Word count: 5k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a boy who grew teeth to replace his missing wings.

CW: brief depictions of body horror, blood, gore, and mentions and discussions about drug use

A/N: I've been hoarding this since last year lol Now that chapter 3 is out, I can finally share this with you all! Hope you enjoy

###

There was blood in the snow. It was thick and dark and redder than any shade he'd ever seen. His body sunk into the earth, and the cold sunk into him. The Dead Thing stood over him, more alive than his parents now. More alive then he would be soon. Its faulty impression of wings flared out behind it, void face mimicking oblivion.

'Precious child, take your wings.'

Its hand reached out, cupping his cheek, forcing his head to raise. His blond hair fell back, unfocused eyes losing their color of clear blue. The wound on his back wouldn't stop bleeding. This was not a type of bleeding he knew, like the kind acquired from climbing trees or running through parks. His parents must have spilled out every drop, with the state they'd been left in.

His eyes slipped closed, body sagging. Its fingers trailed down his face, stopping at his throat. Its hands were colder than the snow. He'd never know anything else beyond his eighth winter.

Impact.

His body fell back, sinking into the snow. He cried out just as the thing let out an inhuman screech. There were voices shouting, hands reaching for him, tending to his wounds. More yelling. Hard words. More screaming. Magic polluted the air. The pain wouldn't leave him. It'd never leave him.

//

No one wanted him. He couldn't say he'd been surprised. Even so young, at the tender age of eight, he'd felt the way eyes would pierce into him, looking right at his neck. He tried to shrug it off, keep his head down, ignore the prickle on his skin. He'd keep quiet and live with his aunt and not pay attention to any of her and her husband's whispering. He'd try to stay out of his cousins' way.

He just wasn't made for anything except violence.

The scar on his back rose all the way to the left side of his neck. His shirt couldn't hide all of it, leaving it open for staring. The kids at school had asked about it with a flighty curiosity, but had mostly left it alone. So he grew up, and the scar grew with him. It was sensitive to the touch, pins and needles every time he brushed his own hands against it.

When someone else did it, quietly and suddenly, without permission, his brain lit up. He wasn't sure what he'd done until teachers were pulling him off another student, teeth barred and body shaking. The boy had laid strewn on the floor, wailing and covering his face. There was blood dripping to the floor, likely from a hit to the nose.

Lars hadn't realized what he'd done until his guardians were called in. He'd sat in the chair in the principal's office, turned away from the other kid who held an ice pack to his face, and glowered at the mediocre paintings hanging on the walls. He hadn't meant for this to happen, but it had. Whatever eggshells he'd been walking on shattered after two years.

His aunt arrived, looking flushed in the face from emotions. She didn't look at him. He didn't look at her. She apologized profusely, grabbed him by the arm hard, and when he jerked away, she pulled harder.

"Ten years old, and already causing problems. You really are just like my brother." Lars said nothing to her, too focused on getting her to let go.

He yanked and stalled and when she was ready to snap again he hissed. "Stop touching me."

She ignored him, and dragged him to the car. Directed him inside, and said they were going to have to talk about this later. He knew what that meant. He could already picture the conversation. He curled up in the backseat, rubbing where she touched and suddenly felt the need for a shower. Or maybe, even, a chance to rip off all his skin.

//

Middle school was when Lars stopped caring. Keeping his head down hadn't made them pleasant, and after his first mistake, he decided to do it on purpose. Fights were a rush, blood in his ears, nose, mouth. Fist connecting with skin, harsh words spilling out. It got to the tipping point by eight grade.

Aunt Lydia had made calls to every other family member she could think of. She couldn't raise him, not when he'd gotten expelled from a second school. Lars had thought 'fuck her', and snagged a cigarette from her purse when she hadn't been looking. He'd snuck out while she'd been begging on the phone yet again for someone else to take him in.

