Summary: Quick wip where reader has been the one who crafts Kavalier's clothes behind the scenes since he was young, only neither knows until they're mysteriously added to a party list and they finally get a chance to meet face-to-face. (He's an evil, vindictive little rat bastard, kind of a lot of filler, interaction doesn't happen until the end)
A/N: FUCKING FINALLY WROTE IT!!! I made reader a bit older, maybe 7-8 years. Makes sense to me as a good age gap for them to have gotten better at their craft. (Skilled sewing doesn't happen overnight.) Not proofread, we go out like men, just practice to feed the little Kavalier that's been bouncing around in my head.
You'd been sewing since you were young, bouncing around doing freelance work throughout your teenage years as quick favors for people. It was a long process, starting with stitching up simple holes in friends shirts, then doing patchwork for jeans or jackets, embroidering logos by hand, improving where you could little by little until you realized that sewing was a bit of a dying art on Earth, and you could make money from it
You studied fashion in your late teens, doing sketches and practicing on whatever scraps of fabric you could get your hands on, making sure whatever you did was to the best of your ability
Then you finally got hired in a small boutique, being allowed to tailor and alter clothes and get paid for it. Not much, but better than free, still doing your personal sketches, doing your alterations for work and dressing the mannequins whenever you got a chance
It stayed at the small boutique for a while, building a rep in the community as the one that could make close to anything you wanted, you just had to give an idea of what you wanted and be willing to pay after price negotiations. You had a boss kind enough to recognize talent and a chance at more business, so there was no pushback against personal work as long as you shared the profits due to being provided equipment and a working space
Slowly, you get better and better, being able to catch the attention of schools and designers, and now with your many recommendations from the community, you have more room to work with, small self owned companies willing to provide exposure if you make pieces for them
But while all this is happening, there's whispers of a child prodigy on the brink of changing the world.... which you ignore. You've seen many a pioneer make their public promises of doing good for everyone and then pivot.
You have your own problems to worry about
By your early-mid twenties, you've managed to come into your own somewhat, and the child genius finally has a name, Boy Kavalier, a face you've only bothered to glance at when it comes on the television, and you quickly forget
You were thankfully able to remain freelance, not needing to spend money on fashion schools, lucky enough to skirt by through exposure to keep food on the table. Odd jobs from fashion shows or clothing companies was enough to keep you on the map as you gained better reputation of designing and dressing whoever approached you
Then it finally happens, after more grueling and perfecting and being the dressing nomad that ghosted through, doing designs and last minute stitches for whatever designer, politician, musician, actor or model summoned you, only leaving a name and contact info in your wake, managing to gain a reputation as silence with impeccable style
Something comes across your desk. Measurements. Albeit, measurements for a very... skinny and small person with what you thought was boring taste
Requesting a variety of outfits that seemed reserved for what you could only coin as... lounging, in only the best of fabrics. Pesticide free, organic, whatever the fuck cotton, silk, or sherpa, in order to sew together matching sets of kimonos, robes, pants, shirts, sweaters, scarves, and undershirts. All designed to flow, never cling.
Pajamas, essentially.
Boring pajamas
And this continues for several years
The clothing style stays the same, the measurements and the checks slowly getting a bit bigger. You don't even really know who you're making this shit for; there's no return address, no company name, nothing ever. Only a post office dropoff address, but with how much they pay you can't complain, so you only sigh at how fucking boring their style is and keep sewing
Then in tandem, your check and an extra envelope cross your desk
An invitation in Roboto font to attend an event in New Siam
At The Prodigy building
Alright then, 3 days to prepare
You make sure to be dressed to the best of your ability, sleek jet black outfit that hugs the right places and drapes the floor, hair that shows your personality but still neat with a few subtle crystals pinned onto an invisible hair net, and manicured nails painted to look like a crystal clear mirror
You arrive by plane first, then take a bullet train through Prodigy City, a place you'd only seen on television or brochures. It wasn't what you were expecting
At all. There were some parts of the town that just didn't match, an almost unflattering mix of traditional and built-up sleek modern that was unashamedly reserved for the elite
When you finally arrived to the Prodigy building, it was a pain in the ass getting in. Even with your invitation, security seemed to be second guessing your validity despite the invitation essentially having barcodes to admit your presence printed in special microchips inside the paper
You had even brought your identification to make sure you could attend and prove you were the same person.
With insane side eye, they let you in, quickly moving you to the elevator and hitting an unknown floor button, and up you went
The stainless steel doors slid open to reveal an intricately designed entertainment room, with an indoor fountain with natural infrastructure that looked a bit like a conversation pit, rocks and trees built around the edge of a sunken seating area, even though you had to be on at least the 40th floor.
People bumbled past the doors, you being able to step out relatively unnoticed to make your way to the center of the room, but it seemed like once you passed a threshold unknown to you, the room was alert to the fact that you were unfamiliar despite the ambient chatter
Even the people nursing their drinks on the upper floor balconies eventually made their gaze obvious to you, silently tracking your movements below them
So now, every move you made was as precise and deliberate as possible, and you smoothly grabbed a glass of champagne off of a tray being carried past you, taking a sip while you scanned the room
Whoever's eyes you happened to meet, you made sure to look back with an angry kind of look before your eyes moved on
You don't scare me and I don't care if I'm a stranger is what you wanted to give off
You looked as relaxed as possible, making your way to the lowered portion of the room, taking a seat along the rocks that bordered the fountain, making sure you were a few feet away from the other guests that were doing the same
The rocks were suprisingly warm, like they'd sat in the sun
Now, to wait for whatever was supposed to be happening
Your poised lounging however was cut short when you were approached, taken aback by its suddeness which you tried not to show
A bald man, suited up and somewhat intimidating, looking like security
"Would you come with me?" Nothing else was said, and you understood it wasn't a request, standing after a moment to follow, noticing just how much space he took up as you looked at the size of his shoulders. Definitely security
He led you down an unoccupied hallway, and a sense of dread filled you as you heard the noise of the party grow softer and softer until all you heard were your pairs of footsteps on tile
You felt like you were about to die when he led you to another door, which quickly opened after he typed in a code, revealing another elevator that was clearly private
He didn't step in, which you reluctantly took as your cue to get in
But if you were gonna die, you were gonna ask
"What's this about?"
Folding his hands behind his back, he spoke plainly, leaving room for nothing else
"We just want to have a better idea of who we have in our building, you understand."
Well, no the fuck you didn't. Not really. But you stayed silent, trying to push away the feeling of intense claustrophobia when he stepped in next to you. You literally felt the elevator shift under his weight
He didn't even press a button for a floor, the screen on the wall lit up with an odd chirp, and then you felt movement. You didn't dare say anything else on the way. You felt like you were in deep, irredeemable trouble. And yet not only had you just arrived, you hadn't done a single thing. Unless that drink cost money and you'd failed to find that out
Your mouth was a hard line by the time the elevator stopped, your brows worried together as you stepped off, the man in tow behind you
It was clear now where to go, another hallway, doorway at the end that looked ominously dark. You trudged on with a small sigh, painfully aware you were being followed
Surprisingly, the room at the end was full of light, and after travering down 3 steps, you saw two desks with monitors facing each other, a figure sat between them on a swivel chair, their feet propped up on the desk facing away from you
First thing you noticed as you got closer to this person was how... familiar their striped clothes looked
"Hello, stranger!" their voice rang out, enthusiasically sharp, making you jump
They spun around in the chair, revealing a face that you recalled from tv, althought a lot older than you remember. Still, that same thin face, head of curled black hair, childishly fresh eyes that had a glint that meant nothing but trouble, and that boyishly crooked smile
The trillionaire child prodigy, Boy Kavalier. In the flesh, fidgeting with a stress ball of some sort, tossing it back and forth to each hand
You took a minute to stare at him, "You're the one that's been..." tilting your head at him, watching him use his toes to press whatever on his monitor
"And I thought you'd be like, way quicker to figure that out," he retorted, eyes fixated on his monitor
You shrugged, silently judging how dirty the soles of his feet were, "I don't see you on TV that often, even with the name on the invitation." You wet your lips, "I don't know, I just didn't think about it. I just don't pay attention to things like that. I don't have the time."
When his gaze flicked to you, there was a heat behind the smile he threw your way. "Better change that mindset, babe," he warned, "or that ever-so-generous pay disappears today."
You sighed, trying not to get off on the wrong foot. "Well, it's not on purpose," you defend weakly, already feeling like you'd fuck it up any second, "it's just- well, I didn't even know it was you- if I'd known I would've been able to... and I've been getting busier lately. Right now I haven't had time to pay attention to..." rich people
Shit
It might suck a bit more, but you might be able to last on your own without his backup. You could feel your body tense up when he suddenly gave you a very smug, knowing look, a corner of his lip curving into a smile.
He was the type that didn't take kindly to being ignored, and his new tone was a little too good at making you feel exceptionally stupid. "Oh, honey," he drawled, bottom lip jutting out in a faux pout, "you think you made it this far on your own?" You froze.
"Don't get me wrong," he continued, "your designs aren't hideous, but you were never suspicious of how quick you climbed the rungs with such simple... things? Especially at your age and all..."
He slowly stood, watching you struggle with this new information, and enjoying it, like a child watches a turtle they flipped fight to right itself. "I mean come on," he gestured to his clothes, " I'm sorry, sweetness, but anyone can make these." He rocked back and forth on his feet, watching you grapple for words with a sadistic smile, "but of course it won't matter how simple they look if I'm the one pulling the strings. I put you in the game, babe, and I can take you out whenever I want."
No
Fucking
Way
You felt your chest tighten. All that hard work...
He brought you so close to the top just to reveal he was the sole reason you were even up there, and then he would open the trapdoor underneath you just to watch you fall without thinking twice
Your vision blurred, and before you could even think to stop them, your cheeks were wet with salty tears. They tracked down, beginning to soak the neckline of your outfit
Wrenching a hand across your face, a loud sniffle rattled out of you, and you didn't even care about the noise of disgust that Kavalier made
"You fucking sick bastard!" you sobbed weakly, barely able to see him past your incessant tears, "fuck you! "
His eyes were just alive with exhilaration, and he clapped his hands together gleefully, pointing at your ruined state
"That! That's what I kept tabs on you for!" he shouted, "just," he let out an odd growl, "that feist, that spunk, that moxie!"
"Oh God," you moaned weakly, head bowing down in defeat, another sob wracking through you
"Oh, no, no, no, " you heard him falsely coo, his feet appearing in your line of view, " there, there, dry those eyes, baby," you felt his clammy hand swipe away the tears on your grimacing face, "none of that," he said, mumbling, "but seriously, when are you gonna learn?"
"I'll tell you what, though," you could hear the grin in his voice, "I give you a little room here, three meals a day, you do whatever I tell you to," he trailed off. The back of his knuckles ghosted over your cheekbone and your head snaps up, your angry wet gaze meeting his dangerously drunkenly euphoric one
Another lopsided smile crosses his features, his voice dropping to a lower less boyish register, "you do what I say, put that pretty face and mouth to good use," his eyes flick down to your lips, your tears still drying on them, and it makes you want to scream, "and you can work with whoever you want."
Another sob threatens to rip through your body and his grin only grows wider, his hand caressing the side of your face in a way that feels so sick and perverted as he practically grows drunk on your small whimpers
"And since you're already here," he whispered, leaning in, his lips grazing your ear, "your sad little apartment was gone the second you left to come here."
That did it. He pulled back, watching you absolutely crumble into a sad little puddle beneath him, absolutely reveling in the feeling and resisting the urge to cackle at you like a madman
"Honey, you and I are gonna be good friends."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Constructive criticism is welcome!
[crossposting an existing fic. find on ao3 here]
chapter list prev chapter next chapter
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
⋆.˚pairing: kirsh x fem!reader, kavalier x childhoodfriend!reader
⋆.˚summary: kavalier's crash response begins as you take the lost boys to their auditory tests. the unease of the days brings to light striking truths, breaking through the cracks of your privileges. and now your best friend has a small request
⋆.˚status: unfinished, ongoing
⋆.˚content: eventual violence, gore, drug abuse, traumatic past, ptsd, depression, lots of fluff
⋆.˚word count: 4.5k
(dividers by @/strangergraphics)
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
When you see the shapes of the new flight crafts on the hill, looming far in the distance, you understand at once. It’s happening. It’s happening, neatly lined up in the golden rising sun. It’s happening in a hundred pairs of boots on the ground, and the distant orders of the faraway man. Kavalier’s promise is bearing fruit.
By the time the sun has risen, there are already men scrambling up those hills, gathering in swarms, all a blur of black headgear and blue navy bodysuits. You watch from the high balcony of the main complex, already feeling the heat of the day, already wishing for the wind. Curly is here too, leaning over the edge of the bannister in a way that makes your heart beat faster for the worry of it. As the last of the sunrise fades into the day, the ant-men far below weave between each other, alive and in wait. From here, you can see the early morning fog is hanging heavy as it drapes across the horizon, but the swarms of Kavalier’s men are above the weight of simple fog.
Treasures, you remember being told. Yutani’s ship is going to bring treasure to the world. And here are the little men sent to fetch all the King’s gold.
“They’re all everywhere,” Curly pipes up from her bannister edge. You bite back a nag as you watch her. “I’ve never seen them do this before. Are they going somewhere special?”
You have to bite back your reply to this, too. Special to him. “You know, I’m not entirely sure, Curly.”
“Well it’s odd. But then, I’ve never been up here watching, so maybe I’ve just never seen it.”
“Maybe,” you agree. “Maybe they’re doing some kind of….practice drills.”
Curly steps back from the bannister and bounces on her heels. You breathe a sigh of relief, only to find it souring into contempt when her face scrunches up. “Drills for what?” she asks. “Nothing happens around here. Why would they need to do drills? It’s not like we’re at war or something. Not these days. Are we?”
Credit where credit is due, Curly’s intuitive nature is bang on the mark. Unfortunately for you, this is just too much and too soon. “We’re not at war,” you say, and throw in a laugh to reassure her. Not yet anyway. “But this is an island of highly classified experiments and highly important people,” you reach over and touch a finger lightly on her nose. “Like you. They’re just here to keep you all safe.”
“Safe from what?”
A drizzle comes on, too, ominous as ever a bad omen there was to be. And as ever, Kavalier’s men move as if they are untouched.
You breathe another sigh. “From the world. It’s dangerous out there. Strangers.” Technically, this part isn’t a lie; you just neglect to tell her which strangers, and what form they’re taking.
Whatever was stirring up in the West, your friend was going to get it all. Come rain or shine, storm or strife.
Down in the tech rooms, business swans on exactly as it always does. Curly bobs along behind you as you make your way down, and takes a usual seat beside Arthur for another one of the tests. Tone Indication, he tells you, but you just yawn into your palm and wave for him to continue. All these names and technicalities ring familiar to you, but it’s nothing you care to bother with. Not this early in the morning, at least. All you’re here for is the children.
The slow atmosphere tells you all you need to know about the situation. No one here seems to know about the crash just yet. Definitely not about Kavalier’s plans, either. You’re certain everything might be different if they did. There’s a lack of anticipatory bated breath, you feel. No one’s on edge. There are just more contagious yawns, and the steady clicking of keys, and the rattling of pens on clipboards from muffled corners.
Something about the monotony of the task settles the oddest sense of calm on you, despite the day’s happenings. All that’s up in the air remains far away from you as yet, and the steady lull of Arthur’s industry tests threatens you to the call of your dreams.
The tests themselves are simple. All the children need to do is don some headphones, sit tight, and raise their hands whenever they hear the tone trilling prompted by Arthur. These are strikingly familiar; some of the very first tests you'd watched them subjected to after they were put into their new bodies. Most are done between ten and fifteen minutes, with daydreaming and lack of concentration being expected within this short frame, of course.
