#The boys as kids

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Making Space

Summary: What was it like when the system was new and young? Three souls circling one another and trying to make sense of the world around them.

Pairings: Gen fic

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, some mentions of violence, Mentions of neglect.

Word Count: 5678

--

He was restless. 

Feet pounding on wet concrete past ill defined street signs that were faded and often graffiti. The names of important people he never knew drifted by, many of which could only be pronounced by those that lived there. 

He was another face. Another scuffed up boy with dirt on his knees. No one paid him any attention. There were hundreds of boys out on these streets and his shade was not enough to watch longer than a second glance. 

He ran alone. It was the ones in packs that spelled trouble and he knew better than to be trouble. Or, at least he knew how to not get caught. 

He pushed the boundaries. Invisible lines set out by his parents. Play where I can see you. Play so I can call you in for dinner. Don’t go around the corner, it’s not safe. Stay away from the corner store on third. 

They liked to set rules for him and then turn their backs. If nothing came back to them, then there was no reason to see him other than as compliant. 

Where he was going was private. Alone. Away from anyone that might look at him with a frown that said ‘you are wrong’. 

He passed the abandoned house. The owner had left long before he was born and much like everything else in his life, it had fallen into disrepair and become hollow. 

The outside looked broken down and dangerous. Faded red and yellow notice signs were taped to the door and windows. Boards covered a hole in one of the windows and if you stepped on the porch in the wrong spots it would groan and sag menacingly. 

If his parents knew he was here, they would be cross with him. There were signs of the years scattered around the front yard and if you looked inside, you could see traces of those that once lived there. 

Needles, beer cans, broken bottles, cigarette butts, and old condoms scattered the living room floor. Graffiti covered the walls, spewing words and names with little meaning. A mark of who had been there. A mark of someone angry with the world that could only spit it out in wide splashes of spray paint. Threats and territory. Lewd promises and curses that ment little once the room was empty. 

He only paused to look in the window long enough to make sure the place was still unoccupied. He had no interest in this half of the house. 

Skirting the front porch, he skipped the boards that quaked and climbed the rail, finding the only sturdy beam left to hoist himself up to the gutter where he sure footed his way to the second floor and shimmied into a cracked open window. 

He had long ago explored the house, much like many of the bored youth of the city, he knew each empty house, each abandoned car, each burnt out shop, and each poorly lit forgotten storm shelter. 

He had watched this house for years, pleased with how close to home it was and how it was even forgotten by the junkies that preferred houses a little off the beaten trail. 

The wooden floor under him creaked as he settled and looked around. He had cleared out this room a long time ago, slowly fixing it up as he removed traces of death and decay. Locking the door and securing it from curious explorers, the only way in was to either bust down the door or climb in the window. 

He glanced around, making sure the room was undisturbed. 

A milk crate full of old books sat next to a wooden chair with old cushions tied on. A poster on the wall of his favorite movie had curled under. He would need to find more tape or staples later to secure it better. 

The door was still secured and the leak in the ceiling he had patched up last week seemed to be holding as the room remained mostly dry. 

A small salvaged throw rug offered some softness as he moved to set down his backpack. It had taken him a solid day to get the rug up into the room, but looking at it now it was worth it. It smelled a little musty still, but it was clean enough for him to take a seat and run his hands over the soft threads. 

He watched as the pattern changed when he moved his hand one way then changed back when he smoothed the threads out again. Rough and smooth. 

Opening up his backpack, he took out a sleeve of cookies he had purchased from the corner store he wasn’t supposed to go to. A juice box saved from yesterday’s school lunch and a wrapped up peanut butter and jelly sandwich were set out. 

An action toy he never left home without was set out and a new book that he had dug out of the dumpster next to the used book store. The book was torn and missing pages, but that didn’t matter. 

He stretched out on his stomach, feet up in the air as he opened the book and let himself start to slide. 

“Oh wow!” The new boy exclaimed as he eagerly flipped past the table of contents. “The City of Thebes!” 

