Chapter Text
Roman stared out the window of his room, glaring at the cold rain and snow mix tapping against the glass. It was too dark to see anything beyond it, despite it nearing morning. Still, the faint flicker of a candle on his nightstand, one of the only pieces of furniture in the room, cast enough light to reveal the outline of his bed: a bare, rusted iron frame with no blankets or mattress. His skin rested directly on the freezing metal slats, making sleep impossible.
Not that he wanted to sleep. That’s where the nightmares lived. Even locked away in the attic, he couldn’t sleep. His body didn’t know how to relax anymore. He’d flinch awake at phantom footsteps, sure someone was coming. His brain whispered danger even in silence. After years in hellish foster homes, he’d learned not to let his guard down for that long.
He curled tighter, staring into the early morning fog like it might stare back. The bed and nightstand were shoved into the coldest corner, directly under the window. A cracked mirror hung beside it, and a splintered dresser slumped against the wall, barely holding his few belongings.
Not that he had many to begin with. A toothbrush. A hairbrush missing most of its bristles. His prized possession, an old teddy bear with a green bow. It was Remus’s, from before they were split up. A few clothes, stretched thin, none of them warm.
He was small for his age, which wasn’t surprising. Being underfed for most of your life would do that. At barely five feet tall, Roman looked more like a twelve-year-old than sixteen. He wasn’t even sure if he was sixteen. No one celebrated his birthday. But he remembered seeing his file once, back when a distracted caseworker had left it open. It had said that his birthday was sometime in early June.
That same file told him his parents were shot when he was three.
His twin brother, Remus Reston, had been with him for the first few placements. But they were separated years ago, and Roman hadn’t seen him since. He prayed Remus had landed in a good home. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that didn’t break him. Unlike Roman.
Thirteen years in the system, and this was his eleventh foster home. He’d been here almost a year, one of the longest placements since his early childhood, and... There . The Millers didn’t raise their hands, but their neglect bruised in quieter ways. Silence. Cold. Hunger. Threats. They didn't need fists to leave scars.
He stayed in the attic. They claimed it was for “privacy,” but mostly they just wanted him out of sight. No heat. No food. No bathroom access unless they granted it. There was no overhead light, but sometimes he managed to pocket old candles when they let him out. The Millers told his caseworker they were homeschooling him, but even Roman could tell the man didn’t believe it. He also knew the caseworker didn’t care. He’d gotten dangerously sick that first winter and had never fully recovered. Now the dreaded season had circled back again, and he wasn’t looking forward to what it would undoubtedly bring. Then again, he might not be here that long.
The Millers, like so many others, were only in it for the state checks, and Roman could tell they were getting nervous. His caseworker might not care if he attended school, but if anyone outside the home took a closer look at the situation, or him, those checks would stop. There had already been a few close calls with suspicious neighbors. He was sure it wouldn’t be long until they sent him back. Probably before the month was over.
A sudden pounding on the attic door made him jump; he hadn't realized so much time had passed. “DAMN IT, BOY! WAKE UP!” The unpleasant shriek from Mrs. Miller pierced the silence. Roman scrambled upright, forcing himself to stand straight just as the lock rattled and the door slammed open.
She gave him a once-over and scoffed. “My God, child. You look half-dead. Try to clean yourself up after you’re done scrubbing the house. I need you to fetch groceries, and I don’t need the cops thinking you’re a shoplifter. I haven’t got time to bail you out of jail.”
Roman bit his lip. She knew full well his other clothes weren’t any better. But arguing was pointless. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, barely audible. Talking hurts. It always did. Like nails down his throat, squeezing the sound out of him until he couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t mute. He couldn’t be. Speaking was just as necessary as silence; both were weapons, and he had to know when to use which to survive. That didn't mean it wasn't a fight to get the words out. And sometimes he lost; those days were always particularly painful.
Mrs. Miller spun on her heel, leaving the door open behind her.
Roman sighed and stepped into the hallway. At least cleaning meant warmth, and maybe food. If he was lucky, he’d find some loose change for another candle. He’d learned early on that asking got him nowhere. Everything he had, he’d earned, scavenged, or quietly taken when no one was looking. It wasn’t stealing if they never noticed- or if they didn’t care.
He glanced at his wrist. Once, names had been there. His soulmates... Three of them. Boys, he remembered that much. It was rare to have so many. Special. Something worth hoping for, once upon a time.
That had changed one night, years ago, at another home, when he accidentally broke a plate while cooking. The punishment had come swiftly and without mercy for the small child no matter how much he screamed; a forced press of his arm to the stove burner until the skin hissed into blisters. Now the names were gone, replaced with warped, angry skin. He always kept the scar covered.
A strip of cloth wound tight around his wrist, like he could hide the memory if he just tied it down hard enough. People looked at it funny when it slipped into view. He understood. It made him uncomfortable, too.
He didn't remember their names but he remembered the colors: purple, dark blue, and baby blue. In the end, he knew they'd be better off never meeting him. He’d spare them the disappointment.
Lost in thought, Roman walked face-first into the living room wall and fell back hard with a grunt. Blood trickled from his nose. He touched it, fingers coming back red. “Damn it,” he whispered ever so quietly to himself. “Not again...”
His last foster brother had broken it with a punch after Roman waved goodbye to the guy’s girlfriend. She’d always been kind to him, brought him snacks when she visited, and smiled like he wasn’t invisible, like on some level she knew he needed the kindness. She’d been several years older, and Roman hadn’t meant anything by it. But his foster brother had decided otherwise.
It had mostly healed, but was wrong. Now, even a bump could set it off again. Crooked bones and chronic pain. Just another leftover mark. Footsteps approached, heavy ones. Panic flared and Roman quickly grabbed a rag and a tissue, scrubbing the carpet and wall before any blood could be noticed.
“What the hell are you doing in here, boy?” Mr. Miller wasn’t loud. That made it worse. Roman had learned the quiet ones were the ones you really had to watch. “S-sorry, sir... I- I walked into the wall.” His gaze stayed fixed on the man’s shoes.
At barely five feet tall, Roman was used to looking up at everyone, but the man’s build and presence far towered over him in more than just his height. “What are you, blind? I’m not paying to fix you.”
“No, sir. Just clumsy, sir.” Mr. Miller grunted and stepped around him.
Roman exhaled, relieved too soon. Hot breath ghosted the back of his neck. He flinched. “Be careful not to break anything,” the man muttered. “Or I’ll throw you out in the snow.” Roman nodded quickly, the cold in his chest sharper than anything outside. He didn’t answer. Just turned back to the bloodstain and kept scrubbing.