Curly is up first. Then Tootles. Slightly and Smee insist on taking their trip together, which only ends up totalling their test times to thirty minutes each, but allows the entire room the respite of a genuinely heart-warming hour of tired smiles and a steady contentment of a good laugh. It’s a worthy trade-off; the screens on the left wall are starting to tell the tales of Kavalier’s plan. In full motion. The crash is no longer happening. It has officially happened. And here you are, laughing in a plush chair in the tech room floor, miles away in a safe building on an island, breathless because of the potty humour of two children.
Nibs is next up. Her wide-eyed watchful nature almost undoes all the distraction the boys had given the floor. You’re lucky she’s more interested in knowing what you had for breakfast and lunch than the screens. She finds it amusing when you tell her Kavalier denied breakfast with you this morning, and more so when you exaggeratedly pretend to be infuriated by his actions. Though at first you worry she’s showing in-empathy for the crash scene, you’re assured by her regular stolen glances that you’d been far off the mark. This little girl is doing what you’re doing - distraction. Distraction is easier a currency than in-empathy. You thrive in it. So, when Wendy brings up the rear end of the day’s testing, you’re hardly indulging yourself in the happenings of the screen at all, and hardly paying attention to the tone indication, too…hardly paying attention to Wendy, almost falling asleep…
“Why don’t you have kids?” Wendy asks Arthur curiously, raising her hand. Your eyes snap back open as you shoot him a panicked glance.
He waves you off with a brief nod as he addresses her. “Well, we…we tried to have kids. But I…I have a low sperm count.”
“Sperm,” she repeats, ghosting on a giggle.
“Yeah, sperm. It’s a funny word.” Arthur continues to fiddle with the test controls.
“Isn’t a sperm what comes out of a boy?” She raises her hand again for the test. “And then goes into the girl’s egg?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
You bite back your own amused giggle when Arthur shakes his head at you with an exaggerated eye roll. For what it’s worth, you think he’d have made a great dad. Previous conversations with the couple pass through your mind. Interactions with Dame Sylvia. Off-handed remarks about you being motherly to the Lost Boys rather than a nanny. You begin to suspect the unease between you might be down to something far deeper than an unwillingness for more than a professional relationship. Something far more delicate than the sharp undercut of pre-ordained judgement you’d previously assumed her behaviour was attributed to.
Wendy swivels her chair to you, on her right. “You’re an adult,” she nods, as if only making note of this fact right that second, “Why don’t you have kids?”
Your tongue gets stuck somewhere between ‘I’ve been busy’ and ‘I have you guys’. Really, there is no answer, but ‘I don’t know’ has not so far seemed to suffice any others of the ducklings’ childishly curious questions. Your mouth is still gaping when the crew to Arthur’s side start rattling off the immediate test results. Something about 75,000 hertz and being higher than human frequency. They’re scrambling. Arthur falls silent. Wendy’s attention darts away from you. There’s no time for a sigh of relief; her attention is not on the crew or the results. It’s on the screens.
You stand up as she pulls off her headphones. “Wendy?”
“Oh, Wendy…we’re uh…we’re not done yet,” Arthur tries to hand them back to her. “Put these back on. We're not…uh…we’re not finished here.”
Her attention remains firmly on the screens.
And then Wendy begins to swipe through the footage on the screen behind you using only her index finger and a concentrated impulse. Both you and Arthur exchange another startled look with each other. She sorts through the clips until she lands on the video of soldiers running in the site of the crash, where she pauses, and watches closely.
“Has she done that before?” he asks you, his voice wavering as the two of you watch the synthetic girl hone the footage in front of her.
“You didn’t know she could do this?” The question, though only half-meant, is answered with silence. It’s easy to understand that this counts for the affirmative. No one here knew she could manipulate the screens this way, and, by the befuddlement written on the staff’s faces, certainly no one can understand how she’s managed it.
It’s all you and Arthur can do to watch the video in stunned silence. Between her newfound skill and the chaos erupting on the crash site, you finally feel it. The shift. The trepidation, the danger, the coin tossed in mid-air. The ‘Happening’ of Boy Kavalier.
There isn't much conversation when you steer Wendy back in the direction of the central room, where the other children wait. Most of the polite small talk you try to start up falls into barely muttered responses in the face of blatant distraction. Wendy's mind is far away. Wendy's mind is at that plane crash. Halfway there, she stops abruptly, tells you she needs to find Kirsh, and darts out of your sight.
You sigh and rub your hands tiredly over your face. What you wouldn't give to be back in bed three nights ago, when all of this was nothing more than a distant future or a fading nightmare threat.
In the central room the other Lost Boys seem content enough, lolling against each other and the couch, staring into nothing and laughing over stupid kid-like jokes. You've caught them assigning animal counterparts to each other and everyone they know on the island. Naturally, they're all an explosion of giggles, an explosion of which bursts afresh when you poke your head round the door to tell them you're going on lunch. It's here you make a mental note to chase one of them up on what animal they've chosen for you. It won't be a hard task. In fact, you're sure any of them are like to give in and spill the secret with only a mild prodding to get the answer. But whatever animals they've chosen for each other, it makes little difference to you; they're still your ducklings.
Admittedly, lunch this afternoon seems wholly a trivial affair. You could almost hear what Kavalier would've said. What time is there for sandwiches while the world is changing? And to this you would've laughed back at him. Well, the world is always changing. You are not entirely sure you're very hungry either. Perhaps more in want of the mundane of your routine, the assurance that one thing is normal at least. Perhaps the chance to hide your slow brewing panic from the children. Whatever the reason, your feet are operating on autopilot, and you find yourself in the mess hall before you realise where you are.
Taking meals here is not a usual habit for you, not with the constant invite of Kavalier, but then, there's no chance of lunch with your best friend this afternoon. You know that much is true without asking. Kavalier had been so distracted this morning he'd not showed up for breakfast in the sun room as he usually did, so distracted that he'd forgotten to cancel his plate, or cancel his breakfast invitation with you. His place lay in futile wait with empty dishes before it, his seat an unusual absence of chatter and snark. The morning had turned out to be an undeniably peaceful affair. Your own pick of breakfast, your own pick of music, and your opportunity to freely yawn into your palm as you relished the early morning silence. There was the sound of your own thoughts, too. And yet in some strange way you missed him despite it all.
Lunch is sordid; run of the mill not-quite-satisfactory options with an underlying scent of bleach and chem -fresh accompanying it all. These silver canteens are never a match for the careful plates atop of Kavalier’s table in the sun room. There are soggy bottom pizzas, the usual leafy salad you once saw a bug in, standard triangle sandwiches, quiches, pastas, three kinds of fritters, boiled vegetables. You notice the steamed fish is particularly untouched. Everyone's still markedly skittish from the recent large-scale salmonella incident, particularly after it'd been chalked down to the fault of native fish. This dish is likely to end up straight in the trash. Poor things, you think, gazing down at the white fish meat in the overfilled canteens, you've died for nothing.
A few of the lower floor white coats wave you over to sit with them while you eat. Though you're sure you don't have much to say to such high level scientists, the opportunity not to sit alone is a beckoning all too sweet to refuse. You quickly learn two of them have siblings working in Kavalier’s Prodigy corps. They tell you that neither of the two know if their siblings have been dispatched to the crash this morning. The other has parents who live close to the site.
“Alexei from upstairs is the same…so are a bunch of others, from what I hear,” one of the coats, June Sethi, details to you. Beside her the others mutter their agreement.
Hearing of the connections between them all is largely unsurprising. It's well known that Prodigy is fond of making deals with its people. Work for us, your family will be better off. Jobs for all of you. One sibling in the militia almost guarantees another a spot higher up, one higher up almost guarantees another a spot in the militia. For Kavalier and the company this means loyalty against the others of the Five. Even if employment with the company doesn’t offer a family member a job, more often than no it affords them a place in the city. For the employees this means stability, plain and simple. And with job scarcity at an all time high, you can only imagine these kinds of offers are not to be taken lightly. And now, this means most people here must have family who live right where the crash has happened. As you chew, thinking about how your best friend has so much sway on the lives of the masses, even outside of the crash, the food in your mouth begins to sour. You've never thought about it this way before.
“I've been trying to buzz my sister whenever I can but…”
“No joy?” you finish.
June Sethi laughs lightly, contained. “Yeah. That's her name, funnily enough. Joy,” she shrugs. “Guess Mom and Dad never pictured her with a hard hat and a rifle when they picked that out.”
To her right Walker Erwin points at you. “She could find out if they’re alive. Or dispatched. You could do that, couldn’t you? Isn’t she Boy Kavalier’s best mate? Or something?”
“Or something,” another of the coats says. His name evades you, but you don't like the way he stares.
June nods. “Couldn’t you?”
Your mouth gapes and it takes a moment to regain your composure. “I…I don’t know. My job doesn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Nanny,” Walker scoffs. “You know my Ma loved you when you were a kid. Had copies of all your songs. Said God made you special. You, and your mate. Boy Kavalier. She thought you two hung the stars.”
“Great good that did you,” the other coat sneers.
“Look at her now, Ma. Eating rotten fish with the rest of us.”
“Bet she doesn’t love ‘em now.”
“Wouldn’t know, she’s dead,” Walker glares at you sourly.
June waves a hand to back them off. “Leave it.”
“Why? It was hard work that did her in, and I bet those two haven’t had a hard day in their lives, have they?” The other coat smirks. Walker stares. Even June doesn’t disagree. “If anything happens to our families because of the crash, and your friend is sitting up high, it’s blood on his hands. But you should know that, shouldn’t you? Fuckin’ prodigy.”
“Shut up. It’s not worth your job,” June is saying.
“No. You’re not going to get fired for saying the truth,” you reply. They look taken aback at that. Are they? It’s here you realise everyone is staring. There are cameras above you and all around. Even if you keep your mouth shut, you can be sure the word will reach him anyway. “He can’t help if Yutani’s people crash a plane,” you lie easily. “He’s just trying to get everyone out okay. I’m sure your families are just fine.”
Walker runs a hand through his hair, sighing deep. “The Five are always playing their own games. On the land we live in. There’s bound to be repercussions eventually.”
This much you can’t deny. Again, you’ve never thought of it this way. “I hope that day is not today.”
“You’re really clueless, aren’t you? That day is every day.”
The attentions of the others fall behind you. The silence that has befallen the surrounding mess-hall benches are filled in with the sounds of soles on stone. It’s Kirsh, and he’s beelining for you. It’s the sight of him that settles the balling panic inside your chest.
He stops short in front of you. Briefly eyes the white coats. “The Founder wants to see you.”
“What? Now?” The timing could not be better and could not be worse. So it goes with the pattern, you’re realising.
“Now.”
The gaze of the scientists burns into your back as you leave the doors, and Kirsh is silent as you walk. Down the corridors he doesn’t answer any questions you pelt at him, and doesn't ask any about the mess-hall incident, either. Eventually, you too fall silent, grateful at least he is not pushing you for information about a moment you’re all too aware he’s curious about. When you reach the elevator, the button is pressed, and the doors seal shut, Kirsh at last turns to you. “I'm going to be stark. He has something to ask of you. And you're not going to like it. But it's important you keep an open mind.”
His eyes are dead on yours. Unwavering as ever. Your mind whirs with the possibilities, but you fall flat, drawing on a blank. “What does he want? What is it?”
“I'm not at liberty to say.”
“Please,” you ask. He doesn't speak. “Kirsh!”
“I am advising you on the basis of a guess. I know nothing for fact. But if it's any consolation, you'll know yourself shortly.”
Then the doors slide open, and Kirsh faces forward.
When you pass the ground outside the roomy office lounge belonging to Kavalier, he'd already waiting for you. Kirsh peels away from your side wordlessly before you have a moment to ask him to stay. As soon as he’s gone, the ball of panic returns.
“Have there been civilian casualties?” you blurt, the instant you’re inside.
He raises his brows. “Hello to you too, Silly Girl. Venus,” as he talks, he pucks his rubber ball to and fro. Desk to hand, hand to desk. He catches it again and points to the butler. Eins. “Details.”
Eins looks to you. “Thanks to the Founders Day celebrations, there have been no doubt countless causalities avoided. Most were at the grand park for the festival. Couldn't have been better timing.”
“Right. So you don’t want any help with that. Designing care packages or whatever.”
“What?” Kavalier questions.
“Well, you want me here for something. I’m trying to figure out what exactly that is.”
“Hm. Smart, aren’t you? Care packages,” his ball pucks. Back and forth. “Write that down, Atom. We could do with some good rep in the bank. Get the people on our side. Good books and all. You know, we could do with you up here more often. You come up with some real striking ideas sometimes.”
Kavalier sees pleased. You’re unsure what to make of the suggestion, given what his work is evidentially entailing as of late…but you can’t help but feel a glow of pride anyway. A shell of satisfaction. Remnants of the need for validation left behind on the shores of the childhood in the spotlight, irrevocably printed inside of you without clause. Nowadays the satisfaction appears entirely less. You’ll take what you can get.
“What am I here for then?” you prompt him.
In one deft throw the ball is in Eins’ grip. Kavalier is giving you his undivided attention. “I’m sending my Lost Boys to investigate the site.”
It takes you a full thirty seconds to fully comprehend the words he has spoken.
Walker’s bold statements converge with Kavalier’s. And the hapless soldiers sigh runs in blood down palace walls. Had you really been so blind?
“I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me you know this isn’t a fucking game,” you spit out abruptly. Kavalier chuckles at the curse, especially when you are as surprised at its appearance as he is. “Tell me!”
He waves off his butler - Eins - and his eyes trail behind the synthetic as he makes his sour exit from the room. The minute you're alone, Boy steps three feet closer. “It’s always a game,” Kavalier tells you, with all the tell tale shades of sheer nonchalance.
Not for the first time, you have the burning urge to want to slap the stupid grin off of his glee filled face. “You know, you can play whatever little game you’ve cooked up for yourself and your company friends all day long and forever if that’s what makes you happy. But you can’t sit here high up on your throne and push the kids around like they’re your pawns. Or the people. They’ve nothing to do with it.”
“They signed up for this life,” he shrugs. “So did the Lost Boys, to relinquish youth.”
“They signed up to get out of their sick and dying bodies. They didn’t conscript. It doesn’t entitle them to line up and put on a vest. They’re not expendable. They’re not soldiers.”
“They’re not children either.” He watches you, his expression ghosting on satisfaction as he delivers the words. A heavy silence spills out in the air between you, as if he’s waiting for you to come biting back the same way you so often have at the somewhat taboo mention of their adolescent-non-adolescent status.
Do you want to take his bait tonight? He waits. You think. He waits. You purse your lips.
“This is going to be valuable time and energy spent,” he continues, seeming satisfied all the more, “I don’t mind you knowing that I’m not making this decision….uh…lightly, yeah? This feels monumental. I want to make them part of that. See what they see. The world through hybrid eyes,” Kavalier snatches forward and grasps your hand tightly in his, so sudden you catch yourself mid-flinch. “I want to make you part of that, too, Venus.”
“Me?” you scan his face, taken aback. You?
“You’re always taking them to and fro their techy tests. Back and forth, back and forth, pinging all about the place, ever playing the part of the dutiful little nanny. Don’t you wanna take them outside? Field trip?” he pinches your wrist as he straightens up, but as you snatch your hand away, you can see the suddenness of the serious in his eyes just as it settles into place. “Don’t you want to witness the birth of the new world?”
Kavalier steps forward. You can’t tell if he’s going to pull you into his arms or pull on a strand of your hair. Without realising it you find yourself stepping back. That glint in his eyes. Is that glint of a greed? A hunger? A gambit?
“I’ll go,” you accept. His eyes become legible once more as they fire up. He’s back to his old twisted glee. “But for the children. Lost Boys. Whatever you want to call them.” Your job is to keep them safe, and safe you shall keep them. “But on one condition. You have to send Kirsh with us, too.”