He went to the always barren park by the house. Lars wasn't sure what had happened here before, but he figured half of why it was empty was because of how prevalent death was. There was always the same ghost curled up by a lamppost and shivering. Lars wasn't sure, but he figured they died here from an overdose. He set the cigarette down on one of the tables, a habit he'd developed in the past year.

The ghost raised his head.

Lars said, "I need something from you again."

And the ghost answered.

//

"What are you doing here--don't just walk into this house."

Lars could hear the commotion from where he was holed up in his room. He kicked off the bed, threw the door open, and peeked out. A man he'd never seen before stood at the door. Dirty blonde hair, scraggly beard, the biggest shit-eating grin Lars had ever seen someone possess.

"What do you mean? I was invited. You have a rowdy teen boy problem and I'm here to take him off your hands." Lars narrowed his eyes as the man strolled in. Aunt Lydia was at a loss for words with that. He'd never seen her hold her tongue so quickly.

The man spotted him instantly. "Jesus Christ, you really do look just like my brother."

An uncle, then. Lars stepped out fully, slamming the door shut as if it'd make a point. "How do you know me?"

"Dear sis Lydia told me about you, of course."

"Bull fucking shit she did." Lars took a step towards him, and a flood of magic hit him as quickly as it flowed out of him. Immediately, Lars threw out a hand, bracing himself on the wall. His aunt shouted, asking what this freak of a man was doing.

Lars slipped to his knees, looking down at shaking hands. The whole world was slowly turning red. The red of blood. His own blood. What a curse, for his magic to look like this. The man kneeled down, reaching out and used magic to guide Lars' face up. He kept a distance away, to avoid any sense of touch.

His eyes were seeing right through him, "The name's Harvey Angel. I'm your uncle on your dad's side."

"What do you want?"

Uncle Harvey shrugged, "We'll talk about that later. For now, I'd suggest you start packing those bags."

//

"He's never shown a hint of magic." Lydia paced in the kitchen, furiously trying to get a hold of her husband. Harvey leaned back in the chair in was, tilting as far as he could go.

"I can imagine. How long since he's been doing drugs?"

She halted mid-stride. "What?"

"He's pretty young, right? Fourteen? I can't imagine he's been doing it that long. There's a program near my place that deals with youth addiction in case he needs it but--"

"Hold on." She snapped, hand slamming down on the table. "I've never seen him acting or looking like he was high."

"Well, you've never been the sort to see people." And teenagers were good at hiding things, besides. There were a lot of things he could assume immediately upon walking through the front door. The first was a strange and languid undercurrent of magic. It was always how magic felt with most kinds of drug use. He'd wanted to be sure, so he'd reached in and pulled the magic out of Lars before he'd known what was happening.

"You don't understand how much of a handful he is. He's worse than you and...well, he's worse than all of us when we were that age. And now this sudden revelation on top of it makes it all the worse. I never wanted to see you again, but at least you can finally take that fuck up off my hands."

Harvey said nothing, his eyes looking up towards where he heard the rummaging around of items. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with the boy. The last thing he was meant to be was a father figure, but his brother hadn't been either. At the very least, he owed it to him to try. So he'd try.

//

"First things first." Lars glanced around the room, sitting cross legged on the bed. By the sound of its creeks, he was sure it'd been around longer since he'd been alive. His apparent uncle sat across from him on top of the still unpacked boxes of the few things he had. Lars looked more like him than his aunt, he realized. The narrowness of the face and the easy bruising around the eyes mirrored his own. Had his dad looked the same? Lars couldn't remember.

"What?"

"What have you been using?"

Lars scowled, "If you kidnapped me just to send me to a rehab I don't fucking need--"

"Don't be smart. Answer the question."

He bit his inner cheek, but didn't see the point in hiding it, "Just pot."

"You swear?"

"What, do you want check my arm for track marks?" The warning flash in his uncle's eyes didn't match the ease of his smile. Lars took a deep breath. "I swear. I know plenty of death magicians' die from addiction."

