Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Despite Dr. Curtain’s stern reprimand that he was not to bring anyone else to the forest, S.Q. finds that Reynie’s words resonate more. Normally, he wouldn’t dare to disobey his father in such a substantial way, always worried about the possible consequences. Even now, as he’s walking alongside Reynie towards the restricted area of the island, he’s tightly gripping the strap of his bag to stop them from shaking at the thought of his father’s disappointment and displeasure. Anxiety and premature regret are already eating away at his fragile sense of defiance and he technically hasn’t even broken a rule yet.

Reynie doesn’t notice the state of S.Q. at first, appearing more concerned with their surroundings and being on the lookout for Executives. Every sound makes the boy turn to look back with the speed of a reflex. As he — every time — discovers that no one is there, he slowly turns back around, though his shoulders never fully drop from being raised to his ears.

S.Q. can’t blame him for the exaggerated vigilance, Jackson and Jillson have as a matter of fact been particularly persistent recently.

It isn’t until they reach the bollard fence and S.Q. stops dead in his tracks that Reynie calms down and is made aware of his companion’s nerves.

“Hey, is everything all right?” Reynie approaches him slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, S.Q. notices the delicate twitch of Reynie’s hand as if to reach out to touch his shoulder or arm, but hesitation gets in the way. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t feel like doing.” Reynie’s voice is warm and gentle and even after S.Q. found out it had all been a lie, he still likes to think that the boy’s tenderness was genuine.

S.Q. considers Reynie’s words. There is still time to back out, there is still time to avoid the inevitable confrontation with his father that he’ll have to endure once he returns. He’s never been good at lying and his father’s constant preaching about the importance of transparency for a ’healthy parent-child dynamic’ doesn’t make it any easier.

But he’s bringing a friend to the forest, and the fact that he’s made a friend feels as much like an act of defiance as breaking his father’s rules. So, S.Q. doesn’t see the harm in doing both.

“No, it’s okay,” S.Q. reassures, making eye contact with Reynie to confirm the decision. He indicates the direction they should continue walking in with a jerk of his head and together they pass the bollard fence.

They walk in silence for a while, both of them still slightly on edge until the fence is out of sight and they’re enclosed by nothing but forest.

It’s a beautiful day, one of the last sunny days of the year, S.Q. predicts. The colors of the forest are amplified and covered in soft golden light, in his head S.Q. is already picking out the pencils he wants to use to depict it.

“Careful of poison ivy from here on out. It’s everywhere,” S.Q. remarks. He inwardly cringes at the memory of the many painful encounters he’s had with the plant. One time, his father had had to leave the room at the sight of S.Q.’s rash-covered legs, leaving him to be tended to by one of the Institute’s nurses.

“Why is this area restricted anyways?” Reynie asks, walking a few steps behind S.Q. as the desire path they’re following grows narrower and more irregular. S.Q. glances over his shoulder as his friend speaks but quickly has to look down again to avoid tripping over rogue roots and stones.

“Something to do with Dad’s work, I’m not entirely sure, though,” S.Q. answers with a shrug.

“Doesn’t your dad tell you about his work?”

“I rarely ask,” he replies. “Dad’s not a big fan of the word ‘curious’,” he adds without thinking.

They’ve stopped walking now, any man-made trails having dwindled into nothingness. S.Q.’s gaze wanders to find a suitable path to their destination; preferably, one with minimal risk of poison ivy-induced injuries.

“Oh, that’s…” Reynie trails off, mouth open and eyes roaming about, clearly indicating that what he’s just heard is swirling around his head.

They start walking again, but S.Q. finds himself unable to let go: “What were you going to say?”

“Oh, nothing,” Reynie mumbles apologetically.

A silent, shared breath.

“You know, I’ve always appreciated your honesty,” S.Q. blurts out. “You keep it real.” He instantly regrets speaking when he spots the ever-familiar crease between Reynie’s brows.

There’s that subtle manipulation and sense of guilt in the air between them now. One that makes it difficult for S.Q. to swallow.

Reynie feigns a look of gratitude, though his eyes remain narrowed. “I was just thinking, it sort of seems like – from what I’ve observed – he doesn’t trust you all that much.” S.Q. watches the well-oiled machine that is Reynie Muldoon’s intellect make every effort to construct a thoroughly thought-out sentence. The struggle makes itself very evident in the boy’s features (he’s never had much of a poker face) and S.Q. would find it humorous if it weren’t for the implications of his words.

“My father, you mean?” S.Q. asks, and Reynie turns inwards – almost in shame – and nods.

“Forgive me, I don’t want to make any inappropriate assumptions–”

“No, it’s okay,” he says with an involuntary, cynical smile that painfully stretches his dried-out lips. “You’re kind of right, actually. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

Reynie doesn’t say anything in response and S.Q. doesn’t have to look to know the boy is frowning again. The silence (apart from the sounds of their footsteps and the wind rustling the leaves) at that moment feels so tangible that S.Q. doesn’t realize he grabs it with such ease:

“Did you know that’s why I don’t have any friends? Because he always assumes people have an ulterior motive?” S.Q. doesn’t realize how upset he is until his voice cracks and his lower lip begins to tremble. The silence that follows falls even heavier than before.

Reynie looks at him; S.Q.’s gripping the strap of his bag so hard his hands are shaking. He is silent for a bit longer before speaking:

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Reynie’s voice is kind and gentle once more and S.Q. feels weak for finding so much comfort in it. He’d done it again, S.Q. thinks, imposed on a stranger’s kindness. This time within the span of only one conversation.

“I’m used to it, being alone and all,” he admits sheepishly and shrugs, a weak attempt at lightening the mood.

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Reynie says, and he says it with such candor that S.Q doesn’t know what to say. A bird blown off its course, he feels so dumbstruck that he stumbles and almost takes a wrong turn.

They’re silent for a moment again.

Then Reynie nudges him slightly, making S.Q. look up; the boy is looking at him with a lighthearted grin.

“Are we there yet?” He asks.

S.Q. smiles, “Almost.”

They spend roughly an hour sketching together in silence (although Reynie is seemingly distracted) until they have to return to their respective obligations. Of course, there was also the issue with his father’s strict timetable of when he was allowed to be near the woods, and it was reaching midday – lunchtime to be more specific.

Reynie doesn’t ask if S.Q. would like to join him for lunch, but he doesn’t take it to heart. He knows Reynie has other friends; ones that won’t ruin the mood by whining like a baby about their parents.

S.Q. has only met these friends briefly, though they’re mostly just familiar shapes and features spotted from a distance. He recognizes George ‘Sticky’ Washington as the anxious, bespectacled boy with a nervous smile turned recent Messenger who frequents his father’s office.

The two girls aren’t as familiar aside from being Reynie’s companions. The tall one, Kate, seems bold and energetic, albeit a tad overenthusiastic (similar to Martina Crowe, S.Q. notes). The small one, Constance, is a mystery to S.Q., but he doesn't appear to be alone in his bewilderment. For the most part, the girl just glares at people (including S.Q.).

On their way out of the forest, S.Q. searches for anything resembling discomfort or boredom on Reynie’s features, a sign that he’d successfully pushed someone away again. He finds nothing he’s able to get a full read on, just Reynie’s typical expression (brows furrowed, mouth slightly opened, eyes focused on something far away).

They part when their shared path diverges. Not many words are said, just a small wave and a ‘see you later’ are exchanged, both too distracted to say much more. Despite the warmth in S.Q.'s chest, which in retrospect was a result of his naivety, the knowledge of the imminent confrontation with his father trumps all positivity. He grips the straps of his bag again, its edges leave red marks on his palms.

The inevitable confrontation ends up being just as bad as he had thought it would be. Heart pounding in his ears, bile rising in his throat, hairs on the back of his neck rising. When S.Q. leaves the room, shutting the door behind him with shaking hands, he barely remembers the event that had just transpired.

It takes a moment for him to even realize that he has just lied to his father; that he had dared to look his father in the eyes and tell him no, he hadn’t brought Reynie to the forest. And he’d done it, S.Q. realizes, because he’d sensed danger. It hadn’t been an act of rebellion, an exemplary deed of his budding adolescence. It had been the subconscious understanding of the risk a confession would pose to his friend’s safety.

Because Reynie is his friend. And friends stick up for each other. At least, that’s what S.Q. supposes they ought to, although he doesn’t have much experience in the field of friendship.

He spends the rest of his afternoon sketching in his room, heart still racing, fearing that at any moment his father will slam open the door with his usual look of thinly masked rage and tell him that Reynie was in the Waiting Room because someone had found them out.

In his head, S.Q. can see it playing out so clearly; down to every highlight and shadow on his father’s pristine suit. So much so, that when the door actually opens he almost doesn’t jump. Emphasis on almost, because he still yelps and drops his pencil on the floor with a jerk.

The person standing in the doorway – one of his father’s Executives who S.Q. doesn’t know by name – tilts his head at him slightly in suspicion, but doesn’t remark on the strange reaction.

“Dr. Curtain demands your presence in the dining room,” he says in the standard, apathetic tone of voice of the Executives.

S.Q. nods in response, his body still jittery from the sudden shock.

“Right now,” the Executive adds when S.Q. still hasn’t moved out of his seat. At this, S.Q. feels the panic begin to bubble up in the pit of his stomach.

A new picture is being painted in his head, one of his father looking at him in that stern way of his while surrounded by his team of solemn, gray men.

He gets up a little too quickly and once again the Executive regards him with slight suspicion, but remains quiet as he guides S.Q. down the corridor.

When they reach the office – which is also referred to as the lounge or the dining hall, depending on his father’s mood – Dr. Curtain looks up from his papers.

In the corner of the room, S.Q. notes that the small dining table has been pulled out and covered in the usual dark blue tablecloth. Right next to it, his father’s private chef is busy preparing a meal.

“S.Q., still in your uniform I see,” his father says, giving S.Q a once-over.

S.Q. looks down at his outfit: His favorite edition of the standard abiding clothing mandated by the Institute and, by extension, his father. He doesn’t own much in terms of clothing, with the exception of the narrow slot in his closet dedicated to formalwear, which would be collecting dust if it weren’t for the incessant cleaning of his belongings (per his father’s demand).

“I didn’t know I was supposed to get changed,” S.Q. admits abjectly, pulling down the sleeves of his light blue cardigan from his elbows.

Dr. Curtain observes him silently for a moment, dark eyes blinking, lips in a crescent moon smile. He hums (to acknowledge or to dismiss? S.Q. isn’t sure) before gesturing towards the dining table.

“I figured we could have dinner. Spending quality time together is vital for maintaining healthy relationships.” The man’s smile widens, but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

The pool of acid-green anxiety resting in S.Q.’s stomach rises to his lungs like a tidal wave. It makes his breath come out ragged, but he agrees anyway, and the two take a seat by the dinner table.

