyone else lay a single finger on you ever again. You got all that?”

Declan nodded slowly, once again wiping his nose on something that was not a tissue, “Don’t die though.”

“I won’t. Not for a long, long time.”

Declan hummed softly, content with that answer. He sniffled again, thinking for a moment before holding his arms out, wanting Cathal to cuddle with him. The shorter boy immediately complied, crawling into the bed as they both curled up against each other. Siobhán came up to check on them a few minutes later, bringing with her a plate of food for them to share. She ruffled Declan’s hair before leaving the two boys alone again, going back downstairs to continue her act of the distraught widow. Cathal gingerly held up the sandwich, offering it to Declan. He took the sandwich, but removed the bread and only ate the filling—because it was wholemeal bread and Declan didn’t like that type.

“It’s not burnt, you eejit,” Cathal insisted, holding the bread up to Declan’s face so he could study it and use logical reasoning—though they both knew that wasn’t happening.

Declan turned his head to the side like a toddler refusing broccoli, “It is. It tastes different.”

“That’s because it’s a different type of bread. You’re fine with white bread, fine with sourdough, so what the feck’s the problem, huh?”

“Well I don’t like the seed one either,” he mumbled, “So… Yeah.”

“I have to use every single fiber of my being to not slap you across the fecking face right now.” Declan only had to look at him with his wide, green eyes again, looking like the literal definition of the word pathetic, to get Cathal to melt like butter. “...sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Declan took the bread from Cathal and took the tiniest little bite of it, wanting to please Cathal. He ignored how much he really didn’t like the taste of wholemeal bread, staring at Cathal the entire time he chewed.

“Maith lacha buachaill,” Cathal murmured sweetly.

Declan frowned slightly, but he still quietly said “quack” under his breath. It took everything Cathal had to not kiss him right then and there.

Declan would be periodically called down to say goodbye to a group of his relatives as they left, although he knew he'd see them again tomorrow. Eventually Cathal had to go home too, leaving Declan with just his mam and Aoife. Siobhán was too exhausted to do much, letting her kids bicker about where they wanted to order dinner from—the decision eventually being made that they'd order from the chippy and Aoife would be trusted to go pick it up by herself. 

While they were waiting for their dinner, Siobhán took Declan upstairs and got him bathed and into his pajamas. Under usual circumstances, Declan would've argued that he could do all of that by himself, because he was practically a grown-up, but tonight he wanted the extra care that came from his mam helping him do things like he was a toddler. Siobhán managed to get a giggle out of her very solemn son by tickling his feet while getting his socks on, picking him up and carrying him downstairs just as Aoife got back with the chippy order.

Aoife scoffed at the sight, rolling her eyes, “Declan, you're such a baby.” She uttered, although without her usual bite and venom. Even if she was still teasing him—as an older sister did—she still felt terrible for him, knowing Declan was probably a lot more upset by all this than she was.

“Be nice, Aoife. Níl ann ach leanbh.” Siobhán warned lightly, getting down to sit cross-legged on the living room carpet—intending to have a sort of ‘picnic’ dinner with her kids.

Declan screwed his face up in annoyance, turning his head to look up at his mother from where he currently sat on her lap, “I'm not a baby.”

“You'll always be my baby, Declan. You too Aoife. You're both my babies.” 

For a few hours, the kids almost forgot that their father's dead body was laying in the other room. They ate dinner with their mother, allowed to talk about whatever they wanted, be as loud as they wanted, allowed to laugh and joke without Cian kicking up a fuss about children being “seen and not heard”. They stayed up until eleven, Declan and Aoife both beginning to fall asleep by that point, their heads leant against Siobhán’s shoulders.

“Taraigí ar aghaidh, a ceiribíní bheaga, am leapa.” Siobhán switched the TV off, once again scooping Declan up into her arms, her free hand holding onto Aoife's as the three of them went upstairs. Siobhán took Declan into his room first, tucking him into bed and kissing his forehead, making sure each of his night-lights were turned on before she switched the light off and left the room. She went into Aoife's room next, tucking her almost teenage daughter into bed with the same care she had always had, kissing her on the forehead before getting herself to bed too.

Declan had a few hours of dreamless sleep again, waking up in the early hours of the morning. At first he was too tired to realise why he'd woken up, but soon it became painfully aware that his bladder had woken him up. He was about to get out of bed and go take care of business, but he was stopped by what he swore sounded like a noise from directly below him… the room where his deceased father lay, the deceased father he was certain had looked at him earlier. He froze instantly, afraid to make any noise by moving and getting out of bed. What if making noise woke his dad up? What if he came up here and did the same things he'd done when Declan had been sleeping at Cathal's house?