The sharpness in his eyes eased a fraction, "You did your research. But knowing doesn't stop shit from affecting you."

"I don't know you well enough to get this lecture." Lars pressed his hands into the mattress, half tempted to get up and leave. But there was something still bothering him. "You didn't flinch when I mentioned death magicians."

"I knew you were one the second I pulled your magic at of you. Death magicians have a distinct aura around them. If you did it to me, you'd find the same." The easy admission made Lars look at the man in front of him again. He knew nothing about him, and he couldn't gleam anything from him either. "You started smoking so you wouldn't have to see the dead all the time, right?"

Lars nodded. He didn't like to admit it. There was nothing wrong with the dead, nothing that screamed danger when he looked at them. Yet, his whole back would grow warm and slick and the phantom pain of his scar would rush through him whenever he caught their gaze. He wasn't afraid, he just found the whole ordeal annoying.

"Well, you obviously know you're not the first. If it gets too much, let me know. I can show you some tricks. Eventually, you'll get used to the high and it won't stave the dead off like it does right now. That is, if you start to feel like trusting me."

"Why would I trust you? You're just another family member in a long line of them who took me in. By next year, I bet I'll be somewhere else. If I wasn't a magician, I would have been tossed to the system by now."

He meant this, and the returned smile was enough to ignite his blood, "Naw, I think I'll like you Lars. We'll see how things go, won't we?"

"I guess we will."

//

In that first year, Lars learned a lot of things about Uncle Harvey. He wasn't a master liar, and he didn't give a shit as to who he was lying to. On his fifteenth birthday, when he'd been forced to redo his magic aptitude test, Uncle Harvey had woven a whole tale of how Lars had been a late bloomer. Drugs? There were no drugs, Harvey's sister had just resented Lars with her whole soul that she'd made an excuse to get rid of him. They could even run a drug test.

By the end of the whole bullshit spiel, Lars had almost believed the man himself.

He also was the Death magician he'd claimed to been. During the first semester of his freshman year of high school, Uncle Harvey had picked him up one time for a reason Lars no longer remembered. When Lars had gotten to his car, Harvey had been eyeing one of the windows.

"What is it?" Lars had thrown his bag in the backseat before sitting on the passenger side.

Uncle Harvey had merely shrugged, "There are some schools more haunted than hospitals, I think. Maybe it has to do with how it's easier to accept death when you know it's coming, than in a place where you don't."

When Lars had glanced back, he'd seen a face he'd grown familiar with. A girl, a few years older, with her hair teased up in a baby blue blouse. Whatever had killed her wasn't something that had left wounds on the outside. Her eyes were always closed, her head always resting against the window.

He'd looked away.

The last thing Lars realized, during the summer before his sophomore year, was that his uncle was serious. Clearly, Uncle Harvey had no idea how the hell to be a parent. He forgot about dinner and coming home at night, or he'd show up at school, still half asleep, after the few fights Lars had gotten in to, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn't be damned despite the other fuming parent.

Yet, he could read Lars like a book. Everything he refused to say, Harvey just knew. After his first official high school fight, he'd handed Lars an axe and told him to go chop some wood to get the energy out. Lars had looked at him like he was insane yet ended up going at it until his fingers were raw. When Lars had felt the hint of a cold, the cabinets were suddenly stocked with medicine. When the unquiet of the dead reached for him, his uncle would drag him away, telling him looking only gave them power.

Then it was summer again, and Lars was still living with this man who had no plans to kick him out. He'd sat in the living room one morning, the foggy blue haze of six am filtered through open windows and smudged glass, and watched his uncle sit at an old piano. He'd watched the way his fingers glided over the keys and narrowed his eyes.

"I want to know."

"How to play piano?" His uncle hadn't looked up. "Your dad used to be quite the composer, you know."

