Chapter Text
[Ken. Oct. 17, 2021]
Dr. Kentaro Hamada had had quite a long day.
Work had been a madhouse, for starters. He’d only had a half shift that day, but it had seemed to drag on past the six hours he was actually there. After work, he’d promised his friend Melissa that he’d babysit her Little. Melissa was a very meticulous guardian and didn’t trust non-Guardians with her precious Mickey, who was rather a handful. Not that Ken minded; he loved Littles, and had honestly not spent as much time with any recently as was good for him. But he hadn’t had one of his own since his twenties. And it was different when it wasn’t your own. The bond between a Little and a Guardian was a special force, one that Ken had been desperately craving lately.
His friends kept telling him he should adopt, but he was a busy man these days. He was an Attending Physician at Bellevue and it had been especially crazy this year as Halloween drew ever nearer, bringing out the daredevil in what seemed to be the whole city. He wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to take in a Little when he spent so little time at home these days. It wouldn’t seem right.
The air was still in his neighborhood in Queens. It was late, around 1 AM by the time Ken had gotten to his building on 29th. The parkway had been packed as usual on a Friday night, but as he reached the edge of the borough, souls had become scant. It was always quiet around this building; that was the main reason he’d chosen to live this far from work. The inner city was so noisy, but here, the regular, distant blare of the train was the only sound to be heard this late at night. Granted, most of the residents of his building were families and elderly folks, not the rowdy bunch of thirty somethings that made up the rest of his circle of friends, who often ragged on him jokingly for succumbing to ‘spinsterhood’ amongst the grannies in the cove. But something about the place kept him here, instead of moving to Manhattan despite being more than able to afford it.
A shuffle of rubber sneakers on Asphalt caught Ken’s attention as he locked his car in the lot across from his building. He looked up to see a very small, hooded figure walking on its toes out of the front door. They were dressed head-to-toe in black and gray, barely breaching five feet tall if that despite the inch-thick soles on their shoes. The stranger was also seemingly alone, and judging by the fact they were staring down at a phone and sliding an expensive-looking pair of headphones, not very aware of their surroundings. Ken couldn’t help himself. Tired as he was, he was only human, and a Guardian at that. He couldn’t fight the instinct to make sure the little thing was protected.
“Excuse me,” He worked up the nerve to walk over to the stranger and tap them on the shoulder. The small figure recoiled at his touch and whirled around with a feral gleam in the green eyes that were now fixed on Ken. The stranger waited a bit, frozen. Delicate hands balled into fists that only seemed to relax a bit when Ken stood there for a moment, hands up, trying to give off as many nurturing vibes as he could realistically control. The stranger slid down his headphones, bringing his hood with them and revealing a small blond man, maybe in his mid-twenties at most.
“Can I help you?” His voice was lower than Ken had expected. Littles usually had higher voices, and Ken was sure this boy was just that. There was hostility in his speech, and Ken felt for his Guardian, whoever it was. They likely had their hands full with this one.
“Would you like some company?” Ken asked. “It’s pretty late, and the city is dangerous at night.” He hoped he didn’t come off as too creepy, but he really didn’t want to let the Little guy walk into the dark at night, and he kind of wanted a word or two with the boy’s caregiver for allowing such a thing. Even if he wasn’t regressed at the moment, he was still very small and didn’t exactly look like he could handle himself in a crisis.
“‘M fine,” The boy grumbled at him. The dour expression that replaced the fear made him seem very familiar to Ken, like he’d seen him somewhere before. He supposed they lived in the same building, though, and figured he must have seen him in and around the complex.
“You sure?” Ken knew he was being too insistent, but pressed on anyway. He kept half-expecting an angry Guardian to burst out of the doors and ask what the hell Ken was doing, talking to their Little in a dark doorway. “I live in 4A; I could walk you back up after. I don’t mind a detour to…”
“I said I’m fine!” The boy scowled at him and turned on his heel to walk away. “Fuckin’ Guardians.” He muttered as he shoved his hands in his pockets. Ken’s face flushed with a rush of indignance. What a willful little brat!
“How old are you, boy? Does anyone even know you’re out here?” He demanded, walking after the whelp and not caring one bit for the rude gesture the blond gave him. “What is your name, young man??” He fully intended on informing whoever was in charge of him of his rude behavior.
