Hi there, lovely people on the internet! I'm Wren and this is my writing blog. I'll use it for my own writing & tips and tricks I guess.
What else is there to say about me...?
I'm 32, born, raised and living in Germany and I've written stories ever since I was a kid.
I work with children age 6-11 (so, elementary school) and love music and just being creative. Also board games and Pen & Paper.
I haven’t been on tumblr in years. So long in fact, that I have no idea what email address is connected to that account.
So I made a new one (yay).
My old writing blog was writing-wren.tumblr.com
You can also come find me on ao3, where I mostly write hurt/comfort or tooth-rotting fluff.
Fandoms I have written for include SnK, Voltron: Legendary Defender, Haikyuu!!, and Kingdom Hearts (mostly hurt/comfort, fluff, no smut)
Fandoms I still love to read are Marvel, Harry Potter, Teen Wolf, and Atla (that one is also my favorite thing of all times and my comfort series when I'm sick, depressed or bored)
If you need help writing a character that plays the piano (been playing piano since I was six), children / their development or someone speaking German, hit me up, I know a bit about that xD
last song: Wait for Me from Hadestown (I'm a musical theatre nerd 👀)
currently watching: Shang-Chi and The Legend of The Ten Rings, rewatching the entire Avengers timeline
current obsessions: writing, my own musical theatre show premiering next week, IronStrange fics (send me recs if you have any!!)
currently reading: Outlander The Fiery Cross, Faithless, 100s of fanfics lmao
currently working on: A Major Disturbance (Benedict Cumberbatch/Tom Hiddleston/Reader), Stephen the Scumbag (Stephen Strange/best friend's daughter!reader), Loki: A Master in Disguise part 3 (Loki/Reader)
currently wearing: summery red wrap-dress
last google search: (computah give me a) synonym for soft
favorite flower: sunflower 🌻
Tags, no pressure of course! :) @mischiefmaker615 @a-writing-wren
last song: Glitter and Gold by Barns Courtney (though, technically, the last song I heard was the chaupin waltz I played on the piano if that counts... 🧐
currently watching: Atelier Witch Hat was the last thing I watched (and always, always AtLA)
current obsessions: writing, the chaupin waltz I play, did I mention writing? Because writing (my WIP certifies as an obsession rn)
currently reading: uncounted fanfics, Dustlands by Moira Young
currently working on: Burn me, Use me, Break me Down (working title, a darker kingdom hearts slavery!AU aka my 50k-words-and-counting-monster)
currently wearing: a kingdom hearts shirt and shorts (I'm at home, these are for chillin')
last google search: honestly don't know. It was probably when I looked up with the kids I work with which country is bigger, India or Armenia to settle a little dispute
favorite flower: forget-me-nots and snapdragons (fun fact, I had to look up the english word for snapdragons bc in german they're called Löwenmäulchen which translates to "little lion's mouths")
Tags, no pressure of course! :) @oh-a-pen @lularthiel
PSA to fic readers, it is so hard to freak a fic writer out with your comments. we are just as crazy about the fic as you are.
tell me you love it. tell me it made you slam your laptop shut. tell me you brought it up at your college lecture about kink. key smash in all caps. quote the passage that made you think. i promise, we’ll love it.
we spend hours thinking about it, writing it, editing it. there is no such thing as over enthusiasm when you’re talking about our fics to us. we are sooooo weird about them, i assure you. you are just matching my freak. the freak bar is already set so high. feel no anxiety about enjoying something and letting the creator know.
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Hurt/Comfort & healing from trauma
Chapters: 10 + 1 bonus scene
Word Count: 34,005
Rating: Teen and up audiences
CW: implied past child abuse / neglect (never on-screen though)
[Part 2 of the Hand series in which Axel learns what it means to be the one someone reaches for, set two years after The Hand He Was Dealt; read here or on ao3]
Summary:
"He doesn’t know what draws his eyes toward the tent flap beyond the firelight. Maybe it’s the faint rustle of wind against canvas, maybe something quieter, or something older. Whatever it is, it makes him pause mid-shuffle."
When Axel finds a terrified kid in one of their tents, so similar to another boy he remembers in all the wrong ways and yet so different, he does the only thing he can think of: He stays for him.
For the boy, a journey of finding a place that might become a home. For our favourite, redheaded fortune teller a journey of learning to be the one someone else reaches for.
Chapter 1 under the read more:
First Card: The Wheel of Fortune
*The Wheel of Fortune: Symbolic of changes in motion. The Wheel goes ever round and round, what goes up comes down and vice versa. Changes are inevitable but not always bad. The Wheel of Fortune also represents fate or destiny.
It’s one of the slow evenings spent around the big fire at the heart of the camp, the low crackling of the flames a steady background noise. The sun has set a while ago, but no one’s in a hurry to leave.
“That’s it, I’m folding!” Demyx throws his cards down in defeat.
Vexen looks over to where the younger blond has been playing poker with Axel, Xigbar, and Larxene. “You could have known playing poker of all things against Axel of all people wasn’t the smartest idea,” he remarks dryly.