“Five steps ahead of you, Silly Girl.”
Kirsh himself stands in wait by the elevator doors. His hands are folded behind his back, and his gaze is firmly locked on your walk. “Well?”
“What do you think?”
“He wanted you to join us,” he speaks delicately. You grunt in response, and he gives a brief nod. “Ah. I was correct. And your response to his request?”
You probably knew what I'd do before I did it at all.
In the elevator, Kirsh’s stark words tumble in your mind.
Of course you’d agree. That’s what you do when you love somebody. You stick by them. And this is where it has taken you, over and over. Chasing that same old flame of validation. Every time Kavalier calls you’re there. Every time he stubs you you’re right back with a wave and a yes. Smiling all the while he looks the other way. You’ve the strangest feeling his Happening is not the only omen to come out of today. Not for the first time, and far from the last. You're staring in the face of this bad omen and seeing right through it. You’re sitting right beside him on the ride of his whims for the thousandth time. Not the first, far from last. Because Kavalier is your best friend, and this is what you do when you love someone.
...but you love the Lost Boys too, now, and the lines between your devotions are beginning to blur.
Kavalier WIP while I rewrite the shit I have in my drafts because it's literally not making any sense when I proofread it
A/N: Ok ok so Ive been seeing the show Ice Loves Coco trending and omg that man loves her down and listens to even the most mediocre stuff she has to say so I was thinking...
Imagine you're Kavalier's like,,, little house pet, but more freedom to move around. I think it's best he's like 3-4 years older than in the show. Maybe by then he'll have mentally developed a little bit and gotten his medication routine under control, and can actually socially sustain himself, but even that's rare. But dont get it twisted
Still possessive, still demanding, still asshole-ish
But anyway, imagine you live on the island with him. No job, free to move around so long as you stay out of the way when important things happen, keep your mouth shut about certain things like you'd even care, blah blah blah
He lets you have basically whatever you want, clothes, shoes, games, toys, makeup, furniture, you name it. Compared to how much be has you don't even make a dent in his pocket when you go on even your biggest shopping spree.
Seeing the way he behaves, I doubt sex would be a big thing with him. I imagine it's kind of like if you want it, he's the man in the relationship, all you have to do is ask and you can get anything you request. Although, if you don't want it, he will never pressure you or even bring it up.
Amd even if you were to wear a crazy skimpy outfit, he never points it out unless you want him to, and always looks you in the eye and carries on like everything is normal, cause to him it is. Idk he just doesn't strike me as a very sexual creature. ( I see him as incredibly annoying and twinkish, no offense.)
Day to day walk around the outdoor parts of the island and care to maybe the gardens, learning how to take care of the flowers and fruit trees so you don't just shop and rot your brain for the rest of your stay there. Anyone can spot you because you have your own personal style, all spent of Kavalier's dime while you indulge in horticulture little by little.
Shit I'm getting sidetracked. But ANYWAY, what if he comes back to his quarters after a day of who cares, sees you sitting cross-legged on his bed in just your underwear, with all shapes, sizes, and colors of like lip glosses or something just absolutely swamping you. To the point you can hardly see the bed
He trots over, kneeling down to your level while you look beyond deep in thought. "Whats all this?" You spread your hand over the selection in front of you. "Im trying to find a color for the party tonight and I don't know what to pick," you whine. His brows shoots up as he scans the plethora. At first he thought maybe you wanted off the bed, if you moved countless tubes would spill off everywhere.
"The one at that tiny little bar in New Siam?"
"Yeah, Joe invited me cause he likes it there and I wanna be nice. You don't exactly do that," you challenge, shooting him a look. He ignores it. "Well it depends on what you're wearing. And what makeup you're doing." It seems like you've caught him in a good spot today where his medication is actually agreeing with him.
"I'm just wearing black, and shoes I can walk in down there. I don't know if anyone will spill anything on my foot like last time." Kavalier rests his chin in his palm, "Well black goes with literally anything, hon. What do you need my input for?"
"I mean in the sense of like, what, glitter, frost, metallic, matte, what? I need a second opinion, this is serious." He looks at them a bit longer before asking, "what kind of jewelry do you plan on wearing? Whatever you have, pick a lip color that goes with it."
"I havent picked out jewelry either. "
He sighs out of his nose. "Is it the black backless outfit?"
You look at the ceiling thinking, pursing your lips," Yeah probably, I couldn't decide on anything else." He looks down, tracing his fingers over the tubes of product, hearing them clack as they turned over. "Wear some of that antique acrylic jewelry," he stood, your eyes following him, "I havent seen you wear it in a while. And whatever you pick for the lips should have a bit of glitter. Maybe a darker color around the edges. No pink."
A smile crept on your face as you watched him cross the room and plop down at his desk, propping his feet up. "The rest I'll leave up to you," he finished, not looking at you as he pressed a couple commands with his toe. You liked it when he gave the idea of control when it still kind of always up to you.
You immediately leaned over the side of the bed, pulling the wicker tote basket you had closer so you could visually eliminate the colors that didn't apply, swiping and dropping them inside with noisy clatter. You didn't notice him watching you, practically leaning his neck backward off the headrest of his swivel chair to silently observe your little quest take shape.
Although still several dozen you managed to narrow it down significantly. Now he was watching you contemplate, tongue between your teeth as your eyes darted between choices. Back and forth back and forth. When it started to take too long for his liking he added, "make sure it tastes good."
That's when your eyes lit up, and you snatched one up, tucking it into the waistband of your underwear and standing up on the bed with an exaggerated groan. He watched you step down, quickly disappearing into his bathroom. Gone for maybe a few seconds, he hears you shout, "Oh my god! Wait!" before rushing back out of the bathroom completely nude.
Bolting over to him you practically throw yourself into his lap, and he spreads his legs to get you better situated. "I forgot to tell you," you grinned," guess what I learned today." He huffs with a light smile, his hands coming up to anchor themselves on the fat on your hips while he studies the shine in your eyes. "I don't know, honey," he replies, his hands wandering up to your waist, giving the occasional squeeze that sends tingles down your spine, "what did you learn today?"
Whatever it was he was certain he already knew the little factoid floating somewhere in his mind, but for your sake he'd let you indulge in "teaching" him. It was just easier that way.
Twisting a lock of his hair in your pointer finger, you grin, "those apples you like so much," watching it spring back into its natural state when you let go, "they're part of the Rose family." He leaned into your hand, slotting his face into the crook of your neck, silently signaling you to continue fondling with his hair.
"Really?" he murmured with a light lilt, lips grazing your pulse point when he spoke, forcing a giggle out of you at its tickle. "Really," you answered, "and there's over 7,000 different kinds." When your hand wandered to lightly pull the hairs at the base of his skull it earned a pleased rumble from him. Your head tilts down, and your brows knit together.
"Are you even listening to me?" you demand, which he only responds to with a chuckle. "Anyway, most of them," you continue, rolling your eyes, "are grafted, not planted via seeds." With a hand under his chin you tilted his head up towards yours, finishing with, "To get the desired traits, you see." His eyes looked nothing short of glistening, and you lean down to lightly peck his lips.
"Yes, I do see," he said, squeezing your ass a tad harsh, "now, are you gonna start getting ready for that party? I believe I've done my part."
"Fine, whatever," you scoff, quickly easing off of his lap and heading back towards the bathroom. "Unless you want to shack up with me," you hear him laugh, "where you can humor me with your new findings all night!" When you start pulling on your outfit, looking at your reflection sparks an idea to poke the bear. Indulge in one of his good moods where he actually gives a shit- or at least acts like he gives a shit about what you're talking about while it lasts.
"You know, you don't have to listen to my fun facts if you don't want to," you shout, "maybe Joe will find them more interesting!" After you zip up you add when you start moving onto your hair, "maybe even Kirsh!"
"Kirsh would only listen to you because he has to. And as for Joe, he couldn't satisfy your needs of he tried, honey. He doesn't have the budget."
You bite back and absolutely wicked smile. "Just thought I'd make a suggestion," you mumble to yourself.
His next words carry a hint of permissive warning. "Whatever fun facts you throw their way, honey, just know I'll be watching."
Giving a few swipes of the color you picked out on your lips, you gave yourself one last once-over before leaving the room.
"I'm counting on it. I'll make sure to give you a show," you declare, stepping out of the bathroom and towards your closet. An extra room had been added just for your personal belongings, and you fished through your drawer for the earrings Kavalier told you to wear. You worked them onto your ears, moving to slip the matching bracelet on.
"Ah, see," he confirmed, swiveling in his chair, legs still spread when you stepped out. "I knew those would look best. As expected," he declares, letting silence settle as you stand, letting his eyes rove over your figure.
He pats his thigh. "Come here."
You come, taking your place back on his lap, smoothing a hand across his chest as he takes a breath. Palming at your hips once again, "give me a kiss." Not a request. You lean down, ready to give him another small peck when he startles you with a hard grip at the base of your skull. He wrenches a small noise out of you as he insistently sought his lips against yours, smooth and warm, but undoubtedly unkind. But you quickly adapted, your free arm snaking around his shoulders, reciprocating his roughness.
He bit your bottom lip with a certain cruelty, and you knew it was over the comment about Joe and Kirsh- putting on a show for Kavalier- as if he'd ever let you. It wasn't until you felt that familiar warmth in your belly and wetness at the apex of your thighs start to form when Kavalier finally let up. He pulled away, gloss smeared all over his lips and yet so smug at the way you looked so breathless.
He smiled, pleased, smoothing down a stray hair of yours, with a graze that mocked kindness. "See," he purred, his eyes over your parted panting mouth, "tastes good. You picked the right one." His hand sneaks around to the base of your throat, pulling you in for another kiss, and you mentally kick yourself when you know it's to feel the way your heart beats like a caged rabbit.
The gloss. He wanted one that tasted good.
When he pulls away he spectates your state, cocks his head. "Now," he speaks, an unmistakable exactness in his tone, a severity in the way his other hand moves to your ass again, and both points force a strangled moan out of you when he squeezes.
"Are you going to behave yourself tonight?"
Screwing your eyes shut you croak out a, "Yes," feeling a shameful stickiness under your clothes. There's a kind of terrifying hollowness behind his eyes, the way he just looks at you, and it makes your hand move over his, gently pawing in a subdued request for him to let go, but he keeps waiting, and your brows knit together when he lowly presses above a whisper, "are you?"
Immediately you nod, and he quietly relishes the way you seem so quiet now compared to earlier, breathing out, "Kavalier, please." And that was all it took, his grip on your throat easing off ever so slow, the hot and cold rush of blood that drips down your chest is welcome, the warmth dripping down into your abdomen.
With a shaky breath, you go still, trying to process what just happened and ride out the rush of endorphins. He lets you for just a moment before he raises a brow. "Well," he scoffs, patting your thigh, "upsy-daisy. You have somewhere to be, don't you, now?" He says it like it's the most obvious thing and the world and that you're stupid to not be motivated to move. Like what just happened didn't happen.
'I'll have you escorted down," he says flippantly with a wave of his hand, "and I'll have one of the synthetics keep an eye on you for the night."
Nodding again, you slowly stumble off his lap, hating the way he watches you struggle to stand like a newborn animal. Sighing, you smooth your hands over your outfit, your mind storming with the fact of being watched by a babysitter all night while he turns his back to you in the chair, you doing the same and trudging off towards the door. Atoms emerges from- wherever it is that he waits dormant, ready to put in his credentials on the elevator when Kavalier's voice calls, and he stops.
Suppressing a sigh with a look of pure dread directed at the floor, you spin on your heel to see Kavalier approaching, and you fear what's coming next. "You forgot something," he said, dangling the necklace that went with your set from his pointer finger. "Silly goose." Just to get it over with, you hold out your hand, ready to take it and get the hell away from him when he snatches it out of reach. "No, no, allow me," a false display of chivalry crawling out of him like a parasite.
"But it doesn't go with my outfit," a weak attempt at leaving faster, "it looks better with nothing in the front."
He cocks his head at you, giving you an incredulous look. "Well, frankly, honey, I don't care. I want you to wear it. I'll flip it around to your back if it'll make you happy- but you're wearin' it."
Your pout, brows knitting together at his relentless need to have control- get the last word.
"Fine." You turn, giving him your back and feeling the freezing acrylic brush the middle of your spine before seeing his hands come underneath your chin to do the clasp. The immediate shadow of him looms over your right side, barely whispering, "No stunts tonight," pressing a chaste kiss to your pulse point, "and don't even think about taking this off." Another kiss. "Or I'll make sure the bed is the next place you stay for three days." Another kiss, and the feel of his palm on the small of your back, moving lower for another possessive squeeze at your ass. "Okay, honey?"
You hum weakly in response and he pulls away. As Atom opens the elevator and you both step inside, you try to think of what you keep your mind on that'll quickly elevate your mood before you meet up with Joe for your night out, and not the fact that you know Kavalier put a tracker and possibly even a bug in the pendant of your necklace.
Maybe some fun fact about planting mangoes or something will interest the both of you, and keep your brain satiated for the night, not having to think about your invisible cage.
A/N: okay so I planned on keeping this relatively positive but apparently I can't view Kavalier as a good person because this turned darker than I initially anticipated. Hope you liked it! Constructive criticism is welcome!
[crossposting an existing fic. find on ao3 here]
chapter list prev chapter next chapter
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
⋆.˚pairing: kirsh x fem!reader, kavalier x childhoodfriend!reader
⋆.˚summary: kavalier is confronted with your startling realisation. the lost boys sit a test. your suggestion for an impromptu hike with the children is accepted - though you're not happy to be told kirsh will be joining you
⋆.˚content: eventual violence, gore, drug abuse, traumatic past, ptsd, depression, lots of fluff
⋆.˚word count: 6.7k
(dividers by @/strangergraphics)
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
now
“You’re giving me, what? The silent treatment?” Kavalier asks from across the breakfast table. Smart-ass. It had only taken the forty-five seconds between you both being seated and the food being served for him to figure that one out.
It’s your instinct to shoot him back a clever retort, but that would entirely detonate your efforts at actually being silent, so you settle for a scathing glare instead. He gives you a half chuckle as he chews his cereal. “You’re really doing this?”
You give him another glare. This time you squint your eyes at him too as you bite into your morning toast.
“Oh, you’re really doing this,” he nods in confirmation, “Okay. What the fuck? Are you five?”
“Are you five?!” is what you end up exploding back, caving almost immediately watching him prop his bare feet onto the table, much too close to your plate for comfort. Kavalier knows all too well how to make you talk. “It’s the dog,” you burst, a scowl on your face. “The dog.”
“What dog?” He shakes his head in confusion, smirking as he watches you inch your plate and chair away from his feet. At first you think he’s teasing you, but another look at his blank expression assures you really has no clue.
“Nana,” you huff, crossing your arms. As tempting as it was to make him keep guessing, to string him along, your frustration is bubbling too high to have kept it contained a second longer.
“Oh,” his eyes widen in realisation, “The Darlings’ nursemaid.” You watch as Kavalier begins to crack and as the laughter takes a hold of him. He lets it rack him completely, so much so that his hands fly to his face, spiling his glass of orange juice all over the plate of pastries in the process. “That’s why you’re mad? Over the dog in Peter Pan?”
“Yeah! Of course I am, asshole. In your little Peter Pan fantasy, I equate to the dog! The cheap convenient nanny. I'm Nana. I’m the fucking dog.”
Kavalier slow claps you with a cocky grin. “Brava. You know, I didn’t even think of that. You’re smart when you put your mind to it. When you really, really focus, that brain of yours can do incredible things.”
“It’s not funny,” you insist. You’re trying to hide it best you can, but you know he can still see the smile you’re fighting at both his teases and the utter absurdity of the situation.
“Please. Nana and Peter aren’t friends. They don’t even know each other. Your analogy is flawed.”