“What are you, a cop?” The young man scoffed, stopping to turn and give him a dirty look which allowed Ken to catch up with him again. “Or are you just into following guys in the dark? Is that your thing ?” He grinned at Ken’s sour reaction. “I’m twenty-six and I’m fine on my own. You may leave now.”
Ken didn’t know if it was even his Guardian instincts, his pride, or morbid curiosity that made him keep following, his hands in his pockets to try to seem as non threatening as possible.
Wait. Twenty-six? Ken assessed the little thing in front of him as he followed with fascination. His eyes were too wide, his face too unblemished. And he was tiny. Ken knew Littles when he saw them, and the stranger walking alone in the dark ticked off all the boxes. Hell, Ken had seen Littles bigger than him. His suspicions confirmed in his mind, he called out again.
“Where is your caregiver?”
“Oh fuck off,” The boy rolled his eyes and pulled his hood back up, and turned to glare at Ken again. That pleased little smirk returned when he realized he’d ruffled the Alpha’s feathers, but he continued quickly when the shock began to morph into irritation. “I’m an Omegal; I’m just short. I live alone,” He said in a rush. Ken snorted.
“Right. Well, nice try, but I’m a doctor and a good one at that. I know a Little when I see one.” He said matter-of-factly. It wouldn’t be even close to the first time a Little had tried to pull this over on him, and he was proud to say he’d never fallen for it. Panic filled the boy’s big green eyes even as he scowled and began fishing around in his jacket.
“Not much of a doctor then, because I can prove it!” This would be good, Ken thought. Clever Littles were always fun. He liked being kept on his toes. Eventually, the small man shoved a plastic ID at Ken, who had to squint to read it in the streetlights.
Name: KITTRIDGE BARTHOLOMEW AUGUSTUS VAN HORN
Hair: BLOND Eyes: GREEN
Height 5’3” Weight: 125 LBS
Blood Type: O Negative
DOB 11/15/19XX
Status: OMEGA
“Kittridge Van Horn??” Ken raised an eyebrow at the boy, who flushed and stared sidelong at the dark pavement. So that’s why he looked so familiar. There wasn’t a soul in the city who hadn’t heard of Augustus Van Horn and his brood. The Van Horns were a very powerful East Coast clan, and their patriarch Augustus was a very vocal anti-Little lobbyist. Ken had to turn off the news every time he came on to speak, as the vitriol that came out of the man’s mouth was a bit much to tolerate. It was sickening, really.
Ken had seen the youngest Van Horn in the press before, but he looked very different now than he did in his public persona. For starters, he wasn’t wedged in the center of his four older siblings, dressed up in a sharp green suit and sharper loafers, sitting stone still and ramrod straight, his gold hair slicked back to match his brothers. Kittridge was never put in the spotlight like Harrison and Gallagher were, but was always present with them, smiling politely and answering the few questions that were asked of him like a perfect little doll.
“It’s Kitt,” The small man held out his hand to take back the ID, still watching the ground. “Kittridge is a stupid name.”
Ken was rather inclined to think that Kitt suited him much better anyway, but didn’t dare to say so.
“Do you have any paperwork to back this classification up?” The ID looked legit, but he’d seen convincing forgeries before, and there was no freaking way this height and weight was accurate. Perhaps he’d been misclassified. It seemed unlikely considering his family must have access to the best medical care money could buy, but it was still possible.
“Yup,” The man was affecting his voice to sound bored and annoyed, but Ken could see the pleading in his eyes. Just go away, it begged him. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”
It absolutely was his business, Ken thought. Because of his job, he was a mandated reporter for abused and neglected children, Littles, and other vulnerable parties. He was getting so many signals that something was very wrong here, and he couldn’t just ignore them. His instincts screamed at him that the young man was very much not a Big, and he might even know it. Ken swore he could get the faintest scent of honey when the wind blew with Kitt upwind, but it was masked by the harsh sting of a body spray that gave Ken a chilling flashback to his middle school’s locker room.
If Kitt really was a Little, living on his own was a major problem. Littles couldn’t control when they slipped into their headspace if they tried to hold out too long-- not without an illegal and very dangerous amount of Suppressant hormone. If he was alone and, say, left on a gas stove in a distracted haze, he could not only hurt himself but would put everyone in the building at risk. That’s why Little Services had been created, and the placement system.
