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It was nearing eight and it was one of the few times in the day that Reginald allowed the children leisure time. He had been in his room, flipping through a book idly when his stomach let out a soft groan. He was a growing teenager again, and it seemed that his pit of a stomach never was never satisfied.
The blonde decided he should probably go downstairs to grab something to eat and pried himself off of his bed. As he stepped into the kitchen, he hesitated as he had caught sight of his sibling kitchen table; they hadn’t been alone together, not since he had attacked her. The teenager let out a small cough in his throat, hoping to not to disturb the young violinist. “Hey Vanya,” he said in a quiet voice, as if he were standing next to someone on their death bed.