Xig rumbles a laugh. “Don’t need a fortune teller ta read Demyx, tho.”
Axel grins, patting his friend’s shoulder. “Sorry, Dem. You’re an open book.”
Demyx pouts. “You guys are so mean sometimes,” he says, mock-hurt. He clutches his chest melodramatically. “I thought we were friends!”
“There are no friends in poker, Sunshine.” Larxene sighs. “I’m folding. This is going nowhere… At least we’re not playing for breakfast duty this time.”
Demyx shivers. “Yeah, you’re not going near spices and food ever again.”
Larxene sticks her nose up. “You guys are just weak. That was perfectly edible.”
The banter goes on while Axel and Xigbar finish the round. The gruff man is way more perceptive than others give him credit for, and he’s good at reading tells himself, but in the end it’s not enough. To be fair, Axel has been reading fortunes for roughly two years now, and he’s been reading people even before that.
When he, inevitably, to be honest, wins, Xigbar shrugs easily. “Fair ‘nough, I guess. Knew who I was playin’.” He grins wolfishly. “If I wanted ta see ya lose, I’d watch ya play Luxord at chess.”
Axel hums. “Still don’t know how he does it… It’s like he’s planned for everything before he even starts playing.”
Demyx snorts. “And that’s surprising why…? I mean, he’s Luxord,” he says as if that were explanation enough, which it kind of is. The troupe master is a force of his own: always calm, always deliberate, and always three steps ahead.
Larxene nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I swear he’s got a sixth sense. Always turns up out of the blue where he’s needed.”
They sit in silence for a while, watching the fire dance, enjoying the evening peace and each other’s easy company.
Now that they’re done playing, Axel pulls out his deck purely out of habit, shuffling it lazily and fanning the cards. Firelight catches on the gold edges, and under the flickering of flames the cards look almost alive.
He doesn’t know what draws his eyes toward the tent flap beyond the firelight. Maybe it’s the faint rustle of wind against canvas, maybe something quieter, or something older. Whatever it is, it makes him pause mid-shuffle. He looks closer, stilling. It’s the tent where they keep extra blankets and bedding. Spare props. Costume pieces that don’t fit in the main wagons and aren’t needed at the moment.
“What’s up, kiddo?” Xigbar asks, watching him.
Axel blinks, realizing he’s been staring into the dark. “Nothing…” he says slowly, distracted, the words thinning out. “Just… thought I heard something.” He stands, taking half a step around the fire.
Larxene lifts an eyebrow. “If it’s another raccoon raiding the supplies, you’re on watch duty, Red.”
But Axel’s not really listening anymore. The feeling of something tugging at him, the familiar instinct that’s guiding all his readings and hasn’t failed him once yet… It doesn’t lessen—it grows.
His cards are warm in his hands, almost humming with something unspoken he couldn’t put into words if he tried. He fans them, eyes flickering across their backs until one seems to call to him. He turns it over: the Tower.
Behind him, the conversation picks back up as he studies the card; they’re used to his moods, to the way the world seems to shift around him when he’s in one. The Tower always speaks of change; the sudden kind, the collapse of something old to make way for something new.
It’s not fear that stilled him before, and it’s not fear that sets him into motion now; it’s a quiet certainty that something is coming. Something is changing and it feels as if his cards were pulling at him to see for himself what it is.
“Where you going, Ax?” Demyx calls out, frowning. He’s rarely seen Axel like this. Distant, thoughtful, yes, but not to this extent.
“Nowhere far,” the redhead says, quietly. “Just… a feeling. Be right back.”
He crosses over to the tent that’s caught his attention as if in half a trance. With every step away from the fire the world darkens, softens, and his eyes adjust. He pulls open the tent flap, peering in. What little light from the fire is spilling in deepens the shadows and it takes a moment for Axel to make out shapes. He sees the props, crates with costumes, there are the baskets holding the blankets; and there, half behind one of those, crouches another silhouette, one that doesn’t belong.
It's a kid, he thinks, and then the shadow moves. It springs forward, the clumsy lunge carrying more panic than strength. Axel’s body moves before his mind catches on, pure muscle memory after countless sparring matches with Xigbar. He takes half a step back to dodge, raising his hands in a defensive stance that he immediately relaxes when the kid’s momentum sends them tumbling to the floor.
“Whoa—easy, there,” Axel says, voice calm but firm. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
The kid scrambles up, then freezes; chest heaving, eyes darting wildly between Axel and the empty space behind him as if desperately searching for a way out. Now that he’s closer, Axel can make out that it’s a boy: scrawny, dark hair mussed and wearing a tattered, too-big coat, but a boy nonetheless. He’s holding his wrist, probably hurt it when he fell.
It takes no genius to read him; the way he holds himself—ducked, ready to bolt or attack Axel isn’t sure—the way his gaze darts around from baskets to crates to Axel and behind him, fear oozing from him. He looks closer to a frightened, cornered animal than a boy. He’s still breathing heavily, close to hyperventilating.
