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One thing Buddy had not missed about being human was the feeling of being tired. True, he had slept during his time as a key as well—all living beings need rest, after all, and the keys were no exception to that—but he felt the exhaustion so much more as a human. And, he was. He was human, and he was tired. He was so tired. Not in the dreaded "I can't take much more of this" way, where one wrong look or stray comment would crack his resolve and leave him choking back tears and curses. No, Buddy felt tired in the way the tension in his shoulders eased, in how his voice had softened, in his slurring words, in his heavy, half-lidded gaze. For once in his life, he wasn't fighting to survive—and now? He just wanted to sleep.
So he did.
He slept a lot. He slept on the drive back from the Ex Libris mansion, his head resting on Chase's shoulder as they sat with fingers entwined, Chase's thumb idly tracing circles on the back of his hand as the world passed them from beyond their own quiet world in the backseat of the car.
He nearly fell asleep in the warm, encompassing embrace of a "shower", shampooing a concoction that smelled like Chase into his own hair and washing out the grime. It felt odd, and he'd been unsure about the whole affair—in his experience, being wet usually lead to being cold and sick and uncomfortable. But, his ever-patient and understanding Chase had shown him how to adjust the water temperature to be warm, twisting the knob this way and that to demonstrate, and Buddy had decided to try it. And he was glad he had. The warmth of the water and the gentle way it trickled down his back and over his shoulders had felt foreign…yet comforting. And the hot steam that had filled the bathroom kept him from feeling a chill as he made to dry off. He'd drowsily toweled his hair as he stumbled back into the bedroom, and Chase had simply beamed at him and beckoned him near as he pulled out some sort of oversized hot-wind-blowing-gun that dried his hair more thoroughly. Deft fingers had combed through his coarse hair, twisting slightly curled ends between his fingers, humming and giggling all the while. Buddy had definitely dozed off then.
Later that night, he'd slept soundly tucked against Chase, sinking into his small bed and happy for the excuse to pull him closer. He was sure the arrangement wouldn't last forever, and he was all too happy to take advantage of it while he could. He had slept until the afternoon, when Chase had pulled him from the room and down the stairs, calling him Rip Van Winkle—which was one reference Buddy understood, and had very much resented—and complaining that he needed to at least eat lunch.
So he did.
Then he went back to sleep. He fell asleep on the couch downstairs almost immediately after lunch, which was an abundant meal of bread and meat and cheese and actual, real fresh fruit and an entire glass full of milk. How could anyone not fall asleep after such a good, filling meal? And listening to Chase talking with his grandfather and Deacon in the kitchen, the sounds of moving dishes and running water, of a home in use—of course he had drifted off.
He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep when a familiar warmth crowded him. The couch cushion dipped under the pressure of someone leaning on it at eye-level as they brushed hair from his eyes. Buddy sighed, letting himself lean into the touch as the hand moved to card gently through his hair.
"Buuuddyyy," Chase sang gently, voice coming out no louder than a whisper, "C'mooon Buds…I know you're tired, but you should…"
Chase's words petered out as Buddy sighed and leaned in closer, eyes still shut firmly to the world around him. A quiet moment passed, neither saying anything as tanned fingers continued to brush idly through dark hair. Unable to help himself, Buddy carefully cracked an eye open to peek at Chase without being noticed. The young man chewed at his lip, brow furrowed and gaze thoughtful as he continued to stroke Buddy's hair. Finally, Chase's hand slid from Buddy's head to his shoulder where he lightly shook him.
"Let's get you back upstairs, 'kay?"
As much as he had wanted to protest moving, he didn't. Instead, Buddy allowed himself to be pulled to his feet—somehow, he always was letting Chase drag him wherever he pleased, wasn't he—and led back upstairs to his bed. Chase's bed. Buddy's bed? Their bed. Temporarily.
Buddy settled into the mattress with no complaints, nestling beneath the blankets with efficiency, only speaking when Chase had brushed his hair aside once more and stood to leave.
He had called out groggily, and though the words could hardly be called coherent, Chase seemed to understand regardless. He usually did.
Chase relented and sat at the edge of the bed, laughing lightly as he made to lay beside him.
"Only for a little bit," Chase instructed as Buddy rolled back to face him. "I…have some things I wanted to get done today."
"Things are dumb," Buddy grumbled as he shifted until he was comfortable once more. He knew he was barely intelligible, but what did that matter when Chase was close enough to decipher his words?
Chase snickered. "Not these things," he corrected, letting his arm come to rest on Buddy's shoulder.
Between the warm weight on his shoulder, the comfortable bed, the cozy blankets that encompassed him, and the lingering feeling of ease in his chest, it took almost no time at all for Buddy to drift into sleep once more.
He'd stirred when Chase eventually kept his word and had left the bed, and once or twice later on when he'd heard the ladder steps squeaking or the twist of concerned voices from overhead. He vaguely recalled hearing Chase, his voice hushed and drifting down from the attic tower, as he reassured the rest of the keys that their brother was likely just tired, nothing to be concerned about. Even half-asleep, he could hear the twinge of doubt and uncertainty in Chase's voice.