He took in the pictures, feet kicking behind him as he read the blurbs under the pictures and took in the stories of the first explorers that had traveled down the Nile and gazed at such treasures that had been hidden in plain sight. 

A memory filled in the gaps. His mother bringing him lunch on this rainy Saturday and slipping him a sleeve of cookies to enjoy. They didn’t have much, which was why his books often came to him in tatters, but he loved them all the same. 

He had comic books stashed in the closet next to the old encyclopedia that covered the letter E and many many travel guides. He had shelves of fiction and nonfiction, all worn down and often difficult to make out, but he absorbed them all the same. 

Every book gifted to him was a treasure. A gesture of love. They didn’t have much, so he took what he could get. It wasn’t hard to keep him happy. To keep him content. To keep him safe. 

Safe in his room. Safe in his world. He didn’t question the new bruise on his arm that flowered dark purple and green. He had played hard at school and perhaps there were the usual playground bullies that disliked the quiet shy boy. 

Reaching for the backpack, he pulled out his sweater that had been gently folded for him. He pulled it on and pulled the sleeves down, hiding the evil colors that spread down his torso. 

His hand moved on its own and clutched at the small action figure, clinging to it tightly. 

Steven smiled and held it up so it too could see the pictures. “See that, Marc? Thebes! Oh to be the first person in hundreds of years to gaze up at those! Can you imagine? Just like in the movie. I’ll go there someday. You and me.” 

He let the figure sit next to him, gazing at the book too, while Steven read aloud to his imaginary friend. 

–

The wind howled at the windows and leaves whipped around the yard like a small private tornado. 

A strange time of year filled with anticipation for the changing season. Soon there would be flowers. Color filling the dark mud covered world as the snow attempted to melt away. 

It would only be a matter of time before the unbearable heat of summer turned the world brown and far too green. 

He saw none of that as he sat quietly on his bed and stared at the floor. 

He could feel the season clinging and changing all at the same time. It stirred inside him. Energy that threatened to burst out of him. Crawling just under his skin and pulling him in all different directions. 

Marc shook his head and blinked so slowly that it felt like time was slipping away with each slow shutter of his eyelids. 

He was sitting outside of himself. Watching from a dark room as the movie continued on without him. 

This was new. Was he supposed to be here? Would he get in trouble? 

The body got up and moved, cracking the door open just enough to peer into the dark hall. He wasn’t supposed to be out there. He had been sent to his room for…what? 

He couldn’t remember doing anything that warranted a punishment. For existing? Sometimes that was all it seemed to take. He existed and therefore he had to be tucked away and forgotten. A mistake that needed to be fixed by keeping him away from the world where he couldn’t cause any more harm. 

The body slunk down the hall, quiet, still, moving with the shadows. He was learning how not to be seen. To be seen was to be punished. To be known was to be hurt. 

He didn’t exist. Yet, he existed enough to know that his body hurt. That his stomach was empty. That he was thirsty. 

Down the stairs, creeping one step at a time. He knew where to step to be quiet. Every sound amplified in his ears. Every shuffle and foot fall threatened to give him away. Threatened to bring them harm. To send them to bed hungry again. Always hungry. 

He didn’t know who he was, but he knew that he was hungry. That he hurt. He hurt. 

He paused on the last step, listening. Waiting. He felt dizzy. Sick. He would push it down and swallow the pain. 

The coast was clear and he moved, quick and light as he ducked into the kitchen. He didn’t dare open the fridge. The light would be like a beacon in the night and all the bottles on the door might rattle enough to summon the demon. 

He climbed the counter, not wanting to move a chair in case he put it back wrong and someone noticed. Opening the cabinet, he pulled down a box of granola bars that had been shoved to the back and forgotten. Prize in hand, he scurried back to the stairs. Like a mouse, he took to the stairs and hugged the wall as he made his way down the hall. 