Some Littles were old enough even in Littlespace to be considered competent enough to live unclaimed, sometimes even just with just roommates-- even Alphas and unclaimed Guardians. Others were very young in Littlespace and/or were totally unable to control the drop and needed to be with a bonded Guardian or specially trained Beta caretaker at all times. They weren’t allowed to live alone, period. Placement helped determine the needs of individual cases and did their best to make sure government financial aid was administered accordingly. Some Littles considered the system oppressive, but even those Littles usually understood the protections and health benefits that came from it. Littles got enough financial aid to live even if they couldn’t work. They were now able to take on high-stress jobs if evaluated to be capable of doing so. They were protected from sexual exploitation and anyone caught having improper relations with a little who couldn’t consent was firmly penalized for it. Littles also didn’t go to adult prisons; any Little found guilty of a crime was treated like any child and sent to a rehab facility.
Anti-Little talking heads like Augustus Van Horn found these protections to be an outrage, and insisted that Littles were just sick adults that should be discouraged from their headspace, ignoring the heaps of medical evidence that decidedly proved otherwise. Littles simply didn’t mature past a certain point, but that point could vary greatly.
“Are you done yet?” The blonde was pouting at him. Full-on pouting. Ken, in a split second judgment, shoved the card into his pocket. “Hey!! That’s Mine!!” Kitt shrieked, backing up a bit, voice rising in pitch. Ah.
“And I will give it back when I see your Classification paperwork.” Ken felt bad, but knew he’d feel even worse if he was right and let Kitt get away with it. The boy’s scowl turned into a wicked grin and he spoke quietly, maliciously.
“Yeah, okay. You’ll have to catch me first.” Before Ken could process what he’d said, Kitt had kicked him in the shin and took off sprinting down the alley as fast as his skinny legs could carry him into the night. Pretty fast, it turned out. Ken swore and gave chase. He managed to keep pace but couldn’t gain on the little guy, his muscles already sore from a long day and a very chunky sneaker sole to his shin. Suddenly, Kitt made a sharp turn down a random street and seemed to disappear. Ken swore again and trudged back to the apartment. The little shit would have to come back eventually, and then Ken could give him a piece of his mind and sus him out further. Perhaps this was a bit more than his mandated reporter status required of him. Maybe it was even a little bit more than concern-- fascination with why the boy was hiding.
It wasn’t unheard of for a Omega to barely clear the classification-- some people were just immature but grew out of it. Littles never would. But something about Kitt’s ID didn’t line up. Specifically, his height and weight were clearly incorrect. He was maybe five feet tall, if that, with his inch-thick soles. Yet his ID boasted an incredibly generous 5’3”. And Ken would eat his puffy black coat if that noodle was 125 pounds. He wasn’t any more than 98 soaking wet, he’d wager.
Come to think of it, even if he was an omega, he was a very sickly one. Stunted growth or otherwise ill. And while that would explain away his lack of personal public image, sickly Omegas generally couldn’t outrun a Guardian, however tired Ken was at the moment. A particularly bratty Little, however, certainly could be able to.
“Excuse me,” Ken called to Jules when he came through the door of the Astoria. The receptionist popped up her head from her studies to look at him. “I’m sorry, Julie; I know it’s very late.” Julie propped up her head on one plump arm, and gave Ken a tired smile.
“Good morning, Dr. Hamada. Late night at the Bellevue?” She bit back a yawn. “How can I help you?” Ken wondered vaguely why the girl had gotten stuck with the graveyard shift, but decided not to think about it too much. Julie could be quite useful, after all.
“Say, Jules,” Ken practically purred, and the Beta snapped to attention, a faint blush evident on her cheeks. Ken flashed her his most charming smile while holding up the ID. “I saw a guy drop this on his way in, but he was gone when I picked it up,” He lied as Julie lowered the glasses resting on her head to look at the card.
“Oh, Kitt!” She tsked, almost matronly in tone. It sounded as though she was exasperated, but not surprised. “He has got to keep better track of those!” Ken quirked an eyebrow, silently wondering how often Kitt had gotten stopped and had run off like that. “That Van Horn brat is a world of trouble, believe me!”
“Oh?” Ken did his best to look surprised at the information. Gods bless Julie. She was so helpful, even when she didn’t mean to be.
