Word Count: 5k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a boy where love wasn't enough.

CW: depression, suicide ideation, suicide attempt, forced hospitalization, systemic abuse, implied racism, death of family member

A/N: Thanks again?? for 10k plays (now 11k)?? This is both for that and because I'm planning on doing all the ROs backstories! Plan is for Zoe's to be after Chapter 2's release, Lars after Chapter 3, and Rhea after Chapter 4! Hope you enjoy! Also this one is arguably the roughest of all the back stories, so please mind the content warnings and take care of yourself!

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The light hurt his eyes, but everything hurt. His lungs were still burning, reaching up into his throat. When he’d woken up, arm sore and bruised, and chest half caved in, the orderlies had done everything they could to ease him into the situation. He’d watched them, body collapsing under its own weight. They were a blur of faces. He’d gone back to sleep.

(He did not remember the true events of his first waking. It had not been a calm affair. There had been hands, needles jamming into skin, sobbed accusations. People had tried to talk, to soothe. Nothing had registered save for the feeling of freefall. It’d taken his second waking for a hollowed-out calm. He hadn’t spoken then. He hadn’t spoken for days.)

A familiar string tugged his heart awake. He raised his head, before slipping out of bed. It was all warm colors, not the white of hospitals. Bare feet cold against the tile, he stumbled forward, out the door and down the hall. Eyes watched him, but he didn’t register a thing. Instead, he walked past doors and a common area (filled with other teens and kids who saw him, but who he didn’t see, not yet). Then into another hall, and finally a door.

When he knocked, a woman’s voice called out and he opened it. It was a cold hug, the warmest kind he’d had in a year. The door slid closed behind him. The doctor raised her head.

Although she did not smile, her eyes were soft, “Beck Castro. I was waiting for you to feel better, before I talked to you.”

He worked his jaw, trying to remember the shape of his voice, “There’s death here.”

“Yes, there is.” She had dark hair and dark eyes and certifications hung off the wall. “I’m Dr. Ridge. I won’t make you talk, but since you’re here, I have something to give you.”

She reached into a drawer and he cautiously sat in a chair across from her at her desk. Whatever she grabbed, whatever she held out, sang out the song of death. He reached out a hand. A simple rosary fell from her hand. The beads were made of real roses. He’d know, he’d helped make it once upon a time.

The world was still. The wooden cross dangled from its chain. The image of an old woman knelt in prayer flashed through his mind. Humid heat, seeping into worn down buildings, the smell of salt and brine in the air.

The world was shattered. He pressed the rosary to his chest and cried until it hurt.

//

            His favorite month of the year was the one spent in Puerto Rico. The cousins and aunts and uncles he’d see only then, extended family members he didn’t even know the words for and old family friends. Tastes like no where else. The candy like flavor of quenepas, the sweetness of local avocados, the coolness of a fresh cut coconut. His cousins would laugh, crying tourist, and he’d laugh and say he’d take all their food then.

            Beck could exist in those moments forever, but his favorite part of each visit was seeing mamí again. He wasn’t sure whose grandmother she was officially, but she was a pseudo grandma to all the kids. Under five foot tall with white hair stark against brown skin and wrinkles that mapped out her entire life, she was the most loving, strictest woman ever.

            The kids would duck in and out of her home, avoiding her in fear of her ire, only to come back the next day to help harvest the quenepas that grew in bunches around her house, or take to the kitchen to help with cooking or cleaning. Her home was the center of his family, and he’d grown up sitting on the floor of her living room, listening to her life stories.

            It was during one of the summers there when he’d first kiss a girl, and the next summer kiss a boy. He’d quickly learn that he’d kiss anyone if he liked their heart enough. And when he’d walked back to mamí’s house, sweating from humid air and nerves over his newfound realization, she’d been sitting on the porch.

            He hadn’t needed to say anything as she eyed him and said in Spanish, “Don’t let that boy break your heart.”