Back in his room, he silently let the door click shut then pulled out the first bar. It was a struggle not to devour it in two bites. Luckily he was learning the epitome of control. Bite after bite, he sat and chewed, savoring each moment as he filled a small corner in his empty belly. 

Two bars later, he tucked the box into a hidden place he had found weeks earlier. He was good at hiding. He knew he would need these again later. There would be other nights. Nights where he was sent to bed. Where he was given the choice of eating with her or going to bed hungry. 

He would choose to starve every time. What was hunger compared to the damage she could do with a single look? 

Wrappers and crumbs were carefully concealed away to be taken care of later. No trace left behind. No one would know he was even there. He didn’t even know if he was there. Marc was good at keeping secrets, but he was not good at planning for these things. 

He was far better at this than Marc was. He would always be there to make the pain go away. 

Marc… Odd that he would think of himself like that. He was Marc, wasn’t he? 

Looking down at his hands he felt detached from the body. “I’m going to take care of us.” He asserted. “I… I’m… I am…” 

Nothing came. He would stay hidden. He was good at hiding. To name something was to make it real. For now, he would stay nothing so that their pain would be nothing. 

–

"You should forgive those that wrong you." A teaching that was generally accepted by many.

To find a way to release what they had done to you and no longer be affected by it. To forgive is to seek peace. 

However, another teaching was that forgiveness can only be given if the wrongdoer seeks forgiveness. Even then, only the one wronged can give forgiveness if they feel it will grant themselves peace or that the wrong had been made right. 

"I will not be cruel by withholding forgiveness from those who make amends." A line that had once been pushed onto him by a man with a large gray beard and tired soft eyes. 

It made sense. 

Yet, another line had been burning into him. A thought that grounded itself into his soul. 

"I decide the limit of forgiveness." 

Would forgiving them bring him peace? Would it help his own soul? Or was it only granted because the wrongdoer wanted peace? 

"I will not grant you peace at the expense of my own soul." 

And still... Still... What if they never felt they had done wrong? What if they never came to make amends? What if they didn't seek forgiveness? 

More complicated still... Forgiveness could only be granted by the one that had been wronged. 

What if she asked only one of them for forgiveness? Could Steven say 'of course, of course I forgive you!' when he didn’t know how he had been wronged? Could Marc forgive her when the wrong was done to the system? 

Jake stared at the man before him. His father kneeling down, face drawn in a permanent line of worry and sadness. He clutched Jake’s hand in his own, fingers resting over his bruised knuckles. 

“She doesn’t know what she does. She doesn’t mean it. Please, don’t hold it against her.” He looked up at Jake, seeking understanding. 

Her words were still echoing in the room, biting and so painful that Marc had miserably slipped away as they sat trapped at the table. Some days she did not hit them. Some days she cut them down with words. 

“Marc?” His father pleaded. 

Jake pulled his hands away. “When you understand how you have wronged us, you can come to us and ask. She will never ask us. I cannot forgive her.” 

“Marc…” His father sighed, knowing his mistake as his own teachings came back to him. “I’m sorry.” 

He felt sorry for his father. He would never find his forgiveness. Not until he understood the nature of their souls. “What are you sorry for?” 

He knew what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear him say: For everything. For not protecting you. For not helping her. For letting her hurt you. For letting you feel so unsafe and unloved. For making Marc cry at night. For making Steven cling to made up memories. For making Jake feel so much like the adult when he was just a child. 

His father stood and nodded, silent as he turned and walked away. 

Jake closed his eyes, wishing he could forget this. Wishing that he didn’t understand things so much. Wishing he could go back to the days before he understood his own system. When he didn’t know who he was. 

“Even if she asked for our forgiveness, I could never permit it. I will not give her the peace she doesn’t deserve. We will find our own peace.” He whispered over and over. “We will find our own peace.” 

–

“Aren’t you a bit old to be playing with toys?” 