His father always takes the seat facing the door, just in case someone important was to enter. More times than not have their dinners been interrupted by some scientist or Executive who always has something of great importance to share.

Tonight, they’re having roast duck, one of his father’s favorites, though the man admits it’s more of an indulgence. Since his – and thus S.Q.’s – current diet, agro-paleo, prohibits dairy products, S.Q. eyes the butter-basted duck with suspicion.

“Just make sure to eat something healthy for breakfast tomorrow,” his father adds while he’s placing one of his monogrammed napkins in his lap.

S.Q. muses over how he’s not even allowed to take part in the lavish breakfast buffet with the other students (not that he’d want to anyway) and that he’s been having the same breakfast for the past couple of years.

Nonetheless, he acknowledges his father with an ‘mhm’ while simultaneously trying to ignore the urge to push his plate away from him. Just looking at the food makes him feel nauseous. He suppresses a shudder. It’s too much.

“So, did you find your trip to the forest fruitful?” Dr. Curtain finally says after a while of nothing but the sound of chewing and utensils scraping against plates. S.Q. has been playing around with the food on his plate with his fork for the past few minutes, knowing his father would be too distracted to take note of it.

“What do you mean?” S.Q. asks, not looking up from his food. He stabs one of the roasted vegetables on his plate, guiding it through a maze of gravy.

“Did you enjoy the company?” Dr. Curtain’s voice is smooth and dark and crimson red. He pauses in his movements, the fork loaded with food resting expectantly in the open air.

S.Q. narrows his eyes. This is a test, he thinks, it has to be.

He looks up. “I went alone, Dad, like you told me to,” he says, trying to sound more upset than usual. There’s a dull sound, like that of a strong wind enveloping a house, growing stronger in his head.

His father nods, perhaps as a way to signal that he passed the test. S.Q. isn’t sure.

“You know, I’ve always said that the walk of life is a solitary one.” Dr. Curtain's expression morphs into one of pride, a look he always gets when delivering (what he believes to be), particularly intellectual prose.

S.Q. fights the urge to sigh – or worse, groan – at his father because indeed the man has never said that phrase before in his life, at least not to his son.

The sound grows louder, the wind stronger.

He stammers: “But does it have to be so… lonely?” S.Q. winces at his own choice of words as soon as they’re uttered.

His father is quick to respond, a familiar lilt to his voice, articulation never once faltering:

“I never used the word lonely, what makes you think life is lonely?” The man tilts his head in an almost exaggerated manner and S.Q. feels the gesture radiates more condescension than concern.

“I–” S.Q. opens his mouth to speak, to defend himself in a battle he knows he’s already lost.

The sound is almost deafening inside his head and it’s as though his foundations are being rattled by a vengeful yet hesitant cyclone.

“Do I make you feel lonely?” The man continues, looking close to offended at the insinuation. His brow creases in a look of worry and a part of S.Q. wants to believe it’s genuine. He feels those familiar strings of his heart being tugged and he wants so desperately to just cry out.

“No, but–”

But he’s helpless.

“Great, now finish your salad, it’s good for you,” Dr. Curtain expertly interrupts and points towards S.Q. 's plate with his fork in a curt but fatherly manner, before resuming eating.

S.Q. just stares at his father. He feels the commotion deep within him begin to settle down, the forceful wind somewhat soothed, the rushing tide quietly receding, albeit reluctantly.

With as much reluctance, he complies with his father’s order, taking a large bite of a dressing-covered piece of lettuce. As soon as his mouth is full, his father speaks again:

“I happen to believe you are destined to do great things, S.Q., but one cannot achieve greatness without making sacrifices.”

S.Q. still doesn’t get the chance to respond, he nearly chokes on his food trying to.

“Any false sense of comradery you need to grow accustomed to discarding,” his father continues, gesturing with his fork, “It’s not worth it in the long run.”

S.Q. downs his water to seize the coughing, tears stinging his eyes. He contemplates whether or not there will ever be a ‘long run’ for himself.

“Right,” he mumbles and his voice sounds all scratchy.

He finds himself slumping in his seat, a pain in his chest as though it’s being stretched out too thinly. With his mind no longer clinging to his skull for purchase in the midst of a storm, S.Q. finds himself staring out on a barren wasteland. It’s calm but empty.

Nothing but him and his thoughts now.

S.Q. dares to glance at his father, if only for a short moment.

People may come and go but what does it matter when only he is allowed to pass the bollard fence? He is destined to walk the ’solitary path’ his father has carved out for him. Even his rebellious detours remain within the confines of the island.

Except, he brought someone with him this time. And it felt like bringing a flower into a foreign ecosystem, a tropical bird into a nordic winter, as though some sort of balance was disrupted, as though the island felt less like a home and more like a place one could leave.

It sprouted hope.

Yet he now feels strong hands gripping said hope, attempting to pull it from the root. As though it were a weed, a foul spot in the field of loneliness which he’s grown so accustomed to tending to. Vast plains of arid, beige solitude. He’s gotten used to it.

He thinks back to what Reynie had told him. That he doesn’t have to be alone. And when S.Q. looks at his father, a garden of knowledge beloved by all, he finds himself still banging on its doors to be let in.

Knuckles bloody.

In some way, it has to be worth it, this feeling of being merely tolerated. In some way, it has to be a test that S.Q. simply has to pass. He turns the thought over and over in his head, inspecting it as if the solution will be there for him to find; as if the key to the garden will somehow reveal itself and its prim and proper picket fences of ’parent-child dynamics’ will at last crumble.

It has to be worth it.

Chapter Text

Stupid. So stupid.

The bucketload of information that Reynie dumped out flits around S.Q.’s head; subliminal messages, planting thoughts, our free will is at stake, he’s going to erase my memory, it all comes back to him in a blur. Strangely, the one thing that stands out to him with any form of clarity is the look on Reynie’s face when he confessed his lies. S.Q. is certain that he has never seen someone look so guilty before in his entire life, but maybe it’s another one of the boy’s ploys. 

His father had been right, Reynie’s betrayal had been legible to the watchful eye, and S.Q., so desperate to find a friend, had been too blind to see it. Stupid. So stupid. It’s almost cruel. The collected discoveries of lies and truths and betrayals accumulate into an overwhelming feeling of nausea. And that’s how he finds himself standing behind his father’s office building, hunched over and dry heaving. 

Even when the nausea eventually subsides, S.Q. can’t stop shaking. His body’s covered in a cold sweat and when he buries his face in his trembling hands he can already sense the distant brewing of a storm. 

He couldn’t bring himself to confess to his father that he had been successfully deceived, that he had been weak and disloyal. 

Panic starts to simmer and boil in the pit of his stomach, and the mere memory of his father’s face morphing into an expression of contained rage before his eyes makes it rise to his head like steam. 

But he also couldn’t bring himself to completely shut out the things Reynie had said; not when he had that look in his eyes, not when his voice was quivering with a visceral fear. 

The storm closes in on him. 

Maybe his father is a villain after all and not one constructed by his bitter juvenile mind. Maybe it wasn’t just him and he isn’t deranged or hateful or wrong by nature. 

Everything starts to spin. 

With every sharp and irregular intake of breath, S.Q. tries to paint a picture in his head that he can look at long enough to start making sense of things. But he can’t. Every brushstroke blends into a muddy and unintelligible mess of shapes and colors that he can’t decipher the beginning or end of. 

S.Q. isn’t sure of when it ends, only that his lungs are suddenly filled with air again. He’s on his knees – they must’ve given in at some point – and when he tries to rise to his feet they only buckle once more. 

He’s still trembling, or he could be shivering; the sun has set and the late autumn air is unforgiving to S.Q. who’d neglected to bring his jacket. 

One more attempt at standing up – he can taste the bile in the back of his throat – and he succeeds. With but an ounce of triumph, S.Q. places a hand on the wall beside him for support, takes a deep breath, and heaves up everything he’d eaten that day. 

He’s only had a reaction like this a few times before. He would always tell his father about it; cautiously ask him for advice without burdening him too much with the task of caring. Dr. Curtain would habitually paraphrase a parental guidebook with a suitable answer in his usual logical, detached manner, never forgetting to add that his son’s pain has been acknowledged at the end. As though it was some kind of reward. This time, S.Q. can’t turn to his father.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, S.Q. takes a look at his surroundings. It’s not the first time he’s hidden behind his father’s office building, though it’s not the most tactical of hiding places. Usually, the place is crawling with his father’s guards. But tonight, S.Q. notes, signs of Jeffers and his equally incompetent team are notably absent. 

He gazes out into the forest, his only source of light (the lightbulbs from inside the house behind him, making themselves known through the circular windows above) being too faint to make anything out but the contours of the nearest trees. 

Strange, he thinks, perhaps they’re preparing for the antennas to be turned on. As soon as S.Q. finishes that train of thought he is reminded of what Reynie had told him, of what his father was really planning. Defiance and disbelief still resonate within him, because who is Reynie anyway? Some boy who fools others into thinking that they’re friends just for his own ulterior motives? No, there is disbelief in that too, rooted in that pained and guilt-ridden look on Reynie’s face. 

It dawns on S.Q. then, that he has nowhere to turn. If his father really is the villain that Reynie claims him to be, then Harbor Island – S.Q.’s home – immediately becomes treacherous territory. Even if he were to manage to leave the island without his father knowing (even the hypotheticals feel impossible), where would he go? There’s no one that S.Q. can think of that isn’t directly tied in allegiance to Dr. Curtain. He would have to be on his own in Stonetown, which S.Q. has only visited once (seen briefly through the window of a moving car). 

Ultimately, the elements win over his brooding and S.Q. scurries back into the building for warmth. He feels drained and weak, every other step too wobbly for comfort. Fortunately, his father’s office is empty and S.Q. can walk up to his room undisturbed. 

After rinsing his mouth out with water to (unsuccessfully) rid of the foul taste, he stumbles towards his bed, sits down, and thinks. Though, S.Q. isn’t sure he can call it that; he stares out into his dark room (he couldn’t be bothered to turn on the lights) and listens to the humming inside his head. Now and then he’ll have to take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, to quieten the sound of his heart in his ears. 

He doesn’t sleep. Even though he tries to. But every time his eyelids begin to droop and darkness tries to swallow him, he is jolted awake by his own anxieties. So, for the most part, he paces. He finds that the steady, regular rhythm of his footsteps keeps him grounded; keeps him from spiraling again. 

Just as S.Q. sits down on his bed again, there’s a curt knock on the door that starts him out of his trance. 

Three raps. He doesn’t have to guess who is on the other side. 

“Come in,” S.Q. calls out meekly, knowing it doesn’t really matter, the knocker will open the door regardless of his reply. 

Dr. Curtain is as impeccably styled as ever. Despite wearing what appears to be the same suit he wore earlier that day, S.Q. can tell by the crisp pressing of the dress pants that it is indeed not the same suit (he had also had a look-see through his father’s closet once and found an unsettling amount of identical items of clothing. There was also an equally unsettling amount of blue, the man seems to despise all other colors). 