Slowly, Axel lifts his hands, palms open. “Not gonna hurt you,” he repeats, pitching his voice somewhere between steady calm and gentle warmth. “I’m gonna move, okay?” He waits a moment before he steps to the side so he’s not blocking the entrance anymore. As soon as he does, wild eyes zero in on the tent flap. With a nervous lick of his lips the boy stills—then bolts for it.
The next Axel hears is a thud, then Xigbar’s voice. “Whoa there!”
Axel’s halfway out of the tent when he sees them: Xigbar standing just beyond the flap, one hand half raised in reflex from when the boy slammed straight into him. The kid’s fallen backward onto the floor, scrambling away so fast he nearly trips over himself and his too-long coat.
“Hey, easy,” Xigbar says, voice low. He glances at Axel. “Friend o’ yours, kiddo?”
“Not yet,” Axel answers quietly.
The boy’s breathing quickens again, wild eyes darting between them, frantically searching for a way out. He looks ready to run if either of them so much as twitches wrong.
Axel takes a careful step toward the fire, close enough that the boy can see his face more clearly. “You’re okay,” he says softly. “You’re not in trouble, buddy.”
The words earn him a sharp look; calculating, wary, like it’s all a trap, one he’s fallen for before. The boy clutches his wrist tighter, pulling the sleeve of that tattered coat down. It’s instinct, probably, hiding a perceived weakness, yet the motion is what draws Axel’s eyes to it.
Behind them, the others have noticed. The fire’s crackle fills the quiet, then Dem’s uncertain voice calls over: “Uh… we got company?”
Larxene rises halfway, but Axel gestures for them to stay put. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, looking back at the boy. Is he talking to them, or him, or both?
He crouches, lowering himself to the boy’s level without closing the distance, each movement deliberate, as non-threatening as he can manage. He catches the boy’s gaze, holds it for a few seconds until it flits away again. “You hurt?” he asks, softly.
The boy doesn’t answer. Axel can see his throat work once, but no sound comes out.
He nods slowly, taking that as an answer in and of itself. “Okay,” he says. “Tell you what. There’s a fire over there, and some food left from supper. There’s some bread and stew that’ll go bad by tomorrow, but we’ve already eaten.” He gives him a small grin. “It’d actually help if you could eat some, you could sit by the fire where it’s warmer, too.” He catches the boy’s gaze again, because this next part is really important. “You don’t have to do anything, and nobody is gonna touch you unless you tell us to.”
Still nothing. But the boy hesitates, pauses just for a second, his eyes flicking toward the glow and warmth of the fire.
Xigbar looks on, then mutters, half to Axel, “Kid’s cold, ‘n scared shitless.”
“No joke,” Axel replies softly. Then, to the boy: “My name is Axel, and this is Xig. What’s yours, buddy?” No answer; alright then, he won’t push. “You don’t have to trust me, or any of us. Just… don’t run off into the woods or anything, okay? You’ll freeze before morning.”
The boy’s lips press tight. Another heartbeat, then he gives a single, jerky nod.
Axel gives him a smile, open and honest. “Thank you.” He stands, slowly, and looks at Xigbar. “C’mon, let’s get back to the others.” They make their way back and Axel sits with his back to where they’ve left the boy, projecting calm. At the same time he listens for movement from behind. When he finally hears the rustle of clothes, hesitant steps coming closer, he quietly exhales in relief.
He pushes the pot with the leftover stew over, away from the others. Demyx hands him a bowl he puts next to it. Axel sits back and pulls out his coin (the one he’s been carrying for years, ever since he was the skittish boy about to bolt), rolling it idly over his knuckles.
Keep it, Luxord had said, for practice… or luck, if you prefer stories over effort. When Axel had asked, flabbergasted, Why?, he’d held his gaze, smiling. Because everybody deserves to hold a little of both. He hadn’t understood, back then, had still been trying to figure out the price of it all, but now he sees it from the other side.
The fire crackles, steady and soft. Axel watches the sparks drift up into the dark and doesn’t turn when the footsteps stop a few paces behind him.
“Still some left,” he says, keeping his tone casual, nodding toward the pot. “You can grab a bowl. It’s nothing fancy, but it should still be a little warm.”
A beat of silence. Then the faint clinking of metal, a rustle of fabric. Axel catches the sound of a spoon scraping against the pot. He smiles to himself and pretends he doesn’t notice, still rolling the coin over his knuckles, slow and steady.
Larxene’s voice, for once, is quiet. “Guess we’ve got another stray,” she murmurs.
“Seems so,” Xigbar replies, voice light and eyes watchful.
Axel leans back a little, glancing sidelong. The boy is crouched near the fire now, bowl in both hands, coat sleeves hanging over his fingers. He eats like he expects someone to take the food from him; quick, careful, eyes still flitting around nervously.
Axel doesn’t move. “Better?” he asks softly, after a few minutes.
The boy doesn’t answer, but his shoulders loosen by a fraction. He nods, once, barely noticeable.
