Beast Gacha System: All Mine

Chapter 290: A Father’s Secret

The kitchen had become a battlefield of a different kind.

Plates were stacked in precarious towers, their surfaces slick with the remnants of the meal. Glasses huddled together, their rims stained with wine. Pots loomed at the back of the counter, their depths dark and forbidding, the ghosts of sauces and stews still clinging to their sides.

Arkai stood at the sink, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands submerged in water that had long since gone cold.

He remembered the faces of the people he loved still glowing with laughter.

Especially at Cecilia’s triumphant smile after she had finally managed to win a round and made everyone swear she was the best Uno player in the world, which she was not, but they had all agreed anyway, because it was easier, and because her joy was worth more than the truth.

Also his father’s incredulous smile right beside her.

And now he was here, replaying everything that should’ve been impossible in the real world.

Beside him, Roarke was working through a stack of plates with efficiency. He had learned, long ago, that the fastest way to get through unpleasant tasks was to simply stop thinking about them.

His hands moved automatically, his eyes fixed on the rhythm of his work. Yet the pile in front of them did not seem to be shrinking.

"I think," Roarke said, his voice low, his hands never stopping, "that your father ate an entire goat by himself."

Arkai glanced at the remnants of the roast that had been the centerpiece of the meal. It was possible. He had been watching his father, but not the amount he ate.

Just a little. Just enough to see the tension leave his shoulders, the lines around his eyes soften, the suspicion that had been his constant companion for as long as Arkai could remember finally ease into something that looked almost like trust.

"He was hungry," Arkai said.

Roarke’s hands paused as he chuckled.

Roarke looked at him. Arkai looked back. They both understood as men who had spent years learning to communicate without words, that they were not talking about food anymore.

A voice cut through the quiet.

"Roarke!" Cecilia’s head appeared around the kitchen door, her hair loose, her dress slightly askew, her face flushed as if she had been wronged and was determined to make it everyone’s problem. "I need your help. I know I saw a yellow number seven from your hand. And Oathran’s. And it’s gone."

Roarke’s hands, still submerged in the water, stilled. "Miss Araceli, I didn’t throw the card far away, I swear—"

"I’m not accusing you of throwing it far away. I’m accusing you of throwing it away excitedly when you won."

"What?! I didn’t!"

"Roarke." She said patiently. "Come help me find the card."

Roarke looked at the pile of dishes, then at Arkai, and finally at Cecilia, who was tapping her foot and waiting. "Is it my memory that is wrong? My memory has never been wrong before."

Arkai chuckled and nudged his brother to just follow her. So, Roarke finally sighed and dried his hands, then finally followed her out of the kitchen.

"Don’t look so annoyed you can leave the dishes all to me!" Arkai yelled.

"Pfff," Roarke rolled his eyes.

Arkai was alone then.

The water had gone cold. But he still picked up a plate, scrubbed, rinsed, and set it aside. The next plate was larger, the remnants of the roast, the fat congealed in white swirls across the surface. He scrubbed harder.

Someone walked through the kitchen threshold again.

Arkai did not turn. He expected Roarke, returning with a story about a card that had been under the table the whole time, or Eastiel, come to steal something from the pantry, or Cecilia, triumphant and demanding to know why he hadn’t helped her search.

The footsteps that approached the sink were not Roarke’s though. They were slower. Heavier.

Arkai flinched when he saw August pick up a towel.

His father was standing at the sink, a dish towel in his hands, his movements slow. He stood beside his son, his hands finding a plate that had been set aside to dry, his shoulders squared and his jaw set. It was as if he were facing down a hostile council rather than a stack of dishes.

Silence. The water ran. The plate turned in August’s hands.

"What?" His voice was gruff and defensive. He sounded more like someone caught doing something soft and was already preparing to deny it.

"I’m as surprised as you are." He dried the plate with more force than necessary. "When did you learn to do things like this?"

Arkai’s hands paused in the water. A hundred years of real life memory pressed against his lips, part of those were the long years after his father’s death.

He had learned to cook for himself in his lone adventures. All the things that kings were not supposed to do but men had to do to survive.

He shrugged. "Picked it up."

August’s eyes narrowed, but he did not press. His hands moved to another plate, slower this time, almost gentle.

"You don’t look awkward at all either," Arkai said, watching his father’s hands move.

August was quiet for a moment. The plate turned in his hands. The towel caught the light.

"Your mother and I," he said, and his voice was different now, softer, "once lived in a small cabin."

Arkai’s hands stopped.

What—

"She hated washing dishes." August set the plate aside, reached for another. "So I did it for her."

Arkai stared at his father.

Although sometimes this man had questionable morals, he was still a man who had upheld a dynasty before him, who had commanded armies, shaped the north into something that would outlast him.

Arkai had seen him stand at his mother’s grave with a face like stone and never, in all the years since, spoken of her like this.

"Why..." Arkai’s voice came out strange. He blinked, trying to find the shape of the words. "Why did you, August Dawnoro, live in a cabin with your wife?"

August sighed. He had carried something for a very long time and had finally, for reasons he did not fully understand, decided to put it down.

"I didn’t want to tell you this." He was not looking at Arkai. His hands were still moving, plate after plate, steady and sure. "But your mother and I conceived you before we were married."

CRASH.

The plate in Arkai’s hands slipped, hit the floor and shattered.