Lwk Hate This - Tumblr Posts

★ summary — after his fathers death, anthony finds solace within an unexpected someone ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: anthony bridgerton x sibling!reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. mention of death, description of grief & death, teenage anthony being in shambles after edmunds death (rest his poor soul) ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.9k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. angst, so much angst. smidge of fluff, hurt/comfort? ★ authors note: anthony's story is actually so sad but i wanted to see more of how he dealt with everything and a deep dive onto what he felt of so... (also there are NOT enough anthony x sibling reader so here we are!!) ⠀⠀⠀❛⠀⠀ requests are open !!

Anthony had always believed that a profound sadness enveloped the body like a condecending fog, delving deep into the bones and clawing recklessly at the soul until it was a suffocating weight with no escape in sight. Yet now, as he stood amidst the bouts of chaos, he felt nothing. No sadness, no anger, no frustration. Just a vast, empty numbness that swallowed his entire being whole.

It were as if the world around him came to a grinding halt, and he had stopped with them—unable to escape the grasp of the coldness trickling up upon his spine. It felt as if his physical body had been frozen, but consciously, he had not—a distant observer in a weary state of forgery. The sheer oddity of it all left him out of it; an unsettling sense that he was lost in a dream too overwhelming to even comprehend was vastly disheartening. It felt like... a storm, a thunderstorm brewing inside of him, circling through and around his every vein and nerve until it ceased to exist.

He can briefly reminisce, pinching himself over and over until his skin turned blotchy red and had grown irritated in the area. The pain was a sharp reminder to him that it was a futile attempt at an escape, that it was not just some dream that he could simply wake up from. Yet, it could not be; Anthony wanted nothing better to do than just refuse. Laugh at the servants that crowded him with questions that he could not answer—the questions that he should not be worrying about at his age.

Their voices seemed to be distorted in a way that Anthony could not quite make out—a dissonant chorus, overlapping under the distinct rushing and ringing in his own ears. It was as if it went in through one ear and out the other, like water through a funnel. None of it made sense, despite it being more than natural common sense. He still isn’t sure how he managed to even utter a single coherent word; Anthony couldn’t even hear himself over the cacophony that tumbled through his mind. He couldn’t hear himself over the concious noise that screamed in his head and translated all the way to his entire body until it was the only thing radiating through his pumping blood.

In the mix of what seemed to sound like if someone had put all the most horrid sounds a man could hear and mixed them all together, jumbled and overwhelming, he could faintly hear his mother. His poor mother, screaming and crying, the sound so haunting and raw that Anthony wishes he could never hear again in his life, yet it lingered upon him like an uninvited shadow in the corner of his room. Even when it was not presently there, when he was stuck alone at night, his siblings sent off to bed by the maids, his mother nowhere in his line of sight, did he stare at the ceiling of nothing—hearing those cries replaying in his head again and again and again. It’s as if he wanted himself to go mad and Anthony must say, he was very close to so.

But the sounds were only a singular part of his torment. Lord, have mercy on his miserable soul; nothing could’ve prepared him for the sights that awaited him, that he was forced to face by nothing but himself.

His mother sprawled across the staircase, a flurry of maids assisting her but to no avail. There was no ending to her constant misery, and for a brief moment, a moment that Anthony must regret, he wished that his mother had an off-switch so he could just stop it. For her sake or his, he couldn’t quite say. 

His siblings, on the other hand, were a mix of emotions that Anthony was not qualified to handle nor care for. Was that not what maids were for? Daphne cried silently, dabbing at her tears cascading down her cheeks that failed to subside. He silently wonders to himself how many tears a woman could cry before her very essence would be evaported, while Colin and Benedict, although undeniably upset, managed to hide away their sentiments, at least towards Anthony. Well, he was sure he caught a glimpse of a tear roll down Benedict’s face, but there was nothing he could say nor do about that except pat him on the back a couple of times as a comfort of sorts before he’s again whisked away to care for something he knew little about. He wasn’t prepared for this; he wasn’t qualified for this. He was just a child. 

At least the younger ones were mostly oblivious to the situation that had wrapped around the mourning family. They all gazed up at Anthony, more confused than upset, and he must think that they would wonder why all their older siblings suddenly all looked so remorseful, cloaked with grief, and their mother a distant entity that was soon regarded as unapproachable. In the recesses of his grief-sorrowed mind, a feeble thought flickered for a moment's notice: how, he pondered, for any way to describe the gravity of their weighted reality. Could he even explain to them? Shield them from the truth, or perhaps let them burden down the knowledge that would take away their youthful innocence as it had done for Anthony as well? He felt like an abonomibal creature for even thinking about it twice.