One by one, the others begin to drift off. Larxene is the first to rise, stretching and muttering something about needing actual sleep if she doesn’t want to kill someone in the morning. Demyx yawns, wide enough that it looks like it hurts, rubbing his eyes. “Night, guys,” he mumbles before wandering off in the direction of their shared tent. Even Xigbar eventually pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, tossing a last look at Axel over the fire, a silent you’ve got this, kiddo, before heading off.
The fire settles lower, soft embers pulsing in the darkness.
Axel and the boy are the only ones left. The night feels kind of… bigger with just the two of them. But the boy is still sitting close to the fire, bowl empty now but held tight in his hands as though he’s not quite ready to give it back. He’s not running, at least for now. Instead, his eyes keep darting toward Axel’s hand, where the coin is still dancing back and forth over his knuckles, catching the firelight every now and then.
Axel notices, of course. He lets the coin roll between his fingers one more time, then holds it, palm up, smiling calmly. “Wanna see?”
The boy hesitates, caught between suspicion and curiosity. Axel remembers the feeling so clearly as if he himself found the troupe just yesterday. He remembers constantly asking himself when the other shoe would drop, when they’d show their true colors, what price he’d have to pay for their kindness. Thankfully, just like him, the boy’s curiosity wins after all. His fingers brush Axel’s palm, quick and uncertain, before he snatches the coin and holds it close.
Axel lets the boy turn the coin in his fingers. It looks bigger in his hands, too big, almost, glinting each time it catches stray sparks of firelight. They’re quiet, for a while, the night settling around them like it holds its breath.
“Pretty, huh?” Axel asks softly, barely breaking the silence. The boy nods before he catches himself doing it, eyes darting up as if he’s afraid he’s given something away. Axel keeps his smile steady and honest. “I think so, too, buddy. Got it a long time ago, from my teacher.”
“Teacher?” The boy’s voice is rough, from disuse, maybe, and there’s a sliver of surprise flickering over his face as if he didn’t mean to talk.
Axel nods, looking over at the fire and the sparks dancing above it. “Yeah… He taught me a lot, and it all started with that coin. So it’s really important to me.”
The boy freezes. His fingers tighten around the coin, then jerk open as if burned. “I—I’m sorry,” he blurts, voice cracking, eyes wide. He scrambles, makes as if to hand it back, panic flashing across his face.
“Hey, hey, easy—” Axel says quickly, raising his hands in a small gesture of peace. “It’s okay, buddy. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He keeps his tone light, soothing, even as his heart breaks a little at the reaction and another boy, not much older, it reminds him of. “If I didn’t want you to touch it, I wouldn’t have offered, yeah?”
The boy hesitates, staring at him like he’s trying to find the catch. Slowly, uncertainly, he lowers the coin again.
Axel gives him a smile, soft and easy. “Tell you what, how about you hang onto it a bit longer? I trust you. Just give it back in the morning. Deal?”
That gets him a startled look, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief, but the boy nods anyway, fingers curling around the coin again. He keeps the coin clutched to his chest even as sleep starts tugging at him; Axel can see it from the corner of his eye, the slow droop of his shoulders, the way his head jerks back up each time it starts falling forward. He’s trying so hard to stay awake, to stay alert, to not let himself be that vulnerable.
Axel recognizes the stubbornness—it used to be his.
The fire has burned low, soft enough that shadows weave lazily across the ground. Axel waits until the boy’s blinking slows into long, heavy pauses before he speaks.
“Hey, buddy… you look tired.”
No response, just the small, quiet fight of someone who’s learned that sleep can be dangerous and hasn’t accepted its inescapability quite yet.
Axel shifts, as slowly as he can manage. “You can sleep,” he adds gently. “I’ll stay right here and keep watch. Nobody’s gonna touch you.”
The boy’s eyes flick toward him; checking, searching, trying to decide if he’s lying now. Whatever he sees must be enough, or maybe he’s just realizing he can’t fight off sleep much longer. The next time he blinks, he doesn’t quite open his eyes all the way again.
Axel waits a minute longer. Two. Three.
Then he pushes himself to his feet and steps lightly toward the supply tent. Luxord would be proud of him; he’s not making any sound. He returns with a blanket for each of them, putting one down where he’s been sitting before stepping over to the boy. He crouches beside him, moving slowly, trying to telegraph every motion just in case he’s still awake enough to notice.
“Got you a blanket so you don’t freeze, okay?” he whispers. “Everything’s alright.”
The boy doesn’t flinch or shoot up again, so maybe sleep has already claimed him fully. He drapes the blanket over him gently, tucking it in at the shoulders. It’s a soft, instinctive gesture he just now remembers from his own first night at Emberlight. He still doesn’t know who did it for him; maybe Xigbar or Luxord. What he does remember is waking up to it, feeling the warmth and the safety it promised. He just hopes it will be the same for the boy.
Axel stays beside him for a while, watching the way sleep slowly smooths the tension on his face. With the fire’s glow brushing across his features, he looks even younger, more vulnerable.
After a moment, Axel exhales and sits back, pulling his deck from his pocket. The cards feel warm in his hands; not from magic, but from meaning. From habit. From comfort. As always, their weight calms him. He shuffles in silence, letting the night guide him.
