when does Dion transform? do you have a timeline?
4198 Words
AO3 ver
13-14 Months:
“Well?” Frazie starts the moment her parents are in earshot. “What’s the verdict?” Dion still looks half-dead, leaning against Dad for support, but Mom’s not crying so it can’t be that bad.
“Your brother has the flu,” Mom answers, though there’s something about her voice… Dad leads Dion into his tent and doesn’t emerge.
Frazie frowns. “But he already got this year’s shot.” They all did—they always do. And it’s always worked, some sore arms notwithstanding, so Frazie’s not sure why it wouldn’t now. “What, was his shot defective?”
Mom frowns, that pursed-lips I-smell-something-rotten look. She mutters something about doctors and quacks that Frazie doesn’t quite catch, then glances over at Dion’s tent with a worried expression.
“Is it really the flu?” Raz asks, “Dion’s not even coughing.” That’s true, Dion would be way grosser if he was sick. It’s like his body tries to break a world record for most mucus made.
“Well, whatever it is,” Mom brushes off, “It should go away on its own.” She glances at Dion’s tent again. He’s a strong boy. Surely he won’t…
Frazie retracts that sense before she can hear anymore stray thoughts. She looks at Dion’s tent—he’ll probably be fine. He’s certainly whining enough that it can’t be that serious. Right? Surely.
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12 Months:
“Frazie, what are you—!” Dad makes a sound halfway between choking and a gurgle, horror blanching his face.
“Dad, wait—” Too late, Dad’s already at the basin grabbing Dion by the shoulder and hauling his head out of the water. Dion gasps, a wet kind of sputter that doesn’t sound like breathing—and then water sluices down his neck from the slits and his next breath sounds normal—
“Let’s get you out of the… water…” Dad trails off as he actually looks at Dion. Dion grimaces, shoulders hunching, and doesn’t say anything.
Nobody says anything. Part of Frazie hates that her hunch was right. Another part of her wishes Dion could go back to normal, without the tail and scales and fins and gills. The rest of her wonders how the curse is going to get Dion now. She wants to hope that it can’t, but…
That’s not how curses work.
Dion starts to haul himself out of the washbasin. Dad still seems at a loss. Frazie grabs one of her pigtails to keep from wringing her hands. She looks at Dion, at damp scales brighter-seeming than they were before, at fins meant for a—for a fish—
Dion’s not going to go back to normal.
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11 Months:
“At least drink water,” Frazie urges, “you sound like you’re dying.” Of course, Dion’s not dying. He’s just being a drama queen, as usual. Probably. Most likely. He’s not dying!
“don’need’it,” Dion slurs; Frazie’s throat hurts just hearing how rough his voice is. She looks at the cup of water in her hands, and then at her brother lying morose and dry on the cot. He’s not dying. He’s not.
“Fine, be stupid then.” Frazie dumps the water on Dion’s head and leaves.
(She catches Dion crying to himself in the washbasin that night, when nobody else is looking. She could say I told you so. She could say it’s not that big a deal.
She doesn’t say anything.)
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10 Months:
“So? Has Mom said what you’re doing for tonight’s show?” Dion’s not going to change back. Her brother will never walk a tightrope again, can’t hook his tail on the trapeze like legs—but Mom’s clever, and creative, and nigh-unstoppable when she has a goal, so Frazie figures Dion’ll get to perform with them again. It’s just a matter of time.
“I won’t.” Dion shrugs. He’s so flippant that it grates at Frazie’s nerves.
“What, so you just get to sit on your ass while the rest of us work?” Frazie scoffs, “You’re not dying, Dee, you can still do something.”
“No, I—” Dion huffs. “I don’t get to perform. That’s what Mom said.” He sinks a little deeper into the basin, and won’t meet Frazie’s eyes. “Said she didn’t wanna ‘advertise my condition’.”
“Oh.” A part of Frazie is angry. She has to pick up Dion’s chores and make up for his absence in shows? All while he does nothing but mope and whine?
But Dion won’t fight Mom when she makes a decision. And maybe Frazie could sway her, could point out how unfair it is that Dion doesn’t have to do anything—
“I guess that makes sense.” Frazie swallows her anger. There’s no point causing drama over this.
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9 Months:
Fifteen doesn’t seem very different from fourteen. They get cupcakes like every birthday, Frazie gets her gifts just like every year, and she doesn’t feel much different from last year.
“If you don’t stop pulling—” Frazie hisses, of half a mind to just have Mom or Mirtala do her hair.
