Something is wrong with the school. Or maybe everything is wrong with it: the teachers, the spell battles, the noose of fate everyone's so eager to be strung up with—
Written for the 2015 Zexal AU Swap. Soulmate has never been a dirtier word.
While this AU is a fusion with Loveless, it should stand well enough on it's own without knowledge of Loveless canon. (Especially since I took liberties with the system.) The biggest thing to know going in is that in Loveless children are born with cat ears and tails, which they lose as "adults"— basically, after they have sex for the first time. Written for batsugeemu’s prompt.
Thomas isn't supposed to hear the conversation at the funeral, but he has a talent for being underfoot where he's not wanted. He hadn't managed to stifle his sniffles or stop from whispering denials through the whole service, but when Dr. Faker and Chris stepped into the hall to have a private discussion, they hadn't known he was there listening. Not until they reach the topic of what was to be done with Chris's younger brothers— Chris, of course, was welcome to stay at the academy and assist with research, as he had already been doing. But then the word "orphanage" is uttered Thomas burst from where he'd been eavesdropping unseen, and his face is already red again, fury and abandonment a heavy wetness on his cheeks.
"Chris, you bastard." His ears are pressed flat to his head and tail lashing, like something young and feral. "You really think Dad would be proud of you, shipping us off? Or are you done playing big brother now that he's gone?" A short laugh, with too much bravado to be anything but hurt. "And on the first chance you get! Shows just how much you give a damn. Not at all, isn't that right!?"
Chris doesn't bother answering any of his questions. There's no hint of anything in his cool impassive voice as he looks down and rebukes him, "You will watch your language, Thomas. And this is a matter for adults." He doesn't even have a tail to watch for twitching.
"Adults, huh?" There's no doubt Thomas doesn't qualify. "How ridiculous! You're saying me and Michael get no say in our fates?"
"Without our father here, I am your guardian." Chris's voice doesn't manage "stern yet gentle" half as well as their father could. He's not managing it half as well as he did last week, as if with their father's example gone he's already forgetting the template. He mostly sounds like he wants Thomas to stop shouting.
"What a fancy way of saying yes!" Thomas's voice raises louder. "I thought I was talking to my brother, not a court! Why can't we go to the school too? Why are you sending us away—"
"Big brothers!" Mihael heard his older brother's voice and came running, his face blotchy and tear-stained, "I couldn't find you and— Thomas, don't be mean to Chris! Not . . . not now. . ." he trails off, small hands clutching at Thomas's.
Thomas shoves Mihael's hands away, balling his own into fists. "Didn't you hear him!? If anyone's being cruel it's this guy right here! Doesn't family mean anything to you?!" he snarls and looks away, not wanting to see Chris's unaffected face. Hearing his voice and not being able to read it was bad enough.
"I will do what's best for us—"
"What's best for you, isn't it?" Thomas interrupts, snide voice too thick to be flippant.
Chris turns to Dr. Faker to apologize. "We'll have to continue this conversation later. For now, I need to take my brothers home."
"Of course, of course." It's a dismissal, not any sort of sympathy and Thomas looks up from his shoes to glare but Faker isn't looking at him or his brothers at all, already moving to the door. "I will hear from you later."
Taking it as a signal, Chris put his hands on his younger brother's shoulders, to steer them home. But the fatherliness of the gesture was more than Thomas could stomach, and he ducks from his touch and runs forward, grabbing Mihael's wrist and pulling him along. They leave together, Chris lingering behind.
---
The funeral is the worst of it, his father's loss a gaping wound, a gouge in his core. After that, a pound of flesh was nothing.
Nothing but dizziness and his world dyed and hands slick with blood— he has to, he must finish this, he's not a child anymore even if his ears and tail would have said otherwise— he will. He'll finish this and make his outsides match the inside or— ha, ha, ha— die trying.
He can't help it when he cries out, or maybe he's been screaming a while now to drown out the noise of Mihael hammering at the locked door, because his throat is too raw to do anything but choke when the last ragged scrap of childhood sheers free. It's too much. He just whimpers like it's the end of the world, blood pooling beneath him and seeping beneath the door crack.
"Ambulance!" Mihael's voice. "Chris, we need a—"
A clatter on the stairs. The click and turn of a key in a lock.
It gets dark, and he's just delirious enough not to struggle, thinking the warm arms that encircle him to carry him away are his father's.
---
After Byron's funeral, the hospital, the Name branded vertical down his thigh is some sick joke. The doctors list it down as self-inflicted, like the severing of the ears, the tail.
"Bereaved", it says.
---
Chris is at his side when he wakes, looking over his charts and the scrawl of the doctor's notes. The anesthetics are not yet flushed from his system so nothing hides the shock of disappointment on his face, as he realizes what those last moments of delirium were, but Chris isn't looking at him yet. Just as well. It takes effort to pull the corners of his mouth into a grin that's pure malice and slur out words to him, but he manages because Thomas can manage anything if it's out of spite, for his family, or especially if it's both. "A matter for adults, isn't that what you said?"
The rueful smile on Chris's face as he agrees makes the blood matted in Thomas's hair worth it. "Yes, those were my words."
"Are you going to take them back now? Or are you smart enough to figure out whatever ridiculous arbitrary obstacle you put in my path, I'll break it down?" He sneers, "This will go easier if you decide not to be stupid. As an adult, I want my say. Mihael and me are going to that school of yours."
Chris is silent for a moment, his eyes not on Thomas's face. "I believe that could be arranged."
Thomas doesn't know or care why his brother's eyes skip down to his bandaged thigh, but the important part is he agrees.
---
The doctors insist on keeping him for observation, something about the self-inflicted nature of the wounds. Thomas makes a face but he doesn't mind it exactly. Not after Mihael spent all of visiting hours sobbing and clutching at his hands, like he is about to keel over any minute. Going home would just remind him that someone did, and the empty space in their lives where his father isn't would hurt worse than his unhealed scars did. It isn't strange to be alone in the hospital. The longing and loneliness could be homesickness, instead of grief.
But he's not one to suffer silently, or even sit still long. The first chance he gets to wander the halls, he takes it. People die and get hurt all the time, it'd be weird if he was the only person there in the pediatric ward. He takes to wandering, because this place can't be half as lonely as the imagined empty halls of his house and real ones should distract from remembered ones.
A door is cracked open, to a boy awake, bandaged, fists clenched in the thin hospital blankets, jaw clenched tight even in profile, glaring at the room's other bed. His eyes are teary like Thomas's were when he was brought in, and contempt for his own weakness picks at his bully's instinct and he barges in without thought. The other boy's focus jerks from the bed across from him to Thomas in the doorway as he closes it behind him.
He hadn't thought beyond entering, and something about the attention shocks him, like those blue eyes can see past his sneer and into his soul. They're already getting past surprise and narrowing in anger, mouth tightening about to speak, (to tell him off he'd bet) so Thomas preempts him, to break his rhythm before he can shout for a nurse to kick him out. "There's a sour face!" he spits without thinking, and then is struck by the utter inanity of him comment, and plows onward without pause, so there's no time for the stupid words to hang in the air. "You're still breathing, you know? It could be worse. You could be writhing in hell right now. How about being thankful, huh?"
