… is not a home.

So, I have a new process concerning the reviews for this story: I'll reply to you via PM, unless you're a guest or have your PMs disabled. There's something going on with the reviewing system right now or something, but I got them all and I'll reply to them once it's working better.

PurpleNicole531: Yeah, some will be short. But, like six word stories themselves prove, stories don't have to be long to be impactful. I'm glad you liked both chapters!

Thanks everyone who submitted prompts, I'm still open for more! This story is new, and I don't plan on ending it soon.

This story is "This house is not a home", the prompt submitted by ereader12. It has some darker themes, if you read that deep into it, so I suppose I should warn you about that. It's nothing major, just kind of how I feel around this time. Friends leave, stuff like that. You'll see.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy, everyone!

This house is not a home.

It used to be a home, filled with laughter and wonder and love, and Leo knows this, but he almost can't remember what it's like. It's glaringly obvious when he and Adam visit that there are gaps—whenever his mother accidentally sets two extra (sometimes more) plates at the table during dinner, whenever Leo steps into the middle capsule in the lab because he forgets his arm capsule at the Academy, whenever he turns to tell a joke and stops because he remembers that his sister isn't there to laugh and his brother isn't there to poke holes in his fun.

He doesn't know how his mother can stand to live there still, with all four (five, technically, since Daniel lives with them now) children gone while she is still preparing for another. He doesn't know how his mother can stand to live there with her husband and brother-in-law always leaving. He doesn't know how she can possibly bear to stay, with no laughter, video games, music, conversation. Even without the arguments and noises of them clashing, because even though it was such a loud, ugly sound in their home, it was them.

Leo, himself, can only bring himself to stay for a few days at most whenever visiting. The Academy, he can handle. With the chatter and explosions and jokes and loud, raucous laughter, it's okay. It's distracting, it's busy. With the buzz that comes when you have so many children around you, so much—almost an abundance of—energy, it's manageable, even without Bree and Chase.

His parents are always in contact, as is his uncle, but he never really sees them anymore. They're always with the so-called "Elite Force", or at the house, or working on a project. They leave him and Adam in charge ("You're in charge, Leo, we're just telling Adam he is because he's the oldest and he's… Adam."), which is nice, but it's lonely work. So he's not sure how he feels about that.

Daniel tries to help, makes sure to completely book up his day with training. Talks to him at lunch about movies and books and TV shows they both like. And Leo appreciates his cousin for knowing that he needs to be distracted. But, at the end of the day, it's not enough.

Taylor and Logan go a step further, making sure that Davenport doesn't move either of them to any of the other facilities when the different operations begin. So even when Jenny and Rocket and Charlie and even Spin get sent off, Taylor and Logan are right there with him. He helps Taylor grow used to her life as a hero without eyes, she helps him in his darker moments, and Logan, with his light, keeps them both from falling into the gloom—those black abysses—that resides in both their minds, that try to grow and get stronger by the day. And it helps, they both help, but it's not enough.

And Adam, well, Adam… he fills the silences when he can. He lightens the mood when Logan cannot, and comforts him when Taylor is out of reach. His brother does it all. His brother is a source of comfort, he's the only one who stayed. He understands.

It's not enough.

It's never enough for him.

Because, despite the fact that he always knows they're gone, there are times it doesn't register, and he wakes up thinking that they'll be downstairs, waiting for him so they can get to school. He knows they're not in Mission Creek, they're in some other city that his father won't tell him lest he sneak off to see them. But sometimes, it's so hard to remember that.

And it's not even just that.

Because, despite their assurances, he knows there is a chance that they could die. That he could wake up one day with a hollow, horrified, unexplainable feeling in his chest and he will go downstairs and his parents will tell him that his brother and sister are dead. That their latest mission was unsuccessful, and no amount of bionics or superpowers will save them.

And sometimes, it's worse.

Because, despite all their efforts, there are times he just forgets. He forgets what Chase's haircut looked like, he forgets how Bree's laugh sounded. He forgets Bree's favorite breakfast, he forgets Chase's most prized book. It's irrational—or maybe not, considering how unreliable his mind has been recently—but there are times when he fears that he'll wake up and not remember them at all, and he can't bear the thought of losing them.

And that, that is the worst thing he can possibly think of, can possibly imagine. Worse than the thought of them dying, because he has faith in them, and knows they won't die. They're too strong. But he doesn't have faith in his own mind, not anymore. Not since the first day the darkness almost consumed him. And Taylor helped him through it then, but he thinks that that was the moment he realized: He can't lose any of them.

He feels the shadows creep up on him time and time again, and more often than not, Taylor isn't there to calm him down, and Adam isn't there to strengthen him. Daniel isn't there to distract him, Logan isn't there to keep him in the light. He never sees his parents or uncle anymore. And there are times that the darkness threatens to consume him, because what is the purpose of him carrying on in this life, this bionic life, one that was never his to begin with, without them?

And he'll walk around the house in hopes that he'll remember, and in hopes that the gloom will be pushed back from his mind, and it works, mostly. But he usually just feels empty and alone. The house just makes it worse. Because without them, without his brother and sister, without Bree and Chase, their home is no longer a home, it's just… a house. It's just a box with furniture and empty rooms and stairs and technology occupying the spaces where they used to live, and it doesn't mean anything to him anymore.

So he can't stay. He never does.

It's not enough. Nothing is ever enough, so he always leaves in the end.

Yes, more sadness. I was going to write something happier, but then something happened—always does, it feels—and it kind of reminded me of something that I could definitely see Leo relating to, so I ended up writing this one instead.

Thanks to ereader12 for the prompt! As always, reviews (and more prompts) are appreciated. I'll see you guys soon!