Chapter Text
Soft white light encompasses the small room, and a boy with red hair sits by the window. The light shines around him, almost consuming him, and Trey squints as he desperately tries to take him in.
The light pierces through him, and if Trey’s vision wasn’t so blurry, he’d say the boy appeared almost translucent in the harsh glow. Red hair hides his face as the boy writes on a single piece of paper, pen scratching against the old sheet.
He stands, hand reaching towards the light, and he pushes the letter through something, before it disappears. Static builds in the corner of Trey's vision, and a harsh whistling builds in his ears as the boy's hands clasp together, mouth moving. Trey tries to move closer, to just move one foot closer to him, but as it lands on the ground again, the floorboard crumbles under his feet, black encompassing his vision.
—
His eyes sting as he pries them open, staring at the ceiling. Trey brings a hand to his chest, feeling its heaving pattern as he desperately reaches for his glasses with his spare hands.
Once again able to see, he desperately looks around. He’s in his room, cream walls, comfortable bed, green blanket, and the smell of baked goods floating through the door.
He feels like he needs to run, and as he sits up, he almost does just that before a knock comes at his door.
After a second, his door creaks open and his mother peers in, concern marking her soft features as her brown eyes meet his, “Trey?” She asks, gently, “Are you feeling alright?”
Is he? His heart is beating out of his chest, as if it were trying to break out, and he’s covered in sweat, as if he’d ran a marathon. He swallows around his strangled breath, “Yeah,” He answers, choking on a sob as he stares at his hands.
He brings one up to his cheek, feeling a tear roll down and wet his finger. His mother gasps, quickly walking in and opening her arms, taking him in as she quietly asks, “What’s wrong?”
Confused, Trey desperately wipes at his eyes, “I don’t know.” He answers with a slight stutter.
His mother pats his back, voice gentle as she says, “Get back in bed, dear.”
Trey lowers his hands, shaking his head, “No, I said I’d help out in the bakery today.”
The woman tuts, “Nonsense, you need rest.”
“No,” He denies fervently, “I need to work today.”
His mother pulls back, looking up at him with concerned eyes. Trey’s chest pounds, as his fists instinctively clench, “I’ll have a shower, and I’ll be down.”
Frowning, she stands back. Putting her hands on her hips, she stares at Trey, the same way she always does when she’s trying to figure him out. Dropping her hands, she sighs, “Alright.” She smiles as she gently chides, “But if you feel worse, then you must head back up to bed, alright?”
Trey nods, huffing, “I think I just had a weird dream.” He mumbles. Seeing the small frown on her face, he raises his voice, smiling as he reassures her, “I’m alright.”
After a moment of silence, his mother nods, walking towards the door, “Don’t rush yourself.” She tells him, hand lingering on the door before gently clicking it shut. Her footsteps retreat downstairs, hurried as Trey hears the bakery door open, bell ringing with a customer's arrival.
As the noise fades into the background, Trey clenches and unclenches his hand. The sun warms him under its light, its warmth spreading through the room. Sweat rolls down his forehead, and with a resigned sigh, he leaves to shower.
—
Even after his shower, Trey walks through the day in a daze. His mother had moved him to cashier duty after the boy had nearly burnt himself retrieving cupcakes from the oven. As much as he’d rather bake, he reluctantly agreed that it was probably for the best.
So, Trey stands at the checkout, bored as he watches the door, willing someone to come in. For a summer's day, it is unusually empty, and upon checking the clock, Trey raises an eyebrow when he realises that they should be in the middle of their lunch ‘rush’. Scanning the room, he sees a single teenage boy in the furthest booth, sipping on a coffee and flipping through a book.
Idly, he drums his fingers against the counter as he tries to listen to the music playing on the radio, a slight headache beginning to set in. He moves to pull out his phone, accidentally knocking over the tip jar. It fell onto his foot, coins spilling with a loud clatter. With a curse, he bends down to pick up the jar and its coins.
A little red, he stands up again only to pause at the sight of a letter stuck to the back of the counter. The paper was faded, even singed around the edges with the corners curling in on itself. Curiously, Trey plucks the notes off of the counter, and reads through it.