Marc clutched at the figure. It traveled with him everywhere. He had been sneaking it into school in his backpack for as long as he could remember. It was jammed into his pocket when he ran through the neighborhood. It sat in the car next to him on long trips. 

There was only one place he didn’t take the little figure. A place too quiet and suffocating where his brother slept under stone. 

“It’s not even a good toy.” The larger boy snickered to his buddy. “Look how messed up it looks.” 

Marc didn’t need to look at the toy to know they were right. He could feel the places where the dirt had snuck into the creases. He knew the joints didn’t pop into place right anymore. The paint had been rubbed off in the places where his small fingers clutched too tightly. The accessories and small helmet had long been lost somewhere in the streets of Chicago. All that was left was the form of a man. 

“Hey, isn’t this the freak from school? They say something’s wrong with him.” The second boy nudged the first. “Stupid in the head or something. Talks to himself and all sorts of weird shit.” 

“Yeah.” The first boy laughed. “Maybe someone should help the little freak.” 

He gritted his teeth, looking up at the two boys. He didn’t run. Running never helped. Running meant they followed and when they caught you, it was worse. There was no hiding. Hiding meant they had to find you, and they always found you. All that was left was to wait. 

The first boy moved and snatched the toy from his hand. The intent to break it and toss it into traffic was there. 

It wasn’t just his toy. It was Steven’s toy. Steven loved that toy. It was Steven’s fingers that wore down the paint, grounding himself unknowingly as he gripped it and followed the creases and lines. Steven that popped the joints into place as he sat it on the window ledge while he excitedly told adventure stories and dumped his knowledge out to it. 

 Marc’s lip curled into a snarl as he launched. He was untrained, but he knew what pain felt like. He didn’t know how to harness his own strength or move with precision, but he knew where it hurt most to be hit. 

He felt them hitting him and it felt like a distant dull ache. It wasn’t the sharp snap of a belt or sharp bite of a buckle. They gripped his arms but there were no nails digging into his skin. Their hands would not leave bruises. 

He screamed as they knocked him back. He crawled after them, staggering to his feet again and throwing himself at them with rage. He was angry. This was the first time he let himself feel just how angry he was. 

He didn’t know where his rage was coming from but it wouldn’t stop. It burned and burned, consuming him and making him feral as he fought blindly. 

Large hands lifted him and pulled him away. He swung, a small first hitting a broad chest until he was dropped back to the ground. 

“Marc!” 

Marc looked up through the tears and swallowed back another scream of frustration. His father’s face looked down at him, stern and worried. 

Behind him he could hear crying. He didn’t look. He didn’t want to see what his rage had done. Do not look back. It was a rule from one of his favorite stories. Don’t look back. 

His knuckles hurt and his arms were sore. He could feel hot blood on his face, his nose swollen and lip cut. Somehow this felt nothing like what he suffered in his own home. This pain felt good. This pain made him feel real. Made him feel alive. The energy and rage made his senses rush and he didn’t have to worry about anything else. 

Marc wiped his nose with the back of his arm and found his figure on the ground. He picked it up, clutching tightly. 

“It’s alright, Steven.” He muttered. “They won’t touch you again.” He pushed past his father, walking towards his home. He felt his world shift. 

He was angry. Anger was what he had been missing. The word that would grow to define him. 

–

Sometimes Steven wondered why no one spoke to him on the playground. Sometimes he wondered why the neighbors looked at him with pity. Sometimes he wondered why his father patted him on the shoulder and walked away, ignoring him. Why his mother often looked at him with eyes full of tears. 

Anxiety filled him. He often felt like a live wire was coursing through his body, ready to shock him at any moment. When uncertainty filled him too much, he clutched his hands tightly over his heart and rocked. 

He was so ignored in his community. He longed for it. For a place to belong. A person to talk to. A real person. Not just a friend he made up to comfort him. Not just a boy he caught glimpses of sometimes that smirked and waved. 

This boy was new. 