Dion scoffs. “You could move close—” He cuts himself off. Frazie can’t see him from where she’s sitting, but she feels his hands stop. They start to withdraw—
Frazie sighs and scoots back. “Is that better?” She just won’t think about the basin of water right behind her, and how she’s that much closer to Hand of Galochio range. Maybe Dion could crawl out and do her hair lying on the ground—Frazie dashes that thought. It’s too demeaning to picture. At least in the basin Dion can put on a pretense of sitting.
Dion’s hands return slowly, uncertainly, and then Frazie feels all the braids come undone—
“I’m starting over,” Dion explains, just before she can twist around to look at him, “Just… hold still.” He starts again, slower, more deliberate. Frazie settles, letting Dion work. He’s not as quick as he used to be.
One braid. Then another braid. Frazie can feel when he ties them off, when he starts gathering hair for the next one. She stops counting around the sixth braid—ugh, this is taking forever, but it’s so obvious that Dion has a goal in mind and if Frazie pulls away he’ll make a big production of it. Best to just sit here. And wait.
“There.” Dion says, a mercifully short eternity later, “Fifteen braids for fifteen years.” His hands withdraw and Frazie stands, pulling the braids over her shoulder to look.
It’s nothing too fancy—there’s no ribbons woven in, and he used the same red hair ties to tie them all off—but it’s familiar, in a way that Frazie has missed.
“They’re uneven,” Frazie comments. She doesn’t untie them.
Dion gives her a surly look and jazz hands. “My hands are webbed.”
Frazie rolls her eyes. “I never said it was bad.”
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8 Months:
“Well?” Frazie prompts. “Is sixteen as sweet as they say?” She’s teasing, and she knows Dion knows, but she sees the fins on his face flick in annoyance anyway.
Dion scoffs. “Maybe if I wasn’t…” he shrugs. “It’s sour. Leave me alone.”
“Nope!” Frazie chirps, “Mirtala got you an extra present, and she wants you to have it now.” She gestures, and Mirtala skips over, gift in hand wrapped in a piece of scrap wrapping paper from last year. Mirtala beams, holding it high above her head as she stops closer to the basin than Frazie’s comfortable with.
“Here Didi!” Mirtala tosses the gift his way without preamble, then clasps her hands together. “Unwrap it!”
Not even Dion can resist Mirtala’s exuberant energy; “Okay,” he starts to pry the wrapping open, revealing the (probably not really) waterproof bla—
“Wait—” Frazie reaches for the gift, but she’s too late. Dion’s already staring at the blue-and-orange fish toy with an expression like chewing glass, the fins on his face slowly flattening. “Tala, when did you get that?” Frazie whisper-hisses, “That’s not what we were gonna give him!”
“Raz helped me buy it,” Mirtala explains, then turns to Dion, “It’s so you don’t feel lonely!” She grabs at the fish, shaking it around, “And you can squeeze it when you’re upset!” She sounds so proud of herself that Frazie’s admonishments die in her throat.
“Oh.” Dion manages, voice strained. “That’s… great…” He takes the fish back and shoves it under the water.
“And it looks like you!” Mirtala finishes, as the fish floats merrily back to the surface. Belly up.
Frazie winces even harder. “Tala, what happened to the blanket.”
Mirtala shrugs. “I saw Mom and Dad looking at it,” she stage-whispers, “so I thought they were buying it.” Frazie stifles the urge to facepalm. Mirtala… meant well. She’ll leave it at that.
“It’s fine,” Dion tries, still looking at the fish toy like it might bite him. “Thought that counts, right?”
“Right!” Mirtala chirps.
“Right…” Frazie concedes.
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6 ½ Months:
“—trying to help!” Raz’ voice. He’s over near Dion, on the other side of the Aquatodome, by the sound of it. “It’s not fair that you get stuck in one spot just ‘cause the basin’s too heavy…” Does Frazie need to intervene? Raz doesn’t sound like he’s on the verge of tears, but he’s definitely upse—
“Yeah, well, your freaky powers are the last thing I need,” Dion’s voice jolts through Frazie’s line of thought. He says something else, but Frazie doesn’t quite catch it over the slimy feeling in her throat. Freaky powers. Dion’s said worse, Dad’s said worse—but it still leaves her feeling gross. Freaky powers.