‘Two strawberry tarts’ written in cursive, along with an accompanying address. on the flipside, ‘Delivery for June 12th, two PM. If we can’t answer the door, just come inside and leave it on the kitchen table.’
Reading this, he turned back to his mother with a frown, only to find that she had left, and in the window was a pair of freshly baked tarts, with a sticky note labelled ‘Rosehearts’ on the empty box beside it.
Note still in hand, he walks into the kitchen, “Mom?” He calls out. Looking around, he realises that the kitchen has been completely abandoned. The kitchen was tidied, and all the stoves were turned off, with a singular note left on the fridge, ‘I had to leave in a rush, sorry dear! Would you mind closing the bakery, and delivering the tarts while I pick up your siblings from croquet practice? Dad will be back at half past two, so don’t worry about being gone too long. — Love, Mom.’
He pulls the note off, eyebrows furrowing together. It’s unusual for her to have left, even to pick up his siblings. It’s the middle of the day, and they should be expecting customers. Fiddling with the corner of the note, he wonders if there's a reason it’s so slow today. Something his mother knew about, but not Trey. That must be the case. Trey’s mother, Winnie, isn’t the type to leave the bakery unattended if she knew it would cost her money.
He looked around, pausing when he see’s her phone. It lies shut off on the counter, charger plugged into the wall beside it.
Must’ve died, then. That’ll explain the note, but not why she couldn’t just come around and talk to him.
Trey scratches the back of his head and sighs as he walks back into the floor area. The last customer had already left, so he took his time boxing the deserts up and closing up the bakery.
The address leads to a richer area of town, although much more secluded. Trey follows his GPS, frowning when it takes him to an uneven hill shrouded by trees, bushes and flowers. Tall trees shade him, and as he cools off he notices that the area is strangely quiet. Birds sit on the houses opposite of the forest, and watch it carefully. The flowers bloom beautifully, but Trey can’t spot a single bee or bug.
Looking up at the hill, he sees a large, red brick house in the distance, carving out its place among the trees. Clenching the box's handles, he wonders how he’d never noticed it before.
As a slight dizziness overtakes him, he debates turning around, and telling his mother that they got the wrong address, until a gruff voice speaks from behind him, “You can go up, you know.” Trey startles, and turns to the old man behind him. He puffs around a cigar, tipping his hat in greeting before he points up at the house, “A delivery, yes?” Trey nods slowly, and the old man huffs, “Take the stairs up, then.”
With that, he grunts, walking stick clicking against the ground as he disappears into the alley behind him. Trey adjusts his glasses, swallowing thickly before he turns back to the hill. A short, grey, stone wall divides them, separating the town from the hill. An old, rusty, black fence swings in the wind, leading to stone steps shrouded in wild grass.
His parents would kill him if he returned with the food he was meant to deliver, so Trey swallows his nerves, and pushes the black gate back, wincing as it whines, before thumping against the wall. Dying grass brushes his legs, and daisies spring in the cracks of the earth. The sun shines through the trees, and Trey wonders if there’s anyone taking care of this place at all.
The steps are short, and uneven, so Trey can’t say he’s surprised when he trips, ankle rolling and bringing him to his knees. The box remains untouched, and the boy moves over to a large oak tree, resting his back against it.
He left early, and that marks his only mercy as he rests. There’s no service here, so Trey looks up into the tree’s instead, its colours blending together in the oppressive heat. It’s completely silent, not so much as a branch creaking even as wind blows through the air.
With his ankle feeling better, he continues to walk. The house draws closer, a bright splash of colour in the middle of the forest.
Red brick walls mark its place out in the forest, and as Trey approaches, he takes note of the multitude of flowers growing in the front garden. He stands in front of the rusty gate, staring up at the odd house. It’s dark inside, making it difficult to see anything and abandoned cobwebs hang from the ceilings. With a dry swallow, he pushes the white gate open and walks up to the front door. The door is white and caked with dirt, its once gold handle has long since rusted.
He rings the doorbell twice, and after receiving no response, he cracks the door open, clenching the note in his hand.