He was cheeky and often full of mischief. He liked to laugh and sneak around. He wouldn’t give Steven his name. It was hard enough just to catch a glimpse of him. He was nothing like the other one. The one that kept telling him that he didn’t need anyone else. That he was better alone. 

Steven sighed and looked around his room. A mess again. He wasn’t even sure how it kept getting so messy. 

He forced himself out of his rocking and moved to start picking through his toys. Scattered across the floor as if tossed there. No signs of use or play, only chaos and anger. 

“Really should be more careful.” He muttered to himself. “Such a mess. No way to treat our things. You’re supposed to cherish what you have, mate.” 

He righted furniture and refilled the drawers. He was smoothing down a poster that looked suspiciously like a fist had pounded on it when the cheeky boy spoke up. “Do you always clean up after him?” 

Steven spun around and saw nothing. “Room’s just a mess. Must have forgotten to clean it all week.” 

“You don’t get out much either, do you?” The other boy sighed. “I think I’m starting to get it. I’m not you or him.” 

“Well no. ‘Course you’re not me.” Steven laughed. “I’m me.” He turned back to straightening the mess on his dresser. 

“Does it still hurt?” The boy was right next to him now. It made the world fuzzy and Steven stood still for a moment, closing his eyes tightly. 

“Does what hurt?” With his eyes closed, he caught a glimpse. Just to his side. A boy with dark hair and eyes. He had a crooked grin and lankiness to him that made Steven picture him so differently from Marc. 

“Our hand.” The boy was out of sight just as quickly. 

“What’s wrong with our hand?” He looked down and stared at the red knuckles with fresh scabs across them. “Must have bumped it on a wall. I’ve got to be more careful.” 

“I see why he likes you.” The boy sighed heavily. “So you really don’t want to know?” 

“You’re too chatty.” Steven turned his nose up, letting his sleeves cover his hands and hide away the bruises and scabs. “You make me dizzy.” 

The other boy laughed and Steven could feel the shrug more than he could see it. “Alright, Hermano… You know, Marc won’t talk to me either. Too focused on you. I think I’m okay with that. I don’t like it here. It’s too much.” 

“Well if you don’t like it, then you can leave!” Steven felt a little insulted at that. Even his made up friends didn’t want to stick around. He brought up a hand, clutching at the fabric on his chest. 

“You aren’t him. You know that.” The boy sounded further away. “You knew that from the start. Came out with a name and everything.” 

“I’m Steven. With a V. Steven Grant.” Steven lined some books up on his desk then took a step back to look at his room. “If you had any manners you’d tell me your name too.”

The boy was far away now. “Don’t worry, Steven. I’ll take care of us.” 

Steven grabbed his favorite toy and set it back into place on his desk so it could see the whole room. “I’m the one taking care of us.” He whispered to himself. 

The room was silent and he was alone again. 

“Someone has to keep things in order.” Steven glanced around at the organized and neat room. He’d clean it up again and again. Smooth over the dents in the walls. Sweep up the broken glass and put their clutter back up on the shelves. 

He didn’t speak with the boy again. When he caught glimpses of him, it made him dizzy so he tried not to see. Eventually, he stopped talking to his other friend too. He had to get things in order. He had to make them safer. 

Maybe then he’d learn to make friends if he seemed more normal. 

–

There has to be a last straw. There is always a last straw. 

Marc lay crying on the floor of his bedroom. He was no longer a child but not yet an adult. 

So why did it still hurt so much? How could she still hurt him so deeply? 

We can leave. 

A voice whispered and pushed. He had never felt such a force before to flee. To run. To get out. 

Leave leave leave leave. 

It felt like divine intervention. Like a hand on his shoulder pushing. 

Tears ran down his cheeks and he looked around at his things. His furniture. His posters. His old untouched toys and scattered schoolwork. 

Pack. 

He sat up and moved to the closet, pulling out his old duffel bag. He recalled camping trips and nights out with friends. Any excuse to get out and away. He never had friends over. When the option came up, he always went to their house. This was not a place of glorious memories and fun. 