The man looks almost sheepish standing in the doorway. But after turning on the light he appears to have regained any bit of composure that could have slipped through his fingers. Even in the sudden illumination of the room, which is briefly blinding, S.Q. can’t help but find his father’s eyes as stark and somber as a starless sky. 

“I apologize for my somewhat harsh dismissal of you earlier,” the man states, nodding his head apologetically though without breaking eye contact. 

S.Q. is about to mumble that it’s fine and that he’s actually pretty tired and should get ready for bed, but he’s interrupted. 

“Surely, you must understand the kind of stress that I’m under.” His father takes a step forward, hand absentmindedly smoothing over his suit. 

 S.Q.’s already modest smile falters ever so slightly, but he nods, with a lack of a better alternative.

“So, it would be fair of me to not expect any impertinent questions in the future?” The shift in tone hits the room like the dull, muted sound one hears in the recording of an explosion. Regardless, it rings in S.Q.’s ears; the dust settles and now the air feels thick with guilt which – in combination with the lingering shock and exhaustion – only escalates S.Q.’s struggle to breathe. But he slumps, head bowed, and nods again. 

Black dress shoes polished to a mirror-like shine enter his field of vision, but he’s unable to muster up the courage to look up and meet the owner’s gaze. 

“I’m only trying to protect you, S.Q.,” his father continues with his usual, reserved intonation. 

If he were to look up, S.Q. could try to scramble for traces of emotion in the faint, crescent moon smile, or in the crinkles in the corners of the man’s eyes. But he manages to hold back this time, a gentle command – barely louder than a whisper – residing in the corners of his consciousness tells him that the storm is far from fully over.  

“The mind is so easily corrupted… And I just want what’s best for you.” 

All of the pieces that S.Q. has collected abruptly connect with a click and his stomach drops what feels like 10 feet, realization striking like the chimes of a clock. He looks up at his father with a quiet catch of his breath, eyes widened with shock. 

Dr. Curtain immediately reacts to the shift in demeanor, his expression subtly shifting; a faint crease appearing between his eyebrows and his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. 

“I know you do,” S.Q. stammers, trying to retreat back into his state of guilt and shame – that has been severely overpowered by pure adrenaline – to assume a look of remorse. His heart is beating so loud that he for a moment thinks his father might hear it. But instead, the man’s face softens. 

“Now, get some rest. Big day tomorrow.” His father’s smile is thin – strained even. “Goodnight, son.”

“‘Night, Dad.” 

The door is shut (though the light switch remains untouched) and S.Q. is left alone with his thoughts again. 

He feels as though he’s dealing with the aftermath of a sudden blow to the face; the initial sting is slowly wearing off, leaving a tingling burn in its wake along with the involuntary welling up of tears in his eyes and a tremble running through his bottom lip. But he can’t bring himself to cry. All he can do is stare at the closed door his father just left through along with the lingering disbelief S.Q. had spent the entire night desperately clinging to. 

The hours pass and no one else comes to knock at his door. Back and forth, he’s pacing. He’s waiting, for what exactly he’s unsure of. Every now and then, he will peer out of his room and down the hallway that leads to his father’s office. He can’t see anything, but he hears voices: Dr. Curtain, smooth and conniving; Dr. Garrison (his father’s employee and ‘friend’), reluctant and detached. Dr. Garrison mentions a few scientific words which S.Q. recognize but doesn't understand. 

The two are having dinner and from the few words S.Q. can hear, he gathers that they’re celebrating something. But S.Q. knows it is a cleverly constructed act. He’s even witnessed Reynie become a victim of it (he’d sat in his usual corner, gripping his pencil so hard he thought it would break, listening to his father’s voice echoing the same lines he’d used over and over with everyone he ever spoke to, including S.Q.). 

The pacing is starting to make him feel lightheaded and so he leans against his desk to stabilize himself. He stares at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time; its overly simplistic design makes it difficult to read in the dark so he makes a rough estimate (it’s probably past midnight).

He opens his bedroom door and looks down the still brightly lit hallway again. 

It’s gone quiet. No clattering of forks and knives, no muffled, awkward conversation. 

As quietly as he can, S.Q. creeps down the hallway and peers around the corner into the office. It’s empty. S.Q. doesn’t hesitate. He bolts out the door. 

There is urgency, neither guilt nor feigned complacency is quick enough to flood his mind. The only thing carrying enough weight to run down the stream are his thoughts, jumbled and heavy. He almost runs to his destination, not bothering to look out for any Executives or Gray men. 

There is nothing but the sound of the water lapping the shore, the clouds of his breath, and the last remaining surety S.Q. possesses, which proves to be the consistent but violent beating of his heart.  

The bench is slightly damp as S.Q. sits down on it and the lack of trees allows the bitterly cold air to cling and seep right into his bones without hindrance, but it doesn’t matter. He sits on the edge of his raincoat (which he finally remembered to bring), wraps his arms around himself, shivers, and breathes. 

There is nowhere else for him to go. He can’t talk to his father, he can’t talk to Reynie, he can’t even go to the forest with the antennas about to be turned on in just a couple of hours. S.Q. is stranded in his own home. 

S.Q. tries once again to paint a picture in his head. Every attempt ends up incomplete and scrapped. Every new angle leaves a large portion devoid of anything but hypothesized sketches. 

What feels like hours pass. He finds no answer, no puzzle to solve, no creature with a story to figure out… nothing. He buries his face in his hands, shaking from the accumulated emotions and exhaustion. He tells himself it’s because of the cold. 

It all just hurts so much. 

Reynie had been right, that much is evident, but S.Q. doesn’t know what else to believe. It’s all still so blurry to him: The letter addressed to Reynie, the betrayal sinking in, the look on the younger boy’s face as he came to the same realization and the words rapidly spewn from his mouth in a moment of desperation. The latter remains the biggest gap in S.Q.’s picture. Had it been another one of Reynie’s tricks? An attempt to water the seed of doubt that he’d already planted in S.Q.? Or was it a plea for help? S.Q. struggles to think of what it could be, the answer keeps escaping him, keeps slipping through his fingers. 

S.Q. looks over his shoulder at the tower, its peak illuminated like that of a lighthouse.

He can’t stop his father from going through with whatever he’s planning to do (despite Reynie’s rushed explanation, S.Q. still hasn’t fully grasped the concept), and he doubts anyone can, not even someone as cunning as Reynie. But – and S.Q.’s stomach drops at the realization – someone has to. 

He doesn’t know what possesses him at that moment, what sudden force makes him stand up and move with such determination, but he doesn’t question it. He can’t stop his father. He won’t stop his father. But he needs to complete the picture in his head. He needs to know if he’s as foolish as he feels right now to believe what Reynie’s told him. He needs to know if there was ever a moment when he actually had a friend. He needs to get into the tower. And to do that he needs an access key, which S.Q. doesn’t have. 

But he knows someone that does. 

Apart from Reynie, the Executives at the Institute are the only people S.Q. has gotten to know on a first-name basis (Jackson and Jillson are excluded only because he isn’t sure if they count as living, breathing people). Mostly because they frequent the office so much and S.Q. inevitably has to go through the same, painstaking introduction every single time a new Executive is appointed. They’re always surprised to find out that Dr. Curtain has a son. 

Though intimidating and not particularly friendly, Martina Crowe is admittedly far from being S.Q.’s first choice of people to ask for help, he doesn’t have many other options. But even as he’s speeding off towards the dormitories, S.Q.’s racking his brains for someone – anyone – that would be willing to lend him their key, while simultaneously attempting to come up with a reasonable excuse that will convince even the most suspicious of Executives (Martina) to give up their priceless access key. 

The former predicament is answered with a thump as S.Q. forcibly collides with someone. S.Q. immediately steps back and apologizes by reflex, and notices that the other victim of the collision bears a striking resemblance to the mousy, bespectacled boy that seems to follow Martina around during every waking hour. 

“Isaac!” S.Q. declares in an obvious tone of surprise. It is still in the inhumanely early hours of the morning (the autumn morning fog still resting dense and heavy over the campus grounds) and Isaac, S.Q. notes, has not changed out of his standard abiding pajamas; only a blue raincoat and a pair of brown loafers (worn without socks) are what is protecting the boy from the elements.

Isaac looks at S.Q. wide-eyed, before beginning to move away. “Sorry S.Q., I can’t talk right now,” he says in a low voice. 

“What?” S.Q. has to lightly jog to catch up with Isaac and block his path. “Whatever, I need to borrow your access key.” 

Normally, S.Q. wouldn’t dare to even think about being so forward, but the increasing rhythm of his pulse keeps reminding him that whatever he’s planning to do has to be done soon. 

“Like I said, I can’t talk.” Isaac is surprisingly firm and tries to walk away once more, but he staggers mid-step and quickly turns back to add: “And I don’t even have my key.” He tries to walk away again, even more rushed this time. 

“Why not?” S.Q. calls out after the boy who immediately tenses up and stops in his tracks. 

He is quiet for a moment as if contemplating something but then ultimately decides it isn’t worth his time and quickly turns back to face S.Q.: “I must’ve… forgotten it in my room,” he mumbles, a poor attempt at nonchalance that culminates in a stiff shrug. 

S.Q. can feel his resolve wavering at the thought of having to resort back to his original plan. ”Do you know if Martina is up? I need to talk to her.” 

At that, Isaac goes very pale, instinctively looking over his shoulder. There’s nothing there. 

“Like I said,” Isaac is almost whispering now, “I can’t talk right now.” With that, he darts away from S.Q., heading down the path toward the North campus.

S.Q. stares after Isaac as he runs off, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Isaac would never simply forget his key; the boy had it on at all times (S.Q. wouldn’t be shocked if he even slept with it on). The only reason Isaac wouldn’t have it, S.Q. realizes, would be because he’s given it to someone else. Someone who needs access to highly restricted areas on the Island. Someone –  his eyes widen in realization – who doesn’t object to lying and cheating in order to gain access to said restricted areas. 

S.Q. doesn’t hesitate for even a single second and sprints in the direction of the tower. He’s only been there once before (when it was first built and his father brought him to the “grand opening”) but it’s the only place Reynie could possibly be. 

S.Q. wants to scream at the insanity of it all. The boy – who S.Q. only a couple of hours ago considered to be his closest friend – has revealed himself to be someone entirely else, and is trying to put a stop to the work S.Q.’s father has devoted years to completing (putting his safety and memories on the line in doing so). And S.Q. is, pathetically enough, trying to save him. 

When he begins to catch sight of the tower, S.Q.’s vision has gone blurry with tears from the exertion and his head feels as though it’s going to split in two. As he blinks away the tears, however, he stops dead in his tracks. The clump of gray which S.Q. believed to be the foot of the tower, turns out to be a huge flock of his father’s Gray men. 