"Shut up! You don't know what you're talking about!"
"Ohh? Well, not if you don't enlighten me, you know? Are you expecting me to read your mind?" The pain from his severed tail keeps him from moving as casually as he'd like, as he moves to the other boy's bedside, putting both his elbows on the cot and leaning forward.
He kicks them off, then winces. "Like hell! Why should I tell you?!"
Thomas sits up straight, like he'd changed his mind on how to sit on his own, and not because he'd been kicked off. "Because I'm more interesting than glaring at the girl Rip van Winkle over there. I'll even glare back, isn't that a nice service? Free of charge."
"Don't call her that! Rio's going to wake up!" he shoots back, but a plaintive note enters his voice at the name, Rio. His mouth slams shut, eyes challenging Thomas to comment on it.
He could never resist a weak spot, but something tugs at him to keep his mouth shut about the obvious sorrow. So he does— he just lost his dad, the last thing he wants is for the conversation to turn depressing. "How nice for her, to have a loyal guard. Are you supposed to be her knight? Her prince? Her sweetheart?"
"Don't be gross!" None of Thomas's guesses hit home, and the offense doesn't last. The younger boy's voice is edged with regret as he quietly drops, "I'm her family," and looks down at his hand, twisting a ring on it.
It’s quiet a little longer before Thomas breaks in so it won't stretch too long— trying to break off the conversation before the other boy can tell him information he didn't want to know. "You're being gross enough on your own."
It doesn't work. Like the tears hadn't assuaged his grief any, and he was trying to flood it out with words instead, the younger boy is nothing but tension and reflexively spits out, "Shut up," but that only loosens the floodgates, and suddenly he can't help it as the rest spills out, "I'm all of her family! There was a stupid car accident— some stupid asshole crashed into us and our parents didn't make it. It's just me and her now— but it's both of us. Rio isn't weak! She'd kill me if I was weak enough to think about her not making it through, even for a second! If you say anything bad about my sister, I'll kill you! So shut up and go away!" His crying gets worse as he shouts, words edged around sobs and harsh breaths. When he finishes he is breathing hard enough to be on the edge of hyperventilation, hands fisted in his lap. He glares at them like they'd betrayed him because he couldn't see his own mouth.
After a minute, Thomas offers, quietly, "My parents are dead too."
The other boy looks up and give him a flat look that clearly said he has no idea why Thomas expects him to care.
His face heats and he stands, wound on his leg throbbing with the sudden motion, and turns to leave. Somehow, the cavity grief left in his chest only feels worse, the further he gets from that room.
---
Heartland Academy-- he'd thought that creepy doctor that Chris was talking with after the funeral owned it, but it's not him that leers at him and Mihael over the desk but a man with glasses and green hair, whose name matches the school. "Yes, yes. They look like they'd be fine additions to the student body." His eyes leave them to address Chris, standing between them with his hands on their shoulders. "What are their names?"
"Th—" Thomas starts to interject but Chris's hand tightens painfully on his shoulder. "Ow!"
"Bereaved and . . ." Chris hesitates, a moment, before continuing, "while the other has yet to manifest, with our family history I have confidence his power and role will come to him soon."
Mr. Heartland either doesn't catch the hesitation, or he doesn't care. His grin stretches wide over his face as he nods. "Oh, of course. He is younger than either of your manifestations. It will come in time." He rounds the corner of the desk and puts his hand on Mihael's shoulder, a fly tasting him through the skin. Mihael's eyes are wide as he swallows, but he stays quiet— he wants to to stay here at the school, with them.
Thomas is one step on his way to stomping on Mr. Heartland's foot, but Chris knows his tricks more than well enough to steer him away smoothly, towards the door. "Yes. Now, I will show my brothers their assigned rooms in the dormitories. Come along now, Mihael."
Mihael is only too eager to comply, though he gives a polite nod to Heartland before going to his brother's side to take his hand. Thomas makes a face, his back turned. That guy was pure scum.
He shakes his brother's hand to walk behind him in the corridor, because he can't stomp ahead when he doesn't know where he's going. "Bereaved? Are you going to let me in on the joke? I can't believe you grew a sense of humor just for that to be your first."
Chris's rebuke is professional and Thomas wishes his brother could mourn in a more normal way, instead of playing junior professor all the time. The textbook nature of his response only makes it more repulsive. "Bereaved is your true name. True names are indications of a shared fate, and the nature of the bond. They manifest on the body of the fated pair, and impart power and a role to each of you." And more bizarre.
"What— What kind of fairy tale is that!?"
"It isn't one. This school is for battle. You will be taught to use your powers to the fullest, in service to your role and bond."
"Wait—" the brand on his thigh that had already faded to the permanence of an old scar, Chris's sudden change of heart in the hospital clicks together and he knows his brother isn't lying. "That's why you let us come here— What about Mihael!? He doesn't have a name yet!"
"Yet," Chris echoes. "As you heard from Mr. Heartland and I, there is still time."
"And if he doesn't?" Thomas grabs Chris's white coat, pulling him back. "Hey, don't tell me you're going to kick him out!?"
Chris shakes his head but doesn't meet his eyes, as he says, "As long as you are under my care, we won't be separated. Something will be figured out." Then, with a quick glance from his clipboard to the numbers on the plaque outside the door, he gestures to the doorplate, paces ahead of where Thomas stopped him. "Now, your room." But Thomas fist is still a vice-grip on his brother's clothes, and he doesn't budge.
Before the funeral, it was always Chris breaking Thomas and Mihael away from each other in their squabbles, but now things have shifted. Mihael catches his brother's wrist and tries to tug his hand from the labcoat. "Please stop this. Since the funeral, you've done nothing but fight. Bickering now doesn't do us any good!"
In the silence following Mihael's outburst, Thomas's grip loosens. He clicks his tongue and turns away from them, deliberately without a word, to open the door.
There's an odd sense of deja vu, when he recognizes the boy already inside the room, sitting on a bed he's claimed for himself. The boy from the hospital has dry eyes, this time, but the glare is the same.
From the doorway, Chris informs him, "This is the other Bereaved, Kamishiro Ryouga."
---
The school is a school, and most the time there are classes— normal ones, keeping them caught up with the outside. But the enforced normalcy is the skin over a cyst— it covers but does nothing to hide that something is wrong beneath. There's something weird about his classmates— the too-tight pairs, that Thomas is far from the only adult in the room. That the strange tumor of private lessons in their schedule comes so soon is almost a relief.
Mr. Heartland's first lesson is fighters attack, and sacrifices take damage. The roles are simple like that, self-explanatory.
The names are less simple, and most all the established pairs make a big production out of their battle invocations. The pair Mr. Heartland brings in to demonstrate both look like they're the type to tackle problems head and fist-first, so he more expects the boy to come charging, and the girl to throw herself in the way of attacks, their magic to be something out of a weekly boy's comic magazine.