“Oh yes; The whole of the fifth floor has called down about the racket he makes at one point or another! Thinks that just because his father pays out the nose for that penthouse that he can do whatever he wants! Most people are genuinely concerned about his well-being, but… oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed. “Oh, look at me! Going on about a resident like this!” She flushed faintly and pressed an excellently manicured hand to her face. “I’m sure you’re exhausted, Dr. Hamada. I’ll return that card for you when he gets back, and try to get him to thank you for finding it--though I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” She shrugged in a resigned fashion. Ken had to think fast.
“No need to trouble yourself,” He said quickly. “I can return it. You said he’s on the fifth floor?”
“Erm, yes, but…” Julie flushed deeper, realizing she’d said too much.
“If I’m being honest, Julie,” He fixed his dark eyes on hers, trying to fill them with-- he wasn’t sure; yearning or something. “I was kind of eager to see him again.” That wasn’t a lie, even if the implication was misleading.
“Oh!” She gasped, beaming with excitement. There it is. “Em, yes, floor five. But that’s all I can tell ya, got it?” She wagged a finger at him, and Ken laughed. Despite herself, Julie couldn’t suppress her giggles. “Let me know how it goes!”
“Will do,” Ken waved at her before heading to the elevator. He felt bad for tricking the poor girl, but he could not ignore the feeling that something was very wrong.
While he waited by the elevator on the fifth floor, he plugged “Kittridge Van Horn '' into the search engine of his phone. He was immediately met with dozens of gossip articles about the young man, mostly painting him as a wild, spoiled heir with a penchant for silent brooding and violent outbursts. Apparently, he wasn’t out in public enough for the rags to have much to go on, so it couldn’t be more than rumors. Half of the articles used the same three press photos of him and the rest of his family. A few showed him outside some sort of campus, surrounded by security, but those were from nearly six years ago. Not that Kitt looked much different now. Ah.
A familiar scuffle of rubber caught Ken’s attention and he looked up from his internet stalking to see Kitt in front of him, trying to silently make his way down the hall.
“Shit,” The blond muttered when he saw Ken’s head snap up, and he took off sprinting to the end of the hall.
“Hey!” Ken gave chase again. “How did you--”
“Stairs! --FUCK!” Kitt swore loudly as his key slipped from his fingers, skidding along the floor. Ken caught up with him as he had to stop and pick them back up.
“Will you stop that?” Ken was surprised to hear his own voice lower into a growl. He must be more tired than he thought.
“Will you just leave me alone?” Ken heard the waver in his voice even before the brat turned to face him, face bruised, tearstained, and red from crying. “I’ve had a shitty fucking day, so just gimme back my ID and go away! ” Kitt was practically screaming in the empty hall.
“I told you, I will give it back when you can show me your papers. I’m a mandated reporter--it’s part of my job. And keep your voice down! People are sleeping, for heaven’s sake!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Kitt spat at him, still yelling. Ken’s hand’s twitched at his sides and he fought down the urge to take the little brat over his knee. Kitt unlocked the door and shoved it open, letting it bang against the stopper on the wall behind. While the brat stalked inside, Ken caught a look inside what he was just realizing was the building’s penthouse, overlooking the cove. A spacious living room decked out in black, gray and navy blue furnishings was littered with music and tech equipment. A very fancy-looking electric guitar with a space-themed paint job was lying askew on the coffee table, which was otherwise rife with junk food wrappers and various colorful notebooks. A keyboard was propped against the couch, likewise cluttered with blankets and at least three different sweatshirts. Kitt threw his keys on the counter and almost tripped over a wire making his way to the wall-mounted entertainment center. He pressed a sleek black drawer inward and it sprung open, allowing the boy to rifle through it.
Ken leaned against the doorframe, waiting and assessing the apartment. Based on the mess, and the fact that no one had come out into the living room to see what the shouting was about, there was no doubt that Kitt was indeed living alone. And struggling quite a bit, from the look of it.
“Here, you fuckin’ weirdo,” The blond shoved a stack of papers into Ken’s chest. “Now give it back. I have shit to do.”
Ken’s brow furrowed in confusion. The papers backed up the information on the card, but looking between the numbers on the paper and the tiny heir in front of him, he was sure it couldn’t be accurate. The hormone levels indicated here were just not possible in a person of Kitt’s size.
“Not to be rude,” Ken needed to word this as delicately as possible. “Have you ever considered getting a Reclassification test?” He couldn’t help but ask. He didn’t wait for an answer before handing back the license and papers. He’d promised, after all. “Just to make sure? I’ve seen this before with high-intelligence or neurodivergent Littles--”
“I’m not a fucking Little!” Kitt spat. “My Father has made our family’s position on those mentally ill freaks abundantly clear! I am certainly not one of those drooling little half-wits doing nothing to contribute, and I can more than take care of myself!”