“I wasn’t even grabbing you!” Raz’ voice draws Frazie back to the argument. “I was just gonna move the basin!” Should Frazie intervene? Maybe she—
“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Oh, you idiot. Frazie facepalms. She’s not sure what else she expected. She’s surprised that she’s not surprised. Dion’s been moody for years, and he’s only gotten worse. Sometimes Frazie wonders if he even wants to be a part of this family anymore, or if he just hates them all—
Frazie smacks that stupid thought down. It helps when Raz passes by in front of her, scrubbing at his eyes and projecting upset all over. Crybaby. Frazie puts on her best big sister grin and walks over.
“Hey Pooter,” Frazie ruffles his hair as a greeting, “I bet I can cut more leaves throwing knives than you can.” From an entirely different tree, of course. It wouldn’t be a challenge otherwise.
Raz bats her hand away. I know what you’re doing, he thinks. “Hmpf. You couldn’t hit one leaf!”
Is it working? “Oh yeah? Why don’t we get the throwing knives and see?”
Raz grins. “You’re on!”
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5 Months:
“…I hate to say it, but it’s going to get worse whether we get that pool or not.”
Frazie pauses at the sound of Mom’s voice. She was going to go check the caravan for an extra hair tie, but her parents are already in there, talking in low tones. Frazie doesn’t want to interrupt—and she should probably leave, but—
“I’m still worried about the curse,” Dad murmurs, “And not just for Dion.”
Mom makes a sympathetic noise. “I know, Auggie, I know.” Maybe Frazie should leave. Maybe—
“But you’re right. The basin’s too small.” Dad’s voice cuts through Frazie’s line of thought. If she concentrates, she can kind of catch an impression of his thoughts, a worry of eerie green light—
What are you doing?! Frazie retracts her senses and walks away from the caravan. She’ll get that hair tie later.
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4 Months:
“Razputin, run the course again.”
“Wh—I just ran it twice!”
“Razputin…” That hard edge is back in Dad’s voice. Raz turns to run the course again. It’s a sharp contrast from last week’s birthday festivities—but it’s not unusual. Not lately.
And that’s good, isn’t it? It’s about time Raz started to grow up and grow out of powers too dangerous for casual use. If he’s too busy focusing on acrobatics to pretend play as a psychic spy, all the better—right? Yeah. They need to fill the gap left by Dion anyway, so of course Raz needs to step up. It’s what Frazie did when she turned thirteen—it’s about time for Raz to catch up.
But he’s ten, not thirteen. Raz finishes the course, no sudden bursts of energy propelling him forward. At the rate he’s going, he’ll be better than Dion ever was before he’s twelve.
“Am I done now?” Raz is still so small. Was Frazie that short at ten?
Dad’s stern expression softens. “One more time,” he urges, “run the course one more time.” He’s tired—they all are, really. It’s been a rough day.
Raz grumbles, cartwheeling back to the start of the course. He passes by the basin on the way, Dion watching with narrowed eyes.
At least you get to run the course. At least Dad still cares enough to push you.
Ugh, Frazie doesn’t want to hear Dion’s nasty moody sour thoughts. She retracts that sense and focuses on Raz. Dad looks tired, sure, but Raz looks exhausted. Maybe Frazie should say something. Maybe she should—no.
There’s no need to rock the boat.
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3 Months:
The new kiddie pool isn’t filled with much fanfare or enthusiasm. But it’s filled, Frazie and Mom and Dad and Raz and Queepie and Mirtala all helping to bring buckets of water from the nearest pump. The pool is a pleasant shade of sea green, shallower than the washbasin, but definitely bigger. Frazie and Raz both keep a wary distance where they can, all too aware of little Hands of Galochio reaching over the edge.
Dion said nothing when Mom and Dad brought it home, and he says nothing as it’s filled. He just watches, his mind a pool of water too deep for Frazie to catch any stray thoughts. He’s been doing that a lot lately.
“Well?” Mom asks, once Dion is finally in the pool, “Is that more comfortable?” He can’t stretch out fully, and his dorsal fin sticks up above the water, but it certainly looks less cramped than the basin, with his entire tail fitting easily.
“Mmmh.” Dion ducks his head under. Mom winces. Dad averts his gaze. Frazie watches Mirtala watch as Dion breathes, mouth parted and the gills on his neck pulsing in rhythm—and then he breaks the surface with a muted splash.
“It’s fine,” Dion answers, “thanks.” His dorsal fin ripples in time with the flutter of the fins on his face.
“That’s great, bambolotto,” Mom answers. “And you feel fine? No new and sudden changes?”