"No, I don't know. I hardly remember him. But that wasn't what I was talking about. Teach me about Death magic." He paused, the notes gliding over him. He didn't remember his father well, but if he reached deep inside, he could almost recall sitting on a piano stool beside a vague male form playing a quiet melody. "And maybe the piano, too. If you can."

The man glanced back, more teeth than grin, "Finally convinced I don't hate you?"

"No, but close enough." Uncle Harvey's grin turned real at that as he barked out a laugh.

"Good, but don't expect me to go easy on you." Lars scoffed, and that was that.

//

Years went by. Harvey kept close eye on his nephew, who he hadn't expected to have real feelings for. But underneath all the bite, he could see fragments of his brother. The three of them had never gotten along when they were younger, and the second they could they'd all scattered to the wind, never to speak to each other again. Now, though, Harvey wondered if that man had been all bad. Perhaps it was his death which made him fonder of old memories than he should be.

Lars took quickly to music. His free time was spent more on practicing the piano and reading up on music theory than it was on homework. Harvey found he could only be so hard on him, since he figured the boy would have coasted along with his grades regardless of if he took up hobbies or not.

And as far as he could tell, leaning into his magic had done him far more good than bad. Harvey had seen many try to reach into that well and it caused them to spiral so much faster than if they'd merely run from their cursed magic. Death Magicians barely made it to fifty. It was a legacy filled with suicide and addiction and illness. And the Board of Magicians had never cared enough to offer their assistance.

The relief that Lars had hit his eighteenth birthday alive and sober enough, was enough to let him breathe. He did care for Lars. He hadn't cried at his brother's funeral, but if he ever had to attend Lars'? He thought he would.

"How does graduating feel?" Harvey asked, as he drove Lars to the ceremony.

Lars cut him a glance from the passenger seat, "Like I don't have to deal with bullshit anymore."

Harvey had to stop his grin, "Oh yeah? Then why'd you apply for college?"

There was a moment's pause, "Change of scenery. And anyway, I want to take music seriously."

"The Board won't let a Death Magician do whatever they please, you know."

"They can eat shit and die for all I care. I'm leaving, and they can try to drag me back if they want." Years had not softened him, but Harvey liked that. Liked that he could ask Lars anything and he'd always answer with his honest feelings, even if he did say it tinged with cruelty.

It made Harvey wish he had appreciated it in his brother. He wished he could go back in time and try again. Maybe if the three siblings had tried, things would have been different. But that was time he couldn't get back. He hoped taking in Lars would make up for those wounds he'd caused.

"Don't completely ghost me when you're gone." Harvey hadn't meant to say it.

Lars paused, the fire in his eyes cooling, "Sure."

In the language of Lars, that was a promise.

//

College went. Lars had taken up more instruments than his professors had cared for, and yet proved himself decent enough in all of them, and pretty good at two of them. His main strength was composing, and he sank into it with fever.

His uncle had managed to find some of his dad's pieces and Lars had studied them as though it would hold the answers of what the hell had happened that night all those years ago. Instead, he learned more about his dad's taste in music. Angry pieces with fast tempos, excessive use of staccatos, an endless aversion to the standard 4/4 time signature.

If art reflected the artist, than him and his dad might have been similar. He'd never bothered to ask his uncle about his parents, because he hadn't cared. He didn't want to know the dead, but he did want to know about the attack. The scar on his back felt like an endless mockery. He would find the monster, and slaughter it with his own hands.

But for now, he buried himself in a world away. No magicians, no magic, only the faint lingering of death and ghosts. The break was something he'd sought for so long. A world that just consisted of himself and no one else. He'd sink into creation and the rest of him would cease to exist. If he kept working, he'd cease thinking. He'd cease to be.

Nothing lasts forever, of course.

After one of his morning classes, he'd found a man waiting for him by the door.

"Lars Angel?" Lars paused, assessing eyes darting to who had stopped him. He was unfamiliar, middle aged with only a hint of aging, slicked back hair and a suit that costed a pretty penny. His pale skin had a glow to it, his smile barely suppressed anger. It wasn't directed at him. But that didn't matter as much as the magic which radiated off him in droves.