Instead Anna leaps on Alit, her legs crossed around his waist, supporting her weight as she leans back and he dips her, and it's a miracle of muscle that they're not falling over. The words should be an afterthought to the display, but their enthusiasm carries in their words, ridiculous the way their display is but ringing with power. "The name's Careless! Before the power of our howling fists—"
"We don't care what kinda power you've got: it's nothing!" Anna finishes without missing a beat. Even as Thomas struggles to hold in laughter, there's a charge in the air that makes his hair stand on end. The spectacle they're making of themselves is clearly doing something, and they finish it with zeal— she swings herself up to Alit's lips, just for a moment they meet but it's enough. The electricity of power that their words hold comes to a full circuit and the air Thomas was going to laugh with sucks from his lungs and he can feel Ryouga at his side feeling it too. "System exp—"
Heartland brings his hand up, and she silences, midword. "An excellent demonstration, from two of our hottest burning hearts!" His smile stretches across his face, as he gestures widely between the two, illustrating distance, "However, we're being delicate with introducing our new students to the system. Let's not pulverize them during their very first lesson."
Anna drops her grip and falls to the floor with a resounding thud, and mutters a quick ow ow ow before flipping back to her feet. "Lame. Just showing us off? You'd better be prepared for us to pound you to dust, next time!" she announces, pointing at the other pair.
On the same wavelength as his sacrifice, Alit grins, "Can we get going, then, if that's the deal?" The question is casual, and it's obvious both him and the girl were willing to perform for Heartland, but without the battle they're itching to leave his scrutiny.
He stares them down, face not shifting a single millimeter from generous, indulgent. The power their display left lingers in the air and it's an overt show of having the upper hand from Heartland— that these two rough and tumble punks wait for the okay from him. Thomas almost expects a no, as the air starts coming back more easily to his lungs, until Heartland inclines his head the slightest fraction. Careless are watching him close enough that it's enough to get them going. Anna grabs Alit's arm and they're making for the door, fast. "Okay, we're splitting!" she calls and the door closes behind the two of them almost before the words are out.
The silence she leaves behind her hangs like an axe Mr. Heartland could choose to let down any moment. It's fucking obnoxious, and he wants him to get on with it. He gets the picture, already. And if he's hoping to impress his partner, Ryouga's not even paying any attention, glaring out the window, like he can make the menace thick in the air leave if he pretends he's somewhere else hard enough. Neither of them say a word, Thomas keeping his mouth shut for once in his life.
He breaks the silence like they passed a test. "Now, I don't expect you to have an invocation yet. I leave it up to you, what spell you feel activates and best portrays the power of your bond. However," this is it, the blade falling, "Physical contact should still strengthen and ignite your powers. Careless's demonstration illustrated that well enough. Do you think you can follow their example?"
He knows what he means— the power from the kiss and Ryouga gets it the same moment, because Thomas is about to quip something on no promises he won't drop his sacrifice or ask if holding hands is going to cut it, and Ryouga flat out refuses. "Like hell! I'm not doing that with him and not in front of you!"
Mr. Heartland's eyes widen and there's expectation there, like his partner just gave him an excuse to do something he was hoping for since the start— The next words will be a punishment. Or a threat. "Well . . ." he says, deep in false thought, still watching them.
And Thomas won't be kicked out, not after what he did to get here, his tail and ears gone and the wounds barely healed. He doesn't want to know the end of that sentence, lurking unsaid. He grabs Ryouga's wrist and traps him against a desk— he's got something like two, three years and the height that comes with it on his partner. "Fuck you!" Ryouga shouts and struggles against him, rearing his other hand back to punch him and Thomas slams his hand against that too, and his mouth full on Ryouga's.
Their teeth clack together painfully, little bursts of pain and Ryouga's still squirming and he can feel Heartland's gaze on their back. Something's wrong— there's not a bond at all —nothing is happening he thinks before he feels it. The open-mouthed contact bleeds into power that feels like it will swallow him up, sweep him along, and Ryouga struggles harder while Thomas is in shock, gaping, and he gets the leverage against the desk to sink his knee into Thomas's stomach. His grip slackens and he falls back, Ryouga's glare pinning him.
He tilts his head up and back, checking— Heartland doesn't look pleased either.
---
He learned, then, that the important lesson was that a fighter was nothing but a sacrifice's tool, whatever else Mr. Heartland was ostensibly supposed to teach them.
His hands are still bandaged, the week after, and none of the instructors take any pity on him for writing assignments. It's an unneeded confirmation they're all complicit in this. But it could be worse— Ryouga could have taken Heartland up on his offer for a turn with the switch. Not that it had sat well with Ryouga at all— he'd tried to take a swing and gotten escorted out.
The rest of the lesson was private.
Considering how big they all were on the whole bonded business here, he hopes the extra marks he came back with made an impression on his sacrifice. He is already getting sick of being punished for someone else's mistakes, and if Ryouga gets them kicked out as too incompetent to cooperate, he's giving him a one way ticket to hell, "partnership" be damned.
---
They are observing spell battles today— to watch techniques, strategies. Ostensibly. There is a near definite hidden motive of reminding them they had to get their acts together, unless they want to still be helpless by the time they were thrown into the fray.
Mr. Heartland's lectures have settled behind his eyes, and he watches the rest of the school with them in mind. He can see it in the pairs now, able to make guesses for which ones are which instructor's personal projects. Rootless, Gauche and Droite, definitely are Mr. Heartland's— they reek of being taught by trial by fire, the lack of fear of pain like they know it to be unavoidable— those are his fingerprints all over. Not a lot of respect for authority, because Mr. Heartland never bothers being respectable, but they do what they're told well enough, and stick to their mission objectives.
He pays less attention to the work of other instructors, but enough to notice the obvious. Don Thousand seems to mentor pairs that are batshit crazy, his handful being impossible to miss. The red-head and kid with dark skin and tattoos and both of them with too much jewelry fight with scorched earth tactics— damaging everything they can manage, half the words they say hard to hear over the other half's laughter. Habara Umimi's pairs are almost normal, but are too willing to take on damage— looks like Careless were on loan from her. Which explains their respect: not wanting to get the one sane teacher in this place in trouble.
But her teams aside— the balance of power as lopsided as Heartland prefers it is the prevailing model. Sacrifices take spell-damage, but even under the tattoos and skin pigment, Thomas can see at a distance that it's the fighter that's more bruised out of Don Thousand's pair. He doesn't really care enough to stare, but Ryouga's eyes are fixed there, jaw set and brow furrowed. He's pissed.
Which means: not paying any attention to the spell battles at all. He curls the taped fingers of one hand around Ryouga's far shoulder and is rewarded by him jerking his attention away to look at him as Thomas leans in, conspiratorially. "So that's your thing? That's some taste you've got there." He grins wide enough to show the sharp canine edges as the spell the team fires off drives railroad spikes aimed neck high into the walls around their opponents. "Now, I can't hear a damn thing they're saying, but I can get started on practicing that laugh!" He snickers loudly into Ryouga's ear.