A presence pushed to the front as Marc agonized over what to take. 

“Oh a trip!” Steven wiped the tears from his face and smiled through the lingering remnants of Marc’s pain. “Essentials, of course.” He rolled up his undergarments carefully to make room and placed them gently in the bag. 

Marc felt the panic rising inside. Steven. What about Steven? Would there be a place for him? A safe place? Where were they even going? 

He watched as Steven placed a few personal items in the bag that meant the world to him. Things Steven never went anywhere without. Did he know? Did he know he wasn’t coming back? 

When Steven reached for his fancy clothes, Marc heard a thump outside of his room. Yelling. 

Steven was rushed to the back. He would tell him something later. Something wonderful and exciting. He didn’t need to know that she had taken it too far this time. That he… 

Get out. We have to get out. 

Marc felt his panic overwhelm him as he started to shove things in the bag. He had to go. It was now or never. He felt that hand on his shoulder again, pushing. 

The bag was full and he could hear his father trying to soothe the beast in the hall. 

How could he leave? How could he make it past him? How could he just leave like this? 

“I can’t. I can’t I can’t I can’t… I’m not strong enough.” Marc clutched at his bag, gasping as he swam in his guilt. 

There was a strong presence and a whisper, I will protect us. Let me…

Marc closed his eyes and felt the world move. 

When he opened his eyes he was standing at the bus station with a ticket in his hand. Blinking, he looked down at the ticket. “New York.” 

It was a start. He could find his way from there. He would make it up to Steven. He had just enough money saved up to let Steven have a few days before he fell on his backup plan. 

The hand on his shoulder gave him a nudge and Marc stumbled towards the waiting bus. 

Don’t look back. 

Marc closed his eyes as he sat down. He would not look out the window. He would not watch the familiar streets pass by. He would not look for the path back to his home. He would not chance seeing his father’s grief stricken face gazing up at him. 

He didn’t open his eyes again until they reached the first rest stop, hours outside of Chicago. 

He reached into his bag, curious to see if he had somehow managed to pack any snacks. 

A handful of granola bars were scattered on top, many of them looking slightly crushed and mangled, but still edible. A book on Hieroglyphics made him roll his eyes. He would let Steven enjoy this. He pulled out the book and a granola bar. 

He fished out some change and glanced out at the rest stop. Perhaps he could buy a soda if Steven didn’t take hold and somehow insist on tea. Marc hated the taste. 

He was about to shove his bag back into the overhead storage when something else caught his eye. 

Fingers wrapped around the small figure and Steven grinned from ear to ear. “Hey there. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” 

He tossed his bag back up into the overhead and stepped off the bus to go look for a decent hot drink. “We’re going to New York.” Steven smiled and chuckled to the toy. “Suppose it might be nice to travel with a little company, huh? Just like old times.” 

The little figure watched in disdain as Steven managed to find tea at the dinky little coffee stand next to the restrooms. A cheeky boy hovered over his shoulder, popping out now and then to chat with the person sitting next to him. His seatmate had stayed in New York many times and offered directions to a safe place they could stay for a few days. 

It wasn’t so bad. They looked forward and sat together quietly, each one knowing only their goal. Get away. Stay safe. Move forward. 

–

“Marc? Do you really need to keep all of this?” Steven waved a hand at a crate of ammo. 

Marc shrugged and glanced in the crate. “Do you want me to sell it to an arms dealer?” 

Steven frowned heavily. “No. That feels worse somehow.” 

“Then we keep it.” Marc nodded to another crate of weapons. “Those too.” 

“Might find use for it someday. Never know.” Jake peeked at the crate. “I vote we keep the storage unit. We don’t need this crowding our flat anyway.” 

“Not like we can’t afford it.” Marc let the lid drop back into place and moved to the trunk near the cot. 

“Fair enough.” Steven sighed. “We keep it. What’s in that one?” 

