Word count: 4.5k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a boy who almost stood a chance.

CW: While violence is not shown on page, this deals heavily with child abuse and PTSD.

A/N: Quick crash course on magic: there are two types of magicians. Heart magicians whose magic is from emotions and Soul magicians whose magic is from core beliefs/morals. You'll learn more in game, but that's what you need to know for this to make sense lol. Hope you enjoy the first story!

###

At some point he considered the fall. With eyes glazed over, forehead resting against the cold glass of a dusty window. His breath created a consistent fog. The endless arguing in the next room created a hellish ambiance.

            He could already imagine what it was his mother was saying, as muffled as her voice was. He was not, and would never be, another second-rate child overflowing with unstable magic. He did not shatter all the windows in a room because of a fatal miscalculation. She would not be paying for damages.

            It wouldn’t be far if he jumped, and it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to catch himself. The meeting house rested snug against a long stretch of buildings, and he could vanish between any of them. Duck his head into a store somewhere and wait out the storm.

            He could take the metaphorical fall, too. The persistence of his mother’s voice had his teeth set until his jaw ached. He counted the ticking seconds of the clock, desperate for it to end. The room was so small, encasing him as though caged. There was no freedom like this.

            After a moment, he pushed himself up. The remnants of where he’d laid remained on the glass. It watched as he pushed his heavy legs to make it to the door. To take a moment to stop shaking hands, and push open the door.

            The voices stopped immediately. His mother eyed him, brown eyes burning fierce as she took note of him. The man looked decidedly calmer, and so, he kept his attention on him. Never his mother. He’d never survive.

            “I lost control,” he said in a rush, feeling the growing intensity of his mother’s stare, “I’ll take full responsibility so—”

            “Oh please, you think you’re the first child to have done such a thing.” The man waved his hand, dismissing him completely. “You just turned thirteen, correct? Hormones and puberty and all of that make kids’ magic go wild. It should grow stronger and more stable the more you age. It’s why we have tests like this, to track where every child is at.”

            “As I’ve been trying to tell you, he has more control than the average child. It was merely his nerves.”

            Nerves from what? The test? The unknown adults all staring him down, tearing into him vein by vein to decode his magic? His mother, front and center, lip curled back with a warning if he dared disappoint, but already certain he would?

            “Sure, sure. Once he gets used to it, we’ll be able to tell for sure. As it stands, being able to use magic is a miracle enough already. I hope to see you again.” The man smiled and he couldn’t remember his name, and even his face was blurring though it remained in front of him.

            His smile was easy and automatic and it didn’t feel like his face, “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry again for the damage.”

            The man nodded before leading them outside. There were more words from his mother, sinking into the shadows cast by various wall decorations hanging throughout the endless halls. It was a maze of wood and rolled out carpets and doors full of symbols he couldn’t quite recognize. It was another decade before they were out the door and going into the average parking lot of a shopping district. The dissonance rang in his ears.

            “I taught you better, didn’t I? Hand.”

            “Mom—”

            She snatched his hand and dragged it towards her, wrist up. She pressed a nail, long and red and sharp, against the tender tendons there. His mind went blank as she pressed against it, trailing along the artery, “There are three places we feel our magic the most; the head, the heart, and the hands. So tell me, did you really not feel what you were doing?”

            The answer didn’t matter, he knew. There was only one outcome waiting for him at the end of this.

//

            “Rook Bellerose.”

            “The one and only. Did you miss me Mr. Strauss? It’s been a while since I landed myself in detention.” He kicked back in the chair, arms folded across his chest as he glanced at his other inmates. He knew some of them, vaguely, although names were like water to him. There was no need to retain something when they’d mean nothing to him, even if they tried.

            Mr. Strauss, for his part, did not look as put off as he should, “Ah yes, this is the first time since you started tenth grade. I’m not sure what’s more impressive. Refraining from getting sent here right away, or your reason for detention being that you somehow managed to completely ruin the salad bar to the point the metal holders need to be replaced.”

            He laughed, mirroring the noise around him, pairing with the various comments of, “No, that shit was insane dude—”

            The whole thing had, by all accounts, been recorded as a freak accident, because what else could it be? It wasn’t properly secured and sure, he had maybe tested its durability in a series of actions which could only be described as ‘boys will be boys’, but it wasn’t like he’d meant for it to all come crumbling down.

