(Alliums are related to garlic)

Dark speckles on the gravel underneath his soles merged as the rain threatened to worsen. The drain by his feet began rejecting the overflow of rain, spewing rogue water everywhere. It had dampened his feet. Warm light from the lonely street lamp, inhabited by three moths, poured down and became blurry as more water fell from the sky. Vlad squinted as he looked up, raindrops landing dangerously close to his eyes. As it became harder to look up, he threw on his hood to shield his face from the downpour.

Lighting stuck.

Vlad looked at where his old home should've been as if he were only a passerby, observing the destruction. It was all charred rubble now. He recognised some distinct bits and pieces amongst the blackened rocks. A sliver of his old orange bedsheet trapped under decaying wood, a glint of what must have been Ingrid's old jewellery, a chess piece nuzzled between crumbling boulders. It used to be his home, and yet it felt disrespectful to get closer. It was as if he moved any closer, he'd be treading on his own grave. So there he stood in the scarce shelter provided by the lone surviving gargoyle that guarded the gate. Vlad took an unneeded breath to compose himself as his shoulders rose. He stiffly put his hands in his pockets. He smelled the air. Mixed in with the rain and damp ground, Vlad could smell the fire emanating from the rocks. It smelt as if the castle was still burning. His head cocked to the side as he let his shoulders lower slowly. Vlad bit the inside of his lip and twitched his nose, struggling to remain entirely in control of his emotions. He took another breath in an attempt to regain his control.

Surprisingly enough, Vlad hadn't dreaded this part. Seeing his old home was comforting in a strange sense. He knew he needed closure and to say goodbye to his old life. Now, he had it. It was almost anticlimactic. He felt moderately guilty about it. But after all that had happened after Stokley... The castle itself had become a vague memory he'd all but forgotten.

But there was someone who'd plagued his memories relentlessly for years, refusing to fade into his subconscious. Robin Branagh. Vlad had accepted he'd never outrun the determination and enthusiasm of that boy his entire unlife, even in his memories.

Vlad stepped away from the gargoyle and started the eerily familiar descent down to the Branagh's house he'd grown accustomed to calling 'Robin's' in his youth. The trek came naturally to him. Vlad carefully avoided the steeper parts of the hill and forced himself to ignore other more obvious habits, such as glancing into the windows of the strangers of Stokely. It was almost ceremonial if not ritualistic, and it discomforted Vlad at how well he remembered all the steps.

Vlad could tell he was nearly there. He could just about see through the rain that the wooden fences in front of the house had been stripped of their yellow paint. Then the house's forehead came into view, and it was white.

His stomach dropped as he came to a jarring halt. What if they'd moved? Vlad quickened his step, nearly jogging down the steep hill with horrid anticipation. To his relief, the familiar orange campervan peeked out behind the neighbour's wall.

It felt too soon to have arrived, but he'd grown since the last time he'd made the journey. His legs had carried him faster than he'd've liked.

Regrettably, Vlad was in the middle of the quiet Welsh street, staring at the once friendly and inviting house. It still looked mostly the same; friendly and inviting. But he felt different. Vlad felt as if he couldn't permit himself to feel welcome. Not only in the Branagh's house but in Stokley itself. He never truly felt welcome as a child, but now he had an overwhelming feeling that he was explicitly unwelcome. A gnawing in his stomach and a whisper in the back of his mind urging him to leave.

It was nerves. Had to be.

Careful not to soak his shoes in the stream that had begun to form before the Branagh's house, Vlad hesitantly made his way to the front door. He inched his way past a few cars parked alongside the campervan, careful not to transfer the droplets on the shining metal onto his clothes. Not that his coat wasn't sopping wet already.

Then, there he was, in front of their door, hesitating. Vlad pulled his hand from his pocket as he stepped up to the glass door. The warm light emitting from it had attracted moths and flies. Vlad swatted a few of them away, brushing his hand against a flower in a potted plant by his knees. It was an allium. Vlad could feel a light prickling sensation in his knuckles where the plant touched.

It was surely a coincidence.

Vlad took his other hand out of his pocket to massage his knuckles with his thumb. It helped to soothe the uncomfortable sensation. Then, he rapped on the door twice before ringing the doorbell.

The Branaghs were all gathered around the circular dining table in the kitchen. It used to be a perfect fit, but now that most of the Branagh children were adults, the kitchen, the table and even the chairs seemed to have become smaller.

Mrs Branagh was stirring what seemed to be a saucepan of gravy. She wore an apron. The same flowery one from years ago, but less vibrant, more stained, and a little frayed at the seams. Her haircut was the same, but white strands had more than crept up in her hair. Her face had aged as well. Her smile lines and crow's feet were evident above all else.

Mr Branagh had also aged, his forehead, larger from his receding hairline, was permanently rippled with what seemed to be worry and confusion. But he too had smile lines and crow's feet to match his wife.

Ian and Paul, although fraternal twins, were ageing identically. Yes, they'd aged slightly, but their behaviour was mostly the same. When their parents weren't looking, both made attempts to flick peas at their brother as he ate his dry food.

Robin. He had changed the most with age. He no longer donned a cape or even an entirely black outfit. His long-sleeve t-shirt was now a grey university t-shirt, his hair was similar but better kept and his nails had been clean of black nail varnish for a good few years. Robin Branagh had become normal.

There was a thunder sound on the stairs as a blonde girl came bounding down them. She came through the corridor and as she came around the doorframe, Chloe appeared.

"Sorry, I'm late mam," She began, but she looked a little concerned. She turned her head as she looked back, leaning backwards in her seat. "I think I saw someone out the front." She uttered before steadying her chair and sitting properly again.

"I think you're tired." Mrs Branagh affectionately teased as she walked from the stove to her daughter. She stroked Chloe's hair gently whilst she poured gravy on her plate. She'd then moved to pour some on Ian's plate before she heard two knocks on the door and then the doorbell ring.

Mrs Branagh stood frozen, her eyebrows creased. She came to realise that her entire family had done the same. Robin most of all. Everyone was silent. Everyone was still. And they were all sharing a collective thought; 'it couldn't be, could it?'

"Ach, mam!" Ian exclaimed as the scolding hot gravy poured off his plate and cascaded to his lap where it pooled.

Shaken out of her trance, Mrs Branagh hastily set the saucepan back down on the stove and then made her way to the front door, ripping the apron from her body haphazardly.

Vlad could hear a commotion inside. It was late, so he wasn't surprised that his surprise visit was, well, surprising. The warm light became obscured as who he could only assume was Mrs Branagh approached the door.

Hello, new fic because anything is better than studying Chemistry

Also, to be continued muahahahha -M