You groan and slam your face into your hands. “Oh, man. What if the kids notice? Please ban them from watching the films. Please!”
“Which one? Take your pick,” he teases. “There’s only about, what? A dozen?”
“Any of them. All of them!”
“And you’re aware I read it to them every night?”
“I might die of embarrassment. I might really die,” you groan into your hands again. “Is that what you want? Because I will just drop dead.”
“You’ll…play dead? Ha! That was a good one. I told you you’re smart sometimes. You practically handed that one to me.”
“I’m so serious, any minute now, I’ll drop.”
“Alright, listen, I don’t know how things work in that, uh, creative mush that you call your brain, but here in sane people ville, where I live? You’re not like Nana. I mean, you are a bit,” he stops and grins as you shoot him another glare, “But actually, more like...uh…the first fairy friend Peter makes. Someone must have taken him to Neverland, right?”
Although you’re still attempting to appear perturbed, you nod along at his attempts to subvert your views. “Right.”
“Yeah. J.M. Barrie wasn’t so hot on the backstory front, but the way I see it, there’s no way Peter could’ve flown past any second star on any right without some fairy dust first.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Although…it’s common knowledge that dogs are considered a boy’s best friend.”
Your immediate reaction is to grab an orange juice-soaked pan au chocolat and hurl it as hard as you can at his head. Unfortunately, he ducks, and it skims past him, landing somewhere far off on the floor with an ugly splat. “You’re an ass,” you retort, though holding back a laugh, “you're an ass, Smart boy.”
⭑ ✦ ⏾ ✧⭑
This morning’s main job is taking the children to and from their appointment in the designated tech quarters. Today, they’re going to be put to work. An examination, you’re told. Perception and comprehension tests. Dame Sylvia had explained it all to you yesterday over a cup of tea in the central room. According to her, written exams are important to ascertain and document the development of the child’s brain in accordance to what they’re learning.
“Different experiences will help them grow in different ways,” she had said. “But as these are children who cannot grow, the state of their mind as these experiences pass them are unique. We need to know exactly what they’re understanding and how they’re perceiving it. It’s not enough,” she had told you, “For a child to take in information. They must understand it, too.”
She’d also told you it was imperative they would treat this like traditional schooling. Sitting apart, no talking, no cheating. Just raw unfiltered responses to get the most accurate of data from them. You could tell they were taking this seriously. Again, just like when Kavalier had asked you to be their nanny, you’re reminded of the children’s unfortunate realities; their existences being boiled down to nothing more than products. They’re guinea pigs. They’re strings of data on a spreadsheet.
Aside from making you the tea and taking the time to explain the agenda, Dame Sylvia didn’t stick around for amicabilities. So far, she’d been polite, but nothing much beyond that. Something nags at you every time you interact with her. The small voice at the back of your head, convincing you she wasn’t entirely thrilled you were there. For now, you had no idea why, or if you were even correct in your observations. But that’s a small problem for later, you remind yourself when you see her again in the halls this morning. She only gives you an acknowledging nod before promptly walking away. No use dwelling.
As you’d instructed them each to do the previous night before bedtime, each of the Lost Boys are ready and waiting outside of their bedrooms, fifteen minutes before the exam time. Seeing them follow your instructions gives you a flicker of pride you allow yourself relish in. Even if it’s something simple as waiting in the hall, their willingness to listen tells you they’ve already accepted you. They trust you.
Your pattern of being proud of the children continues as you take them down to the designated room. It’s one of the tech ones, which has been cleared out and filled with six separate desks and chairs, each of them boasting a booklet and stationery neatly presented and waiting. You’re also proud of them as they follow your instructions to stay quiet and listen to Sylvia. Again, when they keep their questions for when she asks them. Again, when she starts the timer and they flick open their booklets to begin. You’re not so proud of them, however, when they start daydream instead of working. Not so much when they start making eye contact and giggling, either. You’re also not proud when they stop working altogether and begin whispering not-so-subtly the minute they think they’re not being watched. Behind the two-way window, you cover your mouth with your hand, halfway between amusement and mortification.
Beside you, Dame Sylvia opts for the latter, while Arthur the former, which she scolds him for. Kirsh simply stares with his arms crossed. You almost roll your eyes at this, but catch yourself when you notice the entertained expression is settling over his face again.
“I should go in there,” Sylvia says to no one in particular. “I should, right? And settle them down.”
“Woah, woah,” Arthur shakes his head at her. He holds out a hand just as she looks as if she’s about to make a turn for the door. “I say we give ‘em a chance. They’re excited. They’ll settle down on their own.”
“On their own? Arthur, they’re kids who think they’re not being supervised. They’re not going to do their work unless we get them to do it.”
Arthur points into the room, towards the front, where Tootles is still hunched over his paper. “Our trooper! He’s working!” As if on cue, Tootles turns around in his seat and starts talking to Wendy. “Oh.”
“Nibs has just flown a paper airplane into Curly’s neck,” Kirsh informs you all.
“I think they need to do something else,” you suggest, raising your voice to get it over the children’s. “They’re clearly not in schooling mode right now.”
“I think you may be right. Uh...” Arthur scratches his head briefly as he thinks, “We’ve still got their agility tests tomorrow. We could swap them around. Do that now and this tomorrow?” he proposes.
“Something that’s not prodding and poking at them, I meant.”
Dame Sylvia gives a loud huff. “You want to reward them for not working? Darling, that’s never going to get them to behave.”
“These kids have gone from being terminally sick in hospitals from one day to being experiments in a lab the next. We need to let them do something real. Give them a break.”
“They can’t sit around and …do colouring all day.”
“They’re kids. Let them be kids. They don’t need to be playing with real toys or be doing something crafty to have fun. They’ve got big wild imaginations. Isn’t that what this has all been about?”
“This is about teaching them to be the best versions of themselves. Improving their quality of lives, in the long run. We can’t do that for them by letting them go wild, we’ve got to make some sacrifices now to ensure they’re better off, later!”
“Later will always be later, but what about now? Let them have a break. They’ll work better if they’re relaxed, anyway.”
“So, what do you suggest?” Kirsh speaks up.
You think for only a few seconds before blurting the first thing that springs into your head. “We can take them outside. What do you think?”
“Outside,” he echoes, and you can tell you’ve sparked his interest, “To do what?”
“Play with mud. Search for bugs. Hike. Be kids.”
Arthur thinks it’s a good idea, but Sylvia remains unconvinced. Kirsh doesn’t offer his opinion on going, and isn’t prompted to, either. His only further suggestion is to ask Kavalier.
You’re all fortunate to discover he’s free enough to answer the call, which he makes sure you’re all fully aware of when he does. When he is asked for approval on the impromptu trip, you’re not much surprised at his speedy agreement. He’s never been one for knuckling down and filling out papers the day long, even when you were kids. You’re also not surprised at how incredibly hilarious he finds the news of the children’s distractions. During the discussion, the predicament arises that Sylvia and Arthur have too many tasks piling up, especially now that the exams have to be moved to another day. It’s clear they won’t be able to take the Lost Boys out. You feel your heart sink as you realise you’ll be facing every bit of the responsibility alone.
“Can you get Sylvia or Arthur off work? Just for the day?” you try asking Kavalier over the call. “I don’t wanna take them all out on my own. Not for the first time, at least.”
“Nah. They have things to be getting along with, don’t they? Not prancing about in the trees. Reports pending, overdue forms,” he disagrees with an exaggeratedly bored snort, “Blah, blah, blah. Kirsh - you’ll go with?”
Oh. No.
All of a sudden, the prospect of taking them alone sounds like it could be nothing short of total bliss. It’s too late now, though. The call is cut and the kids have been told. You watch them, their eyes alight as they push away their papers. At the front of the room, Tootles and Curly spring up excitedly and begin talking to Kirsh, who nods along to their overlapping, bubbly chatter. It’s all you can do to sigh as the frustrated denials of him joining you die out on your tongue. Who are you kidding? They want him there. Out in the forests of Neverland, it’ll just be you and Kirsh and this ragtag crew of children who can’t get into focus mode. It’s like shaking a can of soda before opening it. Almost definitely bound to be a disaster.
It takes another forty-five minutes before you're clear to leave. First, the Lost Boys are rushing around to their rooms and to pack their bags with all the things they want to bring with them. There are hiking sticks someone offers, but as Kirsh reminds them, the Lost Boys won't be needing that. Barring you, the singular human bodied person in the party of eight, Slightly and Smee are the only others ones who accept them. Kirsh gives them a questioning look, but they explain they’re doing it ‘for fun’.
The six of them change into jumpsuits deemed more appropriate for the outing while you and Kirsh are told the parameters of what you're allowed to do and what information you should be ready to give back upon return. It’s all boring procedure drivel, but you're hardly listening to this, anyway. You’ve made it clear this outing is about the kids being kids. You know already that your report later will reflect just that.
When you’re all at last outside, it takes a while to walk out of the facility and accommodation blocks and wind up out in the forestry. And once the buildings are completely out of sight, it’s as if you’re in another world entirely. You can’t help but stop. Pause, step back. In total awe, yes, but also in total spite at yourself as you wish you’d paid attention to the island sooner. Long ago, coming to a place like this would’ve been the stuff of dreams. You suppose you had become so lost in your own mind upon arrival to Neverland its beauty had never fully dawned on you. Of a sudden, your previous deep annoyance at Kirsh’s presence almost completely dissipates. It becomes buried deep, barely there, overshadowed in its absolute by every green wonder and every stone foothold your eyes meet.
Ripples and ripples of vibrant, exotic greenery stretches out before you. Far up, into the swathes of dutiful mist, the very mount of each structure is long lost into the clouds, of which there is no shortage, but a vast and glorious abundance. Your breath catches in your throat the longer you gaze. When you look up, your amazement only grows; in between the tufts of white, the azure blue of the sky shines through, utterly dazzling. Another fresh thrill runs through you when you notice the sun, too. You can see, almost clearly line for line, the cut of each ray shining down and into the trees, as if some invisible being had painstakingly drawn each one themselves with a precision known only by a burning passion.
You don’t even realise, for a few moments, as the words begin to tiptoe, creeping into your mind - the whispers of melodies and poems, arranging themselves with a rhythm of your design. These are your old habits come to play again, because old habits do not easily escape their beholder. It’s only when you catch yourself humming and tapping your foot against the gravelled ground that you shake yourself out of your inspired stupor, and bring yourself back down to Earth.
In front of you, you quickly realise, everyone has walked on already. That is, everyone except Kirsh, who lags back behind the group with a look of unsatiated curiosity as he watches you. His eyes, once again, are locked onto your face. You almost feel embarrassed, and, fearing your face will flood red, whether from frustration or otherwise, you duck your head and rush to catch up. It won’t do to ruin the splendour of what surrounds you by something as ugly as anger.
For a while, a solid two or three hours, if you had to guess, the group of you make your way through the forest in a sensible stroll. The Lost Boys seem far tranquil out here than they had in the classroom, as you had correctly hypothesised. The realisation is relieving. It means you’ve made the right choice. Wendy kicks off the group at the front. Curly walks with Nibs near you, both looping you into the various conversations they slip in and out of. Slightly and Smee, who you are beginning to realise you often see together, are just behind Wendy in their own bubble of amusement with her. They seem as happy to follow along her talk as she is to lead them along. Tootles is the only one who walks mostly on his own with his notepad and a pen, though he sticks closely beside Kirsh, often directing questions his way and noting the odd thing down.
The group stops here and there as you all notice your own assortment of particulars among the scenery. Nibs sees a miniature curved door-shaped hole in the bottom of a large tree trunk, which she and Smee agree looks a lot like the door to a fairy’s house. Somewhere further, after a lot more of the children spotting other ‘fairy houses’, Slightly sees a dead frog, which Tootles wants to take home to dissect, ‘for science’. Unfortunately for him, when Wendy pokes it in the belly, it jumps right up and starts hopping in their direction, which causes everyone, including you, but minus Kirsh, to scream wildly at and scatter, fast. Three more fairy houses later, you’re all still jumpy and giggly from the frog when Tootles finds what he identifies as a rare kind of ‘assassin caterpillar’. Kirsh corrects him, calling it a ‘Lonomia Obliqua’, and also calling it poisonous. Again, everyone jumps back. This time, Kirsh physically takes your arm and pulls you away from the branch it was crawling on, chastising you about not being careful enough in his monotone way.
“You’re all slow!” you hear Wendy call out from where she is at the front of the group. She climbs eagerly over every rock and root, a hunger in her face to do more, and more. You’ve no doubt the excitement of the spotted creatures has broken her previous contentedness at the sensible strolling. “Did you forget we can go so much faster now?”
Each of the Lost Boys exchange looks with each other, apprehensive. Then Curly follows suit and bounds on with Wendy, and Tootles can’t resist after that, and the other three soon follow. In a moment, they’re off into the trees. Realising you can’t see any of them anymore, a panic takes a firm hold of you. “Shit,” you curse loudly, “Three hours in and we’ve already lost the kids?!”
“I’m not worried. I can hear them,” Kirsh informs you. He then reaches for his grey side bag, quickly unzipping it and retrieving a flat screened tablet from inside, “And their trackers will allow us to keep an eye on their location from wherever we are. You shouldn’t panic. It will inform us if they’re in danger.”
“We’re supposed to be watching them properly. With our own eyes.”
“And we’re still doing that, just with this,” he gestures to the tablet in his hands. “It’s efficient.”
“I’m going to throw that off a cliff,” you threaten with a huff.
“Then I would have to run after the children, and you would be left behind to the mercy of the elements, alone, and that wouldn’t be very practical.”
“Great, I’ll actually have some peace.”
“I would much rather stay here to keep an eye on you than go after the children,” he continues, ignoring your remark. “Compared to machines, animals are much more at risk out in the wilderness.”
Your mouth drops open and you stare down Kirsh, your frustration only multiplying when he doesn’t give that a response, either. Trying once more not to be angry at him, you speed up walking and purse your lips. God, he knows how to push your buttons.
“Take the Lonomia Obliqua from earlier, with its anti-coagulant venom,” he continues, catching up to you with a significant ease, as if trying to enforce his point. “You are prey. We are not.”
You shoot him yet another glare. “Yeah, I got it the first time.”
As if on some terrible cue, your own body betrays you and you feel your stomach gurgle. You hear it, too. It’s loud. In your distraction at breakfast this morning you hadn’t had much time to actually eat very much, and you’re guessing the walking has already got your body craving something more. Kirsh turns to you, like he’s about to say something, but you already know what he’s going to say, and you’re definitely not going to let him. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m an animal. My primal desire is to eat food to survive. And you know what, you’re actually right, because I’ve got the most amazing sandwich just waiting for me in my bag.”
Your initial plan had to been to pause and eat while the kids had been ahead of you, but before you can stop him, Kirsh is rounding them all up for a break. They all claim they’re not tired – which is good, because they shouldn’t be – but then he corrects them with a reminder that while none of them need a break, someone else in the party does.
Most of the Lost Boys find this quite funny, which you suppose had been Kirsh’s intention.
“I wasn’t going to eat in front of them,” you tell him to the side, and crossly. All of the kids are now sitting around on a few fallen trunks in the small clearing you and Kirsh had found. You check they’re not paying attention before you continue, “Because I didn’t want to remind them that they can’t.”
“It’s not wise to coddle them. They’re going to have to get used to not eating at some point. Why not now?” He speaks quietly to you in his signature calm tone. “Besides, none of us have the capability to feel hungry. Except you. So eat.”
Wendy sidles up to you. You hadn’t actually realised she’d been listening in on the conversation, even despite checking. “He’s right,” she nods, “You should probably eat. My brother always used to say that empty stomachs aren’t good for anyone.”
“No man can be wise on an empty stomach,” Kirsh replies back. “That’s a quote. From a very old book.”