He hadn't wished to worry anyone, so when Chase came to wake him for dinner later, Buddy decided he would peel himself away from the bed without protest or complaint. After a long, drawn-out yawn, Buddy rolled off the bed and onto the floor, his warm socks acting as a barrier between him and the carpeting. He ran a hand through his sleep-tossed hair, shaking his head and trying to will the sleep away as he stretched. When he opened his eyes, Chase was watching him with that familiar, tender smile he wore sometimes. It always managed to catch something in his chest when he saw it, though he was never sure why.
Buddy lifted an eyebrow, tilting his head inquiringly, but Chase simply smiled and shook his head in reply.
He lifted his gaze to the open attic door and, remembering the concern of his family, took a step towards the ladder. Chase wrapped his arm around Buddy's upper arm and tugged him gently toward the bedroom door.
"I wanted—they sounded worried earlier," Buddy explained, looking down at Chase in disbelief. "I was just going to reassure them that I'm well."
Chase pulled at his arm once more and smiled, his eyes twinkling with something untold as he replied, "I'm sure they'll be fine with waiting. Wouldn't want you to go hungry, would they?"
"I–no, but—"
"Good," Chase interrupted, using that moment to finish steering Buddy from the bedroom. "Now, come on. It's dinner time."
"But—"
"Grandpa cooked," Chase continued, and his smile widened as he spoke. "I did, too! Come on!"
As they rounded the corner from the stairs and stepped into the kitchen, Buddy's attention caught on several things at once. The table was littered with several trays of food, all steaming and mouth-watering in appearance, an absolutely shimmering chocolate cake sitting atop a pedestal on the counter-top, and a collection of colors moving about the table excitedly.
"Finally," Deacon groaned as they came into view. "Dude, it's almost dark out, I'm starving. They've been cooking for hours and no one would let me eat anything."
"For shame, Master Deacon!" Goldie chided from the table, "You know we were awaiting our dearest little brother!"
"Though, he is not so little anymore," Silver amended with a giggle.
At one of the empty chairs of the table, a single large plate was set atop a place-mat. All of the keys had positioned themselves around the plate like clockwork, designating the space in front of each of them to house their own keyple-sized servings of food. In addition to the dishes found on the table, each key had been given a small serving of their favorite snack as well.
At the other end of the table was one of those lap-top machines that Buddy had sometimes seen library patrons using. This one, however, had a moving image of Myra Hollow, Chase's mother. She noticed him watching and waved emphatically at him in return. Buddy blinked, startled. How could she see him? Had she been trapped in there?
"The computer has a camera in it that works kind of the same as a phone, but with pictures," Chase explained, following Buddy's gaze. "Mom wanted to be a part of our first big family dinner, but the doctors still wanted to run some tests on her to make sure she's actually better. Can't really reason with them by saying 'no, actually, she really is fine now, we magicked it away!'"
Myra laughed. "It's still fun seeing their expressions when I say it, though."
A vague sense of overwhelm twisted in the center of his chest, and Buddy absently moved to sit in his chair. His gaze pulled from the occupants sitting around the table and shifted to rake over the contents of the bowls and plates and baskets more closely. He froze.
Steak. Actual, real, genuine steak, on his plate. Mashed potatoes, various types of green vegetables he couldn't even begin to identify, strawberries and peach slices and diced up watermelon, and golden, buttery hot rolls in a basket on the table. Chase had already begun piling a few rolls onto his plate beside Buddy. Each place had a glass of milk waiting, as well.
In his daze, he hadn't noticed Violet tapping over to his plate until she poked at his hand. He looked down at her, his mind reeling and a bit blank.
"Vi…"
"Eat a lot of the green things," she instructed, pointing vigorously at the bowls on the table. "Your beau said they have crucial noo-tree-ints you humans need to be healthy, and no little brother of mine is going to have poor health."
"It's okay if you don't like them," Myra supplied from the screen. "I don't care for some vegetables too much, but there are other kinds that are delicious and have the same important vitamins as the gross ones."
"You should eat more of them," Chase grumbled, shooting his mom a pointed look before relenting, "but, eat as much or as little as you want, Buddy. We made this meal for you."
An odd lump stuck in his throat and stung as he nodded, turning his attention back to the foods in front of him. A scoop of mashed potatoes—he'd noticed Deacon and their grandfather both taking a hefty serving of that. A couple long, pointed vegetables Chase had called a-spare-uh-gus. He dished up a small helping of the leafy green stuff, salad Chase had supplied, and another small serving of a vegetable called a green bean, as well as a few steamed carrots—those he recognized. Several rolls and fruits were added to his plate, and Buddy's eyes widened at the sight. The only time he'd ever seen or had that much food on his own plate had been in books, and while it was delicious, it was never real. It never lingered—nothing he ate ever did.
Nothing…save the chocolates.
