a/n: uhhh,,,, UHHHHH,,,, sorry it's been like a year but i promise i still love my children and want to keep writing this... sorry... guess i got into university and 2016 was really busy for me and stuff, and i kinda moved onto other fandoms, but again i still love my children! good to be back i think

also, i was thinking about maybe making this a main story, but creating a collection of side stories? just so i have more freedom in writing and also so the main story doesn't get super long lol. if you have any opinions on that, please let me know!

Porlyusica was a relentless and extremely angry caretaker. She wrapped bandages very tightly, grumbled and sighed as she did it, and brandished a broom whenever Freed tried to get up from the bed. The bash of the straw against his head was the absolute least he deserved, and he took the thrashing humbly and without complaint.

"Stupid boy, dragging me out here for this." She shoved a mash of something that tasted horrible into his mouth- it was oatmeal with medicinal herbs, he concluded when he saw the contents of the bowl, and she dropped it into his lap. "You're fine, just fine! Just a few cuts and bruises."

It was making him feel terribly sick, but he let her shove a few more spoonfuls of the porridge into his mouth and laid back down when she shoved him. She fluffed his pillows with a scowl, angrily scribbled on her clipboard, and stalked around the room with a fury in her heart. She hissed whenever anyone came into the room, and Laxus was no exception.

"How am I to care for anyone in this dump if no one will leave me alone?" she demanded.

Laxus shrugged.

"And what do you want?" she pressed.

He shrugged again.

Freed watched warily as he crossed the room and plopped down in a chair next to his bed. Porlyusica sighed, scratched one more thing on her papers, and left, slamming the door behind her.

Silence settled over them. Freed looked down at his lap and fiddled with the bowl and the spoon, staring at the remaining dregs of the medicinal gunk. It was leaving his mouth numb, and he wondered if it was supposed to. Laxus tapped his fingers along the nightstand next to them, and the hollow sound grated on Freed's nerves.

"How are you doing?" he eventually asked.

Freed gripped the bowl. "Well."

"The old lady is kinda mean, but she's the best doctor around. You'll be back to normal eventually."

Normal. Back to normal. That sounded very odd. What was Freed's "normal?" Was it the kid before the fire? The boy from Crocus? Or the murderer, the grim reaper who now made him sick to his stomach?

"I told you not to go," Laxus continued. He wrenched the bowl from Freed's stoney grasp and set it aside before leaning forward. His eyes were lightning. "You should have accepted my help when I offered it."

"And yet, I did, and I did not."

"Don't be smart," he warned.

Freed took in a deep breath. Swallowed his pride. "My apologies." He hesitated for a second, then asked, "Why did you come for me?"

"Why? You're just a kid, and I knew you were going to get yourself in a heap of trouble. Whatever I was expecting, though, it wasn't half as bad as what I found." He stayed silent for a while before he spoke again. "I didn't know you were a rune mage."

"I haven't used that magic in a long time."

"Usually those sorts don't join guilds." Laxus leaned back in his chair. "They enlist in the Rune Knighthood, where they get specialized training. Usually become bigwigs in the military."

He remembered the glistening swords. The exam hall, the training grounds, the hallway he'd walked through, and the stairs he'd sat on. The bright white coats with the black lining and their emblems bold on the back. He remembered the perfectly preserved uniform, hung pristinely back in his hovel, with the clean rip and pink stains. He buried his fingers into the sheets and grit his teeth.

"What's eating you?"

"My mother," Freed began slowly. He hadn't had a proper conversation in a long time, and it felt like speaking a very foreign language. "My adopted mother. My biological parents died in a fire when I was just a kid. My adopted mother was a Rune Knight. They called her a prodigy."

Laxus found a trinket, a stress ball, on the counter and began to roll it in his hands. "So what? You didn't want to follow in her footsteps?"

"I was going to," he explained. "I wanted to. I passed the exams. All of them, with flying colors. They started to call me the prodigy, and they already had a military position prepared for when I entered." Laxus passed him the ball and he began to squeeze at the foam, pinching it between his fingers. "Th- there was a man on her squad, and he was a traitor for some dark guild. He slaughtered the rest of their squad and her a couple years ago." He clutched the ball until his knuckles turned completely white and clenched his jaw. A lump formed in his throat.

"So you didn't join the knighthood because there was a traitor in the midst?"