His eyes flick over to the sleeping form next to him. “One card for him,” he murmurs under his breath. He draws one, placing it face up in front of him.
This concludes the first chapter. Read more on ao3 and come talk to me about my story here or in the comments if you'd like <3
[This was just going to be the background story for an rp character that grew into so much more, read here or on ao3]
Summary:
When a runaway boy stumbles across a circus, he doesn't think he might ever even find a home with them. Fate has different plans, though.
A story about finding your own way, your own family and defending all of it with the hand you were dealt.
The evening everything goes to shit starts off strange. Jefferson knocks at Axel’s door way too early to call him for dinner; he knows it’s the butler because Father would never come to his room and knock. It’s a quiet, discreet sound he’s heard hundreds of times in the past.
Axel sits at his desk, bent over his advanced History notes.
“Come in,” he calls out quietly. Everything is quiet in this house now, Jefferson, who blends perfectly, undisturbingly, into the background; Father’s disapproving looks; and Axel himself… well, he’s been trained for as long as he can remember to be quiet. Be perfect for the cameras, for the business partners, for the public. Be polished, be the icon of a son of Hollow Bastion’s most successful man.
There used to be laughter, sometimes, the light that was Mama, colorful, playful… But that light has faded, extinguished like a flame under a glass cover. Mama is dead, has been for over a year now, and the thought of her still tears him apart.
There’ve been little touches in his room, otherwise all modern, light wood and elegant glass, that were all hers. All of the little trinkets—the glass bird she bought for him when he turned eight, the music box she got him when he first started playing the piano with her and countless others—have wandered from his shelves to the far back of his cupboard. He just can’t stand looking at them. Even the thought of them makes his heart tighten and his breathing shallow, because it makes him think about her.
The door opens. Axel forces himself back into the here and now, schooling his features into the carefully crafted mask he wears even at home.
“Is it time for dinner already?” he asks, knowing it’s not, knowing what this is going to be about and inwardly steeling himself.
The butler shakes his head. “Not for another half an hour, young master. Your father requests your presence in his study.”
Axel nods and stands, leaving his notes for now. He’ll probably have to go back to them after dinner. “Alright. Thank you.”
He makes his way towards the one room in the house he probably fears most. Just as Mama’s sunroom had been the only colorful, carefree room in the house, Father’s study reeks of disapproval. He only ever summons him there to lecture him; at least this time Axel knows what it will be about. It’s always worse when he can’t pinpoint the reason until Father tells him.
Already he’s feeling angry—rebellious, Father would call it—knowing how it will go. For now he can uphold the mask. But he knows he’s been caring less and less and today he’s bold enough to open the first two buttons of his shirt. He’s not perfect, he never will be, and he’s losing the will to even try when he can’t be enough anyway. What’s the point?
When he enters the study, Father is standing at the window, looking out into the calm darkness of the night. There’s a light patter of rain against the window. The fireplace is burning low, somehow not making the room an ounce more comfortable.
“You should knock before you enter a room,” is the first thing he says.
Axel closes the door and shrugs. “Didn’t you call for me?”
Instead of answering, Father turns to his desk and picks up a piece of paper. Axel knows what it is, but he still feels his mouth drying.
“Your tutor tells me you walked out halfway through your afternoon lesson. Pray tell me how that happened.” His voice is cold, clinical, and his words fall into the silence like the blade of a guillotine. Axel has steeled himself, but Father’s words still cut. He’s been trying for all his life to get that voice to sound approving. It never happened and, like a blind man suddenly able to see, he knows it never will. So what’s the point? He’s tired of this. He’s done with this.
“Because it was Destiny Island’s dialect and I already speak that. Fluently. I have for years, all for your precious business partners. I needed a break and not another pointless lecture on something I already know!” Has he ever dared to speak to Father like that? He’s not quiet at all.
“Watch your tone, young man!” Father’s voice sharpens. “Besides this report card—“ he puts it back on the desk and taps it lightly, “—telling me your tonal rises are still not good enough, this is about more than that. It’s about discipline and structure, both of which you apparently lack.”
That does it. Him lacking structure when his whole day is nothing but a series of time slots so neatly fit together there’s no room to even breathe?!
“I’m lacking structure?” His voice breaks, reminding them both that he is fifteen years old after all. “My whole life is nothing but. I’m suffocating!” Oh, he’s not quiet at all now; he distantly realizes he’s breathing heavier, too. “You know what? I’m done with this!”
For the first time Father looks directly at him and his eyes are blue and so, so, cold, they make Axel freeze. The older man raises an eyebrow. “You’re behaving childishly. What are you, a toddler? Existence without discipline is chaos. You know that—or at least you should.” How can he still be that calm?
“Maybe I’m fine with a little chaos every now and then!”
“I didn’t raise you for fine!” Axel does not remember ever hearing Father raise his voice, but then again he’s never defied him before. Still it makes him flinch, and still he can’t stop himself.
