whumptober day 3 - found family
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Throughout his life, Scarf has considered his family as little more than strangers. His parents gave the bare minimum while raising him -- too engrossed with his older siblings' achievements and the little ones growing up to be just as great in their own right.
Then, there was him. The middle child. The one who fell through the cracks of their parents’ gaze. Magic was always something their family took pride in. Dream was a skilled cleric and sorcerer, showing a strong aptitude the moment she turned ten. Trail was the troublemaker, his skills as a ranger only amplified by the spells he dragged Dream into helping him make. The twins had yet to manifest anything substantial. Heart was no better in that regard -- following in their brother’s footsteps at a young age. Cloud took after the eldest more; she’d follow along with Dream’s mindless rambles at the dinner table with a glint in her eyes.
Scarf never manifested anything. No matter how many doctors they dragged him to -- and only for magic assessments -- there was nothing for him. They said it wasn’t unheard of for someone in a magically inclined family to have a child who simply didn’t have anything. His parents refused that answer, dragging him to more and more people until they found one that chalked it up to a rebellious phase and that “it’ll happen eventually, you just aren’t pushing yourself hard enough.”
How many competitions did they put him through? How many times did he stand on a stage and embarrass himself, trying to show off things that would never be there? And not to mention any competitions he wanted them to come to, they never did. He wasn’t a bard, so what point was there in playing music if he couldn’t do anything with it?
Suffice to say, leaving for college was the best thing he could’ve done. Sure, he was lonely those first few months, but then he and a few others formed their own group -- Moonless Earth Theory, something they could be proud of. It was theirs. It was real. It was fun.
It is fun.
They still perform when they can, even dragging a few other friends into working the merch table. Scarf has even found his own new family. Ivy all but picked him up by the scruff of his neck, introducing him to True and her own twins Myra and George. She drags him everywhere, and he admits he’s an awful influence on her sometimes, but only sometimes. He still isn’t quite sure what being a sibling is like despite having had four of them.
And then there’s Mist; the only other tabaxi he’s met in his life.
From the moment they met, Mist has taken to being a menace in every form. From ruffling his fur the wrong way, calling him stupid shit like “squirt” and “runt.” He’s also just… an asshole. Granted, so is Scarf. But that’s neither here nor there.
Reality filters back in. Scarf leans against the side of the building, cool night air rustling through his fur. A chill runs up his spine, namesake scarf being pulled closer to his muzzle. All his other bandmates have left already. Multiple rides were offered but he’d denied them all. His apartment isn’t far, he’d said, and the weather isn’t awful. He’s endured worse in even worse temperatures.
He sighs, breath coming out in a cloud. His bass rests by his side, case strap wrapped around his leg for stability. He’d better head out now, before his bass cracks from the drastic temperature drop. He lugs it over his shoulder and makes the trek back home. The venue is on the edge of town, tucked away from most other buildings.
His apartment is on the other side of town. It’s about an hour and a half walk, but Llyn is a small town. He’ll live.
Not even fifteen minutes into his walk, it starts snowing. Hard. He knew there was going to be a storm tonight, but it wasn’t supposed to be this bad. He tugs the fabric of his scarf tighter like it’ll help. It doesn’t, clearly, because it’s a cloth around his neck. What good is it going to do for the rest of him? Already he can feel his sweater getting damp and heavy, sending his already slow pace to a near snail’s crawl. He debates calling for a ride home, but he doesn’t want to make one of his friends turn around the second they get home just to get him. Not to mention the “I told you so”’s they’ll bombard him with. Whatever. It’s fine.
A loud honk from behind him makes him jump five feet in the air.
“Kid? Is that you?” Mist. Because of course it’s him. “Goddammit, it is! Fuck are you doing out here still? Get your ass in this car!” Mist pulls up next to the sidewalk. He stares at Scarf through the windshield, eyebrows raised in an unspoken “well?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Scarf says loud enough for him to hear. Hopefully, his teeth aren’t chattering.
“‘Don’t worry’ he says, sopping wet. You live on the other end of town, and you’re walking at half past midnight in the middle of a snowstorm, and you want me to just drive off? If I have to drag you into this car, I will.”
“Y’just might.” He keeps walking. Unfortunately for him, the shuttering of his entire being freezing over is loud enough to mask the opening of a door and Mist marching over to scoop him up. “Wh- hey! Put me down! I’m not a damn child!”
“You’re definitely acting like one.” Mist opens the passenger door and throws him in. “And don’t even think about trying to leave again.” He considers it, seeing how Mist’s dumb car hasn’t had a functioning heater since the 60s or something.
“Hmrgh.” Scarf groans in lieu of a proper response.
“That’s what I thought,” Mist glances over at him and sighs heavily. “What am I gonna do with you, kid?”
“Throw me back outside?” Mist shakes his head and pulls back onto the road.
“Am I takin’ you home?” Now that he thinks about it, he remembers his heater is broken. A crisp 67 degrees when he woke up. He shivers at the thought of walking back into that. “They still haven’t fixed it?”
“Big talk comin’ from the guy who doesn’t have a working car heater in the middle of winter.”
“Actually, maybe I will let you walk just so I can run you over.” Least he’d be warm.
“…Sorry for getting your seats wet.”
“They’re leather. They’ll survive.” The rest of the drive is spent in silence, save for the rumbling of the engine that sounds a few seconds away from blowing up.
Again, at least he’d be warm.