"I don't trust the system anymore," Freed confirmed. "And what I needed- what I wanted- was to find the man who killed them." He leaned towards the counter and set the stress ball back down. Laxus stopped it from rolling off the edge.

"That's why you were always leaving, always doing the dirty jobs. For your mom."

Freed lowered his head and stared straight at his lap. The corners of his eyes burned. "Not anymore. When I was fighting that guild, I remembered: My mother loved everyone. Even people she had to arrest. She loved human life more than anything else. And for the past two years, I've been doing nothing but taking it, and it was all in her name." He was going to be sick. That's what it felt like. "I kept killing. I didn't stop."

"Kid-"

"I became the very man I hate."

The prospect and realization utterly crushed him. Freed hadn't had a single second thought of slaughtering anyone who wasn't useful, and that mindset wasn't likely so far off from Carver's: Kill what is in the way. Walk past it. Do it again.

Laxus rubbed his arm across his face, sniffed, and stood up, grunting like some old man. "And? What's next?"

Sick. Sick. He was going to vomit. He rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn't as sweaty as he thought it was going to be. "I don't… know. At all. I didn't even have a plan for what would happen after I- I finally-" He cleared his throat. "I don't have a path besides revenge. There hasn't been anything else."

A heavy hand came down on his back, giving him a solid whack. Freed coughed and winced, grabbing at his bandaged chest and feeling for a suddenly reopened wound. They hadn't, and the blow had helpfully knocked the sick feeling straight out of him.

"That's okay. It's okay if you don't have a path." Laxus patted his back a few more times and looked away. "A lot of people here don't have one. That's the kind of place this guild is."

His back was warm. Burning pleasantly, like he'd just had something hot to drink. He looked up at Laxus. "What kind of place?"

"The start. This place is where you get to start. It's right in front of you, Freed."

And it was.

Freed ate full meals for the first time in months. He took a shower every day. He cut his hair cleanly. He bought new clothes, moved to a proper apartment near the guildhall, and washed and ironed Adilah's uniform. He framed his credentials and put them on a counter in his kitchen. He ripped through his books and boards and newspaper clippings, and he threw away every bit of information he had ever gathered on Carver Manning.

It felt wrong, but also right.

"Lookin' slick, Freed Justine," Laxus commented on his first day back to the guild. He'd walked in without a sword strapped to him, with his hair cut cleanly near his ears, in nice pants and a clean blazer. He probably looked like an actual real, decent person, and it was already doing marvels for his reputation. Five people approached him for a friendly conversation and to offer a drink within his first hour of being there.

"Didn't know you had eyes under that mess of… whatever you called it," Laxus commented a few days later. He flipped lazily through a magazine, while Freed sat opposite of him, reading a book on eastern swordplay. He hadn't read for pleasure in months.

"Yes, I do have eyes," Freed acknowledged. "Had you not noticed the past days?"

"Didn't think to say anything 'til now," he admitted. "You've got a nice face. Keep cleanin' up like this, with the fancy coats and nice shoes, and you're gonna have to start beating away suitors with a stick."

Freed coughed against his fist, fighting a smirk. "Did you really just say 'suitors?'"

"Yeah."

"You sound like someone your grandfather's age, talking like that."

A hand slipped up out of nowhere, startling Freed, and slapped down on the table in front of him. The master glared up at them with a tight and distressed face. "I'm not that old!"

"You're, like, a thousand years old," Laxus responded with a grimace. He leaned down in his seat to glare at his grandfather. "Old as balls."

Makarov pinched his nose and scowled. "I didn't raise you to use that horrible language, young man."

"You say gross junk all the time!" Laxus protested in a nasally voice.

Makarov released his nose and Laxus fell back into his seat, rubbing at it. Freed picked up his book and stared deeply into it. Maybe he should even leave. They were obviously going to have some sort of grandfather-son conversation, and he didn't want to intrude. When he reached for his bag, however, the old man slapped his hand in warning.

"No, no," he scolded. "Please stay."

Laxus grumbled and turned his head, resting it in his palm to leave the other two to their own devices. Freed set down his book and ran his hand over the cover uncomfortably. There were a variety of things that a Wizard Saint would have to discuss with him: His wanton murder, his poor attitude towards other guild members, the fact that he'd held a sword to Laxus' throat, and the list carried on. And on. And on.