You’re familiar with this. “George Elliot,” you say, and see Kirsh is nodding approvingly at this. You feel, alarmingly, a deep thrill in your stomach, fluttering right up to your chest. It freaks you out, and you squirm.
Before you can let yourself think about it any further at all, you turn back to Wendy and change the subject. “Your brother was right, you know. But would you do me a favour?” You root around in your bag for a few moments until you fish out a blue, hand-sized pouch with the ‘Prodigy Corps’ logo and bear blazoned across its front. Inside are as many flavour strips as you could possibly cram with the zipper still being able to close. You go ahead and hand it to Wendy with a sad smile. “Can you share these out, please? There are about…ten different sandwich flavours in there. Oh, and like a whole bunch of candy, too.”
“Really? Thanks!” she takes the bag off of you gratefully and moves back over to the other Lost Boys, seeming happy to be given some responsibility. You watch them break off from their conversations to choose over the flavours in the pouch. So much like a group of normal children with a normal bag of mixed candies.
It’s better for you that they’re distracted too; the flavour strips ruse had worked well. Now that they’re otherwise occupied, you hurry along with your sandwich and your flask of water. Despite what has been said, you’re still not keen to flaunt your food in front of them.
This thought is extremely short-lived.
“Hey, that was mine!” you hear Nibs cry. “I called dibs on that!”
“Oi, Slightly! Give that back to her,” Curly demands.
Slightly disagrees entirely with this. “But I got it first, that’s not fair, man!”
The children then break out into an argument over the singular popsicle flavour and who it really belongs to. Shit, you think, alarm bells going off in your head. Bad idea, bad idea. You’d forgotten to factor in the childish desire to have what others have. Even despite that actually being what had prompted you to do this in the first place. You vaguely remember you and Kavalier having similar arguments over chip flavours way back when you were around their ages. And even older. And actually, just last week, when he stole your last lollipop right from the stash you’d thought was well hidden under your bed.
“Settle down,” Kirsh calls over to them. He stands up from beside you and puts his hands on his hips authoritatively. “If you can’t decide this rationally, Reader and I will just have to confiscate them.”
“But I got it first!” Slightly groans, holding the flavour strip close to himself. “It’s totally not fair.”
Curly begins to deny that, which leads to Wendy butting in, and then Slightly saying something else, and then Smee, too – and then they’re all lost arguing again.
“Quiet now,” he silences them once more. You consider offering your thoughts, but you’re curious to see how Kirsh will handle this, and so continue eating your sandwich in an entertained silence. “Tootles,” he calls. All of your eyes fall over to the boy, who had been the only one not involved in the argument. He’s off to the side, crouching over the fallen log and scribbling something down in his flip pad.
“Um, yeah?” he answers apprehensively as he pauses his writing.
“Do you know who claimed it first?”
He thinks for a moment, clearly hesitating. You almost break out into a laugh when you catch Curly giving him a sharp look. “Yes.”
“And?” Kirsh prompts. He raises his barely-there eyebrows arrantly, which very, very, nearly tips you over into audible laughter.
“It was Nibs,” Tootles admits. Slightly lets out an audible ‘aww, man’ in response. “Sorry, dude, but she did call dibs. Hey, that rhymes.”
Kirsh nods and gestures between the two children. “Hand it over to Nibs,” he instructs calmly. “There’s plenty of other flavours.” With another sigh, Slightly follows what he’s been told, and steps back beside Smee, who throws his arm over his shoulder in a sweet display of consolation. “Though I should remind you all; this is not sustenance. You need to learn to share, and to come to adult decisions about these things. Petty arguments are for infants and idiots. You are neither. Understand?”
The Lost Boys grumble varying levels of enthusiasms in the ‘we understand’ echoes they direct back to Kirsh. He nods again, satisfied, and waves them to get back to what they were doing before he reclaims his seat beside you.
“You’re almost natural with them,” you smirk at Kirsh, taking care to capture the same tone as he’d had when he’d said the same to you a couple of days ago. Your head bounces from side to side jovially as you paraphrase. “He did well in selecting you.”
“Were you watching me?” he retorts, using your words, too.
“I was observing,” you mimic. “You can laugh. That was funny.”
You’re just realising you’ve actually never heard him laugh, and wonder briefly is this is something he can actually do, when the kids interrupt asking to go back on the walk. You resume back into a similar rhythm as you had earlier, and all the while they’re keeping their eyes out for the next interesting structure, or creature, or fairy house. Half of your mind begins to drift off into a far daydream as you coast by, and the other half stays firmly on auto-pilot of walking along and monitoring the children. You can’t help but smile as you watch them all, bobbing along merrily behind yourself and Kirsh, a sweet string of baby ducklings.
Somewhere after the tenth ‘fairy house’, you’re starting to feel so absurdly achy and dreary, you’re practically dragging your feet along. The heat of the day is starting to catch up to you, too, and you find yourself wiping your face and stopping for water more and more often. Kirsh, noticing this, tells you, rather assertively, it’s high time to go home. You nod nonchalantly, pretending you’re still okay when you know he knows you’re not, and you help him to round up the ducklings.
Everyone begins to mix up who they’re walking with on the way back. You find yourself in between Slightly and Smee at one point, and have a very interesting conversation about their favourite Star Wars characters. You pretend to be impressed as they battle with their hiking sticks, hopping along to keep up with everyone and calling them lightsabers.
At some point, you notice Nibs is beginning to approach you. She’s carrying a bunch of flowers, white little sprouts you hadn’t noticed were around you at all. Nibs doesn’t say much as she drifts closer, but has a pout on her face you recognise too easily to be a pre-cognition of tears in any child – though, as you had a little while before with Kirsh and laughter, you wonder if the hybrid-children are capable of actually, physically crying. You’re not sure if it’s better they can or if they can’t. Kirsh looks over at her questioningly, but you decide it’s best you take this one, and give him a short look to convey this to him.
“Are you okay, there, Nibs?” you ask, “You want another flavour strip?” You know that’s not really the issue here, but you’re hoping you can get her to open up herself.
“No, I’ve had enough of that,” she tells you. She holds up her flowers. “We’re not allowed to talk about it.”
“About flowers?”
“They’re jasmine,” her voice drops lower and she leans closer to you. “We used to grow these around the farm, at home.”
Oh. They’re not allowed to talk about home. And their old lives. You ponder over it as you muse a response, thinking it must be so awful to be so young and pretending their past isn’t a part of who they are. “They’re beautiful. Do they smell good?” you try your best not to shut her down while tiptoeing around her mentions of her home. It’s not that you think they shouldn’t be allowed to talk about it, but more that you’re afraid you’ll pay the price later when she has too much trouble settling in, if you enable it now.
Nibs hands one over to you, which you hold up to your nose, inhaling long and deep. It really is beautiful, deeply sweet with a tone of underlying musk. “Mmm. It’s gorgeous. Would you like to put them in your room?”
She nods at you enthusiastically. You smell again, but this time the scent goes right up your nose and tickles, causing you to sneeze far too loudly, your head jolting forward as your body briefly takes control. “Oh crap, Nibs, I’m so sorry,” you apologise, biting your lip in guilt, the flower still hanging from your fingertips. You’re unsure how close to her the sneeze actually came, as she doesn’t reply, just blinks up at you.
“Ooohh! Nibs! Nibs, you've got germs now,” Smee chuckles. He jumps back about half a step from her. “That's so gross, dude.”
“Thanks for that,” you mention, teasing him with a feigned offence.
She looks mortified at Smee’s words. “What? No. No, I don't have germs!”
“She sneezed by you, you totally do, bro!”
“No, no, I don't, see?” Nibs reaches over and smears her palms all over Smee's shoulder as he attempts unsuccessfully to lean even further away. “Look, see, no germs!”
“Ew, Nibs gave Smee her germs!” Curly snorts from where she's standing on the rocks, almost doubling over in laughter as she provokes them.
“What?” Smee shouts as he turns to see the others laughing. He reaches for Wendy, who is directly beside him, only for her to go eyes wide and madly dash over to where Curly stands. She peers over to Smee, who stands still a moment, almost looking stunned as Slightly, Tootles and Nibs run all the way down the distant clearing until they're small in your vision.
“Not too far!” you shout over, but you're smiling anyway. “And Smee, what are you waiting around for? Go! Give it to someone else before they all get away!”
He nods, fiddling with his hands a few more seconds before he too zooms off to the rocks. At your words the others break into nervous giggles, and they also shoot way off, and they're all of a sudden going from zero to one hundred in a mad game of germs tag. Watching them, you feel a satisfied buzz run through you. Your agenda has been fulfilled. They’re running. They’re laughing, and playing, and they’re acting rightfully their age. Seeing them get along, too, brings you a new kind of happiness you haven’t quite felt before. You wonder how it is that these six children have so quickly been able to elbow themselves a place in your heart. The scar-strewn heart, with barely enough love for yourself inside of it, has grown six times its size for these ducklings in so little time with neither your intention nor your realisation.
So Kavalier was correct in suggesting you were doting, after all, and your own half-baked assumptions of having nothing left to love them with had been entirely, wholly wrong. Once again, Smart Boy’s brain has trumped yours. Not for the first time, you know well, and certainly not the last.
“The game makes little sense,” Kirsh says beside you, after a few minutes of the children having been weaving around the trees in their chases.
You take a seat on a flat, moss-covered rock just behind you both. You’re finding them so endearing you can’t even be mad that you were meant to be heading home, no matter how tired you’re feeling. “What are you talking about? It's just tag. Did they teach you about that in that chip of yours?”
“They can't be infected by germs. They don't have immune systems. Therefore, they have no reason to run.” Kirsh too takes a seat on the moss-rock directly next to you.
“They're having fun, Tin Soldier. Logic and technicalities don't have a place in children’s play.”
“I know,” he claims, though you're not entirely convinced he does, “But these are multimillion machines with the capability of making a thousand discoveries and changing a thousand lives. The batteries inside of them are so powerful they’re enough to charge several cities. Together, perhaps an entire small country. Yet you are content having them run around and play a game of false infection.”
“They're having fun!” you exclaim. “I know you're plastic and metal and programming through and through but you’re lying if you’re telling me you've never had fun.”
“That’s not my directive. I have a job and I get it done.”
“…that's the saddest thing I've ever heard in my life.”
His head tilts in sparked interest. “Why?”
“Because life is more than working, Kirsh. If all I had to do for every waking moment was work…” you let the thought dry in your mouth as you consider the possibilities of the alternatives of your life. Even though it hasn't felt like it at certain points, being a prodigy has been a blessing in more ways than one. Not having the day long, week long drivel of a job is just one item on that list. “Come on. Do you not have anything you enjoy doing? And don't say your work, because that doesn't count.”
“I assume this is your question for me. At last,” he says. You nod and roll your eyes. “I suppose it's ‘fun’ to analyse the behaviour of animals. Even the most grotesque of them are often unexpected and entertaining in their primal confusion.”
You assume he's talking about humans again when he says this. “‘Primal confusion’,” you mutter, no longer allowing yourself to be surprised, and shake your head. “Better than nothing, I guess.”
“Every animal has them. Primal urges they surrender to. Like you, letting the children run and play because your body couldn’t walk much further without a break.”
“That’s just not true,” you deny, stung by his words yet again, and how awfully correct his scrutiny consistently proves to be. “I just wanted them to have-”
“To have fun,” he interrupts, with a curt nod. “Of course.”
You go to have some more water from your bottle, only to find you’re drinking the last few drops. Sighing, you make a mental note to either bring more next time, or try and corral the group out of the forest much sooner. You can feel yourself getting hungry again, too, as the time for your evening meal is fast arriving.
“Question,” Kirsh begins. You turn to him, brain already searching around for one to shoot back, eager save yourself from the previous predicament of not having anything to ask. “What do you do for fun?”
“Analyse the behaviour of artificial beings,” you chuckle, then shake your head as your turn more serious and as he gives you another half-smile. “I like a lot of things. Music, obviously. Painting. Cooking, sometimes, when I can be bothered. It’s the good thing about fun. Nothing really ever runs out. There’s always something, no matter how small. It’s fun being out here with everyone, and it’s fun to get to know the kids. To spend time with Kavalier. When he’s not being a self-righteous ass. It’s even fun to just sit here, and feel the sun hit my skin, and think about everything for a while.”
“Your question,” he prompts.
“Do you want to try any of these things?”
“I don’t care for much of it. My question."
"Your question."
"What do you mean when you say you feel the sun hit your skin?”
Of all the things he could’ve asked, or shown the most interest in, it’s this one surprises you. Of all the things, he’s curious about the sun. “It’s…warm. Sunlight is warm. It’s soft, in some kind of way. And I don’t know how, but it’s so soft and so warm, it makes me feel happy. Just to feel it on my skin.”
[crossposting an existing fic. find on ao3 here]
chapter list prev chapter next chapter
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
⋆.˚pairing: kirsh x fem!reader, kavalier x childhoodfriend!reader
⋆.˚summary: kavalier has a new job for you, leading to you meeting the lost boys - and to further challenging encounters with kirsh
⋆.˚status: unfinished, ongoing
⋆.˚content: eventual violence, gore, drug abuse, traumatic past, ptsd, depression, lots of fluff
⋆.˚word count: 4.8 k
(dividers by @/strangergraphics)
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
now
You'll later put the time at about sunrise when three sharp raps at your bedroom door had cut into your sleep. Lifting your head, barely conscious, you call out groggily in question. There are three more knocks, and you groan, flopping back down. You know those knocks.
“Why are you even awake?” the question falls out of your mouth as a mutter, before you shout across the room, “It’s unlocked!” because you know your friend too well to even fantasise he’ll give up or walk away from a lack of response.
“Just the girl I was hoping to see,” Kavalier grins as he bursts in, and as if he hadn’t just barged into your quarters with no warning and with that express interest in mind. He splays his arms out as he talks, then surveys your room with a particular interest towards your personal effects. “I see you’re still a late riser.”
“And I see you’re still a pain in the ass,” you groan, burrowing under the dark, warm cave of your sheets. “Come back,” you grumble, “in three hours.”
“Uh-uh, not happening,” he protests. He shuffles around the room a few minutes longer, and under the muffle of the duvet you can hear him picking up various objects as he does. You’re far too tired to care. You’re just slipping back into a comfortable depth of dream when you feel him slam down onto your mattress. A stretch of cold air smites your skin as he yanks your sheets out of your desperate grasp. Kavalier grins again from where he’s sitting at the end of your bed, and you shiver, eying up your lovely duvet all piled up beside him. “I’ve got a task for you. A favour, really. An honour even, because I want you to-”
“Boy!” you interrupt, “Come back in five hours.”
“I want you to be the Lost Boys’ nanny.”
“Huh? Shh, I’m sleeping.”
“What? Come on, I thought you’d be all excited. You seem to like them,” he pokes you sharply in the calf of your leg. “Come on!” he bugs. He’s silent for a few seconds. “Venus.”
You freeze. “Did you just…?” When you look up at him, he’s got his head cocked with what you know to be a stab at an endearing smile.
The last time he’d pleaded Venus, he was asking you to come to Neverland. It’s few and far between, but once he’s invoked the Venus card, that’s it. He’s serious. Venus means this is important to him. Venus means you can’t say no.
“Mhm. You heard me. Venus.”
You sit up properly now to squint at him. “Jupiter,” you sigh heavily in agreement as you take in his seriousness, and swing your legs out of bed. You watch his grin widen and hear his reactionary glee upon your confirmation. “But I’ll have you know that it’s my turn to plead. You were the last.”
“Okay, well, uh…that’s not how it works,” he laughs.
“Yeah? Well, you had two in a row. That means it’s definitely my turn next, Smart Boy.”
“Alright, Silly Girl,” he shakes his head at you, taking you completely by surprise by using your nickname of old. “But it’s hardly my fault you can never come up with a reason to ‘Jupiter’ me.”