Turning on his heel, S.Q. tries to flee the scene unnoticed. He doesn’t hear the sound of anyone following him as he hurries farther and farther into the forest near the shoreline. 

Just as the coast seems to be clear, he spots the familiar tan coats of his father’s most famed Executives. 

Jackson and Jillson regard S.Q. with their trademark robotic smiles, but upon closer inspection of S.Q., they simultaneously begin to frown. S.Q.’s lungs feel as though they’re about to burst, his head is spinning and his heart is pounding in his ears with the force of an earthquake; at this point, a light breeze could knock him over. 

“S.Q….” Jillson begins.

“You’re not allowed out this time of day, are you now?” Jackson finishes and the pair tilts their head in unified suspicion. 

The adrenaline mixed with the pure concentrated panic that courses through S.Q.'s veins must be a source of great irrationality for he immediately makes a run for it without responding. 

Barely missing a beat,  Jackson and Jillson follow him. 

“Catch that little brat!” Jillson shrieks, but when S.Q. peers over his shoulder, the two Executives are the only ones trailing after him. Unless she was speaking into her walkie-talkie, in which, S.Q. will be finished before he can even think of reaching the tower.  

So he runs, he runs and he runs until he is certain that he will collapse and never get up again. But just as he’s about to give in, he hears the barely labored breathing of Jackson and Jillson behind him and he has no choice but to continue. 

They’re approaching more familiar territory, near S.Q.’s usual entryway into the restricted part of the forest, the one with the antennas. They must be activated now, he thinks, remembering how he was sternly told he was to stay away for a while when that happened. 

He catches a glimpse of the bollard fence in the distance and when he looks behind him once more, he discovers that he’s got a slightly advantageous lead. With the last bit of force he can muster, he dives behind the cluster of foliage near the base of the fence. 

Jackson and Jillson reach the fence mere seconds after and S.Q. watches them wide-eyed. Jillson eyes the fence, but before she can step closer, Jackson puts his arm up in front of her to block her path. He shakes his head wordlessly, and for a moment S.Q. thinks the two Executives are going to look right in the direction of his hiding place. 

“If he’s passed that fence, he’s not coming back,” Jackson says calmly, and the two nod in unison. With that, the pair leaves. All that is left behind are the calming sounds of the surrounding forest and S.Q., trembling. 

He hides for a while, what feels like ages before he dares to leave his hiding place. His joints creak in protest, stiff and aching and freezing. With his heart lodged in his throat, on the brink of falling apart, he stumbles forward. One final option. 

The office almost feels inappropriate in its serenity, none of the chaos from the past hours having made its mark on the impeccably decorated room. The silence rings in S.Q.’s ears. It makes him want to curl up into a ball and sob. And the urge is there. All he has to do is give in. And god, how he wants to give in. How he just wants to lay down and wait for it all to be over, to have his father hold him and say that everything is all right. That everything is the way it is supposed to be. 

S.Q. almost gives into that urge, feels the exhaustion threatening to take over, when he suddenly hears footsteps. Several footsteps. 

In a frenzy, S.Q. looks around the room. Underneath one of the murals depicting a bookshelf, S.Q. harshly kicks the wall and the narrow door of a cupboard pops open. 

S.Q.’s surprised that he can still fit inside it and though he can’t shut the cupboard entirely, the slim opening allows him to catch a glimpse of the events unfolding in the office. 

The doors are abruptly slammed open (S.Q. winces internally at the sound, his father would not be happy with that), and in rushes Reynie, calling his name. The boy looks to be as ready to fall apart as S.Q. is, and it’s nauseating to witness.

“S.Q.!” Reynie calls out a second time, looking frantically around the room, that trademark frown on his face. S.Q.’s hands ball up into fists.

Kate Wetherall, one of Reynie’s friends, enters the room shortly thereafter in a sprint; hand tentatively on the red bucket attached to her belt. The two children are also joined by a man S.Q. has never seen before, but given his wide-legged stance and cautious way of looking around the room, S.Q. can only assume he’s a protector of some kind. 

“Do you think he took S.Q. with him?” Kate asks, looking around the room just as Reynie had done, albeit more calmly. 

At Kate’s words, S.Q.’s breath hitches.

Reynie’s shoulders slump in defeat, “I just- I guess I just thought that since he escaped so quickly that…” 

Kate places a comforting hand on Reynie’s shoulder, “I’m sure he’s okay, Reynie.” And yet Reynie slumps even further under Kate’s hand, looking completely miserable. 

S.Q. becomes so caught up in the dawning of another whirlwind – which threatens to completely topple him over the edge – that he doesn’t notice the tall, rugged man with an ever-present aura of melancholy scanning the room. It isn’t until the man squats down by the cupboard, looking right at him, that S.Q. is brought back to reality. He jolts at the sudden appearance, and the movement must give him away even more because the man gently reaches out and opens the cupboard. 

“Come here, boy, I mean no harm.” The man’s voice is quiet and cool, but unlike his father, it has a gentler, more soothing quality to it. 

S.Q. has no choice. He crawls laboriously out of the cupboard, body aching from having stayed in the cramped cupboard for so long and from running around half of the island and sitting outside in the cold – he’s just so tired. 

“S.Q.!” Reynie cries out with a voice that’s a mixture of glee and worry. Without hesitation, he rushes to wrap S.Q. in a tight embrace. “You’re– You’re okay,” Reynie breathes, though it sounds more like reassuring himself than anyone else. 

The sudden contact startles S.Q. He’s never been hugged like this before, with such fervor, with the underlying conviction that if the giver were to let go the recipient would fade into thin air. Reynie’s embrace is tight, but not unyielding. There’s a gentleness to it. But before S.Q. gets the chance to consider reciprocating, he is let go. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” S.Q. asks, hesitation lacing his voice. “Where’s my father?” He looks at Kate who’s suddenly gone very pale. 

“I’m afraid your father has left the island,” the strange man replies, looking at him with the saddest eyes S.Q. thinks he has ever seen.  

“What?” S.Q. feels dizzy. 

“It all happened so fast,” Reynie says meekly, “After we destroyed the Whisperer, Mr. Benedict wanted to talk to Curtain alone, but something must’ve happened because when we came back he was gone.” 

“And we saw a helicopter leaving the island,” Kate adds quickly.  

It happened. That underlying fear had finally come to fruition, and S.Q. lacks the energy to do anything but crumble. 

The man who catches him (whose name S.Q. later learns is Milligan) smells like the ocean, and behind his wilting eyelids S.Q. paints pictures of it; trying his best to capture the way the light hits it. 

As he flits in and out of consciousness, he dreams of falcon birds, gray towers, and darkened lakes; of clock chimes, paint strokes, and helicopters flying through starless night skies. 

His father had gone somewhere S.Q. could not follow, and all he feels is desaturated and hollowed out. A dying, rotting tree left to decompose. 

S.Q. doesn’t want to be himself anymore.

Chapter Text

It takes a while for S.Q. to feel even the tiniest bit of settled in.

Mr. Benedict’s house is massive, with unexpected twists and turns and secret staircases (not to mention the literal maze on the bottom floor). But unlike his living quarters at the Institute, the bookshelves on the walls are genuine and not decorative murals, and the floor is made of hardwood planks instead of concrete. There is clutter, dust, stains, scratches and squeaky hinges, and creaky floorboards. The humanity of the house itself is almost as jarring to S.Q. as that of the people inhabiting it.

S.Q.’s never had to share a room before, but the mayhem that followed the destruction of the Whisperer has turned Mr. Benedict’s home into not only a headquarter but also a temporary residence for nearly a dozen people. So, S.Q. ends up sharing a room with the other four kids. It’s a little cramped with not much opportunity for privacy or solitude, but S.Q. finds himself enjoying it.

Near bedtime, they all end up falling into some sort of unspoken routine: Sticky and Reynie will read their respective books, occasionally reading out a passage they find interesting; Kate will fidget and tinker with the contents of her bucket (which S.Q. learns is her most prized possession); S.Q. will sketch; and Constance will always be the first one to fall asleep.

Though, only a short while after lights out, S.Q. will hear the shifting of sheets, the creak of the floorboards, and the not-so-subtle closing of the door as Constance leaves the room for her nightly wanderings. Sometimes she returns after only a few minutes, having only gone to the bathroom or drank a glass of water. Other nights she doesn’t come back at all.

As for S.Q., he only manages to sleep for a short while, if at all. It seems as though his ever-present worries are only amplified when all else is quiet. A whisper becomes a scream in a silent room and he too begins to enjoy pacing around the darkened house. Once his head has quieted down enough, he settles by a window. For hours he’ll watch the breeze shape the surrounding trees, and flocks of birds creating patterns in the sky. It makes him itch to sketch his views, to replicate and make sense of them; to iron out the creases and realize the intricacies. It’s safer than stepping in and trying to change them.

Except, he doesn’t have his art supplies anymore. Everything he knew to call his own was left behind on the island.

Mr. Benedict gave S.Q. a notepad and a set of #2 pencils, which he accepted more as a courtesy, yet nothing compares to his collection back at home. The unfinished painting he left behind when the peregrine falcon dropped the letter addressed to Reynie frequently pops into his head. He never got the chance to finish it.

S.Q. is certain he is about to go mad until one day, Milligan returns with a truckload of cardboard boxes. Amongst them, S.Q. finds his limited set of belongings.

Before their departure, Mr. Benedict (who was to accompany Milligan on their trip to the island) had asked S.Q. to write down a list of things he wanted to be brought to the mainland. At the top of the list, underlined several times for emphasis, S.Q. had put his art supplies. His sizable collection of sketchbooks along with his sets of colored pencils, acrylic and watercolor paints, dry and oil pastels, charcoal, brushes, canvases, and finished and unfinished paintings were all described in great detail to such an extent that they would be impossible to dismiss. Everything else, namely clothing and other miscellaneous belongings, he could live without.

He nearly bursts into tears when he gets his hands on his sketchbooks, and spends the remainder of the day flitting through its pages. Not even when Rhonda calls everyone down to dinner does he leave his spot by the window in the kids’ shared bedroom.

Later, Reynie brings him a plate of leftovers and wordlessly sits down beside him. S.Q. scoots over to make more room for the other boy, though their knees still end up touching as they’re seated.

Reynie leans over slightly, eyeing one of the drawings S.Q. completed earlier that day.
“Where’s that?” He asks, pointing to the picture. It depicts a tranquil scene from the top of one of the many hills of Harbor island. S.Q. had spent most of his time drawing the morning mist rising between the trees, creating a gradient of deep forest greens that gently faded into the bleak, gray clouds.

“It used to be one of my favorite spots on the island,” S.Q. replies. “I’ve painted it so many times that I think it’s permanently etched into my brain.”

Reynie laughs at that and so does S.Q.; laughter always comes easy with Reynie.