“I’m fine,” Dion grits out. “Can I just… have some space for a bit? I’ll be fine.” Ugh, it feels like all Dion gets is space. Space from his chores and responsibilities, space from pressure and expectations, space from the family he’s supposed to be a part of—Frazie smothers that frustration. It’s not like Dion chose to become a fish.
Mom doesn’t look like she wants to give Dion space. What if submerging fully makes you lose your lungs? Oh, ew, Frazie doesn’t like that thought. She turns away from the pool to go find something else to do. She’s not the only one; Mirtala and Queepie are passing crayons back and forth at the table, and Raz is… Frazie can’t see him. She does a quick scan—oh, he’s hiding in his tent with one of his comics. Of course.
Well, Frazie can entertain herself. Where did they put the throwing knives…
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2 Months:
Frazie awakens with a jolt. Something’s not right. She feels around for her younger siblings; they’re all still here on the mattress. Something’s not right. Rain is still pounding on the caravan walls and roof. Is that what woke Frazie up? Sure, it’s loud, but… something’s not right.
Something’s missing. But it’s not her siblings—did something happen up above? Did Nona—no. Nona’s stronger than that. And if Frazie listens, really listens, then she thinks she can hear Mom and Nona snoring up above.
Something’s not right. Okay, yeah, she can hear the snoring. She checks again—there’s Queepie, there’s Mirtala, there’s Raz drooling on the comic he fell asleep with—nope, everything’s fine up here. Something’s not right. Which means…
Frazie grumbles as she crawls over Raz off the bed. He better not be dead. She slides down the ladder, snatches the matchbox to light the first lamp she finds, puts on her boots in case she needs to go out—
Her eyes adjust to the light. The cot’s unoccupied. The basin has water, a tiny Hand of Galochio pointing at the door—and no Dion. Frazie glares at the door, stomps over to it and swings it open, lamplight flooding out into the night.
“What are you doing?” Frazie hisses, barely audible over the downpour, her hand already getting soaked. She really shouldn’t be doing this, but Dion’s being stupid and someone has to be responsible. “Get back in here!”
Dion doesn’t answer except to tilt his head towards her. He’s laying on his back in the mud, soaked to the bone, expression indiscernible in the low light.
Frazie rolls her eyes. She could just leave him out here. It’s not like the water can really bother him now. And she’s letting in rain. But what if he catches cold, some part of her thinks before she can even try turning back towards the ladder up. What if he can’t get back into the caravan?
Ugh. This is stupid. There’s an umbrella somewhere in here, between everything else down here—at least Frazie doesn’t have to dig around Nona; Dad felt it best to have her on the upper floor with him and Mom for the night. Must be how Dion got out unnoticed.
There! Frazie grabs the umbrella and turns back towards the door. She hops down to the mud, glad she had the foresight to grab her boots, and gingerly stomps over to Dion.
Dion sees her coming, and pushes with his hands until he’s kind of sitting. He can’t really go much further than that, though—not with that large finned tail in place of his legs. Frazie stares at it, then rips her gaze away.
“Come on,” Frazie urges, stepping forwards to hold the umbrella over herself and Dion. “And try not to track so much mud inside,” she adds snidely.
Dion’s distant expression melts away. He looks at her, pupils so wide his eyes look like pits. “…you think I deserve to go back in?” His voice is soft. Tired. Frazie hates that she’s getting used to that.
“Do you want to catch cold?” Frazie snaps. “Hurry up, my legs are getting wet.” The umbrella’s great, but not perfect. Wind blows the raindrops down at an angle, and every step—no matter how careful—splashes water up onto her ankles. If she looks closely at the puddles, Frazie can almost see teeny tiny Hands of Galochio wiggling their fingers at her.
Dion sighs, and starts to haul himself towards the caravan. The mud helps, and Frazie matches his slow pace. Step, slide, step, slide.
She tries not to think about how her brother’s changed. Her mind slides instead to a memory of lifting pinecones without touching them, and some part of her croons wouldn’t that be useful here? To get him into the caravan without getting covered in mud?
Frazie shoves that part of her down. She probably couldn’t lift him, and even if she could he’d just freak out at her. She’ll just haul him up the steps and help him get back in the basin like a normal person, and everything will be fine.
“My legs, they won't—I can’t feel my legs.”
“I’m just—I’m worried, Auggie. What if it doesn’t get better?”
“Frazie, Raz said Didi’s teeth are falling out!”
