Chapter Text
He was no stranger to strangers.
It was irony at its finest.
The first one He meets is named “Father”–at least he’s certain that’s it, the title coming from many lips other than his own. It’s given to him through quick instructions:
“Your Father needs you downstairs, you’re late,”
“No books tonight, or you’ll never sleep and your Father will be upset,”
“Your Father doesn’t want you playing outside anymore, you’re supposed to be studying.”
It’s a looming presence, running a tight ship between the others and they all snap to attention at that voice. It leaves early to go to work–a doctor, a known healer and one He finds is just as precise in its wounds.
He learns what an expectation is before he learns his colors. Father is satisfied with him, as much as one can be for someone whose gaze stops at the knees while his head is in the clouds. The line is towed gently–even when He’s begun to walk, his foot is cautiously placed with a glance to see if he’s made the right choice.
No news is good news, He discovers.
It’s a strategy that works for him while He grows, and that growth brings additional problems that make him wish he’d stayed stagnant. Words are followed with understanding, and understanding becomes the walking specter of his anxieties.
(He learns what a failure is before he’s ten.)
Father is seldom used in conjunction with “Mother”, the other who passes down the adventure books that Father takes away and they sit on the shelf where He can’t reach. He’s never applauded for his interest, for how well he reads despite the material. They tell him it’s teaching the wrong things–fool’s gold where they’d prefer diamonds–and Father gets frustrated with anyone indulging it.
The days of passing the books down slow to a stop, and in its place come lessons that fill every moment. He’s meant to be well-rounded, well-adjusted compared to the others, and Mother is only there for support when Father can’t be in attendance.
(He thinks of it more like an appraisal, and there’s a chance that he’s right)
Their only conversations come in exchanging glances when opinions are handed down from high, yet Mother's eyes never meet his when the gavel bangs.
Perhaps some judgments are truly absolute.
He talks to the other children about them one day, his playmates regaling him with their own tales of activities and rituals never seen before. Theirs have nicknames that clip easier with missing teeth, and there’s a green in his eyes never seen before.
It makes him wonder if they’re truly his parents, or if it’s just a title given like “King of the swing set” with a cardboard crown.
He goes home to his books, pulling out the dictionary that’s never moved up with the others. And He looks up the definition to find that, for all intents and purposes, he’s got some just like the rest.
There’s no right answer. That’s what He tells himself. His parents are just that, and there was nothing he could do to change it.
However, when others are around, He meets new ones. The public gets to know them, loving things who smile and laugh with the other adults who sneered at his books. They stand close together, affectionate veneer painted with a hand on the chest and they are left at every event once he’s home.
Sitting around an empty dinner table, He wonders if those strangers will ever come live with him.
(They never do.)
The next stranger is an enigma.
It wears a familiar face, the name of a quiet soul who slows for him when his footprints no longer run parallel in the snow. It hands him dessert under the cover of night and sky, rewards never seen for both of them in a meritocracy, and they talk until they hear hushed whispers of “Mother” and “Father” spoken like a threat.
It knows nothing about books outside of the ones Father gives them, and those spines brick the wall between them where age had failed. He remembers it slowly building—voices of their classmates ringing from the other side, the harsh insults sharpening to break skin in the first try. And each time He peeks over comes another book where he stood, covering every cavity until the echoes die out.
He’s shut out, but he learns to climb.
He grasps whatever foothold he can to see them again, to see the face that grew distant with every mention of their names together. The repetitions widening the gap, and there’s light at the top that guides his hope until he’s burning and sweaty, but the thought of being on the other side makes it dull.
It’s exhausting when he finally breaks through, all of his strength put towards the endeavor but He sees the face thought lost and it makes him call out in a desperate plea.
He says Its name–the one that comes from the source, spoken to him with such a gentle promise of protection that He clings to that bond even as his fingertips bleed. There’s no response, no mention of his name when he cries and his arm hangs outstretched over the edge with no move made to pull him over.
His wails sit in his ears as desperation takes hold–the light so within reach that it gnaws at him until He hears those lost echoes reach him again, if only to deliver a last memory.
“I feel ashamed to be related to you.”
The fall shatters him, and He’s never quite put back together.
The final stranger is seldom seen, an insidious little voice who lives in glass and talks to him through puffy eyes and grit teeth. They share a name, one It loves to repeat with his failures until they’re synonymous. And He wonders when they won’t have to meet like this, when It no longer asks why he keeps trying and He won’t contemplate his answer.
It’s the thought of finding an answer that keeps him going, even when it drains him and He knows he shouldn’t. The weight tipping when that wall is at his side again, daring him to grab any book to encourage a fatal collapse, and He lands on Brag Men to comfort him as he suffocates.