Reynie says, “Well, it’s really good,” and inspects the picture closer. Even though Reynie isn’t the artisan S.Q. once believed he was, he can still sense the weight behind the boy’s words. It’s a weight accumulated through knowledge and experience and it makes the compliment all too tangible.

S.Q. shifts in discomfort, but not too much, afraid of losing their point of contact. “You don’t have to say that.” As it happens, he hasn’t received many compliments in his life. When he had, they were usually backhanded; praise subtly interwoven with judgment and disapproval.

“But I mean it,” Reynie insists. He sounds almost desperate to prove his sincerity, and they both know why.

S.Q. makes an attempt at a smile to show his gratitude and Reynie smiles back, but the knowledge – the guilt – stiffens their facial muscles like a bitter, indigo wind. The moment only lasts so long until S.Q. feels his chest start to ache with words unspoken and he quickly looks back down at his drawing.

Reynie gets up to grab his book at one point, and then the two sit together in silence for a while. As the hours pass and the two boys shift in their seats for comfort, they find themselves leaning against each other’s backs for support. The two remain quiet and when S.Q. glances over his shoulder he finds that Reynie is just as focused on his book (Our Mutual Friend by Dickens) as he was before.

It feels… safe, somehow. At least, a feeling akin to it. The sound of Reynie regularly turning the pages of his book and the murmur of voices from everyone downstairs, the feeling of Reynie’s rib cage against his back as it expands and contracts with each of their (now synchronized) breaths lulls him into a state of calm. It’s quiet, but not empty, and S.Q. finds that he doesn’t mind it.

He ends up barely touching the leftovers Reynie brought, but he completes four more drawings that evening so it doesn’t matter.

S.Q. doesn’t mind going hungry if he’s occupied with other things. Scheduled meals – dinners especially – still make his lungs feel like they’re about to cave in. Images of a night sky stare watching him like a hawk at the dinner table flash before his eyes like a reflex and always makes him cringe. Thus, the technique of avoiding all contexts which involved food and other people had been surprisingly effective thus far, until his newer company starts to notice his less-than-meager appetite.

“I just don’t like food all that much,” S.Q. replies when questioned, pushing his food around with his fork in a manner that attempts to appear leisurely.

Number Two has – as per her own standards – cooked a Michelin Star-worthy three-course dinner complete with appetizers, mocktails, and at least two palate cleansers (she claims it’s to celebrate the reunion of the children with their families, but S.Q. thinks she might just want to show off). All in all, S.Q finishes most of his entree (potato and celeriac soup with herb creme fraiche) and spends the remainder of the dinner taking small, mindful bites.

“You don’t like f– How can you not like food?” Kate exclaims. Sticky immediately shushes her and looks anxiously toward the other end of the table (the kids are all seated on one end of the table with adults on the opposing end, S.Q. sees this as another cause for doubt on the reasoning behind the lavish dinner). The grownups are all engaged in lively conversation (with the exception of Milligan who seems more interested in the food) and none of them notices Kate’s outburst. A shared sigh of relief.

S.Q. shrugs, shoulders tense. “Dad never– he was never happy with what I ate. He always thought I could eat healthier, eat more or eat less so I just…” He trails off and looks down at his plate, feeling rather nauseous all of a sudden. It’s all so complicated.

“Stopped eating altogether?” Kate hesitantly attempts to fill in. The kids eye her in a silent plea.

“I did eat,” S.Q. reassures, “just not when Dad wanted me to.”

He makes eye contact with Reynie from across the table and expects the boy to divert his gaze, but instead, he gives him a modest smile. It doesn’t make him feel much better.

Kate ends up apologizing for her forwardness later that evening. S.Q. tells her it’s fine and is surprised at how genuine he is.

The topic of food isn’t really brought up again amongst the five of them. But their mealtimes are noticeably different. Kate is often quick to change the topic of conversation whenever too many people are looking at him, as will Sticky (who is arguably a little more sophisticated in his blurting of random trivia he’s interested in that day). Constance will silently take the rest of S.Q.’s food from his plate whenever he gets too nauseous, and if he doesn’t eat at all then Reynie will bring him leftovers or sandwiches while he sketches after meals. It becomes another part of their unspoken routine and S.Q. wonders if it’s some agreement they’ve all made in secret.

At first, it leaves him red in the face with bright orange splotches of frustration and embarrassment curling up inside his chest. But soon enough, he learns to settle into it, and what at first felt like shame morphs into something resembling thankfulness.

A few more days pass where everything seems to stand still. The house is crammed with people whose lives are connected in their own intricate ways and S.Q. can’t help but feel like the odd one out. He finds the few quiet corners of the house where he can watch every life-altering event unfold from a safe distance; a seat by a window sill or at the top of the stairs makes for a great vantage point.

For a brief moment, he almost forgets where he is and thinks he’s back at the Institute, watching everyone else from afar. He’ll be completely immersed in his delusion until Rhonda scurries past and ruffles his hair, or Mr. Benedict will greet him with a smile, or one of the kids (usually Reynie) will sit down next to him and ask him what he’s drawing. It’s strange to have other people see him as a positive addition instead of a source of nuisance, to not have to find solace in the unspeaking.

There isn’t much wildlife for S.Q. to draw in Mr. Benedict’s residence, apart from a couple of taxidermied animals collecting dust that he finds scattered throughout the house, so S.Q. finds himself revisiting old sketches that require some finishing touches.

It doesn’t take long however for Mr. Benedict to notice S.Q.’s artistic restlessness and offer him a tour of the garden. While it doesn’t even come close to matching the biodiversity of the island, what it lacks in flora and fauna it makes up for it in unrestricted access. S.Q. is allowed to sit in the garden and sketch whenever he likes for however long he likes. Only when it gets too dark for S.Q. to differentiate his canvas from his subject is he forced to retreat indoors. Even then, it’s his own decision and he only receives a comforting pat on the shoulder from one of the grownups when they see him re-entering the house.

What took the most getting used to was being seen so much. Oftentimes, S.Q. found it difficult to find a room that was completely empty, despite the house feeling so infinitely vast. Even when he does find a quiet corner, there is always someone passing through that will greet him with a smile. If it’s the group of kids, they always seem to find him sooner or later.

S.Q. can always hear them approaching, their discussions audible from rooms away. If he finds them spread out on the lawn in the garden, he will take a seat a few feet away to sketch the roses. Soon enough, the group will slowly inch towards him until his previously “quiet” corner is buzzing with animated conversation.

They always include S.Q. in some way, asking him questions and listening attentively to what he has to say. He even notices that Constance isn’t as snarky toward him as she is toward everyone else. He wonders if Reynie has something to do with it.

Reynie has apologized countless times for his deceits back on the Island and no matter how many times S.Q. reassures him that he is forgiven, the guilt never seems to leave the boy’s eyes. And despite their closeness – which isn’t as much regained as it is recreated from blurry references – S.Q. feels like he’s constantly waiting for the other bomb to drop; something to pull the rug from under his feet yet again.

The other kids are also pleasant, in their own ways which S.Q. is slowly learning to understand. Sticky will tell interesting facts about the subjects of S.Q.’s paintings (“Did you know that the behavior of bluebirds is actually very similar to the behavior of some species of woodpeckers?”); Kate will ask questions that are slightly too forward and that S.Q. is slowly but surely getting more comfortable with answering (“Does S.Q. actually stand for Shepard Quiad or is it a secret codename?”); and Constance will… be Constance (“I don’t like that shade of red you’re using, it’s agitating.”).

Still, S.Q. struggles to call any of them his friends. Even in a moment of joy, where they are laughing at a joke he managed to sputter out (Constance won’t laugh but she’ll press her lips together and roll her eyes and S.Q. feels like that’s enough), there’s that pervasive voice in his head – ever recognizable in its patronizing lilt – that makes him want to retreat to his quiet corners again. The way they look at him sometimes doesn’t help either: close-lipped smiles, eyes tinged with worry. From Reynie it’s especially palpable.

“You worry that he pities you, correct?” Mr. Benedict asks, a kind expression on his face but with that all-knowing twinkle in his eyes.

They’re seated in Mr. Benedict’s study. The hour’s long past bedtime and the study is lit up in a warm glow from the fireplace and the numerous lamps decorating the space. A gentle pitter-patter of raindrops is hitting the window pane in a rhythm that would lull S.Q. to sleep if it weren’t for his gnawing anxieties.

The days are finally beginning to speed up again: Kate and Milligan have found a farm located a few hours away from town and are looking to move as soon as possible; Sticky has regained contact with his aunt and has also been accepted into the Boatwright Academy; Reynie and his tutor Miss Perumal are discussing adoption; and Constance is… being Constance.

Once again, S.Q. finds himself a spectator rather than a participant. Everyone’s lives appear to be falling into place while S.Q.’s has just been smashed into pieces and scattered across the universe.

S.Q. looks down at his hands, absentmindedly scratching off some dried paint from his fingers. “He always has this look on his face when he’s talking to me, like he’s worried I’m going to break or something,” he says. Of course, there are causes for concern with S.Q., but not ones regarding him breaking any more than he already has.

Mr. Benedict hums in understanding. “I think you’ll find that your friend’s concern comes from a much more positive place than you might think.” S.Q. lifts his gaze only to discover that the man has been looking at him intently this whole time. “Compassion and empathy are not to be conflated with pity and charity,” Mr. Benedict speaks with so much warmth and candidness that S.Q. struggles to look the man in the eyes. Not when those emotions look so foreign to him on those familiar features.

“But I don’t want him to feel like he has to be my friend just because he lied to me,” S.Q. utters the critical word and feels his mouth run dry.

He stares into the open fireplace and rests his focus on the orange and yellow glow. Despite the late hour, the flames are as alive as ever, no doubt thanks to Number Two’s consistent upkeep.

“Perhaps it’ll be of comfort to you to know that Reynie spoke to me the other day, worried that that was exactly how you were feeling.” S.Q. looks at Mr. Benedict dumbfounded, and the man is giving him that same look as everyone else does: A thin, crescent moon smile, eyebrows raised, and eyes crinkling at the corners.

It almost makes S.Q. want to yell at Mr. Benedict; scream at him for not listening just like every other adult in his life. But there is something about the sincerity in Mr. Benedict’s eyes that he can’t argue against: This man is being truthful.

So, instead of screaming (or saying anything at all), S.Q. just looks down at his hands again. His fingers have gone red from all of the scratching.

“Trust is a muscle, S.Q., you have to strengthen it,” Mr. Benedict says with a growing smile, “And that, dear boy, requires patience.”

Patience. That means he’ll have to wait. S.Q.’s good at waiting.

Chapter Text

One by one, they all have to leave. 

Sticky’s the first one to go, having reconciled with his aunt and finally getting to attend the prestigious Boatwright Academy. Kate and Milligan leave shortly thereafter for their farm, which has up until now been overseen by one of Kate’s old friends from the circus (something Kate mentions in passing, but which continues to confuse and intrigue S.Q.). 