“I only wanted to--”
“You Guardians think you’re always right, but you are barking up the wrong tree. Now get. Out!” He tried to shove Ken out of the doorway. When Ken didn’t move and only raised an eyebrow at him, Kitt got a furious look in his eye and slammed the door shut with all his tiny might. Ken had to jump back quickly or get smashed in the face with a slab of metal. The door banged shut, and the sound echoed and reverberated down the hall.
“Well that could have gone better.” Ken could hardly believe the vitriol coming from the young man, and fumed over the hateful comments as he made his way to his own apartment. They were all things he’d heard Augustus Van Horn spew out on his news spotlights, basically verbatim. But Kitt didn’t have the poison in his voice when he parroted them-- nothing like his father did. Instead, there was a layer of defense in the way he screeched-- like he was using the sharp words as a weapon to ward off the conversation rather than to pierce the hide of his opponent.
In fact, everything he’d done to try to quell Ken’s suspicions only made them intensify. The little guy was too frantic, too angry. He’d come back with bruising and refused to address it, much less ask anyone for help. Where had he gone? He hadn’t come back with anything except the shiner, so who did he meet that gave it to him? Ken prickled at the possibilities of that. There was plenty of demand for barely-cleared Omegas in rather unsavory parts of the city’s underground.
Maybe Kitt was right. Maybe it was none of his business. He’d done what was required of him and then some. And just maybe Kitt really was an Omega with some other genetic malady that resulted in his stature, and Ken was just being an overbearing jerk.
He was prone to it, after all: he had a bad habit of not giving people enough space to handle their own problems, and always wanted to swoop in and make the bad feelings go away. In fact, that had been the catalyst to the end of his last relationship. He twirled the string of his hoodie in his fingers at the thought of that, not very pleased to think about it.
Still, he thought as he unlocked and entered his own apartment, tossing his keys on the granite island in the kitchen. Maybe it’s worth another shot.
KITTRIDGE. 10.17.21
Kitt had had a fucking shitty day, and the deafening BANG of his front door slamming shut just made his ears ring on top of it. Slamming it shut in an Alpha’s face only made him feel marginally better. The nosy fucker had clocked him on sight, and Kitt could not understand why the man just would not let it go. And then he’d had the nerve to take his ID! And then he couldn’t get his suppressant from the pharmacy, and now his hormones would be all fucked up!
Fighting angry tears, Kitt collapsed on his couch and threw an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the world. It was a shitty fucking day, alright, and he’d only woken up a couple of hours ago.
He glanced at the sheets in his laundry nook with dread. He’d have to get that cleaned up before daybreak in case Father decided to make another unannounced ‘welfare check.’ They were really more of an inspection of Kitt’s personals and an excuse for his father to remind him how incompetent he was in the eyes of the Family, as well as to find excuses to punish him. The last time Father had seen wet sheets in the hamper, he’d spent about an hour verbally belittling his youngest and reminded him that this kind of shit was how he was going to get himself found out and stripped of everything he’d worked for. He was reminded that, if anyone found out he was a Little, he would be considered too weak to be on his own.
Augustus had also withheld Kitt’s food allowance for almost a month. Kitt had had to busk eight hours a day in subway stations and on the street to feed himself that month, which meant he hadn’t had time to work on any new music for Gallagher, which meant his siblings had each come down on him right after the other for being a screwup. That’s how it always was.
Thinking of food made Kitt’s stomach growl, and he groaned in frustration. He’d been so angry with the Guardian and because of his hormones that he’d completely forgotten to get breakfast at the bodega on the way home! Hot tears stung at his eyes again, brushed away roughly by the sleeve of his sweater.
“Van Horns don’t cry,” He could practically hear his father sneering in the back of his mind.
He prodded the bruise on his face, the pain throbbing just under his skin. He really should stop flipping off strangers that were bigger than him. The Alpha in the pharmacy parking lot had not liked it, and had backhanded him so hard his jaw still hurt.
Sighing, Kitt pushed himself off the couch and trudged into the kitchen, hoping and praying that something edible lay within. Looking in the fridge, he searched through half-eaten takeout, old and untouched vegetables, and questionable eggs. He plucked a pudding cup from the bag and sniffed at it, regretting it instantly. He looked at the long-past expiration date and scowled.