It made Lars snap, "Who the hell are you?"

The smile became sharp, the anger redirected towards him, "I'm the headmaster of Vales Grove University. You may call me Mr. Windsor. I have something I need to discuss with you, as per the request of West Myer's Board of Magicians."

"I'm not interested in using my magic for them."

"We'll discuss it further, in private." Lars locked eyes with Mr. Windsor, and the two stayed like that, immobile. Lars wasn't going to be the one who looked away, and apparently neither was Mr. Windsor. "Please don't delay. It will be easier for both of us if you come along. Especially seeing as this has to do with the incident twelve years ago."

Twelve years, back when he was eight. Back when his parents died. Lars' voice emptied out of all emotions, "Understood."

Despite himself, he followed Mr. Windsor down the halls.

//

"Death magicians are rare, you know." Mr. Windsor stirred cream into a cup of coffee. Lars cast a glance around the pseudo-quaint cafe, feeling magic roll over him in waves. He'd never been in a space with so many other magicians before. "They also bring up a lot of concern for us."

"So you're here to spy."

"I meant the harm in which they cause onto themselves." Mr. Windsor frowned, and Lars gave him a blank stare.

"I've been doing pretty good, thanks. But this isn't a wellness check. Cut the bullshit. You want something from me." Lars tapped his fingers against the wood of the table, chipped nails echoing despite the constant drone of radio jazz.

The flicker in the man's eyes showed his patience was already starting to wear thin. Lars wondered what kind of big shot he was that a hint of resistance blew his fuse, "You're right. West Myers' Board is dealing with a major issue in relation to both West Myers' itself and Juniper Valley. The assistance of Death Magicians would be a major help."

"Juniper Valley has always had something wrong with it." Granted, Lars hadn't realized that until he'd left the place. All at once, the tendrils of decay unraveled around his body. The constant presence of the dead had been a brief question in his mind. One he'd circled back to in relation to the slaughter of his parents. But he hadn't fully considered it. Not since he hadn't really thought he'd ever return.

"There are many place in this world, with different manifestations of magic and death. You'll find places of endless summers in regions that don't make sense, you'll find find towns were time has been stolen, and for Juniper Valley, death has always been its domain. It is not wrong, merely different."

A hard smile flashed on Lars face, "Yet, you seem the type of man to attack anything different as wrong. But being the Headmaster of Vales Grove, you can't actually say that, can you? Not without dealing with the consequences that come from holding that opinion."

The false pleasantness finally cracked away, and his smile became as biting as Lars, "You're exactly like your father."

Lars didn't take the bait, "Back on topic. You want me back because I'm a Death Magician?"

"Specifically, Vales Grove University has a grad program for Student Wardens--"

"I'm not going to be a dog for the Board, and I'm not going to be a dog for the university." Lars moved to stand, already finished with the conversation.

Mr. Windsor took a sip of his coffee, "Whatever is causing issues for the Board is related to the monsters which killed your parents."

"Is that so?" He glanced over, and Mr. Windsor nodded.

"I think someone liked the irony. 'Angels' killing the Angels' family. I supposed they missed a few, what with you and your uncle."

"And my aunt."

"Your aunt? Ah, yes. She wasn't blood related to your father. I suppose that had something to do with her safety." This was new information. Mr. Windsor kept watching his face, waiting for Lars to misspeak. Lars wondered when it'd click that he didn't have any emotional investment in his family.

It was what all soul magicians did with heart magicians. Appeal to their emotions, because it's where they draw their magic from. Lars was pretty sure some of their theories on magic were faulty, considering the absence of empathy he'd had his whole life.

"Uncle Harvey never mentioned he'd been attacked."

"Your uncle has a history of keeping to himself. Besides, he's always been one to handle himself. He killed the thing himself before help arrived."