He wasn't sure if it was because he had coveted the glossy confections for as long as he could remember, or if it was because the sweets were brought from the world beyond the books. One night, when he found a moment to ponder on the question, hiding away on the top shelf of the lost-and-found with his thoughts, he'd come to a conclusion. The chocolates that Chase brought him had been real, and because of that, he surmised that the taste was that much more delicious and enduring. The taste was real. The chocolates were real. And the boy who had handed him his trust, his hand, his heart, his home…
"We weren't sure what kind of foods you would like," Ralph Hollow added, clearing his throat a bit nervously. "Chase said you liked chocolate, but that's a dessert, Bud. We kind of made a bit of everything—all homemade, some of it's homegrown, too."
Buddy nodded, still feeling dazed as he tried to take it all in.
Chase placed a hand on his leg under the table and leaned toward him. "Take your time. This won't be your last dinner with us, y'know. You can keep finding stuff you like and dislike at your own pace."
Buddy met his gaze and swallowed down the broiling emotion at the sentiment. Chase seemed to notice anyway, and smiled.
"We just wanted the first family dinner to be a big one."
Buddy picked up the fork and knife from beside his plate and tentatively began cutting into the steak. He took a bite and sighed through his nose as the rich, savory taste spread on his tongue. It was warm and salty and delicious. He took a bite of the salad and found he didn't hate it. The asparagus was bitter, and he wasn't sure he enjoyed it, but he ate it anyway. He ate every last thing on his plate. He ate the mashed potatoes and the green beans and the steamed carrots, and he ate every last piece of heavenly-sweet fruit that gleamed more preciously than jewels before him.
As he took a bite of one of the hot rolls, fresh and soft and still blessedly warm, he felt Chase's hand on his leg again. With a sniff, he lifted his gaze to meet Chase's and found his vision blurred and swimming at the edges. He tried to swallow the bite of bread, to clear his throat, to say he was okay or apologize or make an excuse, but the tightness in his throat kept him from swallowing properly.
With a small hiccup, Buddy clutched the roll tighter in his hand, though he was careful not to crush it. Hot tears left cold streaks down his cheeks, and he dipped his chin to his chest in an effort to hide his expression from his family. He desperately prayed that the rest of the table was too busy with their own food to mind him, but the tangible silence and audible squeak of a chair scooting away from the table said otherwise. Without missing a beat, Chase gingerly rested a hand atop his own, curled into a fist on the table as Buddy desperately clung to some semblance of composure. He shuddered and, after a beat, shifted his hand so that their fingers could more easily lace together.
Chase met his gaze with one of fondness—not of pity, nor sadness or sympathy—with love and an endlessly tender affection, and an impossible understanding. The same smile and soft eyes he wore each time he said he'd wait for answers.
"Hey Dorkin," Chase piped up, immediately turning his attention across the table with a bright smile, "did you ever manage to get that library girl's number?"
A gentle squeeze of his hand. I'm here. I've got you.
"Wh–I-I don't know what you're talking about, shut up," Deacon stammered into his bite of mashed potatoes.
"Mom, you have to hear the story," Chase laughed, leaning conspiratorially towards the laptop monitor. "So, we go to the library this morning, right? And—"
"Chase, I swear, I will feed your stupid red hoodie to Boris—"
Buddy's breath hitched as he registered the hefty slice of chocolate cake that was silently slid before him with a clean fork. Still blinking away tears, he glanced up to see Ralph retreating from the table with Buddy's dinner plate without a word or a glance back.
"Cuz, y'know, Violet and Buddy had to leave their stuff behind, but you'd never believe it. While I was down in the lost-and-found, finding lost stuff, this guy—"
"Chase!"
With his free, trembling hand, Buddy carefully sank his fork into the dark, beckoning layers of glistening frosting and moist chocolate. The cake easily gave way beneath the tines, and with almost no hesitation, Buddy took a bite.
All at once, it hit him. The sweet taste, the rich homey comfort of it, the feeling of the crumb of the cake melting in his mouth. Folding in on himself, he fought to swallow a sob as it bubbled within him. A firm squeeze of his hand and a thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand seemingly out of instinct told him that, though Chase was distracting the others, he was anything but distracted.
Wiping his tears with the heel of his hand, clutching his fork like a lifeline, Buddy dug out another bite of cake. He scooped, and he ate, and he cried—he didn't know for how long. And all the while, Chase held his hand, tracing careful patterns on pale knuckles—no longer bruised or torn—as he laughed and joked and distracted.
He knew it must have seemed odd, perhaps even a bit pathetic, crying over food—but it wasn't that at all. For once, he wasn't fighting for a place to belong, or stealing scraps of food to live and fight another day. For once, he wasn't envying luxuries he could never have, or wishing he had more—that he was more. It wasn't a simple meal or a presentation of food on a plate. This was an invitation to stay.
And for once, finally, Buddy's family, his heart, his sense of self and belonging, were all gathered in one place.
He'd said the word a million times in books. He'd always said it in order to return to Violet's side, but for once he truly knew what it meant. What it felt like. What it was.
Home.
Buddy was home.