Declan whimpered softly under his breath, he really needed to go, but he was way too scared to get up. All he could do was stare up at his ceiling, frozen in place, while his bladder screamed at him to hurry up and go to the bathroom already. It felt like hours had passed—though really it had only been about twenty minutes at most—when Declan felt the first trickle of pee start leaking out of him, soaking into his pajama pants, slowly seeping through and also soaking his bedsheets. He tried desperately to clench his muscles, but he was just too desperate, his muscles already weak from holding on for so long. It was pitiful really, how long he laid there, slowly wetting himself while fully awake. Eventually he couldn't try and fight it anymore, the warmth flooding out of him and soaking his bed in a matter of seconds. He felt so helpless, so stupid, so babyish. All he had to do was get up and use the toilet but he was too scared to even do that, and now he had wet his bed like a baby.

Declan hadn't realised he'd started to cry until Aoife opened his bedroom door and turned on his light. It didn't take her long to figure out why Declan was bawling, easily spotting—and smelling—the urine in his bed. She rubbed her tired eyes, staring at her crying little brother for a few seconds, “Shouldn't have picked those wet-the-beds, Decky.” 

Her words just made him cry even harder, so she quickly left to go get their mam. Siobhán was a lot nicer to Declan, helping him get cleaned up and tucked back into bed—although this time he wanted to sleep in his mammy’s bed with her, to which she obliged. Siobhán sang a quiet lullaby to him, stroking his hair as she held him close, helping him calm down until he managed to fall asleep again. Siobhán stayed awake for a while longer, just looking down at her sleeping boy. Caoimhe had told her about his accident at Cathal's house, and now he'd just had another. It worried Siobhán a little, knowing it had been hard for her son to get over his habit of bedwetting a couple years ago, and now it was starting to seem that the habit was returning. She'd worry about that another time, trying to stay hopeful that this was just how his body was trying to deal with the sudden death of his father. Even if it did continue, she knew how to deal with it.

When morning came, it was a very austere affair. Siobhán dressed herself and her children in black mourning clothes—clothes she'd bought while her children were off at their friend's houses. Aoife had a simple black dress, tights and polished mary-janes; and Declan had a white shirt, black tie, black pants and smart shoes. Siobhán would've saved money and had them wear their school shoes, but both of her children had a terrible habit of dragging their feet and scuffing their shoes. The last thing Siobhán wanted was to give Cian’s family a reason to call her a bad mother. She didn't give a single fuck if they thought she was a bad wife, however—her own dress taking slight inspiration from Princess Diana’s iconic revenge dress.

Cathal, however, didn’t care all too much to wear anything remotely appropriate for a funeral. His disdain for Cian was evident by the fact he showed up in a black hoodie with a teal flannel over it, dark gray sweatpants loosely hanging around his hips with mysterious stains on them, and his typical dirt-covered boots tracking mud on the floor. He hadn’t even bothered putting either a brush nor a comb through his hair, just leaving it in its messy state that he’d woken up with it in.

There was a small window of time between Cian’s brothers, father and nephew carrying the coffin from the house to the church and the actual start of the service. During these few minutes, Siobhán grabbed Cathal by the hood of his jacket and dragged him toward the bathrooms—carrying a plastic grocery bag in her other hand, inside it a comb and a blazer to at least try and make him look somewhat presentable. She let go of him and thrusted the bag into his arms, “A Chathail, cíor an mopa sin ar do cheann agus cuir é seo ort.” She hissed at him, bending down to look him in the eyes, making it very clear she wasn’t asking.

“Why would I want to look any sort of nice for the death of a twat nobody here actually liked, including you?” Cathal asked sarcastically, showing that he really didn’t give half a fuck. 

“He was a twat, but that twat was Declan’s father. So, do as you’re told or you’re not sitting by Declan.”

“Barely a father! Half the time he was at the pubs, the other half he was abusin’ either you or Declan. I would include Aoife, but… well, you know my feelings about her. But fine.” He took the bag reluctantly, combing his hair half-assedly and replacing his flannel with the blazer.

“Wasn’t hard, was it?” Siobhán remarked once he’d complied, “And less of the animosity with Aoife, or I’ll bar you from our house.”

He quickly shut his mouth, not wanting to let on that the very thought of being disallowed from her house nearly made him want to cry. Siobhán put her hand on his back and started walking him back to the others, allowing him to sit beside Declan during the service. Cathal quickly cuddled up into his side, still a little shaken by the thought of not being allowed to see him. Though he would never admit it out loud.

Once the coffin had been placed down at the front of the room, the priest beckoned everyone to start reciting the Lord’s prayer—the prayer that every Catholic had drilled into them from the moment they knew how to speak. Despite knowing every single word of this prayer, Declan still spoke in a quiet murmur, staring down at his feet. He was too afraid to even glance toward the coffin, a part of him still convinced that at any moment his father’s reanimated corpse would sit up, point a gnarled finger straight at Declan, and curse him, expose him, tell everyone in the church that he was gay. Even with the fear of being outed as gay coursing through his entire body at that moment, his hand still reached out and brushed against Cathal’s, a silent question, wanting the comfort that came from simply holding his hand. Cathal complied without a second thought, gently holding his hand while leaning further into his side. A soft smile graced the shorter boy’s face, and he closed his eyes, calming down from his fear of not seeing him. 