Just great.
He grumbled to himself that he ought to make that Guardian buy him food the next morning as he grabbed a half-eaten bag of Doritos and retreated to the couch to work. This had become his routine-- wake up after dark, get food before everyone closed, and spend the nights working non-stop until he fell asleep over his keyboard, at which point he’d drag himself to the bedroom and collapse on the bed. The timing tended to shift-- sometimes he would just work for days on end when there was a hard deadline to be met. Sometimes he’d actually line up with what some people might call a ‘normal’ schedule. But mostly he just drove his neighbors crazy with 3 AM jam sessions, and more or less considered the concept of time unnecessary.
Kitt checked his phone and realized he had about a bazillion messages from Gallagher and his Father, and a few voicemails from his mother, who was currently separated from her husband and living in her childhood neighborhood in Westchester, not to mention constantly trying to get him to move out of the city and closer to her. No, thank you.
He marked everything as read, completely unable to deal with the amount of social interaction that choosing to engage with his family would bring. Especially Gallagher. Once upon a time, his eldest brother used to joke with him and support him, but now he’d seemed to completely buy into their father’s narrative that Kitt was a shiftless disappointment, and no one seemed interested in Kitt’s own opinion on the matter. All anyone ever focused on was how smart he was and why couldn’t he use that intellect to grow up and get his shit together, and why was he wasting his time with this internet comedy schtick?
That part really hurt, because Kitt was actually quite proud of his YouTube Channel, and knew that his family was aware of that.
The Van Horns were an old family, and had their fingers in quite a lot of pies. They were rather involved with the music industry, and when Kitt had first shown a proclivity for music, the family was quick to find a way to put him to work with it. Gal had snagged him a composition role in a New York studio, which allowed him to work with some pretty big names as a teenager. However, once he’d started Presenting, they’d ousted him from the physical studio and banished him to working from home, to minimize public exposure. If he couldn’t learn to be a normal adult member of society, his father made it very clear he could always be removed from it.
With strict orders to lay low, Kitt had gotten bored and made the anonymous YouTube persona Chaotic Stupid as a teenager, and had successfully kept it completely anonymous for years by covering his Littlish face with sunglasses and a mask, and distorting his voice from song to song so no one could place who he was or what he really sounded like. He wrote satirical and surrealist lyrics that were usually thinly veiled speeches about how fucked up and dark the inner world of the upper class really was. It had been so freeing to make something that people enjoyed not because it would sell but because it was the sharper edges of Kitt’s mind fighting back against everything he’d been beaten into repeating his whole life. He’d even made a small amount of money off it, and had been planning on completely severing ties with his father once he made enough.
Ultimately, Harrison, of all people, was the one to find the channel. He’d sent it to the family group chat, jokingly (but not jokingly) pointing out how similar Chaotic Stupid was to Kitt, and Gallagher took the bait and made the connection himself. Cue the angry phone tree.
After several heated conversations with his family, Kitt realized he just didn’t care anymore and briefly ran off with the money he’d made. He’d gotten as far as Atlanta before his brothers found him and brought him back, unwilling, to his apartment in Queens. They’d stayed for a week after, and Father used the time to seize the Chaotic Stupid account’s assets. Since Kitt was diagnosed autistic and ADHD and had a long and historied habit of running off, that, more often than not, involved some kind of public service sector, it wasn’t difficult for Augustus to exert his great influence to hold his son’s assets. Which was what always happened whenever Kitt managed to find something that was his own-- it got taken away from him just as quickly. Usually by Father.
Even Mother had had a field day guilting him over trying to run off to LA and insisted he come live with her, which Kitt had adamantly refused, finally agreeing to stay in New York with Father checking up on him randomly whenever he was in town. He was so tired and just wanted everyone to leave him alone to curl up in a soft blanket and sleep forever. Instead, he had to work.
Kitt picked up his guitar and stuck his headphone jack into his amp before plugging in his baby. The vintage Fender was a gift from Irvine on his 18th birthday and was custom painted by her now-fiance to look like a galaxy.
She’d been the only one of his siblings to get him a gift that year. He’d presented early, and even Harry had been too busy helping their father figure out how to cover it up to even do the stupid birthday song that, up until then, Kitt had hated so much ever since Harry and Gal had made it up when he was six.
