Damage

When Alfred is eight, he becomes a killer.

He presses his pistol to the man's chest and pulls the trigger, and he feels his ribcage splinter underneath his hands and he sees blood fan out behind him, spraying everything in a fine red mist. The adult goes limp above him and he hears a scream, and he's not sure if it's the man or his wife or their baby or himself. He tries to push him off because but he's too heavy for him to move, but the woman gathers up her husband and starts screaming at him to wake up, he had better or else, and he manages to get free. She makes a grab for him and he scrambles backward and runs, and runs, and runs until his legs give out, sobbing and screaming because he tastes blood that's not his and he hates it.

His mission is a complete success. Somehow, that makes him feel worse instead of better.

When Alfred is ten, he is shot in the back.

Officially, it's a freak training accident—someone's gun misfires in the firing range and he just happens to be standing in the way—the bullet shatters his left shoulder blade and leaves power burns running up and down his side. Unofficially, he feels the hateful glares on his back, he hears the regret in people's voices that it hadn't been a little more to the right, and he knows that he is different, that he is wrong, because sometimes he can feel something pumping through his veins that has nothing to with physical power and everything to do with mana.

His shoulder doesn't heal right—it gives and pulls at all the wrong moments and it hitches in its socket in places it shouldn't, even after he finishes his physical therapy. It's impossible for him to use a sword properly and bullets are rationed carefully, and it takes him months but he learns how to swing with his right and fire with his left, the opposite of what he has done before.

Trust nothing, he reminds himself on rainy days when his old wound aches. Trust nothing, because you are alone and no one is coming to save you.

When Alfred is twelve, he loses his virginity.

His mother is dying and she is the last thing he has in the world, ever since fucking Maxwell destroyed the compound that had been his home these past six years. He is desperate and hungry and poor, and he half-hopes Gilland is dead and half-prays that he is not, because he has done everything he can possibly do to try to keep her alive and he's not sure how much longer she can hold on. No one wants to hire a too-skinny twelve-year-old with no skill set besides killing people and whose spirit arte arsenal consisted of a handful of parlor tricks.

So when a stranger who smells like cheap alcohol presses against him and hands him a wad of cash, more than he has ever seen in his life, the temptation is too great to resist. He knows a little bit about sex—although he's never done it before, he knows the mechanics of it and how it's supposed to work. He knows that the first time can hurt, but he has buckled down and grit his teeth through pain before—he's confident that it won't be anything he can't handle. Besides, he was curious about why adults made such a big deal out of it—maybe it was time to see what it was all about.

Two days later, he has never been so happy to see Gilland in his entire life. If his uncle notices his limp, he doesn't comment on it, and Alfred is grateful for that, at least. He scrubs and scrubs at his trousers but the bloodstains do not come out no matter how hard he tries.

When Alfred is eighteen, he dies.

After a particularly bad spike in her fever passes, his mother wakes up, gives him one look, and all but demands for him to tell her where her son is. Something in him snaps and the doctors all but drag him out of the room, because being yelled at isn't healthy for her heart. Dementia, they call it. Some days will be better and some will be worse, but she wasn't coming back and he is now truly and utterly alone.

Hours later, she wakes up and asks the same question and he just smiles and tells her that her son is away at boarding school—that he misses her very much and he'll write to her whenever he can. She smiles and tells him all about her baby boy, how sensitive and lonely and loveable he is, and he does what he does best and swallows his pain and chokes out a lie.

He doesn't want to be Alfred anymore, he thinks. He's too fragile, too naïve for the real world, so he becomes Alvin instead, because Alvin is invincible and nothing can touch him.

When Alvin is twenty-six, he remembers.

He remembers plunging into dark water, the current dragging him under, his heartbeat pumping in his ears, screaming for his mommy and daddy to save him but no sound comes out. Water fills his lungs and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe, and his vision darkens. He reaches up toward the rapidly shrinking light and no one reaches back.

He struggles and fights and manages to break the surface, heaving in gasps of air and sobbing, and the water around him turns to blood. There are faces everywhere and they're creased with pain and hatred, and he remembers them asking why he killed them, why he hurt them, why he ripped their loved ones to pieces, why, why, why. All he can say is that he's sorry, that he's bad, that he's trash and he's sorry and it's all his fault.