The house is mostly silent, and a little cold as Trey walks through it. The halls are fancy, with expensive portraits and clean floors lining it, but it’s dimly lit, appearing dark even in the middle of the day. The hallway is narrow and oddly suffocating.
He pauses at what must be a family portrait. A mother and father stand behind their son, a redhead with doll-like features who sits in between them. The portrait must not have been correctly preserved, if the rotting canvas says anything. He grimaces. The painting is practically destroyed, moulding at the edges. A moth crawls out from a hole rotted through the mothers stomach, wings thumping against glass. The son sits with a perfectly neutral face, and his eyes feel like they’re staring right at him. Disturbed, Trey walks away.
The kitchen is at the end of the hallway, with the windows open. White curtains dance in the wind, blowing back and brushing against the sink below it. It’s a fancy kitchen, maybe a little retro, but cute overall. Trey finds himself appreciating the design as he sets down the basket on the dusty island counter.
“Excuse me?”
Trey jolts, spinning around. A boy stands behind him, hand on his hip as he stares up at Trey.
The boy is short, with large bluish-grey eyes, reminding Trey of clouds after a storm. His neat red hair suits his face, with an adorning, and presumably natural, heart forming out of two stray pieces of hair. He wears a red cardigan above a white collared shirt, along with casual dress pants. It’s old fashioned, and smart in appearance, if not a little warm for the weather they’re experiencing.
He’s older now, Trey realises, but this boy is the very same as the one in the portrait.
Said boy clears his throat, “Apologies,” He says, looking at the dessert on the table, “I didn’t hear the doorbell ring.”
Awkwardly, Trey shows the boy the note, “It said to just come in if there wasn’t an answer. Sorry.”
The redhead frowns a little, glancing at the note in Trey’s hand. “It’s fine.” He says with a dismissive wave, “I wrote that note, so you don’t need to apologize.”
Trey looks back down at the note again, taking in the fancy cursive writing that he struggled to read upon first seeing it, then looking at the teenage boy in front of him. Fancy seems to be this guy's thing, Trey notes.
“Right,” Trey starts, laughing awkwardly as he takes a small step backwards, “I’ll take my leave then.”
“No you won’t,” The boy states, “Let me make you some tea to make up for the long journey.”
“I was only walking for twenty minutes.”
“That’s a lot in this heat.”
“You really don’t have to.” Trey says, awkwardly laughing.
The boy frowns, expression a little angry as he insists, “You’re having tea.”
“... Okay?” Trey resigns, awkwardly standing in the middle of the kitchen as he watches the redhead fill the kettle.
The boy sets it to boil, and Trey hesitantly asks, “What’s your name?”
The redhead pauses, shoulders hunching before he slowly turns around. He clears his throat, and walks up to Trey, steps light. He extends a hand, “Riddle Rosehearts.”
“Nice to meet you,” Trey says, grasping the other boy's hand as he introduces himself, “I’m Trey Clover.”
Riddle’s hand is soft, but cold in his grip, and the boy shakes it firmly, grip strong. Riddle drops his hand, returning to the kettle. “I know,” He huffs, and Trey raises an eyebrow. “You’re still in your uniform, your name is pinned onto it.” He elaborates as he reaches up to grab a mug from the cabinet, dropping a tea bag into the mug.
Looking down at his shirt, he fiddles with the name tag. “So it is.” Trey concedes, returning to awkwardly standing by the wall in an attempt not to be in the way.
The kettle clicks, and Riddle begins to pour the water, he quickly glances over his shoulder before frowning, “Sit.” He tells him, gesturing towards the wooden table.
A fine layer of dust covers the table and its chairs, and with a frown, Trey quickly wipes off the chair before taking a seat. As Riddle brings his tea over, Trey holds back a sneeze.
“So, you’re from town.” Riddle begins, a curious lilt to his voice.
Nodding, Trey asks, “Aren’t you? I mean, this house is hidden, but you’re still in town.”
“I guess.” Riddle begrudgingly accepts with a small frown, “I don’t go out often, though.”
Sipping his tea, and trying not to frown at the layer of limescale at the top of the drink, he watches Riddle tap against the table as he watches him. Feeling awkward, Trey decides he may as well make some small talk, “So what do you do all day?”