One in particular, suggested to be more curious than the others. Y/N, her name was. Her curiosity stood out like a sore thumb, perhaps like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. He couldn’t help but to wonder at how she seemed so upbeat despite the dark and grim reality that faced her angel of a soul. She didn’t ought to know the truth. Each time Anthony called for her, the name rolling off her tongue with gilded ease. These times, unlike others, a gentle plea was slowly woven upon his voice that could speak no more as he edged her away from the chaos with a simple “Get away from there.” or “Come over here, Y/N.” In these instances, he always sounded so diminished that Benedict would end up swooping in and picking her up for some other sort of entertainment that was not so utterly upsetting.

This night couldn't be any different.

The thunderclap erupted like a cannon shot in the wild—a deep, profound, and resonant roar that rattled the air around them, the windows shuddering with every harsh punch of wind. It was, perhaps, a night of sorrows. As the rain splattered upon the house as if it were a hose, the wind howling in the near distance. Anthony swears for a beat that he can faintly hear the rain-shooken birds finding solace in their chimney. He wishes that he were a bird; at least he would be able to have some place to find tranquility that was not just the dreadful drag of the house, each lamenting moment drowning all the cheeriness that once stood in this very place.

Anthony taps his quill absently upon the polished wood of his late father's table, the designs that were so intricate, swirling under his fingers like echoes of the past that he could no longer reach but yearned for. It must’ve taken months upon months to create it. He found enjoyment in running his sullen fingertips around the smoothness of the edges, a contrast to the jagged edges that traced along his heart. Anything that wasn’t entirely dejectful felt like a cruel mockery of how he felt.

It was late—far too late for anyone in the house to be up, him included. And yet, Anthony couldn’t find it in himself to indulge in the luxury of being able to forget it all, even for a few fleeting moments. He had tried, laying upon his father's old bed in his old room, which smelled all too much like him, enveloping his entire being. A bittersweet waiver of worn fabric and a mixture of odd colognes and papers that had been burnt from days ago. It was haunting in a way that Anthony couldn’t quite place, as if his father were still next to him—an unseen presence, watching his every move. Every time he squinted his eyes shut, the image of his father in the garden flooded his mind, lying so freakishly still. It coursed through his thoughts. He had been well surrounded by vibrant blooms of the spring-induced flowers, which seemed much too cheerful under the circumstances, and Anthony disantely thinks if those were the flowers to be used for the funeral.

Those were no means to sleep, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

He isn’t quite sure why he slips into his study rather than any other place for some sort of solitude. Anywhere would’ve been far better than his father's study; nonetheless, he finds himself sitting in the very same chair his father once sat in. Would he be proud? The words ring into his mind, digging as if it were like a tattoo within his brain. He had thought about it a select number of times over the course of a couple of days, yet the question remains unsolved. Anthony respected his father more than anyone else in his life, and putting words into his mouth that he could not say only made him feel bitter rather than better.

The silence is deafening—as if all of a sudden, the thoughts and ringing that took up his every moment had just chosen to dissapear. A harsh push back into reality is what Anthony would’ve guessed. 

Tap

Anthony furrows his eyebrows, knitting together to crease over his squinted eyes. The new, unfamiliar sound is something that he briefly wonders. He strains to listen for any hint of noise beyond the relentless screeching of the wind and the staccato rhythm of rain pellets up against the window, each drop intensifying as time dragged on. When there is nothing to hear to follow up with his thoughts, enveloping him in a wooful silence, Anthony, for a chilling interval, genuinely believes that he might be going insane. As far as-

Thump, thump.

He could no longer deny the truth that it was in fact, not his mere imagination. Anthony was more certain than the flourishing green of the grass outside the house that the sound echoing through the darkness was real and not just a byproduct of his sleepless night or the weight of horrors from the days that lay behind him pressing down upon his consciousness. He stands up willfully, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that was met with a creak reverberating from the old wood panels. The candle that he had lit for comfort wavers precariously, the flame teetering on the edge of extinction from the sudden movement. It is no longer than a mere count of seconds before the light flickered back to light, casting an ominous glow throughout the room.

“Hello?” 

Anthony was a bit ashamed to admit it, but his words wobbeled as he spoke. A mirror reflection of how he truly felt. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath to steady and ground himself to the so little he had. The silence that he was met with was perhaps even more unnerving than before—not even a sinned whisper to break the heavy stillness.