            Beck didn’t know how she knew, but it made it easier. Months later, he’d find the courage to tell his parents, but it was only because Mami had reacted to it as she would with anyone before sending him in to set the table for dinner.

            Mamí was also the first one to realize he could see ghosts. In the little town most his family lived in, was a small cemetery packed with large gravestones worn down by salt. When he’d walk back, groceries in hand, he’d feel the way death would sing and his gaze would turn. He’d stand at the edge of the gates, enraptured by their weeps and helpless to appease them.

            She’d caught him on that same porch, and sometimes he believed she saw all the universe from right there. She’d said, “Lo ves los muertos. La triste sigue.”

            “No estoy triste, estoy bien.” And why would he be sad, like all the dead that he saw? No, he wasn’t sad. He was bundled in the warmth of his family, he had the brightest smile of them all. He was too young to know, that only those whose heart bled sadness could ever see the dead.

//

            Mamí told his parents, and his parents had proceeded to spend his early teens warning him not to let the Board know. His aptitude with magic was as easy as breathing, a feat rare for most teens. Where most would take their yearly aptitude tests starting at thirteen and ending at eighteen, the Board had requested he’d start at ten.

            Every year, during the scheduled appointment, his dad would hesitate by the door when it was time to leave. He’d place a sturdy hand on his shoulder. Beck looked up at him, at the hair starting to thin around his head and the fine line of wrinkles tracing every second he’d laughed and smiled throughout his entire life. Beck couldn’t imagine growing old, but he also wished, during the moments he almost could, that his face would be the same map of joy.

            That joy wasn’t there, in those moments, “It’s rare to see the dead, and the Council is always keeping an eye out. If the Board notices, they’ll report it. And if they do, you’re not—”

            He could never finish the sentence, but Beck knew anyway, “If you want me to hide it, I’ll hide. I’m sure we’ll be ok, right?”

            So he’d smile with the warmth of a morning sun and his dad would ease his grip and his mom would hurry them out before they were late, and it was all going to be ok. There was no ending in sight.

//

            Once, during what he’d later learn to be his last visit to the island, his family had celebrated his birthday as they always had. Him and his cousins ran through the small streets of town until they made it to the empty beaches (the kind tourists would never find because the kind of town they lived in was too poor. Too broken down. Too weather worn, for any of them to ever love. But Beck loved it, and he always would. A blessing and a curse). Some would take off their shirts and others would dive into the water without bothering to change.

            Beck’s voice, loud and bright, would call “You know the rules, whoever finds the most sand dollars gets the first of mamí’s mofongo.”

            As if it was a special treat, they’d scatter and laugh and if they were lucky, they’d find one. By the time they were tired and warm from sun and laughter, they’d find a truth which had persisted for years, since they started this game. Beck’s hands were full of sand dollars, all unbroken and various shades.

            When they’d rush back, they’d complain to mamí and ask how Beck always found so many, and she’d laugh and say it was because his heart was so bright it attracted many things. His sixteenth was different. After they came home and his grandmother laughed, she followed him to the cramped little bathroom with a sadness swirling in her dark brown eyes.

“El diablo vive en tú corazón, y yo también.” She’d said, pressing a hand to his heart and hers.

The devil lives in your heart, and mine as well.

In the years that followed he’d wonder what she’d meant.

Until the year came where he learned exactly what she meant.

//

            His sixteenth year of life had been different. Not just because his family had made it a point to spend an extra month at the island for his birthday, or because the whole of society treated sixteen like it was special. It was because of the way his magic had started to settle in his chest.

            Beck was as imperfect as any other teen boy, but it wasn’t the same imperfections as them. It was not violence or crude humor or fake bravado or shoving emotions into a box because they weren’t allowed to have them. It was him behind a glass, looking towards the rest of the world. It was him, spilling love into others and having love spilled into him, but his heart not holding it. It was him not recognizing the sound of his laugh, or taking a moment too long to register his face in the mirror.