“You didn’t raise me, you tried to make me a robot, a perfect little machine you could control! Smile this way, bow that way, speak these languages… God forbid I get to be human for once!”
“Axel, I am not watching you throw away everything I have built for you!” Is that real emotion in Father’s voice now? He can’t be sure; he certainly hasn’t heard him talk like this before.
Letting out a bitter laugh, he says, “You’ve built nothing for me, that’s all just for you! You’ve only ever seen the convenient pawn I can be for you! A fine father you are!” He spits out the word like an insult. And it is, in a way. The worst he can think of.
“Enough.” Father’s voice is deadly silent, a snake coiled up to strike, a final warning. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You will in time. For now we will see about adding more lessons in decorum and etiquette to your curriculum. You seem to be in dire need of those, boy.”
“Or what, you’ll cut my sleeping hours to fit even more lessons in? What for? I’ll never be good enough anyway!”
Quicker than Father can react—quicker than he himself can think, to be honest—Axel grabs the report card from the desk, steps over to the fireplace and throws it in. Just like any other piece of paper, it’s consumed by the flames, and maybe so are his shortcomings. The fire seemingly grows around it like an animal feeding on a carcass, crackling louder.
The next few seconds stretch, feeling like hours as Axel stares at the flames devouring what just a moment ago held so much importance in his life and now is almost gone. Freedom has never felt closer, not even in Mama’s sunroom. Axel has never felt this raw.
Of course time doesn’t change. Seconds stay seconds, no matter a single boy’s feelings. Then Father has crossed the room in two long strides and pulled him back from the fireplace.
“Silly boy, whatever do you think you’re doing?!”
Axel gets a last look at the fire before he’s pulled around. It must be a weird trick of the lighting, but it looks bigger than before, as if that single piece of paper was enough to make it grow. That can’t be, of course.
He forgets about that now, eye to eye with Father. The older man is taller than him, and he looks furious. His hand on Axel’s shoulder is holding the boy in place.
He’s never seen Father like this. He’s always perfectly put together, perfectly in control of everything. Seeing him furious like this scares Axel.
“Let go of me!” He struggles, trying to twist out of his father’s grip. When suddenly he’s free, his own momentum makes him stumble back towards the fireplace. The heat in his back grows and he swears he feels the lick of flames on his shoulder. The world goes silent and still until there’s hot pain as he stares into his father’s cold, cold eyes.
“Axel!” The man reaches for him, to push him? End it? Axel doesn’t know.
“Stay away!” he grinds out, voice hoarse. Did he scream? Without another word, without letting Father out of his sight, he skirts around him, out of the study. He doesn’t remember how he ended up in his room, later. Will never know the panic flashing over Father’s features as the heavy door closes and the fire flickers and goes out.
*
It burns. It burns and it hurts and it burns, he doesn’t think he’s ever been in such pain. He thinks back to the look in Father’s eyes, and he hates, hates, hates that bastard who didn’t do or say anything. Who knows? Maybe he was just disappointed that the flames only licked at Axel, that they didn’t consume him like that piece of paper. The hate is a knot in his gut and it burns, too, but not as much as his back.
He sinks down on the bed, staring at his desk without really seeing it. There’s a thought in the back of his mind somewhere that he still needs to go back to his notes to not fall behind his schedule. The absurdity of it all makes a laugh bubble up his throat. It’s a bitter, brittle thing that stops as soon as the pain it causes in his back registers.
He doesn’t know how much time passes until there’s a knock at the door. Axel freezes. Is it him? A tiny part of him even wants that, still wants that… and how sick is he to still want his father, that bastard, whose fucking fault it is, to come in and… and fix it?
Another bitter laugh bubbles up somewhere in his chest, gets stuck in his throat because he realizes that a simple word probably could, because that’s all he ever wanted. It never happened, though, and it won’t happen now. Whoever it is, Axel isn’t in the mood to move from the bed, or to admit that he even heard the knock.
And then Jefferson is in front of him, talking.
“Young master Axel?” he asks. If his frown is anything to go by, he’s really worried.
“Leave me ‘lone…” is all Axel mutters in response. Or maybe he just thinks he did, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” the butler says with his dignity as thick as always, and the fact that this hasn’t changed is… comforting.
For a long moment, there’s silence. Then, quietly:
“M-My back hurts…”
“Would you like me to take a look?” Jefferson asks, softer, almost gently.
Axel nods, just now looking up at him. “…Help me…?” His voice sounds small, broken, even to his own ears.
And the butler does. He comes to sit on the bed with him, sucking in a shocked breath when he sees the hole the fire has burned into the boy’s shirt.
“What happened?” Now his dignity doesn’t sound that thick anymore. He doesn’t get an answer, mostly because Axel isn’t sure himself.
Instead he just repeats: “Hurts…”
“We will need to disinfect that…” Jefferson murmurs, standing. “Please wait here while I get the first aid kit. I will be right back.”
It’s not like Axel was intending to move anytime soon. He’s not sure he still knows how to, even if he wanted to. A very quiet little voice in the back of his head tells him he is in shock, but he doesn’t care.
