Chapter Text
It’s cold. Not that he ever really feels warm, but today is particularly bad. Anders tugs his backpack tighter against his back, hoping it’ll help stave off some of the wind. It’s like knives against his skin; tiny knives threatening to shred his skin and resolve. He’s not cold.
It’s just cold out.
He hears them before he feels them. Hears the sneers and taunts and jokes at his own expense. Hey, look! It’s that ugly little midget again! Hey, Johnson!
His eyes slide shut as he comes to a stop. It’ll probably hurt less if he just lets it happen. It usually does. Not that it hurts. He doesn’t hurt.
A hand grabs the handle of his backpack and drags him backwards. Anders shuts out their words. He’s heard them all before. Weakling, ugly, dwarf. They’re just empty words now. Empty words from empty people. Faggot, bitch, know-it-all.
He feels the punch, but doesn’t really register it. It’s the second that sticks out in his haze. His lip scrapes against his teeth wrong and blood pours out of the wound. Great. This is one of his only shirts that isn’t stained with blood or vomit. Or, sadly, both.
He tries to push them away against his better judgement. It’s an instinct. One of the last he’s trying to fight and keep himself from doing. It makes it worse.
Anders is on the ground in no time flat, since he’s really not putting up much of a fight. His ass hits the ground all wrong, the hard impact hurting the bruises he already has. A yelp he doesn’t want to make is pulled from his throat with the bright burst of pain. It sounds weak and pathetic and Anders decides to pretend it didn’t come from him. It’s easier to pretend.
The heavy boot crashes into his ribs and he can’t breathe. Shit, he can’t breathe. Another crushing blow and he’s seeing black in his vision. And not for the first time, Anders can’t help but hope he’ll just pass out from it. At least he won’t feel it happening.
Not that it hurts.
Cheese. Pasta. Bread.
Mitchell mentally runs through his shopping list as he walks down the street, jacket collar turned up against the wind. He’d taken one look at his barren cupboards and realised that the dreaded shopping trip could be avoided no longer. The fact that he couldn’t even drown himself in tea had done little to improve his mood as he’d resigned himself to going back out in the harsh weather.
Tea bags.
He brings his cigarette to his lips, paper glowing as he takes a drag. He inhales deeply, savouring the burn in his lungs, so different from the constant twinge of hunger, the hunger that won’t be sated by anything on his shopping list.
Beer. Lots of beer.
Not that it means he can’t try.
Exhaling, he pulls his leather jacket tighter around him, grateful for his worn gloves as he feels the chill seeping further into his bones.
Filters. Papers.
Tendrils of smoke curl lazily around him, exposed fingertips almost numb as he flicks ash onto the pavement and brings the cigarette up for another toke. He’d run out of filters earlier that day, had resorted to rolling a roach instead, the lack of a proper filter only intensifying the burning satisfaction of his only remaining vice.
It’s as he’s turning the corner, grocery store in sight, that it hits him. The smell of freshly spilt blood.
He grinds his teeth against the onslaught on his senses, keeping his gaze fixed on the supermarket at the end of the road when the coppery smell drifts past him again. He barely suppresses a moan as the itch in his throat racks up, compelling him to take a deeper breath, to turn and find the source and bleed them dry.
Milk. He needs milk.
Determined not to cave into his desire, he continues towards the shop, ignoring the ever present voice in his head that is telling him that a fresh meal, a proper meal would be so much more pleasurable than the mac and cheese he planned to make.
Cheesecake.
Dessert. He’ll treat himself. He’ll fucking deserve it if he makes it into this shop and back again without ripping someone’s throat out. That lone jar of pickles in the back of his fridge is looking like a good option at this point.
He’s within reaching distance of the door when he hears it, a small yelp followed by the unmistakeable sound of someones ass hitting the pavement. Instinctively he turns at the sound, cringing internally as he realises that the source of not only the sound but the blood too is no more than a boy of about 13.
The taunts of the group of lads that surround the younger boy reach Mitchell’s ears as he turns away. Not your problem, not your place to interfere. Mac n’ cheese Mitchell.
He raises his hand to open the door, falters as another whimper carries on the wind. Okay beer. Beer and cigarettes. Priorities Mitch.