            This was not the kind of beast that should be named. It was not the color of the ocean during storm, or of his mom’s favorite jacket. It was not there, because his magic was as gold as the sun he molded himself into. If his magic looked warm, then so too was his heart. The two were reflections off each other. A basic fact everyone knew. The beast wasn’t there at all.

            (It wasn’t there, because Beck was imperfect in his youth and believed things untrue. Afterall, how the fuck could it be there, when his life was everyone’s dream? No one was selfish, for being hunted by the beast. Beck was fucking selfish, because he obviously invited it in, this thing that wasn’t there at all.  For all his kindness, Beck had never left spares for himself.)

//

            Aptitude tests were different for all. Most years, Beck would focus on restoration, as well as general control points. Hovering items, moving them, shuffling multiple things at once, giving his magic form. It was more courtesy than anything.

            “This is different.” Beck started, entering the room. There were items sitting on a table. His eyes swept across each one. A pendant on a silver chain, a coffee mug, and a book. All harmless enough, if he didn’t feel the sick hit him within seconds. “Did the board plan something specific for me this time, Mr. Solace?”

            The man, always the picture of calm, said “Don’t fret, it’s quite simple. We all already know your skills, so there’s no point in doing the same thing for your remaining years.”

            “Does it normally change for everyone at sixteen, or is it because it’s always been easy for me to use magic?” Beck ignored the subtle shift of his parents’ posture as they came to stand near the long table the Board was seated. His smile was as easy as always. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Just tell me what to do.”

            “Each one of these is a magical item. All we ask for today is merely for you to attune yourself with them.” Mr. Solace inclined his head before moving towards the rest of the group. All eyes were on him as he made his way forward.

            Each one had their own glow, a spilling of magic. Two were easily overcome by the third. The book was thin and small, and brightly colored. Death clung to it in every corner.

            Beck went through the items in order, answering all questions asked to the best of his ability. The necklace had barely a drop of magic. The mug was much the same, although anyone who drank from it would be in a better mood. And then, the book.

            He didn’t flinch away. Mamí had told him how she could see ghosts the day she noticed. She’d never been afraid, because some of the dead were her ancestors, and why would they ever want to hurt her? And then she’d pressed a palm to his forehead, and said it was wiser to be afraid of why he was able to see them at all.

            With careful hands, he let his fingers skim the top cover. It hit him all at once. The world dimmed, color draining from his vision. His pulse picked up, rushing through his veins, packed with adrenaline. It took everything to focus.

            “What do you feel?”

            (Everything, all at once. The dead never held back.)

            The ease of his posture didn’t shift, his expression remained the same as ever. He tilted his head, trying to see if there wasn’t anything underneath it all. But it was so thick with death. It poured down his throat, numbing his perception of anything else.      

            He let his hand fall away with a shake of his head as he turned towards the table with a furrow of his brow, “Nothing?”

            There was a series of whispers, cascading from the four Board members. His parents’ retained a carefully neutral expression, avoiding giving anything away. It was the last man, with hair dark as night and an age that could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty who stood.

            Mr. Temple. It took a second to retrieve the name of the man who’d never spoken to him before. Had never spared a glance. Now, he strode forward and came to a stop in front of Beck. Everyone went quiet.

            “You feel nothing?” He asked and Beck nodded.

            “There’s no magic.” And this time he felt confident. Magic felt closer to life. It held the same roots, breathed the same air. It could not, by extension, exist in the same realm of death. And so, he felt nothing.

            But Mr. Temple reached out, and tore the cover off the book. All at once, everyone at the table threw jumped back. Beck’s eyes went wide as a scream tore through the air. A pair of hands, nothing but shadows, pulled themselves out from the pages. The room went dark. The form lunged, hands around Beck’s throat before he could blink.

            It was impossible not to react. His parents shouted and Beck threw his hands out in a sea of golden light. The thing shrieked again, spilling vitriol. This was a different feeling than any other ghost he had ever laid eyes upon.