Ryouga hates giving orders, but the look he gives Thomas is a clear signal for him to get off of him. Thomas ignores it. If his partner isn't going to use words, he's not going to bother listening. He drapes on him more heavily instead, his other arm over the other shoulder. "I hate this bullshit." Ryouga mutters back, momentarily giving up on getting Thomas to move, keeping his voice low so no one in the observation room can call them on being off-task instead of discussing strategy
"Ohhh?" he breathes, deliberately obtuse, feeling Ryouga's tail flick against him in irritation, "But you pay such good attention. Here I thought you were a fan."
"All of the partners are bullshit," he says, which surprises Thomas a little. Here he'd thought Ryouga hated him in particular, or that red-head. "It's garbage. Fate's nothing but stupid bullshit. I don't need anyone close to me."
"You can get the magic to work on your own? How impressive, Ryouga! Do you think we should tell the teachers? Or no— you don't need them, either. But that reminds me." He can't help himself, tongue and teeth like fingers at the edge of a fray— he pushes and punctures straight through. "So, whatever did happen to your sister?"
It's enough to get Ryouga to turn on him, twisting and ducking out of his hold, fury etched on his every feature.
"Or don't you need her anymore?" He doesn't even pretend at innocence, and Ryouga growls, losing self-control to hatred. He fists his collar and slams him back, against the back wall, head knocking roughly against it— he throws a fist, hard. It sinks into the skin above his cheek, his right eye with as much force as Ryouga could manage, and a follow-up jab in the stomach, bending him double, coughing. It's not enough. Another punch, in the jaw from below and a thin trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth— Thomas bit his lip, and there's not even grim satisfaction on Ryouga's face, he just doesn't know how else to make him stop.
"Don't you ever talk about Rio" he orders, reflexively.
Then, Thomas cracks open his eye— the soreness definitely tells of a later bruise— and a smug grin pulls at his forming bruises and he can see Ryouga realizing his mistake before he even opens his mouth. "Good, good! So you can learn. You're getting better at this, Ryouga!" And then comes the laugh-- practicing like he'd threatened.
No one had even tried to stop Ryouga from punching him. No doubt that these bastards actually approve. A bitter wave of self-loathing passes over his sacrifice but he still can't bring himself to help Thomas up. He's shaking like it's all he can do to keep from stomping off— and like Thomas needs more bruises.
He stands there, still, until the end of the night session.
---
Thomas doesn't mention Rio again, but Ryouga doesn't give any more orders either. He makes an effort to halfway follow the rules, shows up to class, and doesn't stop Thomas from doing whatever the hell he wants, even if they argue constantly.
It's enough to get people gossiping, muttering in the halls.
"Bereaved is such an ugly name," comes from someone with the name Dazzling, circling their wrist.
"Kamishiro gives Arclight too much leeway," another whisperer.
"Right, right!" A stage whisper, intentional theater, this speaker wants everyone to hear, "Are we sure which one's the fighter?" Soft laughter, from more than one of them.
"It has to be Arclight! He runs his mouth enough."
In the midst of the talk that can't even be called rumors, because all the obnoxious little whispers are true, Thomas takes to walking closer to his sacrifice in the halls. Ryouga glares, but doesn't comment.
---
He's in their room and Ryouga is fuck knows where— until, suddenly he does. The room Mr. Heartland uses for their lessons. He feels the call through their bond, need and reluctance, the reluctance all the more keen because Ryouga hates being tied down. Hates it even though he's holding the leading end of the leash, and Thomas just has to hope Ryouga doesn't want to pull it tight enough to choke. For all that everyone likes to make out sharing fate to be something like romance, the reality of it is a chain at his neck.
It makes battle damage a warped mirror— Ryouga gets trussed up when Thomas screws up, but it's Ryouga's screw-up that Thomas isn't bound tighter. Even now as he stands and shrugs on a jacket, responding to the call, it's not concern coloring his thoughts. Instead his mind is on Ryouga's face twisted up, eyes narrowing and set of his jaw clenching hard— the anger that must be bleeding from his stance and expression. If it isn't for the call, he'd close his eyes and devote a few minutes to the daydream of it. It's one of his favorite thoughts to return to when the pressure and constant disapproval eats at him— he's got the worse end of it but really it's impossible to miss that somehow Ryouga is the one suffering more. Thomas takes his victories where he can find them and Ryouga makes it so easy.
It'd be easier to hate his own lot in this more if his partner hated it less.
He takes his time walking the halls, and arrives not even winded. Completely unrepentant, he smiles, showing almost all of his teeth, "I apologize for the wait. It's really unfortunate how long it takes to run here from the library, isn't it?"
Mr. Heartland looks at Ryouga, for confirmation— and despite the fact his sacrifice could call him on the obvious lie— he felt Thomas in their room the same as Thomas felt him in the classroom— Ryouga doesn't contradict him. "There's cripples that could get here faster than you."
"Now, now," Thomas chides, coming to take his usual spot, one arm over Ryouga's shoulder where it irritates him most, "No need to be rude, is there? And wheelchairs are an unfair advantage. I'm stuck with just these two legs of mine."
"It's not your legs that are defective, it's your damn brain!" Ryouga shoots back, and Mr. Heartland watches their bit of theater indulgently. His smile says he obviously realizes what happened, too, but he is content to allow Thomas his insolence— provided he doesn't go against a direct order. The best Thomas can figure, Mr. Heartland figures Ryouga deserves it, for not controlling him better.
They both go silent as Mr. Heartland interrupts, "Well, now that we all have arrived, the moment you've been waiting for: you've proven you can summon your fighter. Now, invocate and expand your field, and you will have have proven yourself ready for the next stage of training." Despite both their presences, he speaks to Ryouga alone.
They both know better than to refuse a direct request. Without preamble, Ryouga grabs for Thomas's hand, and Thomas steps forward, in front of his sacrifice as his guard, and they announce the only set of invocation words Ryouga hadn't vetoed. "Our name is Bereaved! After this fight, we won't be the only ones grieving!"
"System expand!" Thomas finishes, to Heartland's polite clapping.
"Bravo. Now, you can feel all active pairs in the area? What appears to be the extent of your field?" For once, the questions aren't aimed at Ryouga.
"Large enough. Careless is having a go with Effortless on the roof— Umimi is sure permissive with those pairs of hers, isn't she?" Thomas grins, waving a hand carelessly, like he hasn't just delivered information he's sure Mr. Heartland is eager to have, always looking for any black marks he could put on his fellows' records. And then, he switches his focus to his instructor, and what he hadn't expected there, but is undeniably true. "So, I hadn't pegged you for a fighter. So who is it pulling your strings? Aren't you obedient, making sure the rest of us are up to their standards? What touching loyalty!" He drops his grip on Ryouga's hand, moving forward into Heartland's territory. "Or is this just how you get your jollies?"