So of course, Irvine had been the one to pick up the pieces. She’d even planned ahead, and had several conversations with Kitt to prepare him for how Father might react. He was none too pleased when she had even presented as a Guardian, and Kitt suspected that she’d known he was Little far longer than anyone else. She was the only one who explained anything to him, too: when he Dropped for the first time, she was there with caring and kind words. She helped him understand why he was panicking, and why the family was so tense, and for a month he would come to her whenever he felt he was Dropping and she’d coax him through it. Their father had been furious with her for “encouraging such disgusting behavior!” and he dragged Kitt by the arm to take him to get his first round of suppressants. He had ranted the whole time about how Kitt was doomed to end up just like Aunt Ellison if he couldn’t keep his true nature under wraps. She was still MIA, having disappeared into thin air two years after she was classified as a Little. If it weren’t for the miracle of science that was hormone treatment, Augustus had told him, the family would have no choice but to disown him. He must have said something to Irvine too, because after that, she’d moved out to live with a few of her girlfriends and stopped talking to Kitt in general.
Kitt strummed the guitar sadly, unsure if the melancholy he was feeling was from hormone drop or from lack of real food. How long would it be until someone caught him again? He worried about the Guardian living downstairs that clearly knew he was lying, and what would happen if LPS was called on him again. He’d avoided being re-tested in their clinics before, but knew he could only get lucky so many times before they caught on. His Father’s influence helped, but people like the mysterious Doctor on the 4th floor that actually took their job seriously made his life so much harder. He needed to get more Suppressant, he decided as he shoved his guitar to the side, unable to focus. If anyone re-tested him, he was fucked.
He stood abruptly, trying to keep himself from spiraling any longer. He needed his suppressant, that was all. He ran his fingers through his hair and moved toward the laundry nook. If he couldn’t work, he might as well take care of this. He grabbed his headphones on his way and plugged them back into his phone to blast Spotify into his brain. Kitt glared at the wet spot on his sheets, willing it to just go away. He hated this, and he hated how little control he had over his own body. If he just wet the bed every night, he could defend it as a medical issue. But it only happened when he was stressed out, and was even irregular in that. And since Kitt was constantly stressed out these days, he never knew when he was going to wake from a night terror or a bout of sleep paralysis to a wet bed. In fact, he tried to avoid sleep altogether because it was just such a chore. He was more than content to work for 40-ish hours in a single sitting if it meant he could avoid that humiliation a little longer.
As he hoisted his pissy sheets into the washer, his mind kept wandering to the mysterious doctor. The man had been so adamant, and for what? What was his endgame? Was he that set on handing Kitt over to Little Protective Services? Kitt had had several run-ins with the organization since he’d started living on his own. They’d come in, do a sweep of the apartment, and glance at his papers before leaving. No one had ever followed up again, but Kitt knew that it was because Father had paid someone off to say they’d made a mistake.
In a bid to erase any and all suspicion, Father had him remove any and all traces of anything childish from the apartment, until the only item that brought Kitt comfort on the rare occasions he dropped--not that he could even recount the last time that had been-- was Bilbo the Doggit. The stuffed dog was old and worn, having been given to Kitt at birth, and he was too scared to snuggle him anymore for fear he might break into pieces. He was already missing an eye, and half his stuffing. Kitt couldn’t bear to see him destroyed entirely.
After he turned on the washer ( then remembered to put in the detergent, then started it again. Idiot. ) He returned to the couch and rolled a joint from the jar he had out on the coffee table. He popped an Adderall before he began smoking, hoping that the dual highs would keep him hyperfocused on recording for at least the next four hours. He could do this, he told himself. Eventually, all this hiding and driving his body to its limit every which way in order to keep himself afloat would pay off, and his father would finally just let him live his life on his own, with no one to tell him what to do or who to be.
It had to pay off, he thought as his anger and fear flowed into the fingers moving up and down the neck of the Fender. Otherwise, what the fuck was he even hiding for?
At some point, Kitt’s anxieties melted into dissociation as the mix of drugs took hold, throwing him into a creative, albeit wildly unhealthy haze that managed to quiet the constant buzzing in his brain so he could actually think. There he stayed, forcing himself to ignore the hunger and fatigue until he saw dawn break over the cove.
His stomach growled, and he remembered a certain doctor who owed him a sandwich.