            Then it was gone and Beck was breathing hard, sprawled on the ground. His throat hurt, bruise forming already in the form of hands. He stared at the ceiling, still washed out in color, mind racing to figure out what it was that’d happened. His fingers dug into the hard wood to ground himself. Mr. Temple did not look at him.

            “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘beauty is just the beginning of terror’?’” Mr. Temple asked, with no expectation of an answer. His own magic seeped a bitter blue as it encased the whole room. The dead hissed, stumbling, still intact. “If a soul once made of beauty can become this, it’d be better for the soul to be destroyed without hope to return.”

            Magic forced him back to his face and Beck stumbled. He breathed hard, a puppet on a string. The magic pushed him forward, towards the dead, “If we destroy it, does it pass on?”

            The man frowned, “No.”

            “Then I refuse.”

            “Truly?” He said, before the wraith was on him again. Mr. Temple watched. “Even if it should kill you?”

            It wanted his heart. To curl into and take shelter. To cry all of its rage away. To remember humanity. Beck’s heart, always open, always bleeding, did not fight it. If it could remember then—

            Flashes of a mother, reading a book to her child. Flashes of a woman curled beside a man, stomach swollen, face pale and exhausted. Flashes of a home as warm and safe as Beck’s. Flashes of a home with nothing but blood, as she took her dying breath.

            “I’m sorry,” Beck choked out, as though he killed her himself “I’m sorry, I—”

            Hands reached out to touch nothing. He felt it, when the dead died again. Ice sliced through his veins and he gave a strangled cry. He curled up, buried his face in his hands and wept. Mr. Temple stood over him, and his parents tried to rush forward. Hands grabbed them, held them back.

            Mr. Temple shook his head, “I shouldn’t have been surprised, with a family like yours.”

            The damnation rang louder than the pain.

//

            “My parents didn’t know.” Was the first thing Beck said as they were locked in Mr. Temple’s office. “I knew for a long time, but I didn’t tell them. I always thought—they were harmless. Sometimes I’d see them, and they were only ever sad. I didn’t think it mattered, that they were there.”

            “What you saw wasn’t a ghost, it was a wraith. They’re nothing but shells of what once was.” Mr. Temple shook his head slowly, void eyes passing over his expression. “More importantly, are you aware of the punishment for lying about your abilities?”

            Beck, alone in a room of no colors with only a dying lamp for light, refused to flinch, “No, I’m not, but leave my family out of it. I’m willing to do anything.”

            He leaned forward, a slow grin overtaking him, “If you were willing to do anything, you would have slaughtered that wraith. Your refusal is why you’re here with me in the first place. No matter, you’ll learn.”

            The cost of learning, was almost as severe as the cost of refusing.

            Almost.

            But not quite.

//

            It came in waves, during those days.

            (Don’t speak it out loud.)

            The expectations on him dragged him down. The eyes on him watching, noting each refusal. Every disappointment.

            (Don’t speak it out loud. He was not a monster. He was just a gift to one.)

            Later, he’d learned of how his parents fought for him. Later, he’d learn the costs placed on them were much the same as the ones placed on him. But that wasn’t until it was almost too late. So, his parents would take him to teachers meant for those close with death, and they’d turn away at the last second. The wraiths would come and he’d grit his teeth and think again and again he would not destroy a soul.

            (Was it steadfast morals or. Spite and rage he never though he could feel or. Or was it the thing without name?)

//

            His teachers thought his parents were to blame for all the bruises on Beck. It was an easy, messy explanation. They looked like hands around his neck, fingers gripping his arms, scratches all over his body. Magic could heal all wounds, if physical. Magic could not erase the memories of what’d been done.

            If he refused to heal himself or be healed, they didn’t make him return until he was better. They’d never let a hurt child go against the wraiths. But he was growing older, his magic stronger, and he’d need to learn to handle them on his own. That’s all this was.