He has long learned that Mr. Heartland's limits had nothing to do with how rude Thomas is to him, but how well he followed his rules. But even so, Mr. Heartland's face is frozen, mask-like, to hide a twitch. He folds his grin down into a smirk, holding his arms out wide, and bows. Heartland had wanted a demonstration.
"And already working on your battle strategy, I see! Then, if you're both so eager. . . from here on out, you're approved for battle." A moment later, Mr. Heartland is carefully composed, like Thomas hadn't gotten under his skin at all. Like there is no irritation warring with greed at the power his little problem team has revealed under his smile.
Thomas turns around at the approval and bows to his partner as well, keeping his head up, eyes on Ryouga's disgusted expression— no, he doesn't approve of Thomas's first use of his power at all. "Didn't you hear, Ryouga? We're free to tear the shit out of every sacrifice that dares use their fighter correctly. Shouldn't you be celebrating too?"
"Like hell. Now I have to listen to you be an asshole at other people too."
"You could always order me to shut up." Thomas drapes on him, not worried in the least.
"If you're going to be this obnoxious about it, you'd better be good at this to back it up. Otherwise this crap won't be worth it."
"Be good at it? That's all I have to do to make it worth it?" he echoes his sacrifice, in exaggerated disbelief, and then drops his voice, speaking into his ear. "Don't tell me you're going soft now." If Ryouga really is going to just accept that this is how it's going to be— now is the time to push his luck, remind him of all that entails— he presses his lips against Ryouga's neck—
And the expected retaliation comes, a bruising fist aiming for him, and then a rough shove to the ground. Predictable, so very predictable! Even now, nothing has changed at all. Thomas couldn't help it, he laughs, pure manic relief emptying itself out from his stomach. It lasts almost a half-minute solid, starting to feel sick and cramped before he lets it die and he staggers to his feet. Ryouga has already gone to the back wall, by the window, so he wouldn't have to watch—
Thomas holds out his hands, for the familiar punishment, aware of Mr. Heartland's smile gaping wide— but no wider than it was before. He doesn't think about what that means, just about how hard it will be to sneak into the nurse's office, to get more supplies.
---
There's rumors about his brother— Chris. They say when he trained his fighter, he'd once not let him sleep a week. That he kept his fighter on auto, made him take all the damage, so he learned to strategize like a sacrifice on his own. That he'd pushed him to edge of death, exhaustion, so he could sling spells no matter how desperate the situation, how terrible the order.
Thomas has seen Kaito around. He believes it.
They also say that his fighter was one of the best Heartland Academy had ever produced. That Chris calls him his true brother.
He believes that too, certainty like bile in his throat, dirt beneath his nails.
---
Up against their opponents— Hopeless, with the red-head sacrifice Ryouga hates— holding hands isn't enough. Blood runs into Thomas's eyes from a cut on his forehead, flooding his vision so at first he doesn't realize the hands at his throat, pulling him down by his shirt collar are Ryouga's, belted together with leather cuffs of spell-battle damage. Realization hits only when their lips met and it feels like his veins have been hotwired, power surging through them and out his mouth in a burst of manic laughter, that makes Ryouga wince but he doesn't draw back. He doesn't even shove Thomas away, though Hopeless has to have realized now is the time to retaliate, while Bereaved is busy building power through their bond.
It's more power than he's he's ever felt, a riptide current that would drown him if he let it— and it'd be easy to let it. Every touch before this was static, stray sparks, but now he's been given the electric chair. But he'll be damned if he pulls away before his sacrifice, his sacrifice that is always so careful to leave Thomas his autonomy. He's always been forceful before, but now that Ryouga has grabbed initiative, Thomas takes care, puts effort into being gentle. With deliberate tentativeness, he parts his lips, and makes damn sure Ryouga has the opportunity to invade, push past them with his own tongue into his mouth. He makes sure he has to, if he wants the kiss to continue— except now isn't the time for head games because he only barely catches from the corner of his eye sight of the bladed pendulum Hopeless's fighter conjured.
He shoves Ryouga back and has barely a second before the pendulum slices them through— it's enough. Their resonance has spiked high enough that it takes a single word from Thomas to overpower Hopeless's spell. "Unravel!" The rope suspending the axe-head frays, and gravity brings the weapon low, crashing to the floor nowhere near where Bereaved stood.
He's had plenty of practice to match Hopeless's fighter's laugh, and he just knows where to aim to make them weep. "—And spin the threads of fate anew— the torment they planned will be the torment they suffer! Tangle and trip them in their own machinations!" The severed rope lengthens, thickens, and hoists up again the pendulum blade— this time, heading towards Hopeless, restrained by ropes that they hadn't thought to use against Bereaved— or they would rather watch their prey struggle freely than bind them.
"This isn't going to work— we're stronger! We're stronger than you!!" Vector spat, and then heaved laughter, heedless of the ties constricting him, "In the face of this much power, you think we're letting you off, without dragging you down with us?!"
"We're Hopeless!" his fighter shouts, intoning their name, it's truth as a hammer no spell could undermine, "Fate can't be fought, destiny's direction won't change! You have no hope against the inevitable! Everything, everything will be destroyed!"
Thomas doesn't wait for his sacrifice's order— the truth of those words reverberates in his bones and the pendulum rebounded for them but none of it mattered. "Right, right! But we're Bereaved— we're already mourning! All that's left for this tragedy to dethrone is you!" The inarguable truth of their name would work just as well as Hopeless's— there's no tragedy left to inflict on them, they'd already taken their fall. The pendulum sweeps past them again and Thomas and Ryouga dodge back— but no more restraints are inflicted. It falls back towards its casters with a vengeance— the fall of the curtain, eager to end the play—
He should look, make sure Vector's truly under the loser's complete restraint but Thomas's eyes are fastened to Ryouga's instead. He might hate everything about this system, but it's clear on his face then— victory, Ryouga doesn't hate.
The adrenaline hasn't burned out of his body yet, so he barely waits for the collapse of the fighter's system before he challenges Ryouga, "Don't tell me you're such a tease, Ryouga. Or can you only stomach spit-swapping when you're using me? I like, you're growing up so twisted—"
He didn't get to finish, Ryouga cutting him off, his mouth back on his—
But, he thinks there's a chance he's not wrong about the growing up twisted thing— there's the two of them, having the time of their lives, enthusiastic as any young lovers. Even with Vector and his fighter still there, a bleeding and damaged audience to their fanservice. He trills a little laugh, into Ryouga's mouth, and Ryouga snorts, knowingly— but he doesn't even pause in hesitation— his ears are perked. He doesn't have any desire to pull away.
---
Late at night in the dark of his room, Thomas wonders if the orphanage would have been worse than this place. He remembers the nightmare that haunted him in the wake of the funeral, that had struck his brain like a lightning rod when he heard the word from Chris's mouth— him and Mihael utterly alone, their family cut adrift. But they're all at the academy, now, and he scarcely has time to breath on his own, let alone scrape together time to spare for them.
The orphanage, worse than Heartland Academy? A better question is if anything could be worse it.
