Chapter Text
Ricky had never been known for his assertiveness.
His entire life, he’d taken the sidelines in other people’s stories. Content to watch and play along, never involving himself. It was frustrating at times, not being able to talk in a world fueled by speech, but until recently he hadn’t had many complaints.
For one, there was never anyone he wanted to talk to. Kids never really understood him growing up, and for most of his life he was just the one who couldn’t grow up.
The only ones that had approached him aimed to prod at his disabilities, to treat him like a charity case. The few that cared enough to stay were eventually driven off by his odd imagination, apparently off-put by his cosmic fantasies. Needless to say, Ricky didn’t have many friends.
Even if he wanted to talk, there was never anybody to listen.
That was going to change today.
When Noel dropped him off at his house, Ricky was immediately swarmed by his grandparents. Not unusual, but he’d have appreciated the space to breathe. They thanked Ocean for dropping him off, feeding into some lie about him throwing up and needing to go home early. His pale features and distant gaze probably attested to that.
Regardless, they had plenty of questions for him. Two pairs of hands flew across his face, confused and frantic questions alike being signed at rapid speed. The motions they’d come up with could hardly be considered signs, and he was more than peeved they never bothered teaching him proper ASL, but he certainly understood them.
He waited until Ocean shut the door, finally turning to his grandparents with a heavy sigh. He leaned into his crutches, stabling himself without the use of his hands, before mustering up an unenthusiastic response.
‘Stop, stop .’ he motioned, trying to remove himself from the situation. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Do you still feel sick?’ His grandma motioned to his left. ‘We have some medicine if you need it.’
‘Was that girl your friend?’ His grandpa signed. ‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Oh, I hope so. You really need some friends, sweetheart.’ She agreed, still signing too quickly for Ricky to reasonably interject.
‘She seems like a really sweet girl, I hope you plan to keep her around. Maybe some of that energy will rub on you.” The pair continued rambling back and forth, as if they’d forgotten Ricky was there. They continued nodding and energetically conversing, drawing a series of sighs from his lips.
‘Guys, cut it out!’ Ricky dismisses them, biting back a frustrated groan. ‘I promise I’m fine, the choir made sure I was okay. If I wasn’t fine, my friend would have said something to you.’
Apparently coming to their senses, the pair straightens up and regards their kid one more time. He must pass whatever test they offer, because they drop the issue pretty quickly.’ ‘Of course, dear. Sorry about that, you know how Grandpa gets.’
The man playfully swatted her shoulder, a rumbling chuckle echoing from his chest. ‘Like you’re one to talk.’
She just rolled her eyes, affectionate and teasing. She turns her attention back to ‘Anyways, sweetie. Is there anything you’d like before you head to your room?’
And at first he’s tempted to get them off his back, hand already raised to wave his grandparents off dismissively. That is, until an idea planted itself in his mind. With the sweetest inclination he could, Ricky allowed himself one final indulgence.
‘Yeah, actually.” A crooked smile crept up his cheeks . “Can I have your credit card?”
“Good idea, buy her a gift first.” His grandfather waggled his eyebrows.
Ricky huffs, snatches up the card, and turns his back on his cackling guardians. They don't stop him as he bounds into his bedroom, and he uses that opportunity to immediately get to work.
It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to get comfortable with the layout.
Punching in the credit card details took a few seconds, and there really weren’t that many versions to choose from on the app store, but he was still having trouble with the actual application.
He’d heard about AAC devices in passing, mostly from people recommending he invest in one himself. Frankly he’d just never seen the appeal in dropping a thousand dollars on a tablet he wouldn’t use, but now he was tired of letting life pass him by. He wanted his thoughts to be known, he wanted people to listen to him for a change.
At one point, Ricky would have given anything to be heard. He wonders when that changed, and why he hadn’t bothered to fix his attitude until now.
The hour he spends messing around with the app is some of the most fun he’s had in awhile. Punching in icons and using the keyboard to narrate vulgar phrases off the top of his mind has shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
He even spends a half hour typing out the plot of his elaborate religion, improvisational movements from his ballad included. Then he lets the robotic voice narrate it all like an audiobook. Ricky leans back in his bed, dramatically nodding along while it plays.
His shoulders seem to loosen as he lies there, like there had been some knot lingering between his shoulder blades his entire life. He’d always lived under the assumption that he had nothing to say, that it wouldn’t matter if people listened because there was a reason they couldn’t stand him. Now he thinks that maybe he was trying to justify his silence.
At one point, Ricky even slipped his phone into his pocket and meandered into the living room. His grandparents were sprawled across the couch, engrossed in whatever was on the television. He rapped his crutch against the hardwood to get their attention.
As their heads swiveled owlishly towards him, Ricky bounds over with a grin on his face. He returns the credit card to his grandmother and shows off the app he bought, along with the customized buttons he'd spent time making.
'Hello, my name is Ricky Potts.' one of them demonstrates. His grandfather, amazed, leans over and presses another. This one simply recites Constance's name, one of the many he'd created for conversation with the choir. He shows them the rest of the names, as well as a handful of useful phrases he inputted. They seem strangely pleased by Ocean's button.