Only, He doesn’t choke–he indulges in those faceless stories, ones so far away from that intruder in the mirror that it makes him remember his heart beating. And suddenly, He sees how that wall trembles and sways and the little voice drowns out beneath the swell of his chest as he breathes.
He’s not buried. Quite the opposite, and it’s the Sympathetic response that propels him forward to dig his way out. He wouldn’t die here, not when he learned to hoist the anchor of his hurt and saw it free from his ankles. A reflection was a collaboration–needing the light to materialize it and a familiar image to process its significance. He was just as much a participant in that little voice’s existence, and all he needed to do was give it something new to create.
The plan comes in pieces–medical books traded for funds, others borrowed through allowances and nobody questions these new distractions. There’s no success he’s jeopardizing, nothing to threaten him with when he inevitably digs the hole deeper, and He fulfills his role as a pariah if only to use it as a stepping stool.
His head is above water. All He has to do is stay afloat.
He waits until everyone is sleeping, the cover of darkness a useful tool for him to sneak out without notice. Everything has been packed for days now, stashed away in long forgotten parts of their sprawling plot of land and He only knows them because of his need for sanctuary.
His ability to imagine and dream–a utility borne of loneliness, and He doesn’t entertain why he’s become an expert.
There’s a boat that sits on the far end of the shore, well enough away from his home that He can’t be shackled if he’s caught. It sounds like a faraway possibility, the idea that He could be brought back to continue playing the Family Embarrassment simply cause show must go on.
So he gets rid of all doubt, his character is no more.
He climbs into the boat, the family home sitting high on the hill where it watches him leave, and he packs the rest of his things in without a spared glance up. Tucked into his book, He sees the hint of leather and pulls it out to admire the item he spent days putting together.
A mask, the only thing that’s ever fit him in ways that He couldn’t describe. As it stood, He was taking control of every aspect of the stranger who stared back. And as he tied on the mask, He had effectively thrown them overboard anchored to that emotional weight.
He was free; Unequivocally and undeniably free.
His eyes sting as he pulls down the sail, the wind catching onto the fabric with ease and He attributes the tears to the salt carried on the breeze. The boat goes slow, both of them at the mercy of the wind helping breathe new life and He laughs bitterly at the realization of where he is.
A burial by sea. It’s a marker of any successful adventurer, isn’t it?
His hometown fades into the distance until the sea is the only thing surrounding him, and it’s a warm hug that he sinks into readily. The days pass like that–his maps taking him to islands far removed from the ones He grew up visiting, and it’s as much a survival instinct as it is curiosity. No familiar faces to point out similarities, and he excites to learn what it’s like to live with the mask off.
There are things that these islands teach him–how to sleep on the sand, what animals to avoid, and He feels a sense of pride that his gold wears well. He can tell what certain clouds will bring him, and He concludes that this life was the one he was truly meant for.
That arrogance is whipped out of him, swiftly and severely with each passing wave.
He’s caught in a storm, the boat rocking underneath him and He thinks he’s prepared for it. His life had been a series of storms he had to weather and this was no different, but the rain soaks him to his bones and the thunder harmonizes with that little voice in his head.
It says his name through hissed laughter, the volume matching the height of the water crowding around his feet and there’s only a moment before He’s forced to save the ones he loves.
His journal is tucked into his coat, and the rest of him goes to the sea.
Three days on a deserted island–it’s fitting for the life he’s lived.
The fate makes sense for anyone without a name, a face. The skeleton at his side is a testament to that, everyone a stranger when culled to their bones and it was only in seeing it does He remember.
He’d rather forget. It’s not a pretty sight.
“Let’s at least dig a grave,” He says to no one, leaning over to settle on his knees and ignore the burning of his throat.
“A grave… yeah, good idea… let’s do that.”
The agreement passes unnoticed at first, the desire to take control of his discomfort so strong that He idly listens to the sounds of the birds instead. His mind drifts to thoughts of coconuts and water, absorbing everything he could from the logs he’s read until it snaps him to attention.
“Who said that?!”
The answer comes quick, the sound of sand in his ears and a pair of boots before him as He sees another standing before him. Another person, outlined in the blazing sunlight who looks at him curiously before bowing.
“My name is Ace. I was just enjoying a little stroll along the beach. How do you do?”
The shock of seeing another person makes him dizzier than the hunger, the figure cast in the light with a smile and freckles dusted along high cheekbones. It’s a cumulation of his hopelessness and his loneliness and He wonders if it’s possible for his mind to go so quickly.
A stranger he'd never seen before, and a reflection all the same.