Jefferson leaves, and then he’s back, carrying the first aid kit. He sets it on the bed and helps Axel get out of his shirt, or what’s left of it anyway. The fire has burned a hole in the back of it, and removing it hurts. When Jefferson starts to clean the wound, he realizes that was nothing. Axel sucks in a breath, but makes no other sound apart from a little whimper when Jefferson touches a particularly bad spot.
The butler treats the wound and bandages it, all with gentle but firm touches, never wavering or hesitating. He even makes Axel take some painkillers after helping him into another shirt. Once he’s done, Axel takes a shaky breath.
“Thanks…” he says.
Jefferson pats his knee. “Nothing to thank me for, young master. Do you need something else?” Axel shakes his head. He doesn’t, really… some air, maybe. He feels like he can’t breathe all of a sudden and he’s sure that’s not possible, because just a moment ago he could—but he can’t now and—
He’s up and stuffing things into a backpack before he knows it, Jefferson watching, dumbfounded, for a moment before leaving the room.
The poor man probably just needs some sleep. Heaven knows how late it is by now… Axel continues packing frantically, his notebook, a pen, a jacket, whatever he thinks he might need, whatever’s not too big or heavy. Just as he’s about to leave his room, without even looking back, Jefferson returns, holding out a bottle of water and a lunchbox.
“If you are intending to leave, please at least take this with you…” he urges. Axel feels like crying again because that’s what the old man was up to? Before he thinks any further, he hugs the butler, taking what’s offered to him and putting the box and bottle away.
“I’m—thanks. G-Goodbye.”
Is he actually leaving? Really? This can’t be a good idea… but he still feels like he can’t breathe and if he stays in this house any longer he’ll panic, and the thought of having to face Father again is what makes him move in the end.
“Goodbye, young master Axel, and good luck,” Jefferson replies quietly. Axel nods and stops himself from slinging the backpack over his shoulder like he’s intended to in the last moment. He’ll carry it in his hand for now.
He clears his throat. “Bye.” And then, before he can chicken out, he leaves.
***
Later, when his mind is clear again, he will think about it. About how this probably wasn’t the best idea, about how he should just go back and apologize for disappearing, and return to his studies… He’s pretty sure Mama wouldn’t have wanted him to run away.
She’s not here, though. She’s dead, and he’s all alone, at the mansion even more so. The thought of facing Father is terrifying. No, he can’t go back. His back still hurts, a constant reminder, and if he’s honest (he isn’t) there’s so much more that hurts so much worse.
In the end, that’s what keeps him right where he is. No more. He won’t let himself be hurt any longer.
His father doesn’t have that power over him, not anymore. No more.
***
Axel doesn’t think these next few days. He hides in an abandoned warehouse for a while, flees when two teenagers come in to make out (they don’t notice him and if he was thinking straight he’d see how they have nothing to do with him but what if they see him? What if his father is looking for him? This place isn’t safe anymore) and wanders around aimlessly after that. One alley is as good as the next, the shabbier the better. Father wouldn’t expect him to stay in such places, would he?
It kind of works out until the rain. It’s not a light patter like the night he left, but a downpour. Finding cover from that proves harder than he thought, so he just continues walking until he sees something in the distance. There are lights and faint music just above the rain.
A street fair? Maybe he can at least get some food there. (He’s not thinking about it being stealing per se, although he knows he has no money.)
He keeps walking, knowing if he stops now he won’t get up again, his backpack clutched to his chest but about as drenched as he is. The rain has gone through all he is wearing, and his bandages. Every drop hitting his back feels like a fist coming down on it.
It’s not street stalls he finds, sadly, only a brightly colored tent. He doesn’t have it in him to care anymore, just wants out of this rain, just pulls up one of the tent flaps and sinks down inside, in between crates and curled up ropes on the floor here and there. The moment he sits down, all of his energy leaves him. He leans against one of the bigger crates and closes his eyes just for a moment, reveling in the luxury of listening to the sounds of rain on canvas thick enough not to let it through. Slowly his racing pulse calms. He’s just resting his eyes, listening hard for anything besides the steady rain. Just a moment longer…
“Holy fuck, dude! Are you… alive?” A voice cuts through the silence, making Axel flinch and his eyes fly wide open.
Footsteps come closer and suddenly there’s a guy in front of him, messy blond hair sticking out under the hood of a raincoat. What’s alerting Axel more is the lantern he’s holding—seriously, a lantern? In this day and age? He flinches away from the fire before he can think, then flinches again when his back hits the crate he’s been leaning against.
“Whoa, easy! Didn’t mean to scare you, honest!” He speaks quickly, rambling. “You just—uh—you’re… really pale. And wet. Holy shit, you look like you’re dying or something!”
“’m fine,” Axel mutters. Don’t be weak now, come on, just get up. “I’ll leave…” But his legs won’t obey him, his back burns, his body starting to tremble.