'This is incredible, Ricky!' His grandmother motions. 'I've been trying to get you one of these for so long, but you always said you didn't need it.'
She looks him up and down once, then continues. 'Is there any reason you changed your mind?'
He has to think about that, and when his hands instinctively move to respond, he has to catch himself. Instead, he begins tapping away at the keyboard, and allow the robotic voice to narrate for him.
'I learned what it was like to be heard.' he responds, fighting a dorky grin. 'I'd like to start feeling that way more often.'
The three of them spend a large chunk of their night fooling around with the application. His grandparents go back and forth with requests that Ricky happily inputs in the keyboard.
'I just know your choir friends are going to get a kick out of this.' His grandfather smiles. 'I'm so excited that you feel comfortable enough to be yourself around them now.'
And while it feels goofy, he can't help but fantasize about the future. He spends the rest of the night in his room, just playing out every possible scenario in his head.
He imagines himself saying something snarky on the fly, and everyone laughing. He imagines talking back to Ocean, and finally clapping back in person. His cheeks hurt from how hard he smiles, and he doesn’t fight the urge to kick his legs and beam.
He isn’t sure why he cares so deeply how they feel. At one point he couldn’t stand the choir, maybe barring Constance. He’s not sure how much of it Ocean meant, but her condescending tone when speaking with him had always gotten on his nerves. The fact that she paid him any attention made her better than most, but he still hated the way she spoke for him.
Mischa and Noel were considerate enough. They helped him with choreography he couldn’t quite nail with his limited mobility, even if Mischa was never thrilled to do anything in the choir. Mostly it was Noel, driven by this inane desire for the choir to be at its best, which could be frustrating in its own right.
Something about them had shifted in that warehouse though, Ricky included. They saw a display of his true thoughts, and enjoyed it. They’d all matured so much after that experience, and it truly felt like the others wanted to include him.
It felt like they wanted to hear him, they just didn’t know how. Ricky did though, and he could give them the tools.
This was nowhere near a happy ending for him. Using a phone could be inconvenient, especially at school where it could die or be taken from him. He’d like to express his thoughts his own way, preferably with something akin to sign language.
But it was absolutely a start, and he couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread in his chest. A goofy, lopsided smile crept up each of his cheeks. Things were finally looking up.
That night Ricky completely forgot that he was meant to investigate. If he’s being honest, he isn’t sure he cares either way. The way he felt right now would be motive enough for anyone to turn a blind eye to reality.
So instead, he drifts to sleep feeling lighter than he ever has.
Mischa is only fifteen when he learns hatred for Uranium City.
He’s never stepped foot in the town, doesn’t even know its name yet, but above all else he knows what killed his mother. He knows that uranium exposure caused her kidneys to fail, and that Canada was one of the lead suppliers of said metal.
It doesn’t take a genius to put those things together, and suddenly adoption wasn’t necessary and lifesaving, it was a goddamn slap in the face.
This town has never been home, and he refuses to let it be. Sometimes its people make him want to forget, make him want to feel safe, but the second he steps into his adoptive parent’s house he remembers what it’s like to be scared. Suddenly he is living with his mother’s killers and they’re slowly killing him too.
When Mischa comes home from the fair, he slams the front door shut behind him. The noise echoes from one wall to the other end of the house, and he knows they heard it. He lingers in the doorway for a moment, wondering if either of them will appear. Maybe they’ll ask why he’s home early, maybe scold him for slamming the door. Nobody comes.
He bites down a frustrated grunt, tugging his vest off and tossing it in the foyer. He shoots a forlorn glance towards the other half of the house, the one he wasn’t meant to step foot in. The one where they lived and where he wasn’t allowed to.
He died today and they had no idea. They’d never know that he’d felt his own heart stop, and that his blood had decorated a sidewalk a mere half hour earlier. If they asked he’d tell them, just to see their reactions. But they don’t, and he doesn’t.
Instead, he stomps down the stairs and storms into the basement. It’s not his room, but it has all of his things. This basement is a placeholder, a transitional period between his real home and the future. It’s not his room and this isn’t his house.
But it does have free food, so he’ll give it that.
Mischa moves the plate from his bedside table onto his dresser across the room. He regards the peas and mashed potatoes they’d been so kind to pass him the night before, scrunching his nose at the smell. He’d never eaten them, and now he tosses them in the trash.
Maybe if he stopped returning the plates they’d have to come down and get them. Or they’d just buy more , his mind supplies unhelpfully. He collapses into the bed, tugging his phone from his jeans instinctively. His chat with Talia is still pulled up.
He decides that texting her is probably the distraction that he needs, and punches in a short message. The phone pings audibly with an instant response, and his lips tug up at the noise.
Mischa: HELLO MY LOVE I AM HOME!
Talia: hey baby!! >u<
Talia: how was the fair? forgot to ask earlier haha
Mischa: WAS INTERESTING. A LOT HAPPENED.