Something is wrong with the school. Or maybe everything is wrong with it: the teachers, the spell battles, the noose of fate everyone's so eager to be strung up with—
And now it's seeped into him. Something is wrong with him, too. That he'd enjoyed their victory as much as he had, that Hopeless had sorely, dearly, obviously needed medical attention and that had only made the victory make-out session sweeter is a blinking neon sign. He enjoyed it. Because he's getting in touch with his inner sadist, or because Ryouga hates Vector and Thomas has started to by proximity, he doesn't know. He doesn't even really care, which is another damning nail in the coffin of Thomas being fucked in the head.
Maybe Chris was right. The argument after the funeral, before the hospital and his name was a faded sketch of memory in a dark room, but he recalls vaguely. Hadn't he said he wanted to do what was best for them? Chris might have been right. Because now, Thomas is almost certain coming here was wrong, because everything else about the damn place is.
Beside him, Ryouga rolls over, tossing aside the pillow he'd been using to try and shield his face from the light. "Are you planning on staying up all night? It's going to be hell tomorrow if we don't get any rest. It's late enough already!" His face is still flushed— the light wasn't the only thing he'd been trying to cover. Under the harsh fluorescent dorm lights, there's no hiding the evidence: the top of Ryouga's head is missing his child's set of ears.
"You're shitty at pillow talk," Thomas murmers and gives a low laugh when Ryouga kicks at him, before turning out the light.
---
Sacrifices and fighters aren't always found in neat pairs— fate's not kind enough for it to be rare for a fighter to be found at age five, while their sacrifice manifests halfway across the country. Fighters nearly always come first. Heartland Academy keeps their tendrils sunk into the records of every hospital and school they can, but it still can take time to root both halves of a pair out.
But the school keeps the unpaired halves it finds, and has a dedicated dorm to the solo fighters, and the scattered few sacrifices. Thomas doesn't spend much time there, because Ryouga finds it creepy as hell, the kids waiting for their destined partner. He thinks the eager ones are the worse than the ones that dread it, he'd told him once and Thomas had laughed. But since then he'd made an effort to catch Mihael elsewhere and steered clear of it.
Except today he ditches Ryouga before breakfast, and heads straight for it. Mihael, ever conscientious, is already in uniform and about to head out. "Niisama? Do you not have class this morning?"
"Don't you think I'm doing them a favor?" he returns, easily. "They must be celebrating the first black mark on my perfect attendance record as we speak. Maybe I'll give them all a day off. It will make their expressions all the more sweet when they have to deal with the shock of my pretty face in the classroom tomorrow! Of course their break was too good to last."
Mihael hides an amused smile behind one hand. "Just make sure to return to the classroom to see it, then."
"Ohhh? Are you approving my playing hooky, Mihael?"
Mihael smiles brightly and shrugs. "Arguing would just encourage you, right?"
Thomas throws his hands up grandly, gesturing that Mihael has him pegged correctly, and he wouldn't disagree. "You've become quite the shrewd brat, haven't you?"
"You have only yourself to blame if you didn't pay enough attention to notice before." With a glance at the clock, Mihael resigns himself to missing breakfast, and takes a seat on the bed to talk with his brother. "So was there something specific you came here to talk about, Thomas-niisama? You do usually avoid this dorm."
"Tch. You noticed, huh?"
"Of course," he agrees, without specifying what he's noticed— his brother's ulterior motive, or his avoidance. Thomas knows him well enough to know he probably meant both.
"Then enough small-talk. You know how stingy the bastards in charge here are with information. Has your name shown up yet, or do we have to start making contingency plans?"
"It still hasn't manifested, but don't worry."
"Haaah? Don't worry? Worry isn't the issue. If it turns out I've been dealing with this horrorshow just to have you carted off anyway, I'm going to be pissed." He stalks over to the bed, agitated.
Mihael touches his hand lightly, to assuage him. "As I thought, you really are set on worrying."
"I said I'm not—" Thomas interrupts, loudly.
"But it's fine, I promise." Mihael continues with an assuring smile, like his brother hadn't shouted over him. "This isn't public knowledge. . ." he glances around the empty dorm, "but if it's you, I think Chris-niisama will understand. The project Father was working on with Doctor Faker involved fighters without names. Blanks."
"Obviously there's fighters without names. We're only standing around in the dorm for them." It was a forced thoughtlessness, Thomas forcing his brother's words to fit into what he knew.
"Yes, but they're nameless or unpaired is only temporary. Blanks are just like that, with no partner— until they're claimed, that is. The thought behind it is that this way a well-trained sacrifice can form a bond in the meantime, so they're not helpless until their fated person appears."
"So that's what Chris is keeping you here for? To be one of these blank-fighter things?" His voice is already starting to go rough with anger, when Mihael shakes his head. "Then what were you telling me that trash for—!?"
"That project was already a success. And I really don't have a fighter's power, as far as anyone can tell." Mihael looks down, self-depreciation edging into his smile. "They're trying to see if a blank sacrifice could be established."
"So what you're really telling me is our oh-so-loving, caring big brother is using you as a guinea pig!?"
Knowing it's no good to tell his brother not to shout, Mihael just meets his eyes and reminds him, "I'm just happy we can stay together, as a family. It's really not as bad as you're thinking— I even found something of a friend, through it. Rio-san is here the same way."
---
All this total shit about fate has really gotten to him— Mihael's words shouldn't have been a shock. New information, sure, but with everything else rotten as it is, he should have seen it coming. It should have been just one more drop of poison in a tank he's already drowning in.
Instead his lip is bleeding because he's bitten the skin through and he keeps scratching at his thigh and the brand there, hidden under his clothes. It's been obvious from the start that Mr. Heartland and his cohorts aren't teaching them to use their powers from the goodness of their hearts— how ritualized and strict it is, the countless battles, yeah, you'd have to be a real fucking moron not to realize it. A fighter is a sacrifice's tool anyway, so that the sacrifice is being used too, he'd already figured from the start.
It's just that he's been stupid about it. At some point, he'd convinced himself it meant something. He'd wanted it to mean something, anyway.
Outside of his family, it's all he has.
He waits outside Chris's office— he's been made an assistant professor, under Mr. Heartland. With Mr. Heartland as Thomas's assigned instructor, no one questions his presence in the hall as he lounges, insolently taking up as much space as he possibly can. A few of the faces that pass he recognizes and he makes certain to shoot them smug grins. Everyone that knows him knows Ryouga barely keeps him on a leash. And now that he lost his ears, he's probably too much an embarrassed prude to want to be seen in public with him for the next month. Obviously, his behavior's been approved, no sneaking around behind anyone's back was involved in this trip. Some muttering, rolled eyes, the same responses he always gets, and they leave him be.
It's dark when Chris finally leaves, the light from his office door like a rip in the universe. His fighter is right behind him, of course. "Hey, Chris. Dispense with the hanger-on, would you? Unless you want him to hear me spill my guts. Who knows! It could be fun." While he’ss sure his brother's eyes are still adjusting from the light and can't see his face, his tone drips smugness. "Give me just a minute, I'm sure I can think up some good dirty laundry to air."