"Sir," Freed mumbled.

Makarov harrumphed and tugged at an end of his coarse mustache. "You've been with my boy lately, right?"

Freed's eyes flicked to Laxus momentarily. "He's been… keeping me out of trouble."

He scoffed. "Laxus? Keeping someone out of trouble? This is the most rebellious, ungrateful boy you'll ever meet in your life." He tugged at the edge of Laxus' shirt and he grumbled in response. Freed picked at a loose thread on his coat and stared in another direction. "And so, I have a bit of a favor to ask you."

The conversation wasn't taking the exact turn he'd been expecting. But, no one was sending him to jail, so it was nice, he supposed. "Sir?"

"He's in his stupid rebellious phase- one of which you seem to already be moving out of, based on your recent behaviors." Makarov studied him for a moment, as though appraising his own statement. "You, on the other hand, are intelligent and calm enough to pass difficult military exams. His head is thick and he's stupid. Watch after him, will you?"

Freed's eyes flicked over to Laxus and found him with a deep scowl on his face, but it appeared more lighthearted than upset. He looked back to Makarov and scrunched his eyebrows. "Watch after him?"

"Make sure he doesn't punch anyone important. Doesn't stay out late drinking. Keep him safe." The master exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms. "Do that for me, will you, Freed?"

Freed held his breath and pursed his lips together, wondering just what his answer should be. He knew what he wanted it to be: A resounding "yes." But Laxus' eyes bore into his back and Makarov was staring at him with the intensity of five suns, and he felt like throwing up the omelette he'd bought for breakfast.

"W- well, I-" A second passed where he only focused on keeping his food down, and then Laxus' hand fell on his shoulder. Freed jumped and twisted in his seat. The expression on Laxus' face was unreadable, and somehow comforting. He swallowed and looked back to Makarov. "I'll, uh, do my very best."

His omelette rested easy in his stomach.

Makarov smiled, and before he could respond, a shadow loomed over him.

"What's goin' on over here, Pops?" A drawling voice; it sounded like dirty oil, and Freed recoiled from the source: A tall, lanky man with ashen skin and greasy black hair. His clothes had the appearance of not being washed in days, and when he sat down next to Freed and slung an arm over his shoulder, they smelled like that too, along with whiskey and smoke.

Oh, there was the omelette again.

"Ivan. Back at last." The master's tone was chill and even, nothing of the mirth from before.

"Sure am, Pops." Ivan waved a lazy arm and twisted back to look at Laxus. If he had called the master "pops," then likely- "Son! What's this you got here?" He rustled Freed around, dug a fist into his side, and a boiling sensation started in his gut. He could snap his neck. Break his arm, or all his fingers. If he smashed the bottle of spirits across the table, he could jam the broken end into his throat.

Freed took a deep breath and shut his eyes, curling his fingers into a fist. No. No unnecessary violence. It was time to be good. Even if this man did smell like spoiled milk and was jostling him like a rag doll. Be. Good.

"Let him go, Father," Laxus mumbled.

Freed jumped and regarded the man holding him with renewed caution. Father? It was much too formal a term for Laxus, and Freed surmised that things were not sunshine-and-puppies between the three other men with him.

"Nah, I'm right serious, kiddo." Ivan's fingers jabbed into Freed's cheek. He grunted and slapped them away, resisting the urge to jerk them back til they broke. "Guy? Girl? I can't tell! What kinda plaything did ya pick up?"

Freed's cheeks flushed, red as the guild hall's banner.

"Ivan!" Makarov scolded. Laxus nearly threw himself over the table to wrench his father's arm away from Freed, a scowl on his face, and Freed stood and stepped behind the master. Humiliation. Disgust. He was beginning to understand just what kind of person this man was.

Ivan threw up an arm towards Freed, his eyes wide and trying for innocence. "What, I can't tell! Its got a strong jaw, but its eyes are sooo lovely."

Freed's arms shook. He could stab him, break his neck, punch his face in. The urge to inflict some pain was becoming unbearable, and he bounced on the balls of his feet and held one of his arms until his knuckles turned white.

"Leave him alone," Laxus warned. His own knuckles were white as he gripped his father's arm.

"He's a guy," Ivan exclaimed. "Well. Mystery solved. Now, what're you doin' with him, kiddo?"

"He's a friend," Laxus muttered. "Why don't you just go on another job?"