“Study.” Riddle answers shortly. Trey nods, staring awkwardly at the boy. Riddle's face shifts, almost uncomfortable, “I take care of the house too, when I’m not studying.”
“What about your parents?” He quizzes around a grimace as he watches dust cake the boy's finger.
“They’re busy.” The redhead replies, “But it’s fine. I like taking care of the house.”
The house is eerily quiet, bar some creaking upstairs, “Are they home?”
Riddle quickly shakes his head, looking away, “No. They’re always gone.”
Sounds a little irresponsible, Trey thinks, to leave a teenager home alone. Still, he decides to continue his small talk, “What do they do?”
“They heal the sickly,” Grey eyes meet his, “They make sure their disease doesn’t spread.”
What a roundabout way of saying they’re doctors. An awkward minute of silence passes, “So what are you studying for? Finals?”
A snort escapes Riddle's lips, and the boy hastily covers his mouth. After a second, he answers, “I plan to follow in their footsteps, and to do so, I must be prepared.”
“What about in your free time?” At his confused look, he elaborates, “Hobbies. You said you don’t get out much, but there must be something.”
“Not really,” He brushes Trey off, before his shoulders relax, “Well, I used to take care of a cat that came around here.”
Trey can’t say he’s sure that counts as a hobby, but it’s better than nothing, so he beckons for the boy to continue with a small nod. Riddle’s leg bounces under the table, body the perfect picture of nervousness, but his eyes have a sad shine to them, “When I was thirteen, this small black kitten wandered into our back garden.” He pauses, “I was done with my work for the day, so I decided to go out and try to pet it.” With a small sigh, he recalls, “I noticed that it was underweight. So underweight, that I even thought it was dead at first. The kitten was blind, too, so the mother likely abandoned it. So, I took it inside and tried to care for it.” Riddle's soft expression hardens, and he huffs angrily, “It was a stupid decision.”
“Stupid?” Trey repeats, stunned, “How was that stupid? You were helping the kitten, that’s the right thing to do.”
Standing, Riddle slams his hand on the table, kicking up dust as his hand smacks against the wood with a loud thud, “It was stupid! I wasn’t allowed a pet!” He spits the word, “I fed it, sure, but I couldn’t help it!”
Wincing, Trey leans back, pressing against the wooden chair. Riddle scoffs, continuing his rant, “I wasn’t allowed a cat! And the damn thing wasn’t smart enough to hide, either!” Voice shaking, a little, he stares at the window, “Obviously, my mother threw it out.”
“Threw it out?” Trey repeats, concern curling in his stomach as Riddle sighs with frustration.
“Got rid of it.” He elaborates easily, “She was right to. It was sick.”
“Sick?” Frowning, Trey tries not to let his doubt show, “Did it contract a disease?”
“Mhm.” He answers with a hum, calming down, “To be fair to her, she didn’t throw it out immediately. She told me that I couldn’t care for it, so I begged her to let me try. She told me I had a week to prove myself.”
Riddle walks over to the sink, washing the dust off of his hands as he talks, “It was loud, hyper, always running around and getting in places it shouldn’t. Of course, it couldn’t see where it was going.” Pausing, he reluctantly admits, “It smashed its head open. But for a while, it was alive. An hour, maybe. I couldn’t fix it, so she got rid of it.”
Mouth slightly agape, Trey stares at Riddles back as he furiously scrubs his hands, “It smashed its head open? How?”
“I was washing the dishes, and I heard a thud in my room,” He turns the tap off, drying his hands as he quietly admits, “It ran into the wall, I guess.” With a shrug, he offhandedly mentions, “My mother told me to bring it down to her, and she decided it wouldn’t live. So, she got rid of it.”
Staring down at his cup, Trey tries not to let the horror show on his face. Pushing his cup away he stands, “Riddle, would you like to hang out?” The redhead freezes, eyes widening as he stares at Trey. Trey, in turn, stutters through an unprepared excuse, “You don’t get out much, right? It would be nice, you could come to… my bakery?”