“I’ll think of something,” you promise, “But anyway…why do you want me to nanny them? I don’t know very much about childcare. Why not get someone else, or…a synthetic for it?”
“Let me see…waste of time and resources, everyone else is busy with their own jobs, and androids can’t help with what I need, but-! You’re here. You’re perfect. I seem to recall you hosting painting classes for the tinies. At one of your universities? That’s basically childcare, isn’t it?”
You’re surprised he remembered. You’d done several classes of many art types for children of a similar age to the Lost Boys, in the past. The memories pass fondly through your mind. “And I seem to remember offering you a similar gig with kids. Several times. Maybe I should’ve used my ‘Jupiter’ on that,” you jest.
“Hm, yes, that would’ve been the single most amazing use of your plea,” he shoots back sarcastically.
“So you think I’m perfect for this job ‘cause I do nothing all day anymore except float around?”
“Because you were always the doting one. I’ll never understand how you manage to give even a quarter of a shit about all the things you do, but that’s important,” he nods his head, “…for the children. And children are so needy, in constant want of so much attention. I’m thinking if you fulfil that for them, you’ll get to see hybrid data that no one else can notice. You know…get the deep dish. I have their attention, but you’ll have their trust, which is necessary for this to work.”
“So…do you want me to look after them? Or do you want me to…collect data right from the source?”
Kavalier plays around with the tassels on one of your cushions. “Can’t it be both? Because it’s both. They’re my kids. Who else would I trust with them?”
There he goes again, sweetening you up. Infuriatingly, and you realise this is probably why he’s doing it - you can’t resist.
It’s an interesting choice, the decision to steer away from giving the Lost Boys a mother and a father, and instead to stick them with a hoard of guards and researchers, and…a nanny. But you knew better than most that Kavalier did not approve of mothers and fathers. He had never taken to approve of anyone who could have total authority over him, back then. You suppose now must not be so different. Something about never being told what to do.
Kavalier wanted you to watch over them, like a guardian. Spend time with them, you conclude. That wouldn’t be so bad. You haven’t met every one of the children properly, but from what you have seen, they all seem sweet enough. Perhaps it would be good for them, you think, to spend time in the company of someone who isn’t attempting to study their every move. No matter what Kavalier wants from you.
“It can be both if there’s no paperwork involved,” you negotiate, and mime gagging over the side of your bed, “You know I hate all of that crap.”
“Don’t worry, Silly Girl. You’re the birdy who will whisper straight into my ear,” he laughs, and flicks your foot, “Now get up. They’re making waffles.”
“Should’ve opened with that.”
— - —
then
Being young children in a big school like the one the girl and Boy attended, it was easy to be extraordinary, and it was easy to reap the benefits of such a position. The two of them would have total spotlight, have their own study spaces, have their own tutors, and all the opportunities for advancement the older children there would only receive after they had.
According to what Boy told her of Newton’s Third Law of Motion, for every action there always existed its equal opposite reaction. In a similar fashion, it was easy too for them both to reap the drawbacks of their position. Odd looks in the hallways and whispering behind hands. The piercing glances of the bone-tired. There was the weight of expectation, and the pressure - the never-ending pressure from all angles - to be spectacular, at all times, for everyone, for always.
It was the worst when the big events arrived. The ones that they had been preparing and agonising over for weeks. For Boy, a lecture, or a speech. For the girl, a showcase, maybe, or a concert.
One particular night was the girl’s dance recital. A twenty minute long, multiple ballerina feature she had choreographed herself, with music she had composed exclusively for the dance. She had wanted simply to watch her work in front of her, to see the ballerinas prance in fluid motion to the melodies of her making, and watch her daydreams manifest on the stage. Sadly, the grown ups did not to care for this, or that she had no desire to dance this dance. They said people would want to see her star in her own work. All her protests fell on deaf ears as they pushed her into the position of centre stage. Boy told her it was an expected reaction, and that it was logical, because guests would come from everywhere to see the prodigy girl, and guests meant money.
“Grown ups like that,” he told her, “Money. And power. They like that, too.”
The voices all around were deafening. Half in disbelief over her craft, the other half in total awe. But her predicament was that no one would tell her the truth. Every compliment over her every performance, from previous recitals and concerts, always felt sugar coated in the sweetness of over commendations reserved to be fed to small children. The girl did not wish to know whether the dance was spectacular by the standards of an eight year old - she wished to know if it simply was just spectacular.
In the dressing rooms, Boy stood beside the girl. He had been allowed in right after she had put on her pink tutu, and had arrived to see she was staring unhappily into the mirror. The girl wasted no time in explaining her dilemma, though she almost did not need to, because it was easy for Boy to figure her out.
“Grown ups always lie,” he shrugged, “What’s the deal now?”
“I don’t want lies. I want to know if my work really is good. Really, really.”
“Uh…no, but you know who you should ask? Yeah, me,” he said, as if it was the obvious singular solution, “I won’t pretend. Silly.”
“You don’t count. I want to know what they’re all thinking. Not you.”
“Oh, you mean you want…you mean normal people.”
That was one way of putting it, but not a way the girl would’ve chosen. Helplessly, and mostly blinking back tears, she nodded.
“What does it matter anyway?” he asked, “If they say you do well then it’s a compliment. I like it when people say that.”
“You wouldn’t if you knew it was all fake. People say lies block growth. I want to grow.”
“You mean you want your work to grow,” Boy thought about it for a moment, though it didn’t take long before his face lit up. Of course, as was always the case with him, he found the answer to be a simple one. “Listen. You dance and I’ll go around and catch what everyone is saying about you. I’ll watch all their faces, ‘kay?”
The girl nodded as she attempted to push her pout away from her face. “Okay.”
“And after, if they ask how you know all these things, just tell them…a little birdy told you,” he instructed her, with a knowledgeable shrug, “’Cause that’s always the grown ups’ excuse for knowing things they shouldn’t.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth?”
“I’d never lie to you,” Boy told the girl. The two of them still stared into the mirror, eyes flickering between faces, from her tight ballerina bun to his curly mop, from her worried pout to his eyes-wide smile.
The girl turned around to him and held out her right hand. She balled it up and then extended her little finger. “Pinky promise?”
Boy faced her now, too. In his own funny way, he did not interlock his pinky with hers, but instead held onto it with his whole left fist. He gripped it tight, and looked her directly in the eyes. “I swear.”
— - —
now
You don’t get to be there when the rest of the Lost Boys are ‘born’ into their new bodies. But then, nannies never really are there for that part, just to pick up the child later when their parents can’t be there. Kavalier finds it amusing when you mention this thought aloud.
You’re unsure if the order of their birth will matter in conjunction to their real ages, but you follow along anyway, and the order went something like: Wendy, Slightly, Smee, Nibs, Tootles and then, last of all, Curly. Dame Sylvia and Arthur are first up with them, checking each of the children over for technical mishaps and clearing them psychologically.
One of the foremen in the tech room hands you a floppy blue file from Sylvia, who you’re told is currently prepping to conduct Curly’s evaluation in the central room. In front of you, Tootles sits with Arthur for his hearing analysis, and you watch him raise his hand in accordance to the exam.
Tootles has a nervous grin about him and it makes you smile to see his boyish qualities bleed through; the way he fidgets in between rounds, the way he’s eagerly drinking in every corner of his surroundings. Even when he raises his arm it’s adorable, as he watches out for Arthur’s reactions. The hunger in his eyes for approval makes it easy to remember, that, even though his body is of a young adult, he’s still the same small boy from just hours before. On the inside. Or, more accurately, in the mind.
You go ahead and start to read through the file, which turns out to contain all the basic information you need, a re-run of the scrambled debrief Sylvia had earlier given you. Kavalier’s order to have you as their nanny appeared to come out of the complete blue for the entire team, not just you. Though you got the general idea that Sylvia found this somewhat vexing, she was still nice enough to you about the whole thing.
As you flick through the file, the rest of the world seems to melt away. You find yourself so absorbed that when someone next to you clears their throat, embarrassingly, you jump. Beside you, standing there in his blue-grey two piece with his hands behinds his back is none other than the white-haired Kirsh. Kirsh, who has no real need to clear his throat other than to garner your attention.
“So this is why you're here. To babysit,” his voice, while extremely soft, came with a teasing lilt and a speck of a smile you don’t find very amusing.
You feel a similar cloud of anger spread in your chest as you had felt yesterday, in the lab. “It's called nannying, actually.”
“The difference is subtle,” he says.
The two of you watch Tootles as he takes off the headphones and converses with Arthur. His eyes catch you both and he waves enthusiastically. Briefly, Kirsh waves back, and you do too. You feel Tootles watch you a moment, no doubt his curiosity clouding his judgement in that childlike manner of staring too long without regard. Then Arthur is snapping him back to the present. He puts the headphones on again and within seconds is back to raising his arm intermittently, attention firmly drawn to the task at hand once more.
“I gather you’ve yet to meet the children,” Kirsh breaks the silence.
“Apart from Wendy, yes. But I saw them all, before. When they were still…tiny.”
“When they were still human.”
You give him a sharp side-eye. “They are still human, I don’t care what Prodigy Corps’ technicalities say. Synthetic bodies or otherwise. I mean, look at him,” you gesture over to Tootles, who is spinning around in his chair, “and tell me that’s not a kid.”
“I see. Would you consider them more human than you would consider them synthetic?”
You hesitate before turning to look at him properly. “You ask a lot of questions, you know.”
“And you seem invariably reluctant to answer each one of them.”
“Can you blame me? I barely know you.”
Kirsh faces you now, too. Again, like yesterday in the lab, you feel his eyes fixate on yours. Again, he’s staring right down into your soul. Again, you have to remind yourself to breathe. His eye contact is incredibly intense, though he’s annoyed you so much that even though you’re burning to look away you force yourself to remain. You decide you won’t give him the satisfaction of noting the effect it’s had on you.
“We’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other now,” he states as a matter of fact, “So in due course, you will know me, as I will you. Questions simply hasten this along, which, considering the job, is an imperative process. Do you follow?”
“Fine,” you sigh. As reluctant as you are to agree with someone who has so far been disagreeable, you understand you’ll need to have a united front if you’re both handling the children. At least in front of them. “But if you’re asking me questions, then I’m asking you questions, too.”
Kirsh stares at you a moment. He smiles in the way that shows less on his mouth, but more in his eyes, like you can tell he’s amused. “Yes, that seems like it will work. It’s only fair.”
“That means for every one you ask me, I’ll ask you one back.”
Kirsh nods at you, moving his hands from folded behind his back resting on his hips. “So, will you be joining myself and Dame Sylvia for Curly’s evaluation?”
“No. I’m meeting the kids after, though.”
“That’s fine. Feel free to ask me my question, now that I’ve asked you yours,” he says, with the same smile as before. “It’s only fair.”
You gape, mouth void of response. Instead, you could have sworn, and it’s all you can do try and stop yourself from appearing visibly annoyed, well aware of how he’d set you up knowing you had nothing to ask. “I’ll get back to you,” you reply bitterly.
Kirsh nods at you and you could swear he’s still smiling, even if his mouth isn’t showing it. Again, something to do with that look in his eyes. It’s something right inside of them, unnerving you. Like his expression is almost…human? You push that thought away the second you feel it spring up, and, finally caving in, your eyes dart away from his locked-on gaze.
He leaves for the evaluation before he can say anything else to bother you, or before you can have a moment to gather your frazzled thoughts. At some point Arthur beckons you over to join himself and Tootles with the more minor of his hearing and comprehension tests. For most of it you’re simply hanging back and watching as you’re unsure what is being done or the meaning of it all. For a while it stings, not knowing, but you level with yourself - if you were a regular nanny taking the child to a teeth appointment, you’d have no clue what the dentists were doing either. This isn’t much different. After all, knowing isn’t your job. Being present is.
“You’re doing awesome, kid,” you let him know once the thought has dawned on you. “Almost done.”
“Cool!” he shouts back much too loudly, his headphones still firmly on his ears, “I’m kind of bored!”
Once the tests are fully over with, Arthur tells you Dame Sylvia has moved Curly’s session to the office nearby to the central room as the rest of the children are currently having their down time there. You realise down time must be the more formal way of telling you they’re having playtime. He asks if you can accompany Tootles to join them. You feel a wave of nerves wash over you, especially when he vocalises your thoughts and suggests now is a good time to introduce yourself to them all. Swallowing the self-doubt, you smile and nod at Arthur on your way out of the door. If it’s got to happen at some point, it might as well be now.
“So, your name is Tootles, isn’t it?” you prompt.
“Yes. The Boy Genius gave it to me,” he tells you, with a note of pride in his voice, “It’s like one of the Lost Boys, you know, in Peter Pan,” he continues. “And you’re Reader, aren’t you? Arthur told me. But I haven’t seen you before.”
“That’s because I’m new to this whole programme. I’ll be meeting everyone else in just a minute. Should I be nervous, do you think?”
Tootles chuckles quietly. “No way. Everyone’s cool, you’ll see. So, is your job gonna be like Sylvia? Or are you a scientist?”
“I’m…I’m your nanny,” you admit, feeling odd to have told it to him so…simply.
“Oh, that’s nice. I want to be a scientist,” he nods seriously. The two of you grow nearer down the hallway to where the central room is. “I want to study things and make discoveries, like all the old guys in the books.”
“I see. Like how the techs here study you?”
“Yeah, exactly. And isn’t it so strange I’ve got a new body now?”
“Hm, I heard about that. It is strange. How are you finding your new body so far?”
You catch Tootles wrinkle up his face. “Tall,” he admits, “But awesome. It’s nice. I don’t feel sick anymore.”
As you’re pressing to get the door open you make an effort to hide your face from him. His words have brought the memories flooding back of those sick little kids in their hospital gowns, so tiny in the abyss of the vast facility. You swallow, willing yourself not to get so caught up when you barely know them all. Yet.
The doors slide open to let you into the central room, which is home to a large and circular multi-colour couch the rest of the children are perched all over. You do a quick check, confirming everyone is there with the exception of Curly, and Tootles, of course, who breaks from your side and goes running to join the others immediately.
When you step into the room, each of the children immediately perk up, heads shooting in your direction. You scan over them all, one by one, trying to appear friendly as your feel their gazes. Slightly and Smee are colouring at the table with a spilt carton of crayons and oversized sugar paper. Both of them stare at you slack mouthed. Tootles hops down to and climbs onto the couch beside Wendy, who appears to have been reading. In the very corner, curled up and playing with a fluffy stuffed animal is Nibs, who you quickly realise is the one who looks the most startled by your presence.
“Who is that?” she asks, still looking at you, but directing the question at Tootles.
“Oh, that’s Reader. She’s our nanny,” he informs her, settling down into the couch against a cushion. “She’s new like us.”
“You’re a hybrid too?” Wendy’s eyes light up as she asks you. It feels awful to have to shake your head as you had just seen the visible excitement spring about her presence. She nods at you, deflated, and sinks back down. “Oh. But you’re the Boy Genius’ friend, aren’t you? We met before. And I saw you with him.”
“I am. And I’m glad to properly meet you!”
“I never knew we had a nanny,” Smee speaks up, putting down his blue crayon.
You walk closer to the group with the profound hope that you’re not giving off an awkward vibe about you. The last thing you want is for the children to sense you’re nervous, or worse - that you’ve got such little idea of what you’re doing. You decide against sitting on the edge of the couch, reasoning you’re more accessible, more confident seeming if you sit in the middle.
“You know, in India, Nani is what you call grandmas,” Slightly tells everyone. This makes Wendy, Nibs and Tootles giggle and then peer back at you, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. It strikes you they’re testing you out. Checking if you’ll snap or if you’ll roll over.
Smee is the only one who laughs freely at his comment. “Are you serious, bro?”
“Yeah, I’m totally serious, man. Means grandma for real.”