The blond holds up his hands as if in surrender, as if Axel were the one threatening. The lantern swings wildly, catching Axel’s full attention. “No, no, don’t! I mean—you’re in the wrong tent, yeah? We have actual people tents and you’re in cargo! Not, like, tents made of people, tents for—“
He closes his mouth as if realizing that he’s not making much sense. Before Axel can say something else, though, there’s another flap of canvas and another silhouette, bigger and broader, cuts in front of the light. The voice is deep, a low drawl, and gruff.
“Demyx, why you talkin’ to a drowned rat?” he asks, coming into the light. Long hair tied in a ponytail, an eyepatch over one eye; he’s looking like a super soldier or something. And Axel still can’t make his legs work.
“He’s not a rat!” Demyx protests. “He’s—he’s a person. I think. Look at him, Xig!”
The big guy, Xig, does, and Axel feels like he’s sizing him up. “Looks a bit like a rat to me,” he says. “Though there might be a boy under the rat if we treat ‘im right.”
Axel frowns. “I don’t need charity,” he grinds out. “Sorry for disturbing you, I’ll just leave.” Again, his legs won’t obey him.
“I don’t need charity, sorry for disturbing you,” Xig parrots. “What’re ya, a prince or summin’? Anyway, ya don’t look like yer going anywhere soon.”
Now Axel is glaring. “I said I’m fine.”
The big man has the gall to laugh at that, crossing his arms. “Sure you are. ‘n I’m a flyin’ purple elephant.”
Demyx glances between them, chewing his lip. “Uh… Xig? Should we, like, get him off the floor? Can’t be good sitting in a puddle… Can it?”
Xig sighs. “Prolly not.” He thinks for just a moment, then reaches out and hauls one of the crates closer. “C’mon, kiddo. Sit on that so ya don’t drown.”
Axel weakly protests but lets himself be manhandled onto the crate. For a man that size, radiating such gruffness, Xig’s hands are surprisingly gentle where they need to be. It does feel better to sit on the crate, not that he’ll admit it.
“Good. Dem, go find ‘im a blanket before he freezes. ‘n maybe some o’ that leftover stew.”
Demyx nods, clearly relieved Xig is taking charge like that, and before Axel knows it, he’s out of the tent. A moment later he comes back and hangs his lantern on a hook so they don’t sit in the dark before ducking out again. Axel is glad it’s farther away now and not in the hands of a waving madman who seems to have no clue about how dangerous fire can be.
The tent feels smaller without him, quieter. Silence spreads, Xig studying Axel for a few seconds that drag far too long.
“Yer bleeding through yer shirt,” he finally says. “Care ta tell me ‘bout that before we scare Demyx?”
Axel freezes. He’s not talking about that night with a total stranger. He’s not even thinking about it if he doesn’t have to. “It’s nothing,” he says, but he can’t meet the other man’s eyes. “I’ll be fine.” Who’s he trying to convince, with his voice shaking like that?
Xig just shrugs. “Suit yerself.” A pause. “Ya have a name, at least?”
Axel hesitates. Is it bad to give some rando his name when Father may be searching for him? “…Does it matter?”
Another shrug. “Eh. Only if I needa yell it if ya pass out. Yer holding on well, tho.”
Axel is tired, tired of running, tired of the pain, tired of thinking… “Axel,” he says, before he can find a reason not to.
The bigger man just nods. “Nice ta meetcha. Name’s Xigbar. Call me Xig, everybody does anyway. The chatterbox is Demyx. Yer at the Emberlight Circus, in case ya missed the sign outside.”
“Didn’t exactly come in through the front door,” Axel mutters, wincing as he shifts. His wet clothes are clinging to him, and he has to fight to keep from chattering.
“Yeah, I noticed. Not the first stray ta wander in, won’t be the last.” Xig picks up a wrench from a nearby table and starts idly turning it in his hand. “Yer safe for now. Nobody here’s gonna ask questions. Not unless ya start causin’ trouble.”
Demyx reappears with a blanket draped over one arm and a dented tin cup in the other. “Here! It’s, uh, kind of cold, but still food.” He startles when he hands him the blanket and sees Axel’s back for the first time. “What the fuck! Your back—! Is that blood?!”
“Relax, kiddo,” Xigbar cuts in. “He’ll be fine. One thing at a time.” His matter-of-fact tone—just how can he be so sure?—does seem to help, even though Axel is rather concentrated on the food.
He blinks at the offering. “…You’re really giving that to me?”
Demyx shrugs, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “I mean… yeah? We’re not monsters. Well, except Xigbar before coffee, but that’s a whole different story.”
“Watch it, kid.”
The banter feels strange, almost comforting. Axel doesn’t want it to. He pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders and hunches forward, staring into the stew like it might bite him.
“Don’t get too cozy,” Xig says, though his voice has softened. “We’ll see what Vexen can do about yer back; he’s kind of a doctor, knows how ta help usually. Then ya can decide if yer stickin’ around. Pay us back with some grunt work once yer better.”
“I’m not staying,” Axel says automatically.
“Sure yer not, kiddo.” Xigbar’s grin is small, knowing. “No one ever is their first night.”