Riddle stares at him, mouth slightly agape. His fingers clench around the stained towel in his hands before he looks away, shaking his head, “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I have to study and take care of the house,” Riddle replies, folding the grey towel before putting it down on the counter, “I’m not allowed out, either. My parents would kill me.”
“That’s.. severe.” Trey tries, before quickly changing tactics, “How about I come here?”
Riddle frowns, eyebrows knitting together as he asks, “What business do you have here?”
A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead as he flips through excuses, “Well, I’m not doing much during the summer,” Unimpressed, Riddle starts to dismiss him before Trey blurts out, “I need someone to test new recipes for me. For the bakery.”
That makes Riddle pause. He looks away from Trey, and turns to the dessert box. “Try it,” Trey insists, “My mother made it, so I promise it’s good.”
Fiddling with the corners of the box, Riddle hesitates before opening it up and taking a tart out. He takes a second to lift it up to the light, staring at it with a slight sparkle in his eyes before setting it back down. As the boy grabs a fork, Trey smiles nervously, “Though I bet you already know that, considering you ordered.”
“I don’t.” Riddle denies quickly, holding his fork awkwardly, “I’ve never had any type of dessert before. I just happened to hear about your family's bakery.”
“Oh.” Clearing his throat, Trey smiles encouragingly, “Then I’ll vouch for it again.”
With a small nod, Riddle turns back to the tart. His fork hovers in the air for a split second, before the boy takes a careful bite. As the food sits on his tongue, his eyes widen and he looks at Trey with what can only be described as pure amazement.
Bashfully, Trey looks away, awkwardly readjusting his glasses as the boy sets the dessert down. “That was amazing! It’s as good as I thought it would be!” He exclaims, stepping closer to Trey, “Will you be making food like this, too?”
“That’s the plan,” Trey admits, “I’m not surprised you like it. My parents are amazing at what they do, and normally, I’d bake with them, but… Not today, I guess.” He clears his throat, “That’s why I want you to test some recipes for me. I’ll be starting full time at the bakery, and I don’t want to hold my parents back.”
Admittedly, it’s a bit of a white lie. Trey’s been baking in his family's bakery for as long as he can remember, and while he hasn’t technically worked full time, he’s confident enough to say he’s skilled enough to work full time.
He feels a little bad about lying, especially when Riddle seems to border on the edge of excitement, but he can’t exactly fault himself. Something about Riddle is just so… interesting. Trey wants to get to know him. He can’t really help it.
“Fine, you can come over. However, you can’t stay for long.” Riddle warns him, “Especially after dark.”
“Your parents?” Trey guesses, and Riddle nods easily, “I thought you said they weren’t home often?”
“My mother will sometimes make time to stop by randomly,” He explains, still holding the box as a frown forms on his face, “You really mustn't be home when she does. Honestly, I shouldn’t be allowing you here at all.”
Quickly, Trey offers, “I could run out of the backdoor?”
Riddle hums contemplatively, looking behind himself and towards the white door leading outside. After a moment's consideration, he nods. Leading him to the entrance, he parts with a quiet, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With a small smirk, he adds, “Don’t hurt your ankle again.”
Riddle shuts the door with that, and Trey watches his figure retreat upstairs, box still clutched in his hand.
The silence of the forest is deafening. Trees bristle with the breeze, and daisies spin gently with the afternoon wind, but compared to the sound of Riddle's clear voice, it’s eerie. The absolute absence of life stands as a stark contrast to what he knows, what he understands.
—
Returning home feels odd. Trey will admit that he’s happy to be away from… whatever that forest was, but now he has a new set of problems.
In the time he was away, about an hour and a half, his siblings returned home, along with his parents. More importantly, the second he steps in through the door, he notices his sister on the till, looking a little swarmed at the volume of customers. As he rounds the counter, she hisses, “Where were you?” between counting change and taking orders.
Trey slows, confused, “I was delivering an order,” He answers with a raised eyebrow, “Mom didn’t tell you?” She shakes her head quickly, before flashing a newly practiced customer service smile. Trey sighs, shoving her away to take over.
