#my dearest beloved son (chayanne)

[crows-father]

hey dad can we have cake later? I want cake

-(@cha-cha-cha-chayanne)

I don't see why not? A bit out of the blue, but what the heck. ^^ I'll start putting together some stuff and make it. Would you like to help? :)

[crows-father]

Dad Tallulah says you gotta stop blowing up her phone

-(@cha-cha-cha-chayanne)

Okay :( She left without telling me, I'm just a little worried, but I've got it

[crows-father]

Phil makes his way outside, sitting himself down on the edge of the wall. His talons hang off freely, the overcloak he always wore thrown lamely off to the side and his wings outstretched but limply hanging around him. Feathers scraping the concrete as he plucks and threads his fingers through them. It doesn't hurt. Not really. But it does make his wings look ugly, unfortunately.

He breathes out, guilt clogging up. Over Chayanne. Of course, Chayanne's thought pattern branches Phil's mind out to Tallulah. Then, the guilt from leaving without talking to Missa.

But he can't. If he faced the other, he was almost positive the building tears might pour in geysers. Phil managed to push it down now, aside from the few tears he shed making his way out, pressing the emotion down until the tears dried into nothing but an intense, pounding pressure.

His wings twitch. More than anything, he wishes he could push off and fly around. Just for a little while. Just until everything hurt a little less.

But when his feet brace the wall and he shoves himself off, wind snapping at clothes and messy, knotted hair alike, he doesn't go up. No matter how hard his wings beat, he can't.

So he plummets, then he glides. It's all he can do, working his wings our of muscle memory to ensure the tears don't return. While he turns those words over in his mind.

God. He wishes he could say coming to this island was a mistake, but he can't stomach the idea of not ever meeting that kid. His son.

His.... son....

--

The days pass. Phil smiles when Missa asks where he went, and he pulls the coat tighter over himself. His sword is back into its spot, no longer covered in the thick monster blood, and the night as passed again without an hour of sleep.

All he can do is apologize softly, and all is well. They're both ignoring their own fight. Phil, for the sake of Chayanne, ignores theirs as well.

All is well.

Tallulah isn't talking much, lately, either. She avoids looking at Chayanne, only coming out of her newfound shell when it's only Phil in the room. She shows him her new music, her art, the (admittedly confusing) stories she's been writing. He just smiles and ruffles her hair, braiding it in the mornings and before bed. In return, she spends her time pretending she can't see the bags under his eyes.

All is well.

Missa doesn't seem to notice too much is wrong as Phil tentatively returning to hovering over Chayanne. He doesn't want the kid leaving or doing too much labor, especially as he develops the cough directly after. Phil feared it may be another illness, but so far it seemed alright.

Exhausted, it's one night when he remembers the event going on. With a heaved sigh, he mentions it blankly, startling when both kids jump on the chance to get him out of the house. Tallulah insists on helping with his hair, Chayanne confirming it was a good idea.

Phil decided to go, in the end. Just for the night. Exhaustion bogging every step, misery in his joints, he goes.

He might as well try to have fun, for a little while.

(Somehow, seeing the others with each other makes him want to claw his hair out. So he takes another drink. Asks for something harder, stronger, and only then does he start to feel a little better, leaning on Quackity on the way out.)

(What a hellhole of an island, honestly. No matter how much he loved the people on it.)

[crows-father]

Phil was frankly… kind of exhausted. He always was, but it really set in today. The kids were both off doing their own thing, which had given him some time to do stuff. The server was busy today, all chock full of fun activities the kids were doing for Father's day. He had paused and watched a few times, wondering if he should remind his own to send cards to Missa and Wilbur.

It aches a little to think maybe Chayanne and Tallulah didn't consider him dad enough for this holiday.

But, still. He had continued his chores as normal, and returned when the heat set hard into his wings and bogged him down from the outside in. Exhaustion settles into his worn knees and wrists as he shrugged off the pull-over fabric and hung it over the couch arm, then slowly makes his way to the kitchen, desperate for something to drink.

He pauses before he could get there, something catching his eye. He paused, slowly turning to the colorful object settled on his kitchen table.

A cake.

A really, really pretty cake, with little decors of apple and strawberries as crow feathers, a wooden sword in the middle that already had emotion welling up into Phil's throat. But the real kicker was the message, childishly scrawled onto it. "THANks DAD". The words were a little smashed on the edge, but it was almost as if the thanks was too big to even fit.

Phil, quite cheesily, thought it would be silly if maybe the message was that Chayanne's message of love was too big to even fit on one cake.

Regardless, his eyes were soft as he gently removes the sword and cuts a slice, feeling emotion crawl up his throat at the sight of red velvet. His favorite.

He wiped his eyes as they get a bit wet, laughing softly at his own emotion and the tender gesture. He cuts another slice and ready them both on plates, taking a bite of his own and feeling the delight rise at the soft, spongy texture of his favorite cake.

Chayanne was always such a good cook.

God, he loved that kid.

He takes the second plate he made and goes to share it. With his son.

(He should really mention how proud he is more often.)