Kaito stares Thomas down, unimpressed, and makes no motion to leave his sacrifice's side. "You, thinking? We'll be here all night."
Chris is equally unamused. "Exactly how long have you been waiting out here, Thomas?"
"Exactly? Why, were you doing something worth eavesdropping on with that wind-up toy soldier of yours? Now that's hard to swallow." The provocations are easy, distracting.
And of absolutely no interest to his brother. He turns to leave, and his fighter does too, to follow him down the hall. Chris won't give Thomas the option of pretending superiority, not if he wants to get anything out of him. The imagined future professor Thomas can someday soon see Chris being leaves a worse taste in his mouth than the strangled honesty of his next words, "Wait! I—" Damnit, he hates this. He knows Chris wants respect, proper behavior from him, and he's viciously brightly fake, in a near complete behavior shift. He makes it obvious it's an act, as minor a transgression as he'll risk right now. "I apologize for my earlier behavior, Chris-niisan, Kaito-kun. But would you please allow me a minute of your time? I would appreciate being given a chance to speak with you." As insincere as his demeanor is, it's true, otherwise he wouldn't be bothering.
If anything, the fighter looks more disgusted, looking over his shoulder. But it's good enough for Chris, who stops walking. "Very well. Kaito, you may go on ahead."
Thomas waits until Chris's fighter in out of sight, and drops the act he abruptly put on. "What's this about a project Dad and Dr. Faker were working on?!"
"Ah. Mihael told you."
"Yes. And thanks for that, by the way, I really appreciate being kept in the dark about our younger brother's current status as your science project. Anyone else I should know about? My sacrifice, to match his sister? Me, you, our father, for instance? You said it runs in the family!"
"This reaction would be why you weren't informed."
"You haven't given an answer worth a damn for a single one of my questions!"
"Bereaved isn't of any particular interest to any of our current projects as far as I am aware."
"There's one answer, how about coming out with the rest of them? This is like pulling teeth, minus the fun part!"
"I don't believe Kaito's involvement in the current set of projects would be either of interest or relevance to you."
"'Yes, Thomas, I'm involved in research, but only on my own fighter'," Thomas mimicks. "That wasn't so hard, now was it? Are you going to answer me about our father now, or what?"
Chris stays silent and Thomas makes an aggravated noise. "Chris—"
"I don't have clearance." Chris's voice is steel, hushed, a whisper at the edge of a scabbard. "I am very close to obtaining it. If you ruin this for me. . ." he leaves the threat unsaid.
Oh.
"Well, well. I guess I'll keep my mouth shut, then. Unless there's a project manager you need offed somewhere?"
Chris's stern glare is the face of someone who doesn't appreciate joking but after a moment, he smiles.
---
It's a month later when he's woken in the middle of the night, Chris towering over his bedside all silent fury, Mihael nothing but duty and sorrow in the doorway. This is his family, carrying an explanation that shapes loss into betrayal. Ryouga sleeps through their talk, like he's under a princess's fairy curse, or someone drugged his dinner.
The next morning Ryouga wakes alone to an empty room.
---
Tron is a wreck, a ruin of graffitied human flesh. Names— more names than Thomas could even count, let alone read are seared, scarred, branded, tattooed vengefully over the other, each jumble of letters tangling into an incomprehensible mess. One of his eyes is an empty socket, the other an unnatural gold. The body is too young to be earless, tailless, even by Heartland Academy's standards.
This is the throne of all names, the long researched attempt at creating Heartland Academy's crowning glory. He is heir and progenitor alike— capable of bestowing names, and absorbing them. He is a failure— uncontrollable, far too much of his mind lost to the chaos that adorns his skin.
He's their father, undeniably.
Thomas drops to his knees— he's had dreams like this, nightmares, and Mihael hugs Tron and cries— now, they can finally be a family again— but Tron only howls and screams for Dr. Faker's blood.
---
They don't pay for the hotel room they've been squatting in the past half week. Thomas's best-loved strategy has always been destroying the opponent with their own precious power, but he has more than enough skill even on auto to steal a key. Losing things ties into his name well enough. Whatever lets them leave as little evidence as possible is justified: they're doubtlessly being pursued.
Desertion is one thing, but they've committed a bigger sin against the system: the theft of valuable research materials. Even now, it's hard to think of it as rescuing their father, not when all that remains of him is this. He's calmed now, more lucid— his rage is over but there's still a certain mania left in its wake. It's not just his body— he behaves like something of a child, too.
"Wo~oooow!" Tron circles him, and claps, delighted. "You've all grown up so big. That means you've been at that school for a while now, right?" He clings to his son's coat, looking up into Thomas's face, waiting for a confirmation. At the nod, he smiles. "Good. Then you must have lots to pay them back for, as well."
"Pay them back?" Mihael doesn't question— not really. Dr. Faker will pay in blood, that much is clear, but the them is new. The tea he made as a clumsy attempt at normality is cooling, barely touched on the table— Tron found it too bitter for his child's palette.
"Mn, that's right. We'll have our revenge, for everything they stole from us." His eyes half-lid, dreamy, and he pulls away from Thomas. "It's already begun."
"Haah? I didn't realize we were such masterminds as to have offed him without noticing." Thomas can't think of anyway to behave but casual, because if he starts to think about it too hard he's going to march straight back into the school and— he doesn't know. He won't think about it.
"Two valuable research subjects were lost in the night. But it's just the beginning." He turns away, so his sons can see only the ruined half of his face— the illegible scrawling mess. "V, come here. Show your brothers your crest." Both Mihael and Thomas start at the unfamiliar name, but Chris takes his place at their father's side, hand raised in display of the numeral imprinted on his flesh.
The name that once graced his flesh has vanished.
"Impressive, no?" Tron grins. "Dr. Faker and his ilk have lost their claim."
Finishing Tron's explanation, V expands, "The bond between Kaito and I has been severed. Bearing a crest is similar to being a blank, but rather than creating an exclusive bond, it remains open to whomever accepts being used as my active fighter during field expansion." His gaze is settled on Thomas.
"And being the only fighter here, that's my job. That's what you're telling me?" The unreality of talking to the child-Byron was one thing, but being combative with Chris is second nature to him.
"Not quite," Tron corrects. "But you can move more freely, for now. The two of you would make a better pair, wouldn't you say?" He walks over to hold his youngest son's hands. "A far better fate than a blank could hope for, in that place," he says and breaks out giggling. Of course, he would know better than anyone. "It's good he won't won't be following in my footsteps."
"I . . . of course, but vengeance?" Mihael had been hoping that fighting could be put behind them, that they could run and put things back the way they were before— that they would be a family again.
"Are you questioning me?" The smile that had been fixed on Tron's ruined face fades, and he looks at his youngest son, his single working gold eye dull and dead in the socket— no. Even if they don't help, Tron is far from being able to return to those happy days. And even, no— especially now, there was no abandoning family. Dutifully, Mihael shakes his head. "Good, good. And how about you?" He tilts his head back, over his shoulder at Thomas.