He shivers as a particularly strong gust brushes past him. The growing unease at the situation has Mitchell hesitating again, and it’s as he pauses that he realises that the smell of blood was somewhat different; tangy and tinted with fear and panic and anger, admittedly all emotions he’s not unfamiliar with with regards to the spilling of blood, but there’s something else too. Something he can’t quite put his finger on.
The kid wasn’t even wearing a coat.
It’s the sound of boots meeting flesh that has Mitchell’s resolve crumbling, feet crossing the street before he even realises what he’s doing, anger at the sight of the older boys kicking the shit out of the sandy haired youngster clouding his vision and suppressing even the blood lust.
The boy’s voice rings in his ears, yelling at the kids to shove off, and he’s fighting back but Mitchell can see that he’s losing, can see that the older kids aren’t going to stop.
He barely has a moment to admire the youngsters tenacity before he’s upon them, grabbing the coat of the largest boy and throwing him off to one side.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he barks, his voice feeling oddly unused. He doesn’t notice the way his voice has the kid on the ground recoiling in terror, arms flying up to cover his face.
He turns, eyes bleeding to black, fangs descending as he leans forward to hiss at the older bullies. The look of terror on their faces does nothing to ease the quaking rage inside of him, and he takes a step forward, hands curling into fists, when he hears a shaky voice behind him.
“Just leave it mate.”
The voice is so quiet that for a moment Mitchell thinks he imagined it. He retracts his fangs, eyes returning to amber as he whirls around in disbelief. Absently he registers the sound of the older lads running off, words like “freak” and “demon” flying off their tongues, as he takes stock of the pathetic little ball of bruises and anger and fluffy hair that he’s now being confronted with. Tiny arms pull away from his face and two of the brightest blue eyes he thinks he's ever seen meet his.
“You’re joking right?” Mitchell raises an eyebrow at the boy, reaching out a hand to help pull him up off the ground.
A hand which is promptly smacked away.
“Look I don’t need your help,” the boy snarls, actually fucking snarls who does this kid think he is? He scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly and Mitchell’s reaching out a hand again before he can stop himself.
“What the hell are you’re doing?” the boy snaps at him again, and Mitchell’s instantly recoiling, rolling his shoulders and biting his tongue against the snark retort he wants to make.
He could be buying food right now. Hell this little scrap of a boy could be his food right now.
Still. Mitchell’s eyebrows furrow as he gets a better look at the bruises littering the kid before him as he straightens his clothes and hitches up his backpack. He notices a few surrounding the boys throat, mentally noting that he hadn’t seen the other boys grab him there. His frown deepens.
“Did they do that to you?” He asks, instantly regretting it as the boy stiffens.
The boy looks up at him, half in question and half in irritation. And he has to look up; now that he’s standing Mitchell realises he barely even reaches his chest.
Mitchell gathers himself, pointing at his own throat in answer, confusion building as the boy flushes a deep shade of pink and drops his gaze to the floor.
Mitchell feels a little bad for asking but… There’s something about this that doesn’t seem quite right to Mitchell.
“Yeah, what of it?” The answer is aimed at the pavement, small feet now toeing at the ground in front of him.
He watches as the boy wipes his face on his sleeve, blood smearing across the thin fabric of his long-sleeved t-shirt, as he bunches his little hands inside the too-long sleeves. He hasn’t forgotten the not quite right smell of the boys blood either.
Mitchell shrugs, not even knowing himself why he’d asked the question. Of course those boys had done that to him. The poor kid was obviously getting his ass handed to him on a regular basis. Instead he changes tact. “Aren’t you cold?”
The boy snorts, but Mitchell can see that the laugh doesn’t reach his eyes, the blue depths icier than the ground they're standing on.
“Why do you care?” he answers with a question of his own, and before Mitchell can even work out why he does seem to care, the kid is shouldering past him, literally slamming his shoulder into Mitchell’s chest as he passes.
“What the hell is your problem kid?” Mitchell blurts out, and this time he doesn’t fail to notice the boy flinching back at his sharp retort. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and remember that he’s speaking to a child. “Look, I was just trying to help.”
“Yeah well, like I said, I don’t need your help,” they boy replies, and Mitchell has to shove his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out and stopping the boy from walking away.