Marc shrugged. “Haven’t opened it in a while. Mostly uniforms. Maybe some old paperwork.” 

Steven popped the trunk open and gave everything a glance over. He noted how close he suddenly felt Jake get. “You don’t have to worry. If I see anything unpleasant I can handle it.” 

“I’m not worried about you.” Jake muttered. 

Steven considered that for a moment then nodded. These weren’t his memories. They weren’t likely to trigger a panic attack from him. 

Steven shifted through the papers, glossing over the military forms and lingo. Discharge papers, evaluations, ranks, awards. It seemed Marc had done quite the round in his time. 

He carefully flipped through a few pictures, letting Marc choose to look or back away. Mostly, Marc chose not to look at them too closely. They were pictures of young men in uniforms. Memories that Marc didn’t care for. 

He dug past uniforms and fatigues that probably didn’t fit anymore. Dog tags, a knife that looked dull enough to be a butter knife, and a few survival supplies. 

His fingers hit plastic and Steven pulled back then pushed things aside to stare down at a small little plastic spaceman. 

“Oh.” Steven lifted him up and slowly traced a finger over the faded paint. “An old friend…” 

His fingers wrapped around him and clung to him, much bigger than they used to be, they didn’t quite fit into the familiar places, yet it still felt comforting and right. 

“You aren’t going to drag that thing around everywhere again, are you?” Marc nudged him with a hint of humor. 

“No.” Steven laughed softly. “I’ve got you now.” 

Still, it felt wrong to leave the old toy hidden away in a trunk in a unit surrounded by old weapons. 

Steven shoved the figure into his pocket. “I’ve got a place for him near the fish tank. He might like to see the Guses.” 

“Whatever makes you happy.” Marc sighed. “We done digging through my crap now?” 

“Yeah.” Jake settled back a little. “Let’s head home. At least now we know what we have here. It’s good to make sure nothing’s lost.” 

Steven sighed and closed up the unit then shoved his hands in his pocket, fingers feeling over the plastic figure. 

“Do you think things would have been different if we had all known about one another when we were little? Like maybe we could have helped one another?” Steven lamented. 

Marc and Jake were silent for a moment, each thinking back. 

“You know I always did have you, Steven. You helped me get through a lot.” Marc mumbled. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t know about you!” Steven protested. 

Jake smirked as he pushed forward and stayed just outside of Steven’s sight. “I think we helped one another the best that we knew how, knowingly or not.” 

Steven turned his attention to Jake then smirked. “You still have no manners.” 

“I eventually told you my name, didn’t I?” Jake took front and stretched, fixing their posture. It was nice out sometimes. 

“You two keeping secrets from me?” Marc huffed. 

“Don’t get fussy or I’ll start talking to the doll again.” Steven smirked at Marc. 

They smiled as they walked towards home. 

[cubbyhole-for-flea-bee]

Macaque spent the whole season Big-Damn-Hero-ing and was NOT happy about it xD

[rea-pancakes]

!!!

[hinamie]

I'll give them shelter like you've done for me

[melucomarket]

Brothers, amirite?

[nova-rpv]

death leech shadoo.....

design by @galaxylover06

[masdane]

Dead boys at the graveyard... what will they detect??

[lazylittledragon]

some gentle dadstarions to make up for the atrocity

[bacchuschucklefuck]

beautiful! majestic!

[skelca]

[glassesweirdo]

I like that despite being a child abuser, child exploiter, and an emotionally absent father, Reginald draws the line at transphobia.

[lynnheartsyou]

</3

[wishingformoredogs]

Tired of “oh Percy would be a marine biologist” “oh Percy would be a teacher” that man is a stay at home dad. And I mean that.

[haevens-spear]

[hinamie]

parenthood was not on my 2024 bingo card but clearly life is full of surprises

[kazoosandfannypacks]

as always, I'd love to hear your answer in the tags, especially if it's one of the "other" choices!