Talia: like what? :p
Mischa: WE DID OUR SONG. IT WAS PRETTY BAD.
Mischa: I WON THE GAMES. ALL OF THEM. I GOT YOU BIG TEDDY BEAR.
Mischa: [View photo]
Talia: awww baby thats so cute!!!!
Talia: youre so sweet haha <3
Talia: how were your friends? i hope you had fun
Mischa: I DID NOT SEE THEM MUCH. WE RODE ROLLER COASTER THOUGH.
Talia: oooh i love roller coasters!!!
Mischa: IT WAS VERY BIG. I COULD SEE WHOLE FAIR FROM THE TOP.
Mischa sees an opening, and Talia helpfully waits for him to continue. He punches in the message fairly quick, but his hands shake while he types.
This is stupid, he decides. His thumb hovers over the send button anyway.
Mischa: AND THEN THE ROLLER COASTER CRASHED WHILE I WAS ON IT.
Mischa: I DIED.
Talia: LOL haha mischa youre such a funny guy!!
His mouth flattens, and he takes longer than usual to drag out an inhale.
He’s not sure what he expected, but it still hurts. He forces himself to laugh, the noise strained and foreign to his ears. He decides that maybe he isn’t in the mood to talk after all.
Mischa: YEAH I KNOW.
Mischa: TALIA I HAVE TO GO. I HAVE HOMEWORK.
Talia: oh okay!!! lets talk later
Talia: love you <3
Mischa: LOVE YOU TOO. <3
Mischa’s hands shook while he powered off his phone, and he hunched over to crack his knuckles. His hands still felt twitchy, so he cracked the middle joints as well. He scratched the back of his neck absentmindedly, before putting his phone on the charger.
He’s not actually doing homework, obviously. Even before the accident he couldn't have been convinced to care about stuff like that. Now having died, he cares even less. Truthfully, he’s not sure he cares for much of anything anymore.
An experience like that probably inspired others to be better people, to strive for more. For people like Ocean, dying was probably her sign that she didn’t have to be perfect. For people like Constance, it was her sign to not undersell herself. Ricky learned to speak up for himself, Noel learned not to hide who you really are, even Jane found a piece of herself in that warehouse.
What did this teach him? What did he want in life, what did he need ?
Mischa mostly just wanted things to stop.
He raps a knuckle against his head lightly, as if the motion would dispel those thoughts. His mind was particularly unhelpful in that manner, always inputting where it didn’t need to. He didn’t need to change.
He does sit back for a minute to think, though. He supposes he does need some things. For instance, he still needed to confirm they were alive. Indulging in a bout of impulsivity, Mischa pats his chest, then the headboard of his bed, then the wall beside it.
He did a scan of his room, at his few belongings, and decided everything was in its place. He hovers his hand over the vent to feel the AC, he rubs his knuckles against the popcorn textured ceilings. He even takes a whiff of his trash can and newly discarded dinner, deciding that everything seemed pretty real.
Unless that was the point of this afterlife, which was not something he wanted to think about. He knocks a knuckle against his head one more time.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s meant to be looking for. There aren’t a lot of constants in his life that might have been altered. Talia was something of a constant in his life, but everything was normal with her.
The stark lack of his adoptive parents was pretty constant, and everything was in check there. He supposes he could check up on them, but he didn’t really have a basis for their normality. The only interactions with them involved his adoptive mother crying while her husband shoos him away.
Deciding he should at least pretend to care, Mischa perks his ears to listen in on them upstairs. Not to be nosy, just to make sure everything was as usual. Those were Noel’s orders, after all.
It takes a few moments for his ears to pick up on them, but he eventually figures they’re having a low discussion over the dinner table. He tries not to be offended by what that implies.
At first, he isn’t quite sure what he’s hearing. They’re just having a normal conversation, from the sounds of it. Only a few words are clear enough to make the distance to his room, and he catches a handful of sounds.
One of the words he catches sounds eerily like his name. Then another that might have been adoption.
His hands travel to his hair, and he finds himself knocking against his skull again. The pain of tugging his auburn locks is enough to ground him, and he takes that moment to yank off his askew cap. He takes a deep breath, and then another.
He’s not jealous, and he’s certainly not upset. That would be ridiculous. He decides pretty quickly that this is a dumb idea, though, and completely shuts out their voices. He tunes out pretty much everything without a second thought, noting the way his hands twitch. The feeling leaves him wanting to hit something, so he settles for a flattened pillow.
He doesn’t care. They’re allowed to talk about whatever they want, and if they feel the need to make him a topic of discussion, who fucking cares? Mischa doesn’t.
And if he cranks up the TV’s volume to drown out the sound, that’s his business. They bought him a console for this exact reason, to keep him distracted and out of their hair.
He plays until his wrists grow sore and his eyes ache. He screams at his losses and loudly celebrates his victories.
He ignores the way his back screams. He ignores the burning headache behind his eyes. He plays until he can’t anymore.
That night, Mischa passes out with his Playstation controller still buzzing in his hands.
The TV warms his face in a way hands never will.