"So these 'angels' can be killed, then? What are they, exactly?"

"They're the remnants of people who've tried to cheat death." Mr. Windsor took the last sip of his coffee. "Specifically, magicians who've tried to."

"So that's why I've never heard about it before. How hard did y'all work to keep that under lock and key?" Lars frowned at the desk, deep in thought. "What did they want with my family?"

"Neither I nor the Board knows. But if you help us, you'll have access to all the information you need to find out." Mr. Windsor's voice shifted to something almost sarcastic, "We have a well funded music program, if that's a major concern as well."

"Sure. I'll think about it." Lars stood, stretching, "But know I'm not that broken up about the death of strangers."

"Wait--" Lars didn't wait. He slipped out of the cafe, squinting up at the too bright sun. He had time until he graduated, and he'd prefer to leave people like that brewing in the uncertainty. He knew his answer. Knew he needed to know the mystery of what had happened all those years ago. But for now, the Board could go fuck itself.

//

"You don't have to agree."

"I wasn't aware of that, Uncle Harvey." Lars pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder, fingers dancing fast across a variety of documents he'd managed to find. It was just after three in the morning, and thankfully neither of the two them slept. A family trait, Lars guessed.

"Cut the sarcasm. Why are you considering Vales Grove? I know it has nothing to do with their grad program and besides, you hate authority. Becoming a Student Warden and bowing your head to the school is less preferable then walking over a stack of needles barefoot."

He managed to find the page, smoothing out the collection of old articles in front of him. Instead of answering, he pulled back, snapped a photo, and sent it over. Lars could hear when Harvey saw it by the series of swears, "I started considering it when I found out my ancestors fucked over the school's founders over a hundred years ago."

"They did. I didn't tell you because it didn't matter on the grounds you weren't ever going to attend."

"Never say never." Lars stared at the endless notes in front of him. "Next time we meet up, you're gonna teach me about my family tree."

He hung up the phone before Harvey could say anything else.

//

"For people who hate death, your school reeks of it." Lars lounged in the over sized chair in Headmaster Windsor's office. Languidly, he took in the endless certifications and diplomas decorating the wall behind where the man sat. "Anyway, I have a few conditions to my attendance."

"You're incredibly bold to be demanding anything of us."

"Why?" A slow grin spread across Lars' face. "Did you think you and those above you had the power to force me to attend?"

Headmaster Windsor closed his eyes, the mask of patience sliding into place easier than it had when the two had first met. "You're speaking nonsense. Regardless, what are your demands?"

"I want free access to every location and all information available on this campus." He leaned forward before the Headmaster could protest. "This is running off of what you said prior. You promised I could find information on my family, and I know we have strong ties to this school."

"The Board won't be pleased."

"That's a problem you deal with. I couldn't care less about pissing them off. Second, I want to be left alone. I'll join the Student Wardens, however I don't want to be dragged into their duties unless necessary."

"There would be little point in you being here if you refuse to help."

"Let me be clearer. Issues with wraiths and other things that go bump in the night? Fine, I'm there. Ghosts, however? They're about as dangerous as an untuned piano. Grating, sure. But it's not going to kill anyone."

Headmaster Windsor pressed his lips together. "I'll consider it. I'm assuming there's more?"

Lars paused, the desire to press his fingers to his neck, just over his scar, pressing into him. Him and his uncle hashed out everything about what they knew about West Myers, Juniper Valley, and Vales Grove University. From the tragedy of its now closed sister school, Pacific Suncrest, to the his parents' slaughter, to the murder of Luck Magicians that occurred the same year as his parents' death. There were endless things he wanted, some he couldn't access at this school. There was one which he wanted more than all the others.

Lars spoke with the weight of a thousand suns. "I want a list of anyone suspected to have links with the Walking Graves. If you refuse to grant me this information, I refuse to attend."

There'd been a long moment, before Headmaster Windsor had given him his answer.