He doesn’t know what it is about this kid, but he instantly feels the need to protect him. Maybe it’s the clearly too-large clothes that he’s wearing, clear signs of hand-me-downs and thrift shop buys; the lack of a coat doing nothing to hide the collarbones Mitchell can see jutting out underneath his thin shirt; or maybe just the fact that despite the fear Mitchell can hear laced in his every word, and the beating he just witnessed, the boy still has the guts to hold his head up and tell Mitchell where to go.
“Asshole.”
The flippant remark jolts Mitchell from his musings and he snaps his head up, reply out of his mouth before he can stop it.
“Hey my name’s not asshole. It’s Mitchell.”
He doesn’t know why he says it, doesn’t know why he thinks this boy would give two shits about what his name his, doesn’t understand why he wants the boy to know it.
Maybe the broken shreds of his soul just recognise another lonely one when he sees it, maybe he’s just so desperate to actually connect with another person, to actually hold a conversation, that the fact he’s even bothered by what a 13 year old boy would think doesn’t even register. Maybe he might actually be able to help someone, instead of hurting them like he normally does.
The boy pauses, before turning and fixing him with a look that is full of so much resignation it pains Mitchell to look at it.
“I really couldn’t care less,” the boy sneers, before turning and walking away again.
Well. Maybe not then.
As Anders walked away, he felt almost compelled to glance back over his shoulder. It’s an old feeling. One that’s heavy in his gut, and had nothing to do with the round of abuse it took today. As he gets farther and farther away from the stranger, his skin almost crawls with the desire to look back. He can’t wrap his head around why.
He was just another adult who thought they could help. He can’t help. He’s just another person who thinks they care, up until the second they realise they don’t. The last thing Anders wants or needs is a saviour. He’s already had plenty of people half assing their attempts.
Anders rounds the corner, feeling relief wash over him when he’s out of the stranger’s line of sight. With the relief comes the inevitable breaking of the dam. He takes a few more steps before he collapses against the wall of the nearest building, finally giving into the urge to actually feel the pain radiating throughout his body. His entire being. If souls are real, Anders’ throbs in a steady rhythm with the blood pulsing beneath his freshly abused skin.
He hadn't wanted to look weak in front of the man that had come to his rescue. Frustration licks hotter at his insides than his humiliation does. No one's ever saved him before and he doesn't need it now, either. That man, the asshole, his mind supplies for him, had no right butting into his business. Especially when he had looked so pathetic and weak, like Anders knew he did.
Anders is just so tired of looking weak in front of others.
He can’t sit here forever. He has to get home. Ty’s going to be hungry and Mike will probably be off late from work again. Anders’ stomach doesn’t even bother to growl at the thought of food. There probably wouldn’t be enough for them both, and even if there were, he doesn’t think he can eat it.
Pushing himself up from the wall, motivated by the thought of what happens when he’s late, Anders gets to his feet and hurries to get home. It isn’t until a street later that he’s doubled over, heaving into Ms. Miller’s rosebush. It might be the only time Anders thinks he’s glad the kids at school stole his lunch money.
Wiping his mouth off, he prays Ms. Miller didn’t see him as he continues down the street. He looks at his sleeve, waiting for the cross light to turn. The smell of sour stomach acid burns his nose.
Now it’s both, he thinks with a sneer.
The light changes and he steps into the crosswalk, not even bothering to look both ways. What would it matter if he got hit by a car? Not a whole lot, he thinks to himself with a shake of his head.
Ty greets him at the door, a small smile on his face. “Hey,” he looks up at his big brother and tugs him inside by his sleeve. His nose wrinkles when he touches the wet fabric. Big eyes glance up at him, a frown replacing the tiny grin he had. But Ty remains silent as he lets go of his shirt and lets his brother peel off his shoes.
Anders is so glad Ty never pries, unlike Mike.
Maybe Mike prying because he wanted to help wouldn’t be so bad. But Anders is sure it’s for his own amusement, rather than to help. After all, weren’t big brothers supposed to stand up to the bullies?
Not that he needs him to. Anders doesn’t need help.
The house is silent. It’s an odd sound to him. One he both craves and hates. When the house is silent, that means no one is fighting. Which could be either bad or good, he can never quite tell. Sometimes it’s good, means both of his parents are off on their own somewhere in the house, or out. Anders doesn’t care to know where, so long as it’s anywhere but here.