Linnette, his little sister, isn’t too good at handling the pressure of the bakery. Not that Trey is judging her, and in her defense, she’s fourteen, but it does mean that he often ends up taking over for her.
He doesn’t mind. Neither do his parents, in their words, “We can only influence our children so much.”
—
Evening arrives quickly, and Trey knocks on his mothers door as his father closes up for the day. His mother opens the door, confused as she yawns, “Yes, Trey?”
“Mother,” He begins, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
She shakes her head, leaning against the wooden doorframe, “I’m about to head off, but I can stay awake for a couple minutes.”
“Would it be alright if I borrow the kitchen tomorrow?” At her raised eyebrow, he reluctantly elaborates, “I want to try out some new recipes.”
“Of course. You know you don’t need to ask. After we finish baking, though. I’d say the kitchen should be free from two onwards,” She tilts her head, smiling a little, “Is there a reason?”
Sighing, Trey scratches the back of his head awkwardly, “I met Riddle today,” His mother hums, curiously, but Trey notes that there's not even a small hint of recognition in her sleepy expression, “Riddle Rosehearts, he asked for us to deliver those tarts. Remember?”
She stands up straight, arms falling to her side as exhaustion slips out of her expression. She nods, and a small smile fixes itself onto her face, “Yes, I do.”
“Uhm,” Trey stutters, looking off to the side, “Well, I asked him if it would be alright for me to stop by again. With desserts of course.”
“Practicing your skills?” She asks, a lilt of humour edging her voice.
Slowly, Trey nods, “Right.” Her eyes bore into his, and he smiles, “I won’t be gone during my shifts,” He reassures her, and when even that doesn’t seem to calm her gaze, he adds, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
She leans back against the door frame, yawning, “Yup,” She mumbles with a nod, “See you tomorrow.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and Trey quickly retreats to his room.
After changing out of his clothes, Trey finds himself looking out of the window. He normally wouldn’t sleep so early, as he doesn’t have an early start like his parents do, but exhaustion tugs at his eyelids as he stares over the town, and at the hill in the distance. Riddle’s home can just barely be seen, but its red brick walls just about make it visible.
—
Afternoon arrives, and quickly passes with Trey throwing himself into work. He spends all day wondering what Riddle might like, and he bakes a small strawberry tart as a failsafe. Not as extravagant, but it’ll work. His main dessert, though, is a strawberry shortcake. Yes, he’s aware, it’s also kinda a failsafe, but in his defense, he’s known Riddle for less than an hour.
As soon as the thought enters his head, he realises that he probably looks a bit… weird, doing this. He half considers bringing only the shortcake, but a flash of a pleased smile enters his face, and before he can even think about it, he’s boxing up both desserts and practically sprinting out of the door. His parents call after him, confusion lacing their voices, but Trey brushes them off with a quick excuse.
The hill hasn't become any more or less unnerving, and he still pauses at the gate, watching it creak and sway despite the lack of wind, before he pushes past it, rusted paint crumbling from its exterior.
The forest is as dead as always. Perhaps even more so today, in the dead of the calm evening. Even the blooming flowers look oddly dull, and the trees serve more as props than they do as plants.
Thankfully, Trey can say that he doesn’t trip this time, even if he comes close. He stops outside of the house's gate, looking up at the large home. The cobwebs he previously thought to be abandoned have stretched, their homes steadily building towards the dirty windows.
Knocking carefully, Trey looks towards the stairs behind the door. They’re pretty standard. Wooden, old, as everything in this house appears to be, the handrails are dusty, and Trey would even go so far as to say they look unstable, but the steps are sparkling clean.
The door opens with a creak, and Trey startles, “Are the stairs that interesting?” Riddle asks, mildly unimpressed.
Trey shakes his head quickly, holding up his dessert box, “I brought strawberry shortcake,” Riddle nods seriously, staring at the box with a contemplative expression, as if trying to figure out just what is in there, “And a mini-strawberry tart.”
“Wonderful.” The boy says, walking towards the entrance, “Well, come in.”
Following behind the shorter boy, Trey quietly shuts the door behind him. As the door shuts, dirt drifts down to the floor, narrowly avoiding Trey.