“Who’s there?” He proclaims, this time louder, his voice firming itself as the time passed by cautiously slowly, like it was moving through sticky molasses. Anthony is a moment's reach away from venturing out of his study and investigating for himself, curiousity gnawing at him. It was soon deemed unnecessary when a familiar little head popped up from the right frame of the heavy wooden door, wild tufts of hair jutting out from all directions in a way that resembled . He can’t help but to let out a huff of relief when he notices that it is only Y/N and that he was, in fact, not crazy.

Relief then morphs into confusion within a snap of a finger. His eyebrows are met together again, except this time, not from any sort of paralyzing fear but in question. “Y/N, pray tell, what brings you out of bed at this unearthly hour?” Anthony is quick to step away from his desk, taking 3 large steps towards the younger sibling, looking down upon the half-shamed, half-curious look that had crossed her face.

He shook his head yet, bent down far enough to pick the little girl into her arms. She doesn’t protest, instead, nestling herself into his bigger body as if she were seeking some sort of comfort that Anthony could not find in himself to give. He had never been the best at offering solace to other people, nor himself, and especially not now, when his own heart felt too dim and restless to share.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She mumbles, the words lost into the warm crook of Anthony’s neck. He sets the little girl onto one of the chairs that had been meticulously placed in front of the tidied desk. As he stands, his gaze drifts upward to the Renaissance painting hanging on the wall, overlooking the study—an eye-striking masterpiece from an era long before either of them had taken their first breaths. In truth, Anthony wasn’t quite sure how they even managed to get their hands on such an exquisite masterpiece, but it had been his father's favorite painting, so he didn’t dare ask. Every time he turned to face it, the vibrant colors and intricate details felt like a worn ghost from the past, fluttering memories that stung with longing. The image reminded him far too vividly of his father, pulling him into a clouded reverie that soured his mood.

Anthony’s lips are pulled into a drifted frown, eyes gazing over to the uncurtained window where darkness stared back at him, reverberating how the moment felt of. He unknowingly presses his fingers up against his hair, as if he were to adjust how it looked, although he never quite cared for how his hair stood. Is it the storm that troubles you?” He questions meticulously, knowing how fidgety Y/N got during those periods of weather; she never seemed to be a big fan nor curious of it, rather burying herself into a bundle of blankets in pillows. “You have nothing to fear from it.” 

The girl tilts her head to one side, as if she were pondering her answer. There is a brief moment before she slowly shakes her head to the side. “A bit, I suppose.” She mumbles, her fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown, the silk fabric one that was cooling rather than heating her up. She always preferred the material. “But…” 

His eyebrow arches in surprise at the answer, a rumble of perplexity stirring inside of him as he pondered what could be bothering her at this time of night. “Then what might it be if it is not the storm?” his tone softening as he addressed his younger sister, the usual edge in his voice fading into something gentler than usual.

“I…” She lets out a soft exhale, as though she were afraid of saying it aloud to Anthony. It struck him as odd, as well; Y/N was always more open towards him than any of his siblings, although he never understood why. He never brought it up in conversation, simply accepting her willingness to share with him. “I was thinking of father.”

The words spill out hesitantly, and Y/N looks up at her brother in a way that he could only describe as ashamed, though it was nothing to be ashamed of. Anthony’s breath catches into his throat, a reflex that had become all too familiar in recent days. He runs a hand over his face, appearing more dismayed than ever. “Whatever for?” He asks cautiously, unable to help the bittersweet modulation that came along with the sentence.

Y/N looked down, legs swinging over the edge of the seat, the motion that was so kid-like, reminding Anthony of the innocence of his little sister, how he needed to protect her from the cruelty of the world. “I miss him.” She finally says, though not confidently as she usually had been, as though she had chosen her words carefully, placed diligently. “Where is he?”

Where is he?

The words chime in his head persistently, the sensation of a dagger being strung into his heart. Anthony swallows the hardening lump in his throat. He had been able to answer questions and answer to orders his entire life, and yet– this simple question, was enough for him to falter in his step. He could not just simply tell her, Oh yes, our father. He is dead. Because, well, she was a child, and at her young age, Anthony would not know of what death was. It was the furthest thing possible from what he would’ve thought of, and yet, this was Y/N’s truth. She had to face the ridicule of death, not even knowing what it was than a melancholic goodbye.

“He-” The word floundered in his mouth, unable to correlate the thoughts in his brain to the words coming out of his own mouth. “He’s…” 

“Is he dead?”