But sometimes it’s bad. Sometimes that means it’s really bad. That someone has said something awful to the other. They’re brewing the storm. Those are always the worst days. Those are the days that even Ty gets hit if he’s not careful.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his too-empty stomach, Anders thinks this might be the calm before the storm. The day can never get better, but it always has time to get so much worse.
Closing his eyes, Anders lets Ty pull him into the kitchen, his little hand cold in his own. Ty’s always cold, too. Maybe if their dad could just relent and let them turn on the heat? Just for a few hours.
He pushes those thoughts out his mind. Wishful thinking is for people who believe in miracles. Anders doesn’t believe in them. He’s seen how the world works, and he’s positive it’ll never work in his favour.
“Is pasta okay?” Anders asks, checking the clock on the stove. It’s off by a few minutes, but even if it weren’t he already knows he’s starting dinner late.
“We had pasta last night. And the night before last,” Ty grumbles, though he doesn’t object to it.
“I know,” Anders shrugs and stands on his toes to reach the box of noodles. “I’ll see if we can get something else at the store next time, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Ty gives his own little shrug, mirroring his big brother. “We had pasta for lunch at school today.”
“Did you really?” Anders feels a little twinge of guilt that he doesn’t know how to cook anything more than pasta, really. And that they can’t afford more or better for Ty. As much as he thought he hated his brother when he younger, he really can’t manage to find it in him to hate him now. He’s so kind and thoughtful. Not at all like the rest of the family.
Perhaps that’s why mum loves him most, the words whisper darkly in his ear and he shakes his head.
The water boils slowly, like the anger deep inside of him. He puts the spoon over the pot; a trick he learned to keep it from boiling over. He idles over his own little tricks that keep his anger from spilling over the sides, burning everything in its path of destruction.
Dinner is quiet. Still too quiet. Anders can’t help but flinch at any bit of noise that sounds off in the small house. The loud crack of the television in the other room makes him jump and Ty looks up from where he’s slurping his pasta off of his fork. It’s just the TV, Anders tells himself. He chastises himself for being such a baby. The food is like cigarette ash in his mouth, but he manages to eat some to placate Ty. He doesn't seem to be worried about the feeling of tension in the air, coiling tight and ready to snap.
It turns out, he had every right to be so nervous.
The storm arrives, right before bed time and reeking of whiskey sours. He should know, Anders is a pro at making whiskey sours.
His mother comes in first, looking him up and down before leaving him alone. That’s okay, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t want to know about her day and she certainly doesn’t want to know about his.
He can hear the soft clicking of Ty’s bedroom door being opened and shut again. She must be tucking him in. Anders breathes deeply and returns his attention back to the book open on the table. He would do his homework in his bedroom, but there’s no light anymore.
Serves him right, he shouldn’t have been reading past his bed time anyways. How many times had he been told nicely? How many times had he been told with the back of a hand?
The smell of vodka permeates the cloud of whiskey. Anders hates the smell. It’s sharp and stringent. Whiskey smells old to him. A little safer, maybe.
Vodka smells like the rubbing alcohol he pours on his wounds when no one’s looking.
Anders tucks himself into the chair a little tighter. If he can make himself small enough, maybe his dad won’t notice he’s there. He thinks it almost works, too.
His father is about to slip away with the half empty bottle of vodka when Ty’s door opens.
Anders shuts his eyes as he shuts the book. No amount of stories or historical tales will save him from the present.
“Oh, it’s you,” his mother’s voice sounds rough. Anders wonders how many packs she’s smoked today. He waits for his dad to respond to the snide comment, not bothering to look up from his schoolbook.
“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you,” she sneers and Anders has to look up now. His blood turns to ice in his body as he realises she’s talking to him.
“Answer your mother when she talks to you, boy.”
Anders glances over at his drunk father, then back to his drunk mother.
The day always has time to get much worse.
“Yeah, mom?” he answers, tries not to make his voice sound as scared as he doesn’t want to feel. “Do you need something?”
“Why are you upsetting your brother?”
Anders resists the urge to ask which one. He knows it could be either, but he’d just be prolonging the inevitable. Best get it over with now. “I’m sorry, I-”
“What did he do?” his dad jumps in before he has the chance to really apologise for something he doesn’t even know he’s done.
“He upset Ty,” she points a wobbling finger at him. “He told me you came home late. Again.”
Anders swallows the bile rising in his throat. He knew the storm was coming. Why hadn’t he skipped dinner? “I didn’t mean to-”
“What? You left your brother here alone?”