            The dead felt it and he felt them. He pressed himself against his bedroom window, and listened to their song. If his magic was just a little stronger, he’d hear them crystal clear. If he didn’t stop himself, he thought he might hear the dead of the entire world. Listening to them was always a balm. Regardless of it all, they were out there. Guardian angels, until they finally could move on.

            And so his year went. The wraiths would hunger for his heart in their rage and the other magicians would watch and only step in when he was close to death. They’d ask him again and again why he’d refuse. His magic was so strong, a flick of his wrist could destroy these husks for good. And he’d bite his lip, and think this damage to his body was better then erasing an entire existence.

            His parents would reach out—

            (They’d raze the place to the ground if they could. But a hurt child is better than a dead child, isn’t it? A hurt child they can see is better than a hurt child taken away from them for all eternity.)

            —and he’d never flinch away, although maybe it was preferable to the smile still on his face.

            The dead would keep calling, and soon he’d know their song by heart. He’d dodge all the questions asked by teachers and adults about his wounds and it’d keep going. And going. And going.

            And he’d keep living, despite it all.

            And then, as the dawn of his seventeenth birthday approached, spent in his bedroom because leaving the boundaries of Mr. Temple’s jurisdiction was not allowed, his parents knocked on the door. He raised his head and there they stood. No longer the old version of themselves who hovered over him and showered him with the endless affection all teens found annoying. They did not cross the threshold into the inside.

            His dad didn’t talk, as though his mouth was sewn shut. His mom was the one who took a deep breath, “Beck…Titi Catalina called. It’s about mamí.”

            Beck stared out his window, breath fogging the glass. He’d never spent his birthday month so cold before, “She’s sick, isn’t she?”

            From the reflection, he could see the wobble of her lips. He turned and rose and held out his arms and the three collapsed together, as though death was connecting them again, instead of driving them apart.

//

            “If you manage to destroy a wraith, I’ll let you say your goodbyes.” For the first time since this all started, he was willing to believe the smoke and mirrors. Mamí, who had been the only one to see his heart in all ways. Who’d tell him stories of her youth, and sing old songs long forgotten, who’d drive him and his cousins out the house to finish chores. He owed her a goodbye.

            He walked into the room with nothing but a table and a birthday card. Wraiths sealed themselves away in the strangest things until their rage was remembered and woke them again. Mr. Temple stood behind the desk. Beck walked forward.

            When Mr. Temple ripped the card, the wraith was free. The void in his eyes was vaster than even the one in Beck’s own heart.

            He raised his hands. A chill ran through his body, heart wrenching itself in all directions. Had he been a soul magician, he would not have been able to go against his beliefs like this. But his magic responded even as his whole body threatened to be sick.

            To say goodbye, he told himself, but the void remained and Beck knew. There was nothing he could do, for that promise to be true.

            The wraith had once been a boy his age. He’d done sports and fought with his parents as fiercely as he loved them. He had a habit of tapping his fingers against his thighs, and his death had been from trying to pull a stranger out of the way of a drunk driver who’d gone off the road. He hadn’t saved them. He’d died for nothing.

            And Beck, with his magic glowing fierce, broke the most sacred rule of all as he pressed his hands into its body and gathered up this boy into his heart and gave those memories back. Remember. Remember. Remember.

             Blood spilled from his nose, as he collapsed to his knees. The wraith knew his face again, and it all slipped away from him. From wraith to ghost, from damned to lost. A shadow fell over where Beck laid. Not from the ghost, but from a very living man. It was the last thing Beck saw.

//

            They erased the ghost anyway, right before he could move on. Beck hadn’t expected any different, as he sat locked away, waiting for the call from his parents, that Mamí was gone.

            If he closed his eyes, he could be beneath the sea again.

//

            The sadness existed long before his affinity with death, of course. Mamí had known, it had taken plenty of her family from her. From the first time she met the boy, presented when he was a mere babe asleep in his mother’s arm, she’d known. From one generation to the next, it’d take someone from them.

