- Local Time
- 5:51 PM
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2023
- Messages
- 9,303
- Age
- 24
@Crow
---
Ciaran sprawls across his bed, phone in hand, already settling in for at least an hour of brain rot before he’d drag his ass out to make dinner. He sighs, thumb flicking lazily across the screen as he debates which social feed to doom-scroll next—
until his phone vibrates, his father’s name lighting up the screen.
“Fucking… can he not give me a minute,” he mutters, pushing himself upright. For a second he hovers over the red decline button, just to piss the man off—but it’s his father. He can’t ignore the call.
He exhales and answers. “Yes, sir?” He slumps back against the headboard, throat tight as he swallows.
“Ciaran. Why are you getting post sent here?”
“I dunno. Maybe my address hasn’t updated yet. I’ll check online. What’s it about?”
There’s a pause, followed by the sharp tear of paper. The silence stretches.
“It’s about that loan of yours,” his father finally says. “You’re behind on payments.”
The disappointment in the older man’s voice hits him hard—heavy, familiar, and cold. Like somehow Ciaran choosing to study in England instead of staying in Dublin was a personal betrayal.
He winces. “I know. I’m working on it. The internship doesn’t pay much, but they’ll probably hire me when it’s over.” He shifts, fingers tugging at the loose thread on his blanket as he stares out the window.
“Well,” his father says, voice clipped, “it’s a mess you made, and I’m not pulling you out of it. I told you what going over there would mean. You’re paying it back yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” Ciaran murmurs, barely above a whisper.
There’s a rustle on the other end of the line, his father shifting, the way he always did when he’d said his piece and expected Ciaran to fill the quiet with obedience.
“How much do you still owe?” the man asks, voice clipped and businesslike, as if talking about a stranger’s debt instead of his own son’s future.
Ciaran pulls his knees up, curling slightly in on himself. “About… a bit over nine grand,” he admits. He hates how small his voice sounds.
A disappointed exhale crackles through the receiver. “Nine grand, Ciaran. Jesus above. And you let it get behind?”
“I’m doing my best.” He winces the second he says it. It sounds like an excuse—he knows that. “I—I mean, the cost of living here is high, and the internship hours aren’t stable yet. But I’ll catch up. I promise.”
“You always promise.” His father’s tone softens only enough to make it hurt worse. “Your brother never let his responsibilities slide like this.”
The comparison lands like a punch. It always does. Ciaran bites the inside of his cheek, hard.
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Do you?” Another sigh. “You chose England. You chose to leave. And with that comes expense. You knew loans were the price of that choice.”
“Yes, sir.” He feels the words settle bitterly on his tongue, but he forces them out anyway. “I’m not asking for help.”
“Good. Because you’re not getting any.” No hesitation. No doubt. “You wanted independence, Ciaran. Now you have it. You need to stand on your own two feet.”
His throat tightens. “I am trying.”
“Trying isn’t paying the debt.”
Silence stretches again—long enough that Ciaran can hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. He wants to say something, anything, but every instinct screams at him not to. Disagreeing never goes well. Not in this house. Not with this man.
Finally, his father clears his throat. “I expect you to sort this before it gets worse. I don’t want banks sending post to my home over your choices again.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not.”
There’s a beat—cold, heavy, final.
Then the line clicks dead.
Ciaran stays frozen there, phone still pressed against his ear long after the silence has settled, long after the call has ended, long after his father has stopped speaking.
And only then does he let his shoulders drop. He was sure Gavin heard his end of the conversation, but he wouldn't really think about that unless the other asked him. He steps quietly from his room, "Gavin. What do you want for dinner?"
---
Ciaran sprawls across his bed, phone in hand, already settling in for at least an hour of brain rot before he’d drag his ass out to make dinner. He sighs, thumb flicking lazily across the screen as he debates which social feed to doom-scroll next—
until his phone vibrates, his father’s name lighting up the screen.
“Fucking… can he not give me a minute,” he mutters, pushing himself upright. For a second he hovers over the red decline button, just to piss the man off—but it’s his father. He can’t ignore the call.
He exhales and answers. “Yes, sir?” He slumps back against the headboard, throat tight as he swallows.
“Ciaran. Why are you getting post sent here?”
“I dunno. Maybe my address hasn’t updated yet. I’ll check online. What’s it about?”
There’s a pause, followed by the sharp tear of paper. The silence stretches.
“It’s about that loan of yours,” his father finally says. “You’re behind on payments.”
The disappointment in the older man’s voice hits him hard—heavy, familiar, and cold. Like somehow Ciaran choosing to study in England instead of staying in Dublin was a personal betrayal.
He winces. “I know. I’m working on it. The internship doesn’t pay much, but they’ll probably hire me when it’s over.” He shifts, fingers tugging at the loose thread on his blanket as he stares out the window.
“Well,” his father says, voice clipped, “it’s a mess you made, and I’m not pulling you out of it. I told you what going over there would mean. You’re paying it back yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” Ciaran murmurs, barely above a whisper.
There’s a rustle on the other end of the line, his father shifting, the way he always did when he’d said his piece and expected Ciaran to fill the quiet with obedience.
“How much do you still owe?” the man asks, voice clipped and businesslike, as if talking about a stranger’s debt instead of his own son’s future.
Ciaran pulls his knees up, curling slightly in on himself. “About… a bit over nine grand,” he admits. He hates how small his voice sounds.
A disappointed exhale crackles through the receiver. “Nine grand, Ciaran. Jesus above. And you let it get behind?”
“I’m doing my best.” He winces the second he says it. It sounds like an excuse—he knows that. “I—I mean, the cost of living here is high, and the internship hours aren’t stable yet. But I’ll catch up. I promise.”
“You always promise.” His father’s tone softens only enough to make it hurt worse. “Your brother never let his responsibilities slide like this.”
The comparison lands like a punch. It always does. Ciaran bites the inside of his cheek, hard.
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Do you?” Another sigh. “You chose England. You chose to leave. And with that comes expense. You knew loans were the price of that choice.”
“Yes, sir.” He feels the words settle bitterly on his tongue, but he forces them out anyway. “I’m not asking for help.”
“Good. Because you’re not getting any.” No hesitation. No doubt. “You wanted independence, Ciaran. Now you have it. You need to stand on your own two feet.”
His throat tightens. “I am trying.”
“Trying isn’t paying the debt.”
Silence stretches again—long enough that Ciaran can hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. He wants to say something, anything, but every instinct screams at him not to. Disagreeing never goes well. Not in this house. Not with this man.
Finally, his father clears his throat. “I expect you to sort this before it gets worse. I don’t want banks sending post to my home over your choices again.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not.”
There’s a beat—cold, heavy, final.
Then the line clicks dead.
Ciaran stays frozen there, phone still pressed against his ear long after the silence has settled, long after the call has ended, long after his father has stopped speaking.
And only then does he let his shoulders drop. He was sure Gavin heard his end of the conversation, but he wouldn't really think about that unless the other asked him. He steps quietly from his room, "Gavin. What do you want for dinner?"