Reynie stays the longest, the paperwork required to finalize his adoption took longer than usual with most governmental institutions still recovering from being dismantled by Dr. Curtain (a discovery that leaves S.Q. feeling nauseous with guilt). Though soon enough, the last papers are signed and Reynie is finally under the legal guardianship of Miss Perumal. 

From observing them – which he often finds himself doing from his many quiet corners – S.Q. thinks that the two seem happy. Even though Reynie is still acting somewhat secluded, which he has been since they all returned from the island. 

After S.Q. regained consciousness and found himself in a strange house owned by a strange man who looks like an unkempt version of his father and calls himself Mr. Benedict, there were many new concepts and people he had to be introduced to; everything from his father’s orchestration of the Emergency to the Whisperer, and finally, the planned and prevented Improvement, all of which was explained in a calm and methodical manner by Mr. Benedict. He recognized most of it from Reynie’s desperate outburst on the island, the only difference is that he has no choice but to believe it now. 

S.Q. was also re-introduced to the kids he’d met on the island. Properly this time. Back at the Institute they only greeted him in passing; a mouthed ‘Hi’ or silent nod of recognition. 

Shaking their hands (actually just Kate and Sticky’s hands. Constance refused and Reynie looked too distraught to move) was just as awkward as it had been the first time, but S.Q. notes the lack of forced forwardness fueled by a grave, secret mission (or in S.Q.’s case: a desperate desire for friendship). There’s a candidness to their silence now, marking a true loss for words rather than a moment to strategically consider their next move. At least, that’s what S.Q. tries to tell himself. 

While their change in behavior wasn’t as noticeable as S.Q. had at first expected, which he saw as sufficiently comforting proof that they weren’t fully feigning their eccentricities, he only needed to observe them long enough to spot the differences. 

Sticky was silent most of the time. S.Q. often caught him staring into space, eyes glossed over, an open book resting in his lap but otherwise completely disregarded. If S.Q. got too close, the boy would jump and look at him all startled (“Hey S.Q., didn’t see you there,” he would say, out of breath, and S.Q. could practically hear the boy’s quickened heartbeat.) 

Constance was a little twitchy the first days back at the house. Apparently, she had broken the Whisperer with her mind. And while S.Q. doesn’t fully understand how someone so young and so unpleasant could have saved the day in the way she did, he knows now she’s not unbreakable. Sometimes, when they were all sitting around the dinner table, she would squeeze her eyes shut and her body would go all rigid and S.Q. would always want to ask her if she was okay. He never dared to. 

All things considered, Kate seemed to be dealing with things the best. From the pieces S.Q. manages to gather, the stoic yet melancholy man he met on the island whose name is Milligan is actually Kate’s long-lost father. On orders from Dr. Curtain, the man had been brainswept and hadn’t fully realized this familial bond until very recently. Their situation is admittedly much more complicated than Reynie and Miss Perumal’s, yet even their happiness comes across as equally as effortless. Kate was still as talkative and upbeat, though perhaps slightly more conscientious while she roamed around the gardens with Milligan.

Reynie stopped combing his hair, a stark contrast to how back at the Institute, it was always neatly combed. His hair is so short that it doesn’t really need extensive styling, yet S.Q. takes note of it right away. Yet another detail that deviates from the original picture. 

S.Q. keeps getting the urge to brush Reynie’s bangs to the side, to make him resemble the boy he once knew. But even during his first days in the house, he knows he can’t do that, that it would be unfair to Reynie to force him to be what he is not (even if it is through something as benign as combing one’s hair). 

On the first day, when S.Q. had awoken and was shown around the house by Mr. Benedict, Reynie nearly jumped out of his seat at the sight of him, but when they made eye contact, the younger boy abruptly stopped mid-movement and sat back down on his chair again. S.Q. didn’t say anything, though he sort of flinched at all of the sudden movement. Reynie’s guilt was blatant then, painfully so, but the double-ended sword of betrayal that remained was lodged equally deep; like a thorn in their sides, keeping them at a distance.

It took days before the two boys got to speak alone and, in the moments leading up to it, S.Q. kept dreading its increasing imminence. Because it hurt (and admittedly, it still hurts now) to watch someone rub their arm after being forcefully yanked out of the woodwork: the silent, pained embarrassment of a liar caught in the act. And then there was S.Q., equally embarrassed as he removes the wool that was once pulled over his eyes. All of this despite Mr. Benedict’s patient explanations and thoughtful advice (and Kate’s engaging albeit dramatic reenactment of the mission), S.Q. struggles to find peace with any justification. 

Reynie is kind, he reaches out and hesitantly retreats, just as he had done on the island. He apologizes, over and over until he’s a fidgeting, writhing mess on the verge of tears. S.Q. wants to tell him it’s okay and make it stop, but initially, he can’t. He’s never been one to take pride in his honesty, but during the first few days, he could not truthfully forgive Reynie. 

It took him at least a couple more days until he could look the boy in the eye to say that he was forgiven. And Reynie had tried not to cry then, S.Q. had noticed. And as he was suddenly pulled into a shaky hug, S.Q. tried not to cry, too. 

Things were a little easier after that, though S.Q. finds most things to be easier when he’s with Reynie. 

During the final days, S.Q. tries to remember what Mr. Benedict had told him: that Reynie is worried too. Deep down, with some immutable resolve, he believes it, but right now, watching the boy smile in Miss Perumal’s embrace, S.Q. has a hard time believing there’s any doubt or worry in that boy at all. 

They all stand gathered in the vestibule, to say goodbye. It feels routine now, to stand and prolong the inevitable, bags in hand, and then watch the car turn around the corner for what S.Q. fears is the last time. The only thing that’s different now is that the usual marble of burning, dull ache that resides in his chest has grown to the size of a cannonball. 

Reynie looks happy.  

After Milligan had placed the box that was filled to the brim with books in the trunk of Miss Perumal’s car, the rest of Reynie’s belongings fit neatly (and with plenty of room to spare) into the suitcase the boy was holding with one hand. 

What Reynie doesn’t know is that S.Q. has sneaked one of his paintings into the suitcase, as a departing gift. It’s one of his favorites, depicting Milo, a goldfinch with whom S.Q. got acquainted shortly after arriving at Mr. Benedict's house. He can only hope that Reynie will appreciate Milo too.

The moment’s been dragged out for long enough and with a tender hand on Reynie’s shoulder, Miss Perumal tells him they should get going. Everyone begins to exit the house, and out onto the driveway, but S.Q. lingers, as does Reynie, who is holding his suitcase with both hands now, uncertain fingers fiddling with the handle. The younger boy contorts in his place, twisting to look at the people out on the driveway with a side glance. He looks restless. 

S.Q. observes him in silence, the way the late autumn sun shines like gold across his features, the wrinkle between his brows, and his uncombed hair. He looks like a painting and, almost without thinking, S.Q. begins to mentally pick out the colors he’d want to use to depict the scene before him. 

Reynie puts his suitcase down on the floor. 

Voice soft like a whisper, he asks, “We’ll stay in touch, right?” The boy looks so small all of a sudden; with his eyes slightly widened and shoulders raised too high in anxiety, feet shifting in their place as though he is itching to move. 

S.Q. feels his chest contracting, a prickling feeling in his nose, “Of course,” he croaks. He feels the cannonball in his chest burst into a million tiny pieces.

Reynie moves suddenly and quietly and when he embraces him, any other words luckily get caught in S.Q.’s throat before he gets the chance to utter them. But when he reciprocates the hug, splotches of black and blue and blood red cloud his mind, swirling together to form a single line. He holds Reynie with shaking limbs and it’s like every fiber of his being is wrapped with that single thought: I don’t want you to go. 

It’s foolish. Reynie has to go. He has a whole life to live, one that doesn’t involve tending to the broken and needy. 

S.Q. doesn’t want to let go. But he has to. 

He stands and stares as Miss Perumal’s car disappears from view, and even long after that, he remains. The chilly afternoon air seeps through his thin layers but S.Q. remains frozen in place, unspoken words still lodged in his throat and balled into his fists. 

At one point, S.Q. isn’t sure of when, Rhonda appears and places a warm hand on his shoulder. For a while, she too stays quiet, her sympathy palpable enough even in her silence. Her verbal manifestation of the moment comes after what feels like several minutes:

“He’s not gone forever.” S.Q. can hear the comforting smile in her voice without even looking. He only nods, because he knows she’s right, deep down; he just has to feel it. But right now, all he feels are the dark red singes that spread across his chest and an all-too-familiar emptiness that howls and echoes. 

And so once again, S.Q. finds himself having to adjust. The house is quieter now, with fewer people running around (mainly Kate, though). At times the house almost feels empty and S.Q. can walk up and down stairs and corridors and not find a living soul. 

He isn’t bothered by it, it’s simply another adjustment. He’s used to being alone thanks to his life on the island, yet he finds that it feels more peaceful to be alone in the Benedict house compared to back home. No strangers in gray suits are running about telling him to step aside, boy nor his father’s private chef enthusiastically presenting him with an outrageously expensive meal that he couldn’t possibly eat with a clear conscience. 

Besides, the days aren’t as lonely as he had initially expected them to be. If he needs company, he can always find Rhonda roaming about, Mr. Benedict reading in his study or Constance snooping around the kitchen. If he’s particularly desperate, he’ll find Number Two, but she’s rarely up for a conversation (normal conversation, anyway).

There’s always something to do as well. With every passing day, the stack of books recommended by Mr. Benedict keeps growing. It nearly topples and falls over S.Q. one morning when he accidentally bumps it while reaching for his glass of water. He tries to methodically minimize the pile, but he’s never been a fast reader. He finds himself enjoying The Hobbit the most, primarily because it contains beautiful illustrations in black ink. 

The nights, however, are not as pleasant. Since he fainted on the island, S.Q. hasn’t had a full night of uninterrupted sleep. Every moment of slumber is abruptly ended with a jolt of bright white panic and S.Q. will bolt upright, with his heart pounding in his ears, looking frantically at his surroundings as though he were seeing them for the first time again. 

No, it appears as though S.Q. and sleep are yet to be re-acquainted with one another. Until then, S.Q. wanders. He quickly learns which floorboards creak and which doors squeal like a wailing child when moved. Soon enough he doesn’t have to fumble around in the dark to avoid walking into walls or furniture or tripping on the corners of a rug. 

He’s also learned to muffle his sobs, which is not necessarily a new skill, just one he’s learned to adapt to his new environment.

He can’t really help it. Even on days when he feels fine, he’ll walk downstairs in the night and suddenly he’s filled with an indescribable feeling of hopelessness. And he’ll start to sob. Silent, ugly crying that leaves his head feeling like it’s been stuffed with cotton. 

Every night ends with S.Q. telling himself that he won’t cry anymore, but once again, he can’t help it. 