            In her deathbed, she remembered the boy who’d held his little cousin’s hands to help them learn to walk. He’d go out of his way to get milk from the store and bring it to her, just like he’d do for any stranger. When she’d seen him set against the sunlight, eyes staring at a dead thing, she knew for certain.

            All her life she’d wondered a cure for sadness when it had no source. What was in Beck’s own heart was not something even he let himself see. Set against a deepening sunset, he looked like how her brother once did, and she wondered if Beck had seen his ghost, too. Like calls to like, after all. Her brother had never wanted anyone to feel what he’d felt up until he was gone.

            On her deathbed, she knew she’d failed him. His parents knew they failed him, too, as they sat next to her in the hospital.

            (But Beck, who loved more then anything, was always going to make the choice he did. Yes, what was done to him sped up the inevitable, but it was still inevitable. This is not an uncommon story. Mamí, and Beck’s parents, and Beck himself did not fail. They all only tried to love and protect each other, even though the odds were never in their favor.)

            When Mamí took her last breath, so too, did Beck.

//

            Beck didn’t ask for details of that night he could hardly remember. He had sessions with Dr. Ridge every other day, who did not like his easy smiles and laughs. The younger kids, however, adored him. He was practically the babysitter of this amalgamation of small children, all of who should not be here, but were.

            Initially, they thought his circumstances were due to all the corrupt powers that be in certain sections of the Magician’s Council. Yes, he’d said, and no. This made his stay longer, which suited him just fine. He settled in well, telling stories to kids, and playing games and watching shows with those closer to his age.

            They’d ask what had been done to him, and he hadn’t ever answered with the whole truth. His parents had rushed home, and refused to leave his side for days when they arrived at the facility. They had questions, so many questions, and just as many apologies and confessions.

            He never confessed to his parents, but during one of his sessions he’d stared at his hands and said, “I thought if I filled up my heart with love, I’d be able to chase the devil away.”

            “If love could heal everything, I think so many more would still be alive.”

            Beck acknowledged his heart, now that it had, for a brief moment, stopped beating. He didn’t know when the sadness had first taken root, because he’d never dared look it in the eyes. Now, as the months bled into each other, he accepted it was there. Maybe it always would be. It’d be alright, he’d only take its hand when it started to cry.

            Life kept moving. He studied and kept up with classes and tutored the other kids and made them breakfast and became deemed the group mom. His parents would visit every weekend, and no one else ever came.

            At some point, he’d gone from seventeen to eighteen, and he tapped the calendar on Dr. Ritcher’s wall, “I age out next week. It’s time for me to go home and figure everything out.”

            “You’ve done a lot of figuring out here.” She stated, and he laughed the kind of laugh she always frowned at. “Are you afraid?”

            “Yes,” he didn’t hesitate, “Maybe things will end up the same as before, but I know what I want to do. I’m going to Vales Grove.”

            It was common sense to protest. His parents had asked if he was still being threatened, even here, his dad ready to do what he should have done in the first place. But Beck, with a heart of emotions and a head full of memories that didn’t belong to him, knew there were things he needed to figure it out. He owed it to the dead. They’d been the ones to save him in the end.

            “Are you sure about this?”

            “If I go willingly, I’ll appear complacent, won’t I? And Vales Grove University has so many eyes on it, it doesn’t just belong to the Board. Even if it did, after what Mr. Temple did, they’ve been in shambles trying to find a replacement after his sentence. If there’s a safe time to find answers, it’s while they’re all a mess, right? Because I just need to understand why—” There were so many endings to that. But Dr. Ridge knew them, so he only closed his eyes and took a breath.

            She didn’t judge him any of those reasons. She merely clicked her pen and asked, “Before session is over, what flavor do you want your Going Home Cake to be?”

            Beck was finally making it home again. One day, he’d make it to mamí’s grave, too.