And he remembers hands—faceless, angry hands, ones that tug at his belt and push him to his knees, ones that touch him everywhere and that he can't push away. Stop it, he screams, stop it, you're hurting me, it hurts it hurts it hurts, someone make it stop, someone save me, please, someone save me I can't do this anymore—

There is a weapon in his hand and no one his coming to save him, so he scrambles backwards and presses himself into a corner, hissing and snarling like an animal, holding onto the knife as if it was his only lifeline. Shadows loom over him and he curls a little more in on himself, ready to protect himself if he needs to, thinking go away go away go away—

"—vin. Alvin."

He freezes, and all of a sudden he was six years old, sitting in the shadow of the man he wanted to be like since the day he had been born. "…Dad?"

"No," the person in front of him says, "it's just us."

The shadows begin to clear and he blinks sluggishly, trying to gather his thoughts. "…Rowen?"

The butler looks a little pale but he gave him a tiny smile nonetheless. "It's good to have you back."

"Back?" he echoes, glancing around the room—he's pretty positive that it was the same one he fell asleep in. Then again, all these rooms start to look the same after a while. He lets Rowen pluck his pocket knife out of his numb fingers before sliding it across the floor and into a different corner. "…Where did I go?"

"You had a really scary dream!" Teepo says, and he glances up to see every last one of their colorful entourage staring at him as if he had just grown an extra head. Elize clutches Leia's pajama pants a little tighter at Teepo's words, looking as if she's about to burst into tears. "You were yelling really loud. We thought you were dying."

He feels his face and neck heat with shame when Milla sheathes her sword and Leia discreetly tries to hide her staff behind her back. He crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide his shaking hands and plasters a winning smile across his face, and says, "sorry about that. It was just a bad dream. You young'uns should go back to bed—you don't want to be too tired to fight properly in the morning. It'd be a real shame if one of you guys got eaten by a monster or something."

Jude takes a step forward, the look he got when someone insists they aren't as hurt as they actually are written all over his face, but Rowen stops him with a slight shake of his head. "I think we could all use a soothing cup of tea right now. Jude, will you come assist an old man, if you would be so kind?" He frowns but follows the older man out, and Alvin can hear them arguing quietly as they turn the corner and he winces—really, they shouldn't be arguing over anything having to do with him unless it's whether to kick him to the curb.

Elize lets go of Leia and plunks down next to him, smoothing out the wrinkles in her nightgown before wrapping her arms around his middle. "Friends always make sure their friends are happy," she says matter-of-factly, as if it's the most simple thing in the world, and Alvin sighs and gives her hair a ruffle, hoping she doesn't notice his hand shake.

"Hey, don't forget about me!" Leia says, propping up her staff against a wall before plopping down on his other side and giving him a playful jab. "We gotta take care of our Little Buddy, right, Elly?"

He opens his mouth to say something perverted about having a lady on each side when Milla interrupts him. "I read once in a book that cuddling is an effective way to comfort someone after a nightmare," she says before sitting on the same side as Elize.

"Oh, really? Where?"

"In Men and Women Beneath the Sheets."

Alvin laughs a little bit at that. "Isn't that about bondage?"

Leia squawks and Elize blinks at him before asking what bondage is, and before Milla can give her a very detailed description of exactly what it entails, he says it's something only grown-ups do, half-heatedly batting Leia's jabs to his side away. Jude and Rowen come back while they're in the middle of their mock-fight, and Jude brightens a little bit before sitting next to Leia on the floor. Rowen pulls up a chair, lamenting that his old bones would protest at sitting on the ground for long periods of time, but long after everyone falls asleep and everything is silent, he retains just enough awareness to know that he plucks Alvin's empty cup from his fingers and gives his fingers a quick run through his hair and he smiles a little bit before falling back asleep.

He feels… safe. It's different. But it's not so bad.

When Alvin is twenty-six, he accidentally cuts himself.

His sword nicks him while he's polishing it—monster blood is remarkably corrosive, after all—but it's little more than a glorified paper cut. He has his own first aid kit, complete with bandages and antiseptic and anything a person could want while treating superficial wounds. It's his non-dominant hand, so he would have little to no trouble making sure the wrapping isn't too tight or too loose. The area they're traveling in has some pretty tough monsters and their healers have been downing pineapple gels like they're going out of style and they're not quite out of the woods yet. It's not like he hasn't dealt with much worse before. He has every reason in the world to blow it off and to take care of it himself—to not let someone take care of him.

"Hey, Honors Student," he calls, and Jude turns from where he's been staring out into the distance. Alvin holds out his injured hand. "Fix me up, would you?"