            It wasn’t like they knew he’d been spilling over magic because he’d just gotten broken up with and his words had been spinning around in Rook’s head for the past week and a half. It wasn’t like his magic was supposed to come from intentions and not fucking emotions, but it seemed like someone got it wrong because his heart had been too loud in his ears for years now and it only made it all worse.

            ‘Christ Rook, you can’t even hold my hand in secret. Am I really that disgusting to you?’

            ‘It isn’t that—’

            ‘Then what is it? Because that’s all I’ve ever felt when I’m with you.’

            “Hey, now they know to secure all the cafeteria equipment better. I think they should be thanking me.” Mr. Strauss rolled his eyes and settled in for the incoming hour. Rook ran a hand through his hair, and flinched at the length.

            When he turned to look at the window, the reflection staring back at him was not the face he knew. His hair was too short, his limbs too long, and his hands too clean.

//

            He imagined he’d break a lot of hearts. Mouth too full of sweet words, mind made of too many walls, chest full of thorns. He figured it was a byproduct of a noxious marriage spiraling down from parent to child. He was his mother’s son. He was not his father’s child.

            It was the first court order which made all of the head magicians’ panic. They were not supposed to go through outside means, however they’d ignored all of his dad’s vehement concerns. His mother was doing what needed to be done, to ensure his magic did not drag the average person into a reality they didn’t belong in. To ensure he wasn’t a danger to others.

            So his father had went and filed an abuse report as the average person did and now Rook was here in a house he knew but could never grow into. His dad had always been too soft, needy, caring, reliable. Every interaction, Rook waited for the transaction. Every time he came home from another one of his fuck ups, he braced himself for the bruising.

            Instead, his dad would pat him on the shoulder and send him outside, “Wasting energy helps. You should have seen me at your age. I nearly burned down the science classrooms because my magic wouldn’t stop flickering.”

            Except his dad’s magic did come from the heart and not the mind. There was no reason for there to be this constant instability, for it to sit so heavily in his veins, and shatter the world around him because years compounded endlessly in his chest and hit him at once in the worst of ways.

            So he’d go out and he’d run and he’d feel the branches snap and bleed him as he did. He’d climb and jump, and expel all the magic he could. He’d reach the end of his known path and stare out into the beyond and let himself scream as though that could chase away everything inside him until he was sane again.

            He’d think about how his heart shouldn’t be able to be so full when it was also a void, devouring the feelings of those around him without feeling a thing itself. He thought of the people he’d agreed to date, and think the false hope he gave was the same as his mother’s calm days.

            When he came home after detention, he’d expected the usual spiel, the standard apologizes, the same refusing to look his dad in the eye. When his father saw him, it was not his latest detention that seemed to be his concern.

            “You cut your hair. When?”

            “Yesterday. It was getting too long.”

            “I never thought I’d see your hair short.”

            “Are you saying it doesn’t suit me?”

            “No, no. It’s just…”

            There were words behind both their teeth that neither dared to say. Rook lived with his dad now but his mother was still his mother and her hands were still yanking him by the fistful, telling him boys shouldn’t have hair so long and it was time to grow up. When his ex had said it was pretty with a punishing smile, he’d found himself standing in front of a bargain salon with ten dollars to spare and a fog of memories.

            His dad, tall and broad, but as soft as a flower, pressed his lips together, “I know you don’t like to talk to me about stuff but…”

            Rook let out a groan, kicking off his shoes and leaving them hazardously by the door, “It’s a haircut. I’m experimenting or whatever. If I hate it, it’ll grow back in a month. Anyway, I got a lot of homework. Later.”

            “Rook, are you sure? I got a call from school; they said you got another detention?” God, he hated that voice. The softness of it. The furrow between his brow and the way he’d duck his head a little to make himself look smaller than he was.

            He tried not to grit his teeth, “Yeah, fine. My magic’s fucked like usual, big surprise.”

            “I know it’s hard to believe right now, but it’s getting better at least. By the time you graduate high school, you’ll have completely adjusted to it.”