The prayer ended with the collective utterance of “Amen”, and everyone could sit back down on the hard wooden pews. What followed was honestly extremely boring, Declan struggling to keep his attention on what the priest was saying as he read from the Bible. It was longer than usual mass, mainly because it wasn’t just the priest talking and reading things, but Declan’s grandparents, uncles and aunt too. Even his mam got up and spoke a few words, the only time Declan paid full attention to what was going on. It was during another instance of the priest reading from the Bible that Declan began to seriously regret drinking practically the entire carton of apple juice that morning. He knew it was almost biblically gluttonous of him, but his dad never used to let him drink more than one glass, and he may have gotten a little excited over not having such a rule anymore. He’d already been paying little to no attention to the funeral proceedings, but now he was definitely more focused on trying not to make a complete idiot of himself, squirming around in his seat and trying not to think of anything water related—a hard task once the priest started rambling on about holy water.

Once Cathal noticed Declan’s struggle, he quickly dragged him away to the bathroom, shoving him towards the toilets. Declan stumbled, glancing nervously back toward the main hall, afraid that leaving half way through the service was disrespectful and he’d get in trouble for it.

“We’re gonna get in trouble.” Declan mumbled urgently.

“Well, how much more trouble would you be in if you pissed yourself in the middle of the fecking funeral service, Declan?”

Declan looked down at the floor, murmuring about “Not even needing to go that bad” despite the fact he literally felt like he might cartoonishly explode at any second, too stubborn to admit that Cathal was right. Although, he imagined he wouldn’t get in trouble, he’d just get made fun of by his sister and cousins, which was arguably worse.

“Just go piss in the toilets ‘fore it gets in your pants, alrite?”

“Fine… Wait outside, don’t listen.” Declan rushed into the bathrooms, actually a little glad that Cathal had forced him, because now that he thought about it, it would’ve sucked if Aoife had any more reason to make fun of him, especially after last night.

Cathal waited outside the bathroom, listening to the priest drone on seemingly endlessly and running a hand through his hair. Hearing a priest talking always sparked some level of self-hatred in him. He couldn’t put his finger on why, it always just made him feel like purely existing was wrong.

Declan returned, struggling to tuck his shirt back into his pants in the same neat fashion his mam had that morning, whining in frustration under his breath as he gave up, settling with the shirt being half-tucked. Cathal quickly pulled him into a tight hug, needing some sort of comfort from the unexplainable hatred towards himself coursing through his veins so suddenly. Declan returned the embrace, closing his eyes and just existing in that moment with Cathal, just those two, no one else.

“Is there something wrong with me, Decky?” Cathal murmured under his breath, holding back tears.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, just… something. I just feel like something’s different about me, something that really shouldn’t be different. The kind of thing that… I don’t even know…”

Declan pulled back from the hug a little, just so he could look at Cathal’s face. He studied it for a moment, taking in his sad expression. Declan wasn’t the best at comforting people, usually it was him needing the comfort, but he tried anyway. He used his hand to brush back some of Cathal’s hair from his forehead, originally planning on just doing so to get the hair out of Cathal’s eyes, but he instinctively kissed Cathal’s forehead without realising until he’d already done it. Thankfully, before anything could be said, they were interrupted by Aoife calling out to them.

“Get back here for the feckin’ Holy Communion, you pair of retards.” 

Declan wasn’t a huge fan of the sip of wine he was allowed, but he did enjoy eating the bread. He grabbed Cathal by the hand and began walking back to the main hall with him, trying to ignore the fact he’d just kissed his friend for the second time that week. Cathal, on the other hand, took way more than just a sip of wine, only stopping when he was at risk of getting caught. Declan continued to nibble on his piece of bread for the rest of the service, finishing it just as it was time to go outside and actually bury the coffin.

His grandfather, uncles and oldest cousin once again lifted the coffin, following the priest out into the cemetery where the freshly dug grave awaited. As his father was lowered into the ground, the priest leading the crowd through yet another prayer, Declan felt a weird mix of emotions. He was still a little upset at the idea of his father being gone—though he was starting to assume that was more to do with the fact that big changes freaked him out—and still felt a slither of guilt, both from him still placing part of the blame on himself and from not being truly upset by his fathers death, but as well as the negative emotions he felt, Declan also felt sort of relieved. It was like a weight was being lifted from him as his father was lowered further into the ground, his chest feeling less tight in the absence of the crushing fear of angering his dad that he usually felt. He was sure that this elated feeling would soon cause him to feel even more guilt, but he tried not to think about that just yet. Instead, he looked away from the grave, looking up at his mother and sister, feeling tears starting to sting his eyes. They were free, they were safe. He wouldn’t see his mammy cry silently while covering bruises with makeup anymore, and he wouldn’t see his sister being berated while her eyes glistened with unshed tears—because crying made dad even more mad—and her body trembled. Declan moved his gaze from his family to his best friend, more specifically to how their hands were clasped together in between them, and another thought, another reason to smile crossed his mind.

Declan was safe to be himself now.