Anthony almost chokes out a laugh, because what the fuck? Where did she learn of such? She was still so young; he didn’t get it. He was sure neither Colin nor Benedict would directly say it towards her, and Daphne wouldn’t have the heart to do so. None of the other children had much of a clue of what was going on, so it could not have been them either. “Y/N, I-” And yet, he is still unable to speak. He doesn’t know if it is because of the absurdity of the conversation, or if it really is the sleep deprivation messing with him, and if he’s being honest, Anthony doesn’t have it in him to care for the reason. Not when he had... this to worry about now.

“He is dead, isn’t he?” He’s unable to refrain from noticing the quiver in her lip as she spoke, albeit the even cadence. 

Anthony dips his head down, eyes gluing to the floor because he’s unable to look his sister in the eyes. Unable to break the news and her heart at all the same time. She loved Edmund dearly; she loved everyone dearly, and that was her problem. Letting go was always the hard part, for even just a couple of moments—how could she let go for an eternity? Y/N is far from stupid though, and she’s quick to get the message. She too, looks away, this time to somewhere that Anthony can’t quite place. Her eyes are distant, as if she were not there presently, and it scared him a great deal.

“Are you sad?” Y/N inquired, the question so basic yet so meaningful for Anthony, and he can feel the strings tugging at his heart. It’s almost laughable to him; a young child who barely understood the severity of the situation, was the first one to ask him about how he felt. Not his siblings, not the maids, not the butlers, and certainly not his mother. No one doubted him, and while Anthony knew his family cared for him deeply, it underwent as if no one really did. 

“I suppose I am, yes.” He answers honestly, given that he was tired of lying to himself and others. And well, he was sure Y/N would figure it out eventually. 

“It’s okay to be sad.” She whispers gently, her head inclining to the left, and then up to meet Anthony’s gaze. For a brief period of a second, he wonders if she could read him that well. If she could see right through his facade, and knew what he needed to hear to the brink. He refused to acknowledge it, but he was aware that the words had some sort of effect on him. In a manner that had hardly ever moved him before. 

He can do nothing but nod slowly, hesitant to speak upon the matter at hand. "You truly ought to be sleeping, Y/N.” Anthony breathes out, pressing his hand against his subdued jawline, an uneven beard already beginning to form from the days he hadn’t shaved. It was the only response he could come up with, the only response he could say without directly speaking on the matter. 

Y/N bounces up, and off of the chair, landing on her two feet that were padded with socks that went up to her knees. Her favorite pair that she refused to let go of despite the many holes that had broken into the fabric. She stood much shorter than Anthony, still in the very early stages of growth. “Maybe you would be less sad if you talked.” She states woefully, her eyes holding only the sincerest of truths to the point where even Anthony knew that she did not lie. 

“I’ll be okay.” Is his respondance, his words cutting sharp into the heavy air that had filled the room. Because deep down, Anthony knows that his sister is partially right, that he truly needed to talk to someone. The only problem that he now faced was his honor and the fighting fact that he had no one to talk to. “It will all be okay.”

It’s hard for him to even believe his own words. He hadn’t had a clue how Y/N, in all her young wisdom and pureness, could believe him either. In spite of what he thinks, she only agrees with him, already beginning to walk towards the door again, this time with Anthony trailing a meter behind her. He knows well enough to at least tuck her into bed this time, to make sure that she gets some proper rest for the day ahead, although there is hardly anything to do other than funeral planning, which she had no part in.

Before she managed to walk out, Anthony ruffled his sister's hair in affection, something they now both lacked tremendously. He wished upon those days when he was Y/N’s age, able to curl up in his mother's lap, or next to his father in his study, where none of these adult problems affected him and it was just pure bliss. A perception which he could no longer relish in at this point in time. 

“Will we talk tomorrow?” Y/N promptly solicits, something that Anthony could finally answer that wouldn’t hurt him.

“I’m sure of it.” Perhaps for the first time in days, it’s a truthful answer in what he regarded. He says it, not as an entire answer, but as a promise for himself, because although he could be the mouthful of things that his brothers had constantly reminded him about, he never truly broke his promises for those he loved. And as Anthony slips his way out of Y/N’s, his sister falling into a light slumber that he’s sure will keep her down for a number of hours at least. Her eyes fluttered with the weight of sleep, her breathing steadying as the rainfall began to die down during the late night turning into early morning. 

God, maybe he could finally get some much needed sleep.