#ACTUALLY FINAL EDIT the nonusage of basils name Was Intentional

[acronycjellyfish]

hi probably dont consider this a thing for duck days but thats defo what motivated me post this lmao bc i dont write things often oof. so here's a short thing of basil visiting home taking place idk when but it's after joan and robert died . tbh i wrote this a lil bit ago but ive been editing it just whenever so. hoho. also im so sorry if readmore doesnt work on mobile

though the grass was definitely longer, and there were a few more weeds than he remembered, the walk to the door was the same. 

there was no light coming from inside the house, which was to be expected at such a late hour. the people inside were always early and heavy sleepers. a lantern hung next to the door, the magical flame within barely beginning to die down, and the memories of late nights coming home flooding back in.

he reached his hand into his pants pocket and held the key in a tight fist. bringing it out felt like he was taking the weigh off his shoulders and moving it to his chest. it seemed years since he last used it, but the key fit into the lock with ease, and the familiar creak of the door reassured him that this was home.

the house was silent, save for the light snoring coming from the bedroom down the hall.

he hadn't told his parents he was coming home. the last letter he had sent, in a midst of confusion and grief over the deaths of two of his companions, was brief, confusing, and, frankly, a little selfish. 

i'll try to visit soon. i love you.

they thought he had died. he didn't even know if his letter had reached them. for all he knew, when his parents awoke there would be a ghost in their living room, curled up in a blanket with a bag on his lap that their dead son had left behind. 

he pushed the thought out of his mind and dropped his knapsack onto the kitchen table. the room looked almost surreal in the dim moonlight. it was almost pristine, just in the way he remembered it, and he couldn't help but think of the stark contrast to the organized mess in the workroom of the toy store. 

there was a large pot on the stove, and he knew exactly what was inside.

the smell wasn't quite overwhelming but the memories were. he remembered long days working at the shop, tired eyes scanning school and library books, coming home with bruises on his arms and face, a broken wagon and lost horses, and messing up so badly he was sure he'd ruined everything, not being able to get out of bed for hours upon hours upon hours.

he remembered the comfort and warmth of his parents' arms, the blankets around his shoulders, the kisses on his face, and above all he remembered the warm drink in his hands.

with a quick wave of his hand, a low flame began under the pot, and he leaned back against the counter. 

he looked out into the kitchen and living room, leading into the hallway, and was tempted for a moment to go into his room. his old room? he doubted his parents had moved too many things around in there. doubted himself for doubting the first thought. he was dead. he didn't know.

gods, how long had it been? it had to have only been a few months since their ragtag group of adventurers departed to a town destroyed by rocks. a few months and they'd become heroes to a small town, fugitives in another, and unknown rescuers to a region on the verge of elemental unrest. a few months and they'd lost two adventurers, one whose fate was left in the hands of some unknown plane and another who'd been secretly worshipping a god who relished in pain and suffering. a few months and their original team of five (six counting a pet rat) had gained one, lost two, and gained two more in quick succession. 

a few months and he'd found an almost family, defeated giants, lived with a charismatic group of bandits, tasted domestic life, and seen more than he could have ever imagined if he had stayed home and tried to repay his debts doing odd jobs around town or working at the shop.

and he grimaced at that, knowing full well that some of those debts he couldn't repay.

the sound of bubbling from the pot brought him out of his thoughts, and he quickly walked over to the cabinet and pulled down his favorite mug. 

he poured the drink (lovingly dubbed 'wepsi') into his mug, put out the fire, and walked over to the living room. there was always the same blanket over the back of the biggest armchair, the one he'd sat in countless times, and he brought it over his shoulders as he settled down in the seat.

it had to have been more than a few months. maybe it had been a year since he had left home. maybe it had been a few years. it certianly felt like it. as he sipped his drink and new memories flooded in, of warmth and kindness and happiness, he closed his eyes. he supposed he could recount everything tomorrow. he had thousands of stories to tell his parents, along with a million hugs and kisses, and a billion apologies. he finished off the drink, put the mug on the table next to him, and he burrowed into the blanket. he had things to explain (his gray hair, his new friends, his utter lack of communication, the 500 gold pieces he left them in his will). his eyes slowly blinked closed for the final time that night, and he decided that everything could wait until tomorrow.