            “Great. So just a two more years of destroying property and causing mayhem.” There was too much pressure in his head. He wasn’t really thinking. “You know, when others go through this, they’re not destruction incarnate. It’s always attracting animals, or being too good at running the mile, or making those dumb ‘magic’ tricks look cool.”

            There was weight in his father’s eyes, “We all experience it differently. We’ll manage it as best we can.”

            “Until mom takes me back.” He hadn’t meant to say that. Why had he said that? Wasn’t he better at controlling his words?

            “Rook, she’s not taking you back.” His father was as serious as he’d ever seen him.

            “How many more fuck ups do I have left before she insists I have to go back to her? I wasn’t ruining everything under her care, was I? Maybe it’s where I belong. Like calls to like.” His voice had raised a notch, spilling over like everything he ever was did. A bad habit, a fatal flaw.

            His father took a step towards him, “You’re not like her.”

            Rook swallowed. Shook his head. Imagined how he wanted to hold a hand in theory but in practice it made him sick. People weren’t disgusting, his exes weren’t disgusting. He was. Is. Always.

            He never once scarred, but he had every wound inflicted mapped in his memory.

            “Rook.” There was a warning there, but it went past him. He wasn’t there. He was seven and he was in a room and his mother said he’d need to use magic to get out, to survive. He was ten and she loomed over him, telling him the most basic of magic was to heal your own wounds. He was thirteen, taking that damned test for the first time and showcasing zero control and failing. Over and over.

            “Rook!” His father reached out. A miscalculation. He jerked, body coiled tight, and it was like his magic found a target. It took a moment, a never-ending moment, to realize what he’d done. The sudden red was not as unfamiliar as it should have been. Everything in him screamed monster, and his father cradled his arm. The strange, staggered lines of a magical wound rested on his forearm. Rook was going to throw up his guts.

            “I’m exactly like her.” He said, a confirmation for himself more than anyone. He darted up the stairs, ignoring his father’s shouts. He slammed the door shut and fell back against it. His body was shaking, there was a keen in his throat fighting to become a scream. He kept his back against the wood, a warden against the world.

            For the rest of the night, his father came to check on him, and he stayed quiet. At some point, there was a thud, like he was leaning against the door. Rook stilled his breath, straining both to listen and tune out his voice.

            “You can’t go on like this, Rook. You won’t change if you’re too focused on who you are right now.” His father took a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to come to me, after everything that’s happened. But I just hope you find others to rely on. I just hope…I hope that you know you aren’t her, either.”

For a second, he thought of opening the door. To at least apologize for his actions and make sure his father was alright. But his hand stilled at the door. He couldn’t do it. His room was the only place he was allowed to be. He didn’t go to school for the rest of the week.

//

            There were dreams some nights. He’d be at school or hanging out with friends and he’d hear a voice call to him. He’d turn and everyone would look at him strange, although none of them had faces he could see. When he’d look, the space he was in had a familiar hall. Full of old wood and antique decorations, he’d find himself walking down the endless space.

            The voice kept calling. It was familiar in a way he couldn’t place. The wrongness of it would spur him into a run, and the voice would become more frantic, a desperate plea of ‘don’t’ and ‘help.’

            At the end was the testing room. None of the usual set up was there. The walls were bare, the room was bare, save for the body resting on the floor. He’d try to stop, because he knew that body better than anyone else’s. He’d stop, because he didn’t want to see it.

But then a hand would shove him forward, and his mother’s voice would hiss, “I told you, didn’t I? You were always bound to hurt someone.”

And so he’d fall to his knees, and the blood would drip from his hands, and he’d tear himself awake. He’d find his father with his arms locked around him, his magic subduing his own. Even in his sleep, Rook’s curse would lash out and destroy everything.

“You’re ok,” His father breathed against his shoulder, one arm wrapped firmly around his torso and the other cradling his head, “You’re going to be ok.”

But the blood was still on his tongue and his mother’s voice in his ears and a body on the ground. He swallowed for air, fighting to come back to himself. Fighting to live. Fighting to live?

His voice was broken glass, “Am I allowed to want to live, even knowing I only hurt people?”