Freed jumped and tore his eyes off of the scene- the master rested his hand on his leg and glared at the other two, and his moustache twitched. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He shook his head. "It's"- He struggled to choke out the next word- "fine. Are they always like this?"

"Ivan has never been an exemplary father," Makarov admitted. "It's my fault. Neither have I."

"You made a friend?" Ivan pressed. "A real, honest-to-gods buddy? Daddy's so proud of you!"

"Shut your mouth!"

"Don't you talk to your father that way." Ivan didn't flinch, but laughed as Laxus smashed a hand against the side of his face, pushing him farther away, and the older man's eyes met Freed's. A chill ran down his spine. His eyes were pitch black, bottomless, and cold. They were the exact opposite of Laxus' electrifying orange ones, or the warm color of the master's. "Now, who are you? His friend? Lemme tell you, kid, bein' this boy's friend is the worst decision you'll ever make."

Laxus glared at his father, then at Freed, and then at the table.

Ivan slapped his son's hand away. "He's bad news! Been a moron since the day he was born, and he's a rotten kid now. He'll be rotten until the day he dies."

The only thing that occurred to Freed was that he, too, was also rotten, and would also be rotten until the day he died. He looked over Ivan's shoulder at Laxus, who was slumped over the table and glaring at nothing, and recalled a saying he'd never paid much mind to before:

Birds of a feather flock together.

"The thing that seems like bad news here is you," Freed snapped back. "You've worn out your welcome. You should leave."

Ivan's entire being shifted. His brow fell low over his eyes, his nose scrunched in disgust. His lips coiled out into a sneer and his body slumped forward to look at the boy in front of him better. He took a long sniff, glaring. "Is that so?"

"Yes. I have better things to do than listen to you blather," he replied.

"Watch your tone with your elders," Ivan warned.

The master coughed into his hand, and he was not-so-subtly trying to hide a smile. Even Laxus, who had looked wilted a second before, raised his eyebrows and looked at his father and his friend with a bit of delight. The sight of it almost warmed Freed's heart, and he took a step towards Ivan. He recalled how Adilah walked, imposing, with her shoulders back and her arms behind her, and did the same.

Ivan furrowed his eyebrows together and took a hesitant step back. He stayed for another long, long moment, then went "pah," waved a hand, and slouched away. The people in the hall parted for him, like he was a virus.

"Dick," was all that Laxus had to say, and Freed choked back a fit of nervous laughter. He was very pleased with himself- a confrontation, and he hadn't killed anybody! He felt like he deserved an award, some trophy or ribbon, but reminded himself that the average person did not get gold stars for not murdering.

"I'll go make sure he doesn't rip apart the back room." Makarov sighed and patted Freed's leg again. "Not many people will stand up to Ivan like that, and even less get out of it without a black eye. Color me impressed, boy."

Freed sure felt impressed with himself when his knees started to go weak. He sat down slowly as the master excused himself, his heart still hammering and his mind still racing with a variety of terrible things he could do to Ivan, and found himself under the intense and burning stare of Laxus.

"Stop looking at me."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Why not?"

He sighed and shook his head and mindlessly flipped through magazine pages. "My old man's a hardass who carries his grudges to his grave. Don't cross him like that again, or you'll have to be looking over your shoulder for a long time."

Freed scoffed. "You don't mean he'll try to kill me."

Laxus didn't respond, but instead looked like he'd suddenly remembered something and reached into his pocket. Out of it came a crumpled and sloppily folded paper, and he unfurled it and smoothed it onto the table. The top if it said "HELP NEEDED," right above the details: A band of dangerous rogues, taking their crime spree from the north to the south. "I need some help. I'd usually go solo, but this seems like a two-man job."

His eyes drifted down to the reward at the bottom, and he lifted an eyebrow: 150,000 Jewel. "Why bring me?"

Laxus shrugged. "I like you. We seem like we can get along. Everyone else here is basically an idiot."

With a sigh, he ran his fingers over the paper and snatched it up. "When do you want to leave?"

He stood and threw one hand on the table, the other jerked over his shoulder at the door. "Now."

Across the guildhall, a boy peeked from around the corner of a pillar, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He watched the other two boys pick up their things and head for the doors, then picked up his own bag, nearly bursting with travel supplies, and whistled as he followed very far behind them.

It was time to get the show on the road.