His father is gone, and will most likely remain so until the adults find him (or someone else will, but he doesn’t want to consider that option for too long lest it makes him spiral). Mr. Benedict’s unrelenting search for his brother is yet to yield any substantial results and, while he tries to conceal it, it’s as though with every passing day, the screws setting S.Q.’s fate in place are turned tighter and tighter. 

Even if his father were to return, whenever that would be, S.Q. wonders if he’d even be able to go back to him, or if trying to forget the old wounds would open up too many new ones. It’s a thought that paralyzes him, that leaves him gripping the turning screws with sore, reddened fingers because being incomplete – being broken – is at least more recognizable than stability. For that’s what it is: stability, acceptance, compassion, and completion. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted, yet he cannot accept it, not even when it’s being presented to him with such sincerity and without a dotted line to sign his name, comprehension, and dignity away on. Because all S.Q. can picture is the look of disappointment on his father’s features if – when – they meet again. 

The man would see right through him: That S.Q., who has only longed for warmth and kindness, would fall for Mr. Benedict’s displays of comfort and understanding without a second thought is as predictable as it is disappointing. The image of his father which S.Q. has conjured up in his head shifts, the expression sours and turns to one of anger, of resentment. S.Q. shrinks before it. 

He wears his disloyalty on his sleeve, even as he hides it behind his back with crossed fingers. It’s there for all to see; how much his heart aches for the man who abandoned him. How deeply he wishes he was still with him because being bereft of love would be better than having to turn it down as it’s thrust into his open, shaking hands. Because he doesn’t want to – he can’t – let go. 

So, S.Q. finds himself in one of his quiet corners, covering his mouth with his hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds of grief that relentlessly rack through his body like the lashes of a whip. 

“You cry a lot.”

S.Q. jumps out of his seat, startled, staring at the source of the sound. 

It’s Constance, in her pajamas and hair out of its immaculate styling for once. It’s strange to see her in such a vulnerable state, she almost looks like a normal child.

“I know,” he states matter-of-factly, though his voice still trembles. He hates sounding so pathetic in front of Constance, whose unyielding and forever-disapproving stare only appears to intensify when S.Q. is the victim of it. 

“Do you think he cries for you?” She questions, crossing her arms over her chest.

S.Q. is dumbstruck.

“What?”

“Your dad. Do you think he’s moping around like you are?” Constance speaks as though her time is being wasted, as though it isn’t the middle of the night. 

“I–  No, probably not.” Come to think of it, S.Q. had never seen his father cry. Reynie told him that being vulnerable was what triggered Dr. Curtain’s narcolepsy. Up until that point, S.Q. wasn’t even aware that his father suffered from the condition. 

“Some food for thought,” Constance says before disappearing down the hall, most likely heading towards Mr. Benedict’s office (At this point, S.Q. isn’t sure if Constance’s visits are to comfort herself or Mr. Benedict. 

“He’s intelligent, but he’s weak,” she had said once as they were observing the man pacing back and forth between the hallway and the dining room. 

“Maybe not weak,” S.Q. had responded thoughtfully. “Just fragile.”).

S.Q. spends a lot of time in Mr. Benedict’s office, too. He likes it there. It’s cozy and lived-in. Upon entry, Mr. Benedict will offer him a biscuit, and even when he declines he always ends up with a plate of something in his hands. It’s part of Number Two’s mission to make him eat consistently, and when she’s not looking he’ll sneakily take a few small bites of whatever she’s made (usually a grilled cheese, which he’d never tried before until now). 

Instead of sitting on a concrete fixture as he would in his father’s office, S.Q. is offered a seat on the couch in front of the fireplace. He sinks into it and the texture is nice under his palms, Mr. Benedict even remarks on it as he takes a seat in one of the armchairs: 

“It’s very soothing, isn’t it?” He says with a smile.

S.Q. nods curtly, staring at the floor. It’s still a struggle to look the man in the eyes. 

“Glad you feel the same way, it’s why we chose the fabric in the first place.” 

At first, S.Q. had been reluctant to talk to Mr. Benedict. In fact, he’d been reluctant to talk to anyone when he woke up in the Benedict house. All he knew about the man was that he had supposedly betrayed his own twin brother (and S.Q.’s adoptive father) as a child, something the victim of said betrayal refused to forgive. 

But S.Q. couldn’t bring himself to mention that when he first saw Mr. Benedict, donning a plaid suit and an attentive smile while explaining everything to him as carefully as possible. 

Even when S.Q. shut down completely and couldn’t utter a single word for several days, he never recoiled as Mr. Benedict inched closer to him. And at that moment, as Mr. Benedict spoke to him with nothing but tenderness, S.Q. found himself giving in. 

He knew even then that Mr. Benedict was hurting too, that the pain ran through him just as deep. S.Q. can see it, like streaks of navy blue staining his cheerful shell, and he can see it on everyone else as well. On some more clearly than others. Perhaps that’s why he finds himself talking to Mr. Benedict so much, because they’re painted blue by the same hand, by the same guilt and grief. 

The night following his startling midnight interaction with Constance (and a mere two weeks since Reynie’s departure), S.Q. is invited to Mr. Benedict’s office for tea. 

Similar to having dinner with his father, S.Q. initially feared the possibility of a calculated manipulation suffered under the guise of an innocent meal, however, there are never any obligations to Mr. Benedict’s invitations. S.Q. may choose to decline, no Executive will bring him in by force if he were to refuse. Better yet, he doesn’t even have to speak. If he wants to, S.Q. can sit and sketch in silence while Mr. Benedict thinks out loud about the subjects he’s studying (he doesn’t have to drink any tea either. Although, he has to admit that Earl Grey with milk and sugar has begun to grow on him). 

But tonight, S.Q. speaks, and like most nights, he brings up his father. He knows it’s a sensitive topic for Mr. Benedict just as much as it is for himself, but not once does the man brush off the topic or reprimand him for even considering bringing it up. 

“Do you miss your father often?” Mr. Benedict seems to be playing around with how he refers to S.Q.’s father. Sometimes it’s ‘your father’, other times it’s ‘my brother’ or ‘Nathaniel’. Once he said ‘Dr. Curtain’, but that seemed to overwhelm him so much that he fell asleep for a whole minute. 

S.Q. cringes inwardly at the question, feeling raw and exposed. The question is almost unnecessary, because who wouldn't miss their father? Except, S.Q. knows that things aren't that simple, and he knows that Mr. Benedict knows that too. 

S.Q. opens his mouth to speak and it feels like exposing wounds to the open air:

“Do you ever feel like nobody knows you? Like, really knows you?”

Mr. Benedict tilts his head, in understanding or in questioning? S.Q. can’t decide, but he’s opened up now and can’t stop the stream of consciousness from pouring out.

“And you know, you’re all great and way better than he ever was, but… sometimes I just… It’s like…” S.Q.’s brows crease in frustration. Words can’t stop failing him when all he sees is a kaleidoscope of brushstrokes and colors and shapes (containing more words than he’s certain Mr. Benedict could ever understand). 

He stumbles, “Sort of- It’s like when I’m unhappy with a painting. And… and when I ask people for advice they’ll say I should change the mid-tones or the composition but it just… still feels wrong.” 

Mr. Benedict looks down and nods, evidently displaying his concentration. 

“And Dad he… he knows what the sketch looked like and… and what shade I used for the underpainting and I can’t ask other people about that because… they won’t get it.” 

And I hate it, he thinks. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. 

He turns inwards, drawn in the direction of that dark swirl of self-loathing that resides deep inside his chest, as immutable as the marrow in his bones. A confession lies there too, neatly folded a hundred times over and nestled in between the wrinkles of his heart. It rests there like a thorn, a sharp corner that stings with every heartbeat, and S.Q. rests his focus on it. The sharp, rhythmic pain that he can’t bring himself to put an end to, lest he begins to bleed. 

“I see,” Mr. Benedict says, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. “That’s what’s so special about family, isn’t it? They know you, all of the hidden intricacies of your personality that you aren’t even aware of yourself.” 

Without knowing it, Mr. Benedict is reaching out, grazing the edges of S.Q.’s shame – the thorn. “But the thing is, and I’ve said this once before, family is often born of blood, but it doesn't depend on blood. Nor is it exclusive to friendship. Family members can be your best friends, you know. And best friends, whether or not they are related to you, can be your family.” 

S.Q. looks up in uncomprehending. Mr. Benedict swiftly continues:

“Your friends, S.Q., will with time get to know you – really know you – you just have to let them in.” It is such a soft intonation, permeated with an inexplicable grief, but gentle nonetheless. 

The hand retreats, the thorn remains, and S.Q. exhales. 

“Is that your solution to everything? Just waiting it out?” S.Q. says, barely concealing his agitation. He mentally scolds himself for sounding so harsh, but it stings just the same. 

“No no, not waiting it out, that implies idling. No, you’ll have to work. Healing is tough, unfortunately, and it’ll take time before you might see some more tangible results. But it’s worth it, all of it is.” Mr. Benedict clasps his hands together solemnly, though his expression looks cheerful. 

S.Q. is quiet for a moment, he traces the rounded edge of the plate of cookies in his lap with his fingers. 

Tentatively, he asks, “Are you healing, sir?” 

Mr. Benedict smiles and it’s not a smile of pity, “I am, slowly but surely,” it’s a smile of hurt. “It’s taken me a bit longer than usual, but the finish line is open to anyone, even to latecomers.” There’s an attempt at reassurance – even humor – in his delivery, but it doesn’t fully land. 

S.Q.’s gaze falters and drifts down toward the floor. He absentmindedly scratches at the skin around his fingernails; the sides of his thumbs have gotten raw and even bleed from time to time. He can’t really help it.

There isn’t as much of a question of if S.Q. will be able to heal as there is if he even deserves to. For so long he’s blindly defended a man who has done nothing but cause harm to other people. Even now, when every trace left of the rosy tint to the image has finally begun to fade, he still feels a tug of loyalty in the pit of his stomach. Despite the possibility that S.Q. might wish to heal, might wish to move on from the trail of shattered glass he feels destined to tread, how could ever permit himself to? 

Mr. Benedict must notice his inner turmoil for he hears him inhale as if to speak, and pause for a moment before finally settling on: 

“It’s natural to miss the people we care about, S.Q., it doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

Once more S.Q. feels a forest of anger be set aflame inside him and he wants to do nothing but scream; he wants to yell at him and say that he has to be a bad person because then how could his father have left him so easily if he were redeemable? If he weren’t some sort of mistake?

S.Q. feels his lower lip begin to tremble and tears well up in his eyes and it feels so childish to weep in front of an adult. But all he can see is the truthful picture before him, but it’s all wrong and muddy and the lines are jagged – and he just wishes someone would hold him. Except it’s not just a ‘someone’ he longs for, and the thought makes another pained sob escape his lips. 