"And what, you think I'm more coward then the other two?" His voice is low, hateful and his grin bares his teeth. "It's not like being a tool is new territory for me."
"You're so eager. I trust you won't disappoint me?"
"What kind of failure do you take me for? Let's get on with it— unless you're just planning on giving V special treatment." He remembers and emphasizes his brother's new name— to prove his dedication. It's the sort of thing Heartland liked about him, that attention to detail.
"You have your own roles to play. You'll receive a crest, but keep your name."
His proclamation shouldn't warrant relief, but as fake and manipulated as he knows the bond is, Thomas can only just barely keep the feeling under wraps. He turns away, as he voices approval. "Makes sense. If the strings of fate keep us tied, all the better to garrotte him with. I'm going to have a real fun time of it."
Tron joins in with his laughter, climbing onto the top of the table, so he could look his son in the eyes.
"Well, then. If you're already prepared. . . once you have your crest, IV, I have orders for you."
---
The blank fighter, Ryouga's sister— she spell battles like she was built for it. There's no fear in her eyes, and she has none of a fighter's humility or submission, nothing but drive and haughty pride. Whoever Heartland makes attempt to train her is going to get ground down to dust sooner than they can get a single scratch in her polished facade. She'd be a better sacrifice than her brother, and he can't help but think someone got their roles backwards at birth.
He's glad he likes her. She deserves a lot better than this.
Her spell erupts on the skin of his face, slicing down the skin over his eye— and he's distracted her long enough. Tron's spell comes from above and behind, unseen until the moment the world chars and flames devour their field of vision. He covers his eye, the blood that blossoms from the wound siphons onto his hand and down his wrist like it was freshly cut. He steps forward, and offers his hand— Tron's borrowed crest glowing, to devour her fighter's role.
She shoves his hand away and he stumbles forward, to catch her unwilling hand in his. "You're free, Rio," he tells her and begins snickering, helpless laughter.
She spits in his face.
---
It's just a matter of time until Ryouga tracks him down. The ties that bind them have tangled into the knotted cord of a strangling noose, trying to drag IV to the side of someone he no longer calls home. His crest shields him from his sacrifice's call, but Ryouga can follow his own strings back to him— and one night he makes it in time, before IV's fled the scene.
"How nostalgic, Ryouga— ah, no. It's Shark they're calling you now, isn't it? You have quite the nose for blood, always turning up at these shows— have you become a big fan of mine?" He steps aside, to show the pair he defeated— and hoists the fighter up by the wrist. The name "Guileless" that had once crowded the bridge of Todoroki Takashi's nose is absent in the light emanating from IV's crest, barely standing out amongst the bruises crowding his face, and the tears stinging at his eyes. The heavy collapsed body of his sacrifice behind him is in the same condition, but still completely restrained— IV hasn't retracted his field yet or allowed them surrender.
Shark bares his teeth and a little thrill runs through IV— that's one of his own behaviors. Had he taught him that? He hopes so. "Yeah, that's me. Your number one fan." He steps forward, like he thinks he had authority here. Maybe Mr. Heartland's training has finally sunk in, in a supreme case of too little too late. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?"
"Are you hoping to get to join me up on stage?" He laughs, turning his back on Shark and putting his other hand at Todoroki's elbow. "Unfortunately, I'm a solo act, now. But since you're so interested in my work, here's some fanservice— an encore!" He wrenches the fighter's arm at the joint, jarring it in the wrong direction and it twists too far with a crack— there's no doubt he's made a fracture. But of course, it's nothing compared to the wound of losing his name— he barely cries out.
It's still enough provocation to move Shark. He jolts forward, grabbing IV's wrist and forcing it away— even though it was too late. IV drops his grip on Todoroki's arm and lets him fall to the ground with another stifled sob. "What the hell— Cut it out!"
The name he betrayed— the name they still share stings as power lashes around him at the contact. Bleeding again. He hisses as Shark recoils off him— so he wasn't the only one that had betrayed it. "You still want to order me around? What's wrong, is that new fighter of yours not working out for you? Are you lonely, Ryouga?" His voice drips overblown sympathy— "Need someone new to share your bed?"
"You— you're disgusting! I'm not sleeping with— Rio is my sister—," he cuts off, furious at having so easily admitted he'd given their name to his sister— that IV's attack on her failed. IV laughs, again, exultant— because she was a blank, of course! You can't take what they don't have— it was Tron's error and who knew— maybe he'll be sent to finish the job right this time. He hits Shark's hand away, stumbling back, covering his face. It's so hilarious— she's okay— he could cry.
"You've grown up so greedy, Ryouga! You have her— so what do you need me for!? Isn't that the reason you suffered through that school, your family?! So—"
"Yeah, that's right— So you think I'm letting you off after what you did!? You're going to pay for what you did to her!"
"Yes, what I did— Do you think this place would have been any better!? How about being grateful— it gave you the perfect opportunity to snatch her up!" He sneers, laughing darky, "Of course, if that's your tune. . . sooner or later, you'll both be on my list! I'll drop you into an abyss you'll never escape from, a hell where you'll suffer just like we did! Endlessly, never ending suffering!" The system wasn't made for a fighter to attack their own sacrifice, but darkness gathered at his words nonetheless, lengthening the shadows, drowning out the distant star— of course Bereaved responded to suffering.
"We?" Their name wouldn't hurt him— and Ryouga has the best sort of sacrifice's strategic instinct for searching out the crack in the foundation, to crumble the walls around him. "So you didn't go rogue. You're just a tool—"
IV snarls wordlessly— no weakness to be found in that. "What damage could you do, anyway?! Standing there so confident without a fighter— you're only a sacrifice!"
"Yeah." Eyes narrowed in anger, Shark agrees, "But you think Rio's going to pass up a chance for payback?"
Shark— their name was bleeding, he had to be using the power now. He'd called his sister in that moment of recoil— and Tron calls IV now, his crest burning hot and tugging him away— a second fighter's power envelopes him and he only hears the edge of Shark's sudden maddened, "Wait—!!" before he opens his eyes.
In front of him, Tron holds his arms out wide. "Welcome home, IV. Well done."
IV drops to his knees, and wraps his arms around his father— if he was being congratulated for Guileless, one more stolen name, or antagonizing Ryouga, he doesn't know. Or care. He was through with all that fate and shit, his and Shark's grand fucked up romance&Mdash; One by one, they'll erase all the names, and get their father back. Their lives and family back.
Someday, even his own Bereaved will be gone.
It's been so long, Thomas doesn't remember what it feels like not to be mourning.
Written for the prompt: Loveless AU, any pairing/multiple pairings (I don’t care I just really deeply need this AU). PLEASE PUT MOST OF THE FOCUS ON HOW MESSED UP THE NAMES/SPELL BATTLES SYSTEM IS other things are also good about Loveless verse and acceptable but the names/spell battles is my favorite part