His father held him a little tighter, “You aren’t just allowed to, you deserve it, too.”

Rook didn’t deserve anything. But he was selfish and he’d take everything anyone was willing to offer. It was why he let his father hold him, and allowed himself to cling to him. For this moment, he just wanted to exist.

//

            The letter was in his hands, a smug grin stretched on his face. His friends eyed him, various reactions on their faces.

            “Read it and weep,” he smacked it down on the desk in front of him, “Accepted to the one and only Vales Grove University.”

            “There’s no way.”

            “You’re full of shit. Your grades are trash.”

            His grades were, technically, painfully average. But that didn’t change the fact that grades weren’t the selling point in this case. The only real requirement was being able to use magic, and Rook had it in droves. In a few months he’d graduate, turn eighteen, and his magic would continue to stabilize.

            It didn’t stop his grin from widening, “With a charming personality like mine, did you really think they’d say no?”

            There was swearing and noises of disbelief and he was snatching the letter back, saying he needed to go tell his dad. He’d gotten the letter in the morning, when his dad had been at work. He hadn’t heard the news and Rook needed to tell him. Obvious good news was still good news. And besides, he owed it to him after everything.

            When he got home, he paused at the driveway. His eyebrows furrowed, taking a long look at the cars lined up. He didn’t recognize one of them. Adjusting the strap of his backpack, he gave it a second glance before heading inside.

            “Uh, dad?” He called, glancing around the entry room. Everything was about the same as always. Perfectly intact and magazine photo worthy, save for the faint coating of dust that they never seemed to be able to get rid of.

            His voice echoed for a moment, and it took too long for his dad to call back, “In my office.”

            Rook ducked through the door, greeted with the only messy room in the whole house. Endless papers and forms and documents spilled over as far as the eye could see. His father sat, rod straight, dark strands of hair falling into his face, a tell-tale sign of stress. And he wasn’t alone.

            Rook jerked away immediately, backpack sliding off his shoulder. It slammed onto the ground, echoing all around. His mother rose from her chair, a serene smile stretched across her face.

            “Oh Rook, it’s been so long since I’ve last seen you. You’ve grown so much.” Her arms stretched out and he needed to run. His heart hammered hard in his chest, his eyes unfocused. Her arms wrapped around him, careful not to actually touch him, like avoiding a disease. Her fingers brushed his hair, long again, and he thought he’d be sick.

            A show. It was a show. He didn’t raise his arms, couldn’t. His mind was going a million miles an hour. He glanced over and there was a second person here. A man. He knew that face. Had seen it every year since thirteen. The one he hadn’t thought he’d needed to learn the name to. He knew his name now.

            “…Mr. Solace.” Rook managed as his mother pulled away. The man rose from his chair, and the smile he usually wore was nowhere on his face. He couldn’t begin to fathom what was wrong.

            “It’s good to see you again. I heard you decided to stay close and go to Vales Grove, correct? Congratulations on your acceptance.”

            He reached out a hand and Rook took it, fixing a smile in place, “Ah, thanks. You already know?”

            Really, his eyes were on his dad when he asked, just a slip away from Mr. Solace’s face.

            Mr. Solace pulled away with a single nod, “It’s part of my duties to keep up with the children I’m tasked with testing. Part of that, is making sure there hasn’t been any unnecessary involvement.”

            “Unnecessary involvement?” His dad flinched, and his mother’s mouth tugged into a frown. Really, he wanted to ask if the man knew she wasn’t supposed to be here. But then, what did it matter? Melody Bellerose was a name which held more power than God—in his life and in a world of messy politics.

            “Yes. It happens often, kids accidentally getting friends involved in things they shouldn’t. Boundaries are hard for kids, especially if your parents decided to put you through public school. It’s simple, you give us a name and we’ll adjust their memories.”

            A ringing sounded in his ears and he shook his head, “I know my magic caused a lot of issues in the past sir, but if you mean I let other people know about magic, I haven’t.”

            His mother’s voice made him feel five again, with how slow and deliberate and dripping with artificial sweetness it was, “It’s alright. We’re both here to take care of it, you don’t have to worry.”

            Both of them. He knew, then, why they were here. Why she was here and what she was claiming and what she wanted. It was too late to get custody, he was a few months out from adulthood now, but there were other things to go after. Always.