You just chuckle softly. “I’m a different kind of nanny, Slightly. I’m here to look after you and I’m here if you need me, if you need to talk,” you focus your attention on Nibs, who is peering at you over the head of her wolf toy, “if you’re scared, even,” you say, and then look over at all the others too, not wanting her to feel singled out.
“Oh, we’re not scared,” Wendy announces proudly. “And I’m their big sister now, so I’m extra not scared.”
“Wow, okay, so is that true? You’re all not scared?”
All of them nod, and Tootles seems the most enthusiastic about this. Smee and Slightly then scramble to have the last word over who is really the most ‘not scared’ of them all. Even Nibs joins in, though Wendy still insists it has to be her, since she’s looking after them, too. You laugh again lean back against the cushions.
“I’m definitely not scared,” Tootles adds, “Definitely.”
“Alright, well, do you guys wanna know my secret?” you ask them. As you had correctly predicted, the buzzword secret snatches each of their attentions right back to you. They look back at you with such a keen interest. As if you’ve just said you’re going to tell them the secret to the universe, and not some small trivial matter. You fight a smile as you hear Slightly whisper to Smee ‘woah, she’s got a secret, bro!’, and then as Wendy says ‘shhh’ to quiet them both.
“My secret is that I’m actually probably the most scared of all of us in this room.”
“Really? You’re scared?” Nibs asks.
You nod affirmatively and take care to look as serious and wide-eyed as you can muster. “I don’t know anyone here, or any of you, or how any of this works. In fact, I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do. I thought if you’re all so brave, then maybe you can give me some advice?”
“You don’t need to be so scared because we can defend you,” Wendy tells you proudly. "We're super strong now. More than adults, even."
“You know what? I like that. We can all look after each other, right? That makes me feel a bit better. Thank you.”
Slightly puts his hand up. “Maybe…actually I am a bit scared. Just a little bit, though. Obviously.”
“Me too,” Smee agrees.
“That’s okay. We’re all looking after each other. So we’re gonna be fine. And it’s nice that there’s so many of us here. Everybody needs somebody.”
Nibs blinks her huge eyes as she stares up. “Who’s yours?”
You don’t get a chance to answer that question. It quickly becomes buried and forgotten in the commotion that comes with Curly entering the room. Truthfully, you’re glad for the interruption. The others are fast to introduce you to Curly, and she does turn to take you in, but the topic too becomes lost as they all struggle, fighting to tell the stories of what they’d each been doing today.
Their chatter grows louder and you take this as your cue to leave them to it for a while. Although you’re not sure on how things will work just yet, or what your responsibilities are, you know you’ll be back soon. Sylvia’s folder had contained a simple routine structure detailing a bedtime that was approaching in the next few hours. You have no idea who has been getting the kids down this far, but you figure that falls into the category of what nannies do, anyway. The job has to start somewhere.
Your dilemma swirls around in your mind as you leave and as you begin to cross the halls, planning to get back to your room. You’re just daydreaming about taking a nice, long nap in bed, when something, someone, catches your eye. Someone who has already noticed you.
It’s Kirsh. Again.
He’s leaning against the wall opposite the viewing window into the central room with his arms folded. “You’re almost natural with them,” he tells you, when you’ve reached him. “He made a wise choice in selecting you.”
“Were…were you watching me?” Damn those one way windows.
“I was observing.”
“How much did you see?”
“I saw enough,” he answers blandly. “And that’s two questions.”
“Wha-?” you stop yourself before the end of the word as you realise exactly what he means. Your earlier agreement of mutual questioning slaps you in the face. For the second time, and in a little over an hour. “They don’t count. They were incidental.”
Kirsh cocks his head. “I suppose I can humour you.” Humour you? All over again you’re getting worked up. More than a little. You’re pissed. Not because what he’s saying is wrong, or even rude - but because he’s not saying anything wrong, even if you’re considering it in the ballpark of exceedingly annoying. “You can ask me another if you have one. Soon, if you can manage it. I’ve just thought of another for you.”
You shake your head. “Whatever. Let’s not waste time. Just ask me.”
He gives you another look. You hold onto his gaze again, hoping you won’t drop it this time. “Your face is red.”
Immediately, your eyes pull away from his. “That’s not a question.”
⋆.˚ pairing: kirsh x fem!reader, kavalier x childhoodfriend!reader
⋆.˚synopsis: Kavalier invites his childhood friend, a former arts prodigy, to join him on Neverland. As she becomes intertwined with the lives of the Lost Boys, she becomes more and more of an interest to the chief of science, a synthetic - Kirsh.
⋆.˚status: unfinished, ongoing
⋆.˚content: eventual violence, gore, drug abuse, traumatic past, ptsd, depression, lots of fluff
⋆.˚pairing: kirsh x fem!reader, kavalier x childhoodfriend!reader
⋆.˚summary: you struggle to think of suitable extra-curriculars for the lost boys. kirsh gives you invaluable advice. young boy and the girl struggle to navigate their honesty and morality. in the present, kavalier promises the truth
⋆.˚status: unfinished, ongoing
⋆.˚content: eventual violence, gore, drug abuse, traumatic past, ptsd, depression, lots of fluff
⋆.˚word count: 6k
(dividers by @/strangergraphics)
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The Lost Boys had kicked their ball up and over and into the forest a total of twenty-one times before they each got used to kicking with their synthetic legs. Their mid-morning shouts and their cacophony of soccer trilling was a way off, within sight enough to see all their faces, but far enough away to enjoy your own silence.
Glowing midday sun, it seemed, did nothing to disturb their high-tech plastic eyes as they ran about the clearing, kicking the ball between each other. You could not say the same for yourself. The soft solitary of the shadows under the pavilion better suited your own eyes. Faint whispers of the wind rustled the trees about you, the chatter of the Lost Boys faint at your ears.
Before you on the wooden bench laid your notebook, and strewn around was a messy jumble of pens. Mostly, you were occupied with your pencil, scrabbling graphite sketched out onto the smooth cream pages. Rugged busts of your ducklings at play. Your new favourite past time, it was becoming clear. As you sketched, you allowed half your mind to focus only on the rough lines you drew, lazily occupying the other half with the reality you were fast stretching away from. There was so many thousands of matters it seemed, so many thoughts pressing, pressing, pressing on the mantle of your sanity.
You pull your hand away with a sigh as your hand begins to cramp. A chance breeze blows your page over, opening it to one such reality you’d been avoiding. Listed on the page in your quick, almost illegible handwriting: ‘Things for the Ducklings to do.’ Top of the list was already crossed out. Soccer on the beach. It hurt to use one of the ideas so early, but there was little other in the way of choice. You’re hard pressed to come up with fresh ideas for them, lucky, even, you’d managed to find something for them this morning.
The Lost Boys’ solutions to their new realised boredom had been a simple one, and came in the form of each of their constant mentioning of ‘the day we went on the hike’ and, ‘could we go and see more?’ and how ‘we’d barely even actually seen anything that day!’ The latter was indefinitely not true, though you suppose the ratio of island walked and island yet to be explored was askew enough to excuse their dramatic over exaggerations. In any case, it was the pouting your heart could not ignore. Even Kavalier had noticed that, commenting happily at how it meant their realism was shining through. He was right, of course, but you were just glad it meant they were still able to convey the same feelings other children could - for those pouts, you were sure, you would excuse any amount of over exaggeration. But even their exaggeration could not undo the damage your last foray into the forest, and Kirsh has been more than happy to remind you as much.
Having spent the better part of the last week toting the Lost Boys to and fro between their beds and their various exams, it’s no surprise to realise they’re all starting to become bored. It’s becoming clear to you that their earlier novel excitement over all the tests was starting to wear down, and it was wearing down fast. It must have been the attention they loved, those poor sick children. Even this has become less exciting to them. Your suspicions are easily confirmed by their active misbehaviour during the examinations and the morning drills, a misbehaviour of which you are often at the blame of. As nanny, you are told, it’s your duty to keep them in check. Several wardens tell you exactly this, no hesitation. Once, you complained to Kavalier without thinking much of it, only to then never see the warden again, and for the others to act sheepish around you. Kavalier didn’t answer when you’d asked what had happened, but the other wardens didn’t bother you again.
Your suspicions of the children’s feelings are only further confirmed when Nibs tells you exactly the truth of their boredom one tired evening before bed. Her round, round eyes had been so terribly honest and annoyed it struck a chord in you. The round, round eyes had haunted you the night long. You’d been unable to lull yourself into sleep, either, for all the guilt that plagued you. The wardens were correct, were they not? You were their nanny, and it was your duty to care for them.
“You can’t take them outside of the island,” Kirsh’s voice comes from behind you as sudden and abrupt as ever. You dash round, jumping up and covering your notebook protectively behind your figure. Kirsh looks almost smug, to no surprise. His hands are folded behind his back, a glimmer of amusement playing in his synthetic eyes. “Excellent likeness of the children.” His talent for annoying you had, admittedly, taken a brief pause the day your leg had screamed mutiny. The day he’d been in your room. It unnerved you, everything about it, every glance, every flutter. You’d been avoiding him ever since. If his habits of annoying you were making their comeback, you welcomed them.
“I don’t remember giving you permission to look,” you reply. You’re helpless to the smile your lips are perking into. Quip back. Quip back, Tin Soldier. Quip back, and be normal.
“It was displayed,” Kirsh answers as he gestures to the notebook. “Your theme park idea. I’m sure they would enjoy it. But they are not to be taken outside of Neverland. And you seem to be forgetting, in the way human minds always do…They are not children. They’re multi-billion dollar machines, who-”
“Who have the ability to power several small cities, yeah, yeah!” you sigh in return. You snap your notebook shut hurriedly, before he gets another chance to peek at your words. Briefly, you wonder how long he’d been behind you. “I know that,” you answer back stubbornly. “It was just an idea.”
“’Just an idea’ that, had the wrong eyes caught sight of it, as I did, could have- no, would have, become something disastrous.”
You cross your arms. “Remember that conversation we had about fun?”
“Of course.”
“Well then. Maybe you should think about it some more, Tin Soldier.”
He gives you a brief, dismissive nod as he slides into the seat beside you on the bench. You shuffle, making room for him, and sweep your pens over to your side in a swift motion. “May I?” he asks. Kirsh gestures to your notebook.
“No.”
Kirsh takes the book before you can stop him.
“What-?” you find yourself huffing. “Fine. Just…keep to the page.”
Kirsh looks for half a second before he turns the page.
“Hey!” You attempt to snatch it back, but Kirsh is quicker, and he waves you away. Resigning into yet another quick defeat, you slump back down into your seat, and nestle your head into the crook of your elbow. “You barely looked at the pictures of the Lost Boys.”
“The image is stored. ‘Barely looking’ is all I require for information to be filed.” he points out.
“Right.”
Settled into your elbow, you quieten, listening to the children at play, and the gentle rustle of the pages of your notebook as Kirsh ‘observes’ your handiwork. You make no effort to stop him. Why should you? It’s not a bad view. “Hermit,” you bring up suddenly. “Does that mean anything to you?” Kirsh studies your face as the question hangs in the air, and you suddenly become conscious of yourself. For once, you make no effort to school your expression. “It was just something I remember from a dream. Some fragment I snatched, before it all melted away back into my mind. Just that word. Hermit.”
Kirsh watches. There he is again. Dissecting you. “Hermit is the birth name of Wendy. Marcy Hermit.” He shuts the book. Why wouldn’t he? It’s you he wants to observe.
“Right. I thought it sounded familiar. It’s pretty.”
He nods, still watching you. “Yes, it is.”
“Do you have no objection to calling them by these new names?”
“It’s what our leader wants.”
You bristle. And what about what they want? “What Kavalier wants…” the echo ripples out in front of you. “What else does he want? He’s keeping secrets from me, that’s as much as I know. He’s hiding something big and I still can’t see what it is, no matter how hard I try to peek past.”
“I know as much as you.”
“Uh, sure,” you feign agreement.
“Have you asked him?” Kirsh questions you.
“If he wanted to tell me, he would’ve already. He’s my best friend. I know when he’s hiding something…” your voice waves with unsurety. “He always tells me. Eventually.”
Kirsh nods. “I believe you.”
A soccer ball comes flying between you both, skimming close to your head. It lands somewhere behind you and rolls to a stop near one of the doors. Kirsh starts to get up from the bench. “If you want to know,” he repeats, as he leaves to grab the ball, “Ask him.”
—
then
Boy was learning that the girl liked to tell him everything. Everything. Even the secrets others bade her to keep silent in the locket of her heart.
The girl told him all about the handshakes the grown-ups would do when they thought she wasn’t looking. She told him all about the way her mommy and daddy would argue and cry, and how her uncles were looking after her more and more, now. She even told him when she did silly things, like curse in private, or the time she took the prop tiara home from when she was in a play.
Together, they would piece it all together. Every secret slotted into another. It was as satisfying as fixing every mistake in a length of code, he was learning. It was an elaborate puzzle exclusively for the whirring miracles of their prodigy brains. A jigsaw, just for them, to figure out the complexities the grown-ups liked to hide from them.
One day, Boy and the girl figured out the nature of their ‘fortunes’. Money, yes. Fame, yes. Influence, indefinitely so. Boy was sure each of these would only expand as they got older, and would grow as they would grow. At least one of those growths, he could get behind. The girl had other ideas, too. On the topic of fortune, she said, it’s never all material.
“You learn that much when you eat as many stories as I do,” she’d said. Boy laughed. He always found it funny when she said ‘eat’ instead of ‘consume’.
Fortunate, the girl detailed, was for both to be part of the same education district. Fortunate to be born within a few miles of each other, to have met so young. Fortunate was both to be realised on their differences from their peers very early on. Their fortune, they also were learning, could not extend to every corner of their lives.
Their fortune attracted others who had what they had, and who wanted more; money, fame, influence. Big important people with suits and cold smiles and white papers. Their very important papers were very important forms, and with them they wanted to combine all their fortunes together.
When the big important people came with very important forms asking for the children, the girl told Boy what she’d heard. These corporations wanted their genius minds.
“Will they make us special?” he asked the girl. But she didn’t know. If she did know, she’d have told him.
Boy's daddy did not accept the offers from the big important people. He did not sign any of the forms, and Boy knew why; he did not want him to special. The girl’s parents did not sign the very important forms either. Boy thought maybe it was the same, and they didn’t want her to be special either. But the girl told him they argued all night and told her the people behind the papers were evil and so they had to keep her away.
“But shh, okay?” The girl whispered urgently. “They said don't tell. They said never tell.”
Funny then that she told him. But Boy was learning that this was okay. He was allowed to know everything. He was supposed to know everything. And that was the way he liked it.
—
now
As expected, Kavalier beckons you for breakfast the following morning. The affair, as it so often tends to be, harbours an air of awakeness in one of you, and a tired half-silence from the other. You can barely pay attention to the chatter of your old friend, and instead settle for watching him swing his bare feet over the side of a cushioned chair as your mind continues to wonder over your predicament.
A few nods from you, a smattering of mumbled agreement, and he’s none-the-wiser to your far away mind. Kavalier is easy this way. Satisfied as long as he’s been guaranteed an audience. You’d always thought this was a childish feature of his, though now you’re not so sure. The real children, after all, have proved themselves discontented with wide eyed audiences and copious offerings of attention. Your mind wanders to your conversations with Kirsh.
Servers in chef-whites lay your usual breakfasting platters before you both. And as usual, it’s a copious offering for your small party of two. Teas and coffees, jugs of juices in all colours. There’s the cereals and milks, the patisserie spread, and five kinds of eggs, and ten kinds of fruits. Pancakes, waffles, cookies. Everything approved by a fleeting Kavalier desire, just for you both.
This morning, the servers place something new in front of you both.