“There’s something growing out of his back—”
“Is it the curse? But why would it…”
Frazie packs those memories away. Dion’s halfway up the caravan steps on his own, and Frazie doesn’t hesitate to grab his tail and push him the rest of the way in. Mud and water smears all over the floor, and Frazie’s shirt is soaked, but—
Hauling Dion over to the washbasin despite his protests, dumping water over the dull blue scales and watching his body drink it in like he needed it, like he was made for it—
“You can go back to bed now.” Dion flicks some mud off his dorsal fin out the still-open door. “I’ll take the blame for the mess.” He swings his tail to shut the door.
Frazie scoffs. “I’m not sleeping like this.” She gestures at her shirt, still very soaked, and Dion winces—then ducks his head as if to hide his mouth. “And I’m not…” Frazie trails off. She’s not even sure what to say. Is there anything to say? She closes and shakes the umbrella, then finds a spot to stow it.
“Why were you even out there?” Frazie asks, instead of whatever garbled emotional mess is knotted in her throat.
Dion keeps his gaze locked on the door. “…I don’t know,” he answers, and Frazie can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or not. “Wanted to feel it, I guess.” He reaches for the nearest rag.
Frazie grabs a towel. Dion’s wiping mud off his tail, so she attacks his hair. She’ll have to find two dry shirts to replace theirs, too—and Dion needs one with an opening for his dorsal fin.
After several moments of cleaning, Frazie speaks. “Well? Was it… good?”
Dion ducking his head under the water, mouth open, and before Frazie can panic four slits on his neck part and pulse, steady rhythm suspiciously similar to breathing—
Dion doesn’t answer for a long moment. Frazie climbs up the ladder to go find those shirts and change hers, and Dion still doesn’t answer her when she climbs back down and tosses him his.
Frazie rolls her eyes. She starts to climb the ladder again, so she can get some well-needed sleep—
“…I don’t know.” Dion finally answers, rubbing the fin of his tail between his fingers. “It was… wet.”
Frazie snorts. She stares down at Dion, watches him contemplate the basin and the cot, and a thought strikes her. She climbs up the ladder to enact it.
“Think fast!” Frazie hurtles one of the pillows she grabbed right at Dion’s face. He startles, and she slides down the rest of the way. “You look so sad and lonely without Nona down here to keep you company,” she explains, dropping the other pillows and blanket on the floor. Eh, it’s dry enough, it’ll be fine. “So I’m sleeping down here with you.”
“Wh—you don’t need to—I’m fine—” Dion protests, then huffs, grabbing a pillow and settling down. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, I’m an awesome sister, I know,” Frazie teases, getting comfortable herself. The floor’s not as good as the bed up the ladder, and Dion’s tail takes up way too much space, impossible to ignore or forget—
Frazie drifts off to sleep anyway, rain still pounding against the roof and walls.
(She wakes up in the morning with three additional weights pinning her down—Raz, Tala, and Queepie all pressing her against Dion. The pile is so familiar. It’s the first time Dion’s been in one for months.)
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Zero.
Something’s not right. Frazie jolts awake. The night offers no response. She looks around for her younger siblings—Raz. Raz isn’t here. He isn’t—he must be down with Dion and Nona, or, or—
Frazie slides down the ladder too fast to think, looking around for—something’s not right. Nona’s still rocking, and Dion’s asleep in the basin, but where—Raz isn’t here! How did she miss—why didn’t she notice—how—
Dion groans, eyes cracking open to stare at Frazie. “Whaddre you…” he huffs, shaking his head until he’s alert. “Fraze, what’re you doing down here?”
“Raz is gone,” Frazie hisses. She needs—she needs to go back up and tell Mom and Dad—but what if Raz just got up early? Maybe he won’t get in trouble if she can find him—or maybe he should get in trouble, maybe this is the wakeup call he needs—
“What?” Dion’s awake now, gripping the edge of the basin like he might haul himself out. “What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean he’s gone,” Frazie explains, opening the door, “I woke up and he wasn’t here, and, and—” She’s cut off by a whinny, tired and plaintive. Sugarcube’s standing just outside the door, out of her pen how did she get out, and she’s exhausted, and—
And Frazie doesn’t like how things are adding up. She really, really doesn’t.
(It isn’t until evening that Dad answers a call letting them know where Raz is. It isn’t until evening that Frazie can say for sure that her little brother’s still alive.)
(If she was more in tune with her intuition, would she have caught him? Frazie doesn’t know.)
(She wishes things would just go back to normal. But normal hasn’t felt right since…
You better not die, Frazie thinks, and some small, hopeful part of her imagines that Raz can hear it.)