            “There’s no one,” he repeated, false politeness falling away with a snarl, “And I swear to god if they put their fucking hands on—”

            He cut himself off and swallowed hard. The room was spinning. There was a body on the ground. There was always a body on the ground. The body was always his fault, one way or another.

            His father stood, voice dropping low, “If he claims there’s no one I believe him. He wouldn’t risk his standing over lying about something like this.”

            “Harvey, you’re really going to let him talk to us like that?”

            “I think he has every right to in this very moment, so if that’s all you needed I’d like you both to leave so I may have a word with my son.”

            Mr. Solace gave a small smile, bundled with fake apologies. Rook moved to the side, stiff and vague, to allow them to pass. Mr. Solace left and his mother followed. He kept his head down as she paused.

            The minute she was gone, his dad closed the door and Rook pressed a hand to his eyes, “Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.”

            “Rook.”

            “I’m fine. I’m not…I’m not going to break.” He was. Likely, he already had. He was still in that testing room, because he’d never leave. He’d been trapped inside since he was thirteen. Since before he knew the room even existed. “At least I got into college, right?”

            It was a weak attempt at a diversion, but his dad had since given up on prying him open. Rook wondered at that, sometimes. If even his dad had given up on knowing him, then there was no one else left for him, was there?

            After a long pause, his dad nodded, “We’ll celebrate, come on. We’ll go grab pizza from your favorite pizza joint. Ask your friends if they want to come, we’ll even do bowling.”

            “Bowling? That’s such an old man hobby.”

            “Plenty of people your age bowl.” Rook laughed, and he rearranged himself again. It was fine. They’d open the door and no one would be waiting for him, lurking in the corner. His mother did not have her ear pressed against the door, trying to take in every word.

            “Yeah sure. Sounds great. I’ll let everyone know.” His hands were not shaking.

//

            At some point he’d wandered off into the arcade area that was incredibly barren on this Tuesday evening. His friends had decided on another round and he’d claimed he was going to go beat some high scores, promising pictures when he did.

            Now, he sat on a hard, round chair and went around in circles. The carpet was the classic kind from the nineties, and the lighting in the arcade room was the kind of neon that hurt your eyes.

            “Hey.” He stopped so fast he nearly toppled off the chair. You raised an eyebrow at him, but he felt the judgement even with your silence.

            “What are you doing here? Wait, don’t tell me. You got tired of getting your ass kicked at bowling, so you decided to get your ass kicked at the arcade instead.”

            “I’m here because I don’t know any of your friends, jackass.” You roll your eyes, and your gaze skims the selection of machines. He hadn’t expected you to come. You said you never could stay out late, and he had never pushed it.

            The sight of you is surreal, but it might be because the whole day has been. He’d experienced every single emotion on the spectrum in less than twenty-four hours. You elicited the last few he hadn’t felt when you’d shown up for pizza, scanning his friends and figuring out how you were going to go about it all.

            Now you were here, and if life was different it’d feel like a world of your own. But his nightmare still rested in his ribs and so he did what he always did.

            “Pick a game, we’ll conquer it.”

            “Anything’s fine.” A pause. “Are you really going to Vales Grove?”

            He grinned and threw an arm around your shoulder. A touch painfully easy and familiar, “Hell yeah I did. You’re not going to be able to get rid of me that easily.”

            In the glass of a dusty machine, his reflection stared back at him. It was not him. It never was. The too wide grin of his reflection and the easiness of his body belonged to someone else. His closeness with another spoke of a boy who was safe. It didn’t stop him from this one thing.

            He’d never get close to anyone, but he was still the same selfish child. If you didn’t break the connection, he wouldn’t either. For as long as he was allowed, he’d keep this one thing. Until the endless dream of a body became overbearing. Until you finally found someone who could be your true friend.

            For now, the two of you sat in an old booth with cracks lining the material of the seats. The sound of the machines whirled, paired with the shouts of your voices. A world for two, if he forced his brain to stop thinking. There was no danger. There was no ledge. Years of friendship, and it was all the same. There were no warning signs on the wall.

            But at some point, he would take the fall.