“Pear crumble? For breakfast?” you raise an eyebrow as you stare down at the bowl. The smell of the sugared fruit sends your mind hurtling back to home. You push the unwelcome thought away. A yawn slips out as you settle, and you fight your mouth stretching as the wave of morning fatigue washes over you. “Seriously? That’s a dessert food and you know it.”
You watch Boy catch your yawn and stretch out what seems to be his entire body in a display of dramatics. He relaxes his body back down as he starts up on a grin. “Yeah? Who makes those rules?” Kavalier just laughs all cockily when you crease your face and cross your arms. “I see your leg isn’t bugging you, well done me.”
“Why Pear? You like apple.”
“But you don’t. Genius. I got them to make this. A taste of home to lift the spirits.” He raises his eyebrows all silly as he takes a heaping spoon and shoves it in his mouth. “For you.”
“If you think this is going to taste anywhere near as good as my uncles’, you’re wrong,”
“I’m never wrong, Miss Venus.”
You want to shrug the conversation off onto something mindless and stupid, like - ‘Oh! We should have a movie night. When are you free?’ because it’s been way too long since the two of you properly cut loose. But there’s that look in his eyes. Tricky, tricky eyes. Those murky blues with the swivel of the questions swirling behind them. Less begging you to ask and more sure that he’d be spouting the answer sometime soon enough. You know what this look entails. His eyes are not begging you to ask. They are waiting for you to.
He’s only lucky you’d already intended to do that very thing. “What is it now, Smart Boy?”
“What’s what?”
“What’s on your mind these days? Come on,” you try to sound light. “What are you hiding from me?”
He smiles big and you understand exactly why, with not even a pause of thought. You’ve taken the bait. The one you knew was right there. To Kavalier, after all these years, you’re low hanging fruit.
“Oh, my Silly Girl. What makes you think I’m hiding something? Huh?”
“It’s me. I know when you’re not telling me the full of it.”
“I want…music,” he tells you, testily. He takes another heaping spoon of crumble and shovels it into his mouth. You catch sight of the skin of the chunks in his bowl as he does. Off-red, not green. Which means two things. One, the chef here doesn’t follow even a remotely similar recipe to your uncle, who swore by peeling his crumble fruits. And two, Kavalier had apple in front of him. Not pear.
“Music?” you drop your spoon in your bowl with a clang. Already the softness of the crumble - which was still delicious, despite not measuring up to your uncle’s - is souring in your mouth. That look in his eye, the too-excited tone, the challenging gaze – it’s his tell. He’s lying.
“You. Teaching. Lost Boys,” he chops each word in quick succession of each other, “Music.”
You grit your teeth. “Get someone else.”
“Why…why would I do that when I’ve got just the girl? Prodigy. I want you to give a lesson to the Lost Boys. You know, the way you used to, with the tinies-”
“With the tinies at the university, yeah, yeah. I remember. But I don’t do that anymore.”
“Well, you do now. Just not with the tinies at a university. Here. With…my tinies. In Neverland,” he clarifies. Of course he does. Because Kavalier was never going to miss even a split chance of stating the obvious, in all its absolute.
It’s been years since you last played. Too long, and for all good reason. You swallow as you fight back the panic that comes with even the thought of picking up an instrument. “You’re still hiding something from me.”
“Am I?”
The frustration begins to bubble, and fast. “I didn’t come to this island to become a stranger in your life, Boy Kavalier.”
“Ooh. Full name, I’m spooked. You haven’t answered my music question. You know, I haven’t heard you play in-”
“Jupiter.” The word comes out desperate. Too desperate. “Tell me.”
Kavalier grins his grin. “Venus,” he says, casually leaning back as he accepts your plea. “There it is. I was beginning to think you’d lost your courage to say the word.”
The wardens aren’t happy when they’re given the order to watch the children, but there’s nothing to be said for that. Your one relief here is that none of them have the gall to speak out at you anymore. There’s still an underlying sense of guilt as they pass you in the hallway; this cannot be helped. That goes double with Kavalier bouncing away in front of you. He tells you not to worry about nannying tonight. But he needn’t have bothered with his assurance, or his command, whichever he’d intended it to be. You know the children are safe. You know leaving them brings you one step closer to the truth.
Kavalier ushers you into the hangar of one of his helicopters, grinning and twirling and dancing barefoot all the while. What are you planning, Peter Pan man?
The answer is no more apparent in the hangar than it is two and a half hours later, when the chopper makes its descent. He has made no more reference to your question, and you make no more effort to push him, cautious already, wary, even, that the peculiar nature of your friend makes him suspectable to spontaneity. The last thing you need is for him to change his mind now. Not when you’ve come so close to biting on an answer. And especially not if his plans are pertaining to the children, as you’re fearing it may be.
He takes you outside, leads you by the hand. Makes you close your eyes ‘for the thrill of the surprise’. There’s a scuffle as you’re shuffling along, wary in your blindness, fearing heading face first into an obstacle that never finds you. Boy Kavalier is eager yet gentle. He leads you blindly but never to danger. You can be sure at least of this, whatever he may be hiding.
You focus in on your other senses as you trudge on. Smooth pavement under the rubber soles of your shoes. Rocky at times, like the road cannot decide if it wants to be wild or civilised. All else you can feel is the wind, whipping smoothly against your skin, through your hair, and Kavalier’s hand, flush against yours. Both are unstopped by any other force. Then you hone in on the smell; asphalt and greenery, and sour smoke from fires still burning. Faintly, there is the smell of food. Familiar and fire cooked. Only when your nose registers this does your confidence begin to waver.
“Where have you taken me, Smart Boy?” you ask, wary all over.
Kavalier only laughs, and insists you trust him. “Don’t you open your eyes. Don’t you dare,” he’s saying. His hand pulls you on, and your feet obey the rhythm of the blind shuffle.
The only way to quell your burning desire to open is to focus on the only sense you have left. All around you, the world is rich with it. The whipping of the wind as it caresses you still. The crackling of the fire married to the sour of the smoke. And there, among it all, is the clue most ripe for your picking.
People. Laughing, chasing, cooking, talking, arguing, whispering. Whispering about you, as it happens to be. You, and the guards, and the barefooted friend who leads you. They wonder why you are there as much as you wonder where ‘there’ is. They whisper too, about the other men who are already here. Men who are guarding one of the homes, they say. Outside of that one.
At his command, you open your eyes already knowing exactly which home they’d referred to. The Dead Man’s Plot, they’d said. To them, it was a haunted empty spot, the site of a murder and the port for an angry ghost. To you, it was the place of other ghosts, the kinds of childhood fear, and of an aged acquaintance, and a life once lived.
“The original sin,” Kavalier speaks boldly at your side. He tips his head towards you with an obvious grin, splays his arms and spins like crazy. “We’re home.”
—
then
No more going to Boy’s house.
Boy’s father was dead. He had died within those walls.
More than that, Boy had made himself a synthetic, and that synthetic had killed him.
Boy told her everything; of course he did, Boy always told her everything, as she did him.
After he said it all, the girl spoke nothing more of it to him. To anyone really. None to any of her cousins, not her uncles, and certainly nobody else, and least so because there wasn’t anyone else to tell. For once, having only Boy to be her friend was a curse more than the bitter blessing she’d always known it to be.
She felt her loneliness, cooped up in her slanted little room, curled beneath the covers in the dark of the night. She felt the loneliness, the ache in her chest, as the tears found their way down her face. She felt it more than ever, that beast of lonely souls, as she stuffed her quilts into her mouth and choked back every sob.
Boy was her best friend. She could not betray his secret.
In her silence the death haunted her within, and came to play at justice within her darkest of dreams. Her silence, she felt, made her just as guilty as he, and just as guilty as the synthetic who’d done it all.
Out damned spot. The mad, mad words of Lady Macbeth were all the girl could think of sometimes. Hours of study had at one time been the source of her joy and so quickly in another time had come to disarm her sanity. Out damned spot. She felt she shared the blood of his hands, and no amount of worrying or tears would wash it all away. Even if Boy’s daddy was evil, he had been killed, and that was murder, wasn’t it? No one knew but the monster who’d done it, Boy, and herself. Did that make them evil, too? Out damned spot.
The first time Boy pretended the synthetic was his father, the girl cried herself sick.
Boy didn’t seem to worry nearly as much as she did. Once, she dared ask him how he could be so happy. He couldn’t answer, but to laugh, and other than to say he was happy to be rid of him. He said it was only fair.
Another line from the infernal play came to haunt her after his words. Fair is foul, and foul is fair. For the first time, the girl wondered if her friend was telling her the whole truth.
—
now
You’re surprised to find no dust has settled on the surfaces of the house. Everything is clean and neat, and just so, as if the recipients of the place have just left it five minutes prior. Every window is spotless, every cushion plumped. It strikes you that it looks better, even, than the days when Boy Kavalier had actually lived there. It smells clean, too, like floral freshness. Not like the haunting follow of smoke and drinks, as it did years ago.
As the guards wait outside, you and he journey through the house. You recall your past days in there, your laughter, your studies, your hours of attempting to coach Boy at his terrible music. There are more unpleasant memories too, and a faux scent of cigarettes among the flowery newness. The two of you reconvene in his room, or what had once been his room, and the site of most of your memories.
You take a seat on the bed, he slips his hands into his pockets and leans towards the window. He flashes you a grin and breaks your comfortable silence. “Speak. Talk to me. Say something good,” he says. “What curiosities are swirling around in that mind of yours?”
“Curiosities? A curiosity to understand why you brought me here, if we’re going to make a list.”
“History.”
“What?” You can’t help but quirk a brow.
“Oh, come on. You’re the one who loves history. I thought you’d appreciate this. One more time.”
“What, are you finally gonna sell your old home? Or are you planning make a bonfire of it?” You ask, as you watch his expression. He leans forward and pokes his head far out the window, curls drooping down as he waves madly at the kids outside. “Oh…are you gonna buy this place? You’re gonna buy the whole area, aren’t you?” Kavalier just leans back on his elbows, all amused. Why would you buy an area? What are you planning? The same questions, entangled with the new ones, battle in frustrated waves at the forefront of your mind. “Are you…going to make another research facility…here?”
“You sound opposed. And you loved Neverland so much,” Kavalier pouts all unserious. “Shame.”
“So…you are?” you explode. Your frustration forces you to your feet. “People live here. You can’t just-”
“Uh, uh…I can do what I like, remember? If I can dream it…”
You shake your head, your mouth all agape. “You’re not…you can’t…” you trail. “Don’t you have enough money?”
“Oh, it’s not about money. It’s never about money, you know that, I’ve got money. Power, fame, influence and all the rest of it. We’ve had this conversation many times, blah blah,” he stops to give an exaggeratedly fake yawn. “Yawn, yawn. Blah blah. It’s getting boring, Venus girl. I thought I told you to say something good. I did, didn’t I?”
You furrow your brow at his brazen words. Staring him down, you cross your arms. “You can’t tear down a town on some stupid whim.”
Kavalier fake yawns again. You’ve half a mind to pull his hair the next time he does that, seeing as he’s insisting on childishness. “Bring the reign in on those horses, Silly Girl. Did you even notice I agreed to none of those questions? Hm? ‘Cause I didn’t. You’re just assuming things.” And then, like he’d heard those thoughts of yours, Kavalier leans forward and sharply tugs on the ends of your hair. “But you know, that’s not such a bad idea, to tear it all down. See, this is why I like talking to you. You’re smart. You think of these things.”
Swatting him away, you frown. “You wouldn’t really, would you?”
Kavalier shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I? This place never did me any good. The people here are the same as they always were. Human trash.”
“How can you…even say that? You were once here. You’d never say that about yourself.”
“My dad was human trash. I built my way out of it. I built myself a kingdom and crowned myself king. You don’t see anyone here doing that. You never saw him doing it.”
Though your instinct is to disagree, you bite back your tongue. You know he’s hurt as he says the words. You understand why he thinks this way. After all, while you see the world through rose tinted shades, Kavalier sees it all black and white. Everything, to him, is either an opportunity or a let down. It’s as binary as the zeroes and ones in all his codes, and not the gentle array of complicated stories, and colours, and philosophies you’re inclined to.
Your friend pouts now, and his eyes glint with a tearful anger. Simply being here has gotten him all worked up. You try to remind yourself why; this was a prison for him. One of the let downs. “I’m not going to do it. I’ve already got Neverland, and the city,” he looks at you properly. “I wouldn’t, alright?”
“Okay. I’m sorry,” you attempt to broker the peace. Maybe he’ll calm down. “I’m sorry I assumed, okay?” He nods, clearly feeling the apology was obligated. Then, seeing as he did pull your hair, you pull his, and you end up in one of your old finger-rib-jabbing battles from your days of old. You put up a good fight, but in the end, you let him have the last jab. You always do.
“You were right, you know. About the other plans. I’ve been working on something.” Here we go. You take a deep breath as you watch him circle the room, then take another as he seats himself beside you again. He plays around with the dust, looks all disgusted, then schools his expression once he’s settled it back on you. “Things are about to change. Soon, the old Earth will be dead, and a new one will be born.”
You must look confused, and rightly so, because he laughs. He laughs, then takes your hands, and makes you spin all about the room with him. He laughs and spins until you can’t help but laugh and spin, too. “You’re crazy,” is all you can get out.
“Watch, tonight, your little stars will shine brighter than the stars up high. Everything will be better than our wildest dreams, you’ll see.”
“You’re crazy.”
“This was an old time. Before the change of the world. I want to remember that, one last time.”
Kavalier is talking crazy, in a pastime of riddles you can turn like stones in your head for days on end and never puzzle out. As always, the riddles are a comfort. His boyish grin, a heart of home more than these four walls or any tree once scaled. However different the world may be or may turn, you know what he’s saying - we never will. Not this bond. Not this safety of presence born over hot coals of childhood wonder. As long as we live, his long ago promise of forever will stand tall. Un-weathered. The world, different. But not the two of you. Never you.
“One last time,” you echo.
“Your place isn’t far from here,” he tells you, watching. He knows you know that. Of course you do. You’d spent so much of your childhoods making the journey, flittering between the area, neither of you ever getting enough of each other. “I mean your uncles’ place. Not your parents’.”
You don’t answer this, either. You can only avoid his eyes, and wonder from what vein of though this prompt has appeared from. Nostalgia? Or is he testing your bounds? As if either of those two ghost-frames of a once-home is anywhere you want to be. The smouldering mess of everything you’ve spent the past few years desperately trying to drown out. First the mentions of the music, then bringing you here, and now mentioning your uncles’ home. You gather it must be harmless nostalgia, after all. He must be as caught up in the old days as you are. The web of entanglement, it seems, has its sticky hold on the both of you.
“We really can go so far and never truly get away, can we?” you whisper.
Sighing, he shakes his head. You haven’t seen him this pacified in a long while. Thinking so deeply. You almost missed this. “Where we’re from is where we’ll always really be,” he turns to you now, serious as never. And then his look changes, and he takes your hand, and his eyes are mad all over again. “It’s Yutani, Reader. I’ve been in contact with one of her ships. The USCSS Maginot, and oh, honey, it’s a floating vessel of the purest gold. The rarest diamonds from outer space. It’s carrying all the secrets of the world. Aliens, Venus Girl. They’ve got fucking aliens. Soon my plans will be in motion, and soon it’ll crash land in New Saigon, and soon…” he steps back, holds his arms out. “Our kingdom will know no bounds.”
For a moment, it’s as if you’re the tiny you again, and standing in front of you is the tiny him. The Arts Prodigy and the Academic. For a moment, nothing has changed. His father is in the kitchen. Your parents are at home. And in this room, it’s just the two of you, and the crazy powerful dreams of the tiny small-town children.
You can see in his eyes now he's telling you the whole of the truth. No pretences. He's excited, and he's waiting for you to be, too. The old words come back to you now, along with all the old memories, and as new questions awaken in your mind. Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Oh, Smart Boy. Where will your dreams take us now?