The weight of the couch is suddenly redistributed, and the distinct, woody scent that saturates the house is ever so slightly intensified. Through a veil of never-ending tears, S.Q. distinguishes Mr. Benedict’s presence beside him, hands hovering as if reluctant to touch. 

The air is heavy and drooping with the wave of tangible guilt and grief and anger that has washed over the room. A storm of overwhelming emotion threatens to drown S.Q. who feels himself sinking like a stone. 

Eventually, with a shaky breath, Mr. Benedict opens his arms and envelopes S.Q. in a warm embrace. A tug to hold him above the surface. 

And S.Q. realizes that he hasn’t been hugged since Reynie left, and he hasn’t really been hugged this tightly since Reynie found him on the island the day his father left. And just like that time on the island; the giver might need the embrace as much as the recipient. And maybe S.Q. falls apart slightly in the nest of Mr. Benedict’s arms, thinking of the last time his father ever held him like this. And maybe Mr. Benedict falls apart too, with a very similar memory in mind.

Chapter Text

The consecutive weeks pass with considerably more ease than the last. S.Q.’s talks with Mr. Benedict – which had previously taken place more sporadically – have now become a daily occurrence. Usually, Mr. Benedict suggests they go on a walk around the neighborhood (which no longer requires the supervision of Number Two, though sometimes S.Q. thinks he can still spot her yellow silhouette in the corner of his eye) or find a park to explore. 

S.Q. finds Stonetown to be loud and unyielding. There aren’t many trees or birds except for some strategically planted trees and the groups of pigeons and seagulls that flock around hotdog stands and fly too low over people’s heads. Cars and trains pass by with brash, sudden sounds that make S.Q. reflexively cover his ears – which is helped by the drivers constantly yelling at each other. But Mr. Benedict seems to know the quieter streets and where the best parks are located, like tiny pockets of comfort in an overwhelming sphere of sensory impressions. 

After a while, the paths between the house and the parks begin to feel a little more trustworthy. Certain storefronts are no longer as intrusive and crosswalks feel less like long, winding bridges suspended over a precipice. S.Q. can understand why Mr. Benedict would choose to stay in a place like this. 

Still, he prefers Mr. Benedict’s study back at the house. It’s warm and (usually) quiet and comfortable and stuffed to the brim with paraphernalia. It took some time to get used to, though, and in the early days S.Q. would get distracted by all of the clutter, his eyes drawn to something new every time he entered the room. 

In a strange way, it reminds him of home, and of the forests on the island where he could sit and stare for (what felt like) hours and continue finding something new to marvel at. Yet, at the same time, Mr. Benedict’s study isn’t like his home at all. His home used to be unblemished and steely with cold concrete flooring and couches that were so stiff that they forced you to sit upright. Mr. Benedict’s house is soft and comforting; S.Q. sinks into it, almost too easily. 

He is given his own room one day. After Constance’s ceaseless complaining about having to share the room which had once been occupied by five children simultaneously – and later only two – her wish gets granted.

Rhonda and Number Two spent nearly a month renovating and furnishing two of the many unoccupied bedrooms in the house (S.Q. had wanted to help, but found the sounds of drilling abrasive and unwelcoming). Then, one morning, he was granted access to what is now his very own room. 

It’s smaller than his room back on the island, if only by a little, and the interior is much less minimalist. There are two large windows facing the garden (which is currently covered in snow), with a wooden desk – most likely handmade by Number Two –  placed in front of one of them. 

His art supplies are there, too, neatly organized and placed on the desk next to which there is a wooden bookshelf – most likely also handmade by Number Two – that is already filled with books. Someone must’ve moved the ones from his now old room. 

It’s all too much, too much generosity, too much kindness, and they’re looking at him like he deserves it. Here he stands, a constant reminder of the man they failed to capture, the mission they failed to complete, and the world they failed to save. He would understand if they in any way resented him. If locking him in some room and trying to forget about him was the only justifiable solution they could come up with. 

Still, he thanks them in as polite of a manner as he can and hopes they cannot notice how much his voice wobbles and how tightly he wraps his arms around himself to stop himself from shaking too much. 

If his father had been there he’d have demanded him to straighten up. He can hear it still. The curt, formal delivery. And even when S.Q. had felt his chest ache and his cheeks flush with shame, he’d followed his father’s orders with a mumbled apology.

He had taken it as an act of love back then. 

Mr. Benedict pauses at the door before he exits. “Are you sure everything is to your liking?” 

Based on the worried creases in the corners of his eyes, S.Q. knows he’s not asking about the room. A sob rises and dies in his throat. 

S.Q.’s silence is deliberate, knowing that by speaking he would have to pry open the cracks in the varnish and give himself away. He would prefer Mr. Benedict not to see that, just so he doesn’t have to watch the kind man worry. So, he pretends to be unaware of the blatant suspicion and responds in the affirmative: Yes. He does like it. The room.

Once he’s alone and the door shuts, tears are shed like a sigh of relief. S.Q. sits on his new bed, feels himself sink into it, and buries his head in his hands. 

He listens to the sound of his own heart beating. Ceaselessly. Every muscle contraction like a deafening boom, and sometimes S.Q. wishes it would just stop. For the canvas to still and pale; a static landscape to rest within. 

It feels pathetic to cry over a gift. What almost makes it worse is the thought that if Mr. Benedict were there he would tell him the opposite (what his father would say on the other hand, he rather wouldn’t think about). Even then, he knows that for once, talking to Mr. Benedict won’t help. 

He’s never been much for words anyway. 

Besides, S.Q. couldn’t possibly explain how with every book lent, sweater knitted, and bookshelf constructed, he finds it more and more difficult to stand on his own two feet. That with every new path and street name in Stonetown memorized, he feels his footsteps fade from the earth of that cursed piece of land that is Harbor Island. 

Parts of him are being painted over, brushstrokes growing finer and finer. Water becomes land, forests become parks, and studies become… different studies. The hand that’s been firmly gripping his shoulder is covered up now, and all that remains are its lingering shadows. It’s his portrait now, his room, his life. 

He’s on his own now, and people tell him that’s a good thing. That it’s something he should be happy about, that he’s discarding the man that raised him. As though he were a crumpled-up sketch. “It’s not like he’s coming back,” S.Q. had overheard Constance say once and, deep down, drowning in a pool of shame, S.Q. had thought she was probably right. 

But he still has hope, like dirt under his fingernails, that if he turns to look at just the right moment, the smudge in his peripheral view will be something more than just that. A smudge. Dirt. Unclean, shameful hope. 

When – if – when his father comes back for him, he’ll have to scratch off the new paint. He’ll have to leave behind the things that were – if only for a little while – his. But maybe that’s for the better, S.Q. thinks. Maybe he’s not meant for this, these outrageous acts of care. Surely, it’ll spoil him. 

The tears stop after a while when he’s too tired to continue sobbing. When Rhonda knocks on his door a few minutes later to ask him if he needs anything before she leaves for the grocery store, his voice doesn’t shake when he tells her no. 

He hears her footsteps echo down the hall and once he deems they’re far enough, he slumps down again. 

S.Q. doesn’t like himself like this, when he gets all sunken in and gray with grief, like most days. 

He gets angry most days, too. That’s when S.Q. likes himself the least. There’s no composure, no control. It’s as if someone’s scrawled a sudden mess of red across his psyche. Suddenly, his words turn into venom. He’s a snake, striking and coiling his body around itself until he’s gasping for breath. 

Only once does he snap at Constance. 

She had been more crabby than usual, pestering S.Q. about his paintings. Not that she ever liked his art to begin with, always finding issues with his motifs and color palettes, but she had been particularly ruthless this time. Something in him just snapped and he had snarled at her – voice louder than intended – to leave him alone. 

Constance had frozen then if only momentarily, words seemingly caught in her throat. Her cheeks turned slightly pink and all of a sudden she looked so very small. But she didn’t say anything, she simply got up and left. 

As soon as Constance was gone, the guilt started to eat S.Q. alive. The only thing that had stopped him from immediately running after the girl was how heavily the regret was weighing down on him, leaving him stuck in place. 

He had sat still like that for a while, desperately trying to gain control over the messy swirl of colors inside. 

When he had finally plucked up the courage to apologize a few moments later, Constance had behaved as nonchalantly as usual:

“Typical tempestuous teenagers,” She had remarked with a roll of her eyes before taking another bite of her muffin (no doubt stolen from the kitchen). 

He had been forgiven, though S.Q. kept expecting Constance to bring up the incident later when useful. 

She never did. 

He snaps at Mr. Benedict too sometimes, albeit with a lower volume of voice. He’ll utter some snide remark and will then, immediately, almost like clockwork, be filled with so much guilt that his timid apology comes out as a mumbled nervous mess. But Mr. Benedict’s comforting smile never falters.

There are times when S.Q. feels as though Mr. Benedict might be reading his mind (which, with the existence of Constance’s ‘abilities’, is not as irrational a fear anymore). S.Q. never tells his uncle about the shapes he chases in the corner of his eye, but the man seems to reach out and express his understanding without uttering a word. Maybe he chases them too, S.Q. thinks. 

When S.Q. has finally gotten used to sleeping without the sound of snoring coming from the other end of the room (and not being woken up on random mornings by Constance deciding to strike him with a pillow) and he stops taking a wrong turn every night as he heads to bed, the snow in the garden has finally melted and Mr. Benedict announces that they’re having guests over. Kate and Milligan are to stay over the weekend, needing to purchase appliances for their farm which are only available in the city. 

They arrive for dinner later that day, and S.Q. poorly attempts to conceal his anxiety. It had been months since he last saw Kate. Their goodbye had been brief, though Kate had still insisted on giving him a hug, and right before she left she had pressed something into his palm. He barely registered it at first, only after their car had turned around the corner did he look to see what it was.

A Swiss army knife, with a dark, wooden handle. Upon closer inspection, S.Q. noticed his initials had been lightly scratched into the wood. For once, S.Q. doesn’t cry over a gift. 

Over dinner, S.Q. keeps wanting to thank her for it. But over the sounds of cutlery against plates, joyful conversation, and the soul record Rhonda had put on, he doesn’t get the chance to express his gratitude. Instead, he fidgets with his hands under the table and does his best at isolating each of the voices that are discordantly interwoven like the threads of a particularly flamboyant plaid. 

Kate is beaming when she talks about all of the tricks she’s been trying to teach Madge, her pet peregrine falcon, with varying degrees of success. S.Q. stiffens at the mention of the bird. She is certainly a majestic creature, there was no doubt about that, and it was when S.Q. had been sketching her that he had learned that her name was Madge and had rushed to disheveledly inform Kate about his discovery. Yet its connotations, the memories attached to the bird, cannot be erased. 

But Kate moves on to another topic so quickly that S.Q. doesn’t have time to dwell on the memories. Instead, she talks about the vegetables they’re growing and how the fields are so big that she can run to one end and run back to the other just in time for dinner. She talks about how every night, even when it’s freezing