He yawns, eyes getting heavy with every passing second. Despite still being damp and the lack of heat, he feels… warm. Almost hot.
…How quickly does hypothermia set in again?
“How you feelin’, kid? Still cold?”
“Hot. I think… maybe I got hypothermia.” Mist nearly runs a red light.
“Shit. How long were you walking out there?” It was just after midnight when he left, and the clock on the dashboard says 12:54, and they’d been driving for… some amount of time.
“Like… an hour?” Mist curses under his breath.
“That settles it, we’re goin’ back to mine. Just, hold on a bit longer, kid. Don’t fall asleep on me now.”
He doesn’t fall asleep so much as he just dozes off. Once Mist starts carrying him into the house, he’s awake. Ish.
“I c’n walk jus’ fine,” he slurs. “Not a kid.”
“Hell, even sopping wet you only weigh like, twenty pounds. And that’s being generous. Are you even eating?” The lock clicks as they step inside, Mist immediately depositing him onto the couch before running off in search of fresh clothes, towels, and blankets. Scarf blinks, drowsy. Not the time to fall asleep. Not until after the threat of dying in his sleep or something goes away.
“Here. You’re lucky I threw these in before I left earlier. Still fresh from the dryer.” Mist walks over to hand him new clothes only to leave a few moments later to throw them into the dryer. Once he returns, he starts drying him off. Scarf relaxes into the touch. He hadn’t realized how tense he was ‘til now. The rhythmic motions of the towel nearly send him to sleep again.
“Mmmngh.” Scarf groans, giving some sign he’s still alive. Mist smiles gently at that.
“You’re still with me, that’s good. Just a little more, then I’ll leave you alone for now.” Fabric rustling and the sound of a nearby motor lulls him into a deeper state of relaxation. “Well, goddamn.” Mist mutters, smiling. “Didn’t think it’d be that comfortable for ya.” With a final obnoxious wipe on his face, Mist steps back. “Alright. You look slightly less pathetic. I’ll get you something to eat and drink. Any suggestions? Things your parents would make, anything of the sort?”
The motor cuts off. Scarf’s eyes open, only to stare at his paws gripping the blanket around him.
“…No. Whatever’s easiest to make is fine.” He hates how quickly he deflates. Just the mention of them is enough to sour his mood and ruin whatever sense of comfort he’d gained.
Mist can probably sense he’s overstepped. He winces, wringing his paws together.
“Fuck. I’m sorry, sensitive subject. Uh, anything you don’t like? Hope I don’t have to force you to eat your veggies.” Scarf allows himself to crack a small smile.
“As long as it isn’t venison.” Mist nods, clearing his throat.
“No venison, got it. …Fuck it, you’re getting chicken soup. Hope you like store brand.” The gentle padding of his footsteps get quieter, replaced by the sound of cupboards opening and the clang of pots and pans, followed swiftly by, “fuck.”
Scarf lets himself drift off again. He’s warm -- properly this time. He curls up under the blanket, folding himself as small as possible. Considering he’s just under 5’ and weighs fuckall, it’s not difficult.
How strange it is that the most comfort he’s ever gotten in life hasn’t been from his own family. He can’t remember the last time his parents expressed the same amount of concern Mist does. He can’t remember if they’ve expressed concern for him at all. The older two must’ve, seeing how even now, their parents check in on them regularly. The twins definitely do, they’re only just starting middle school by now.
Oh, god. They’re starting middle school, and he isn’t there to watch them grow up.
He’s never going to see them, is he? They’re going to keep growing up, and soon he’ll have been absent longer than he was present.
They’re going to forget him, aren’t they?
There’s his lip quivering and the familiar burn of tears. What a pathetic sight he must be. He’s a grown ass man, there’s no use in crying over this. He’s not a child. He’s not.
“Here. Something to get you a bit more lucid.” Mist nudges his thigh with the bowl. Scarf sits up and stretches, pretending his eyes are watering from that rather than him being a bitch.
“Mm. Thanks.” He doesn’t eat it immediately, no matter how hungry he is. He wants to savor the warmth and the moment both while he still can. He knows, inevitably, Mist and the others will abandon him too. That’s just how life goes. Fleeting moments of contact and stability before it’s all ripped away.
He wants, childishly, to hold onto this moment, just for a little while longer.
The soup nearly spills out from how bad his tremors are. He takes a tentative sip, not caring if the contents burn his tongue.
It’s… definitely store brand quality. Average. Nothing that makes him want to spit it back out, at least.
It is also, for one sad reason or another, one of the best things he’s ever tasted. Whatever True makes holds the first spot.
Before he realizes, the bowl is wiped clean. He shimmies out of the blanket, but Mist stops him before he gets far.
“Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll take care of it, you get some rest. You off tomorrow? Or are you one of those people who actually likes working weekends?”
“Fuck no. Who d’you take me for? A freak?” Mist snorts, ruffling his fur.
“Night, kid. I’ll see you in the morning.” Scarf ignores how his lip quivers at how tender Mist’s voice is.
“G’night. And… Thank you. Again.” For this. For everything. For just being there for me.
“It’s no problem, really.” Mist pads into the kitchen to put the bowls into the sink and shuts the light off.
Scarf settles back into his blanket pile. His eyes slide shut easily, and he’s lulled to sleep by the motor from earlier.
Just before he falls asleep, he thinks how funny it is that it sounds so close. Like it’s in the living room with him.