It’s not like you two sacks of shit didn’t leave him here, Anders retaliates in his head, feels the words bounce around in his skull and buzz in his ears. He grinds his teeth.
“Yes, but-“
“But nothing!” the voice rises above him like water from the ocean. He feels slightly pacified by it, but only because he thinks he’s resigning to the undertow. “You are to come straight home from school. Is that clear?”
“Yes, dad. I’ll come straight home from now on.” Not like I didn’t try. Not like I had to talk to a teacher about my test I missed because I couldn’t go to school with that many bruises on my face. Not like I didn’t get the shit kicked out of me walking home. The words box his teeth, sitting so nicely at the tip of his tongue and threaten to spill. He clenches his jaw.
“Damn right you will,” he nods at Anders and moves to slip off. “Go to your room, boy.”
Anders doesn’t need to be told twice. Being told twice means being told with a fist or either side of a hand. He bolts up, but a hand on his shoulder shoves him back down into the hard wood. He wasn’t fast enough. Anders is starting to think he’s never fast enough. God, he should have barrel rolled out of his chair. He might have been able to make it to his bedroom.
“That’s it? You’re just going to let your son off with a warning? Ty could have gotten hurt! He’s only eight years old!”
Anders can’t stop himself; he can’t. He tries. Trick one, say it in your head.
You should have been watching him.
He can still feel the words forming on his lips.
Trick two, whisper it to yourself. They’re both shouting at each other. So it’s not like they’ll hear him.
“You should have been watching him.”
He can feel his anger rising in his stomach alongside the meager dinner he ate.
He can’t even make it to trick three before the words pour out of his mouth; shouts them louder than he thinks he’s ever shouted before.
“You should have been watching him! You’re our parents! You should have-” a hand snakes into his hair, ripping him from the chair and up on the tips of his toes.
“What did you say?”
Deny it. Remain silent. Don’t make it worse. Apologize.
“I’m so-“
“I don’t want to hear it!” the words are shouted in his face and feels a bit of spit land on his cheek. He shivers at the wetness on his skin. He feels nauseous. “How dare you talk to your mother like that!”
The hand yanks his hair so hard tears prickle in his eyes. The slap delivered to his cheek isn’t much better, either. “You should know your place by now!”
“I do know!” The second slap reopens his lip wound. He’s tired of the taste of blood on his tongue. He thinks maybe that’s it, that it's over, because his father doesn’t say anything else.
But is it ever enough to satisfy him? How much blood does he need to spill for it to be enough? How many bruises and cuts will prove who he belongs to? How many forced, broken, empty apologies until it’s enough for them to believe him when he says he truly does know his place.
The punch to his already abused stomach sends him to his knees. Oh, God, he’s going to puke. A hand reaches out to stabilize himself as he gags twice and heaves on the floor. He wishes his hand would have landed anywhere but on his father’s leg, but he’s not close enough to anything else.
The leg moves away, nearly sending him sprawling into his own puddle of sick. Which would be just awful right about now, as he won’t have a chance to bathe. He wonders somewhere in the back of his mind if he’ll even have the chance to brush his teeth.
The pasta is rancid on his tongue as his stomach finishes emptying its contents. At least his father has the decency to let him finish. After all, he’s no stranger to throwing up himself.
A hand wraps around his throat, hauling him off the ground. “You waste my money. You waste my food. You waste my time!”
Anders can’t help it when he shakes. He feels like fucking shit. His stomach burns. His mouth tastes like someone shoved garbage in it. His body aches. It always thrums with a constant dull ache.
He thinks about whether or not he’s ever had any of his bones broken.
He sure feels like he has sometimes.
The fingers squeeze tighter and his hands lift to the strong arm holding him up. His toes try to find purchase on the ground to no avail. His vision swims, darkening as the oxygen dies in his system.
He won’t beg. His dad wants him to. But he won’t beg.
He’s never begged for mercy, and he’s not going to start now. It’s the only shred of dignity he has left to call his own.
It’s the last thing he thinks about, clings to, as his vision turns completely black and he feels himself slipping into the darkness.
That’s fine with him. He won’t have to feel the pain of his chest burning for air. He won’t feel the bruising of his already bruised windpipe, as his father chokes the life out of him.
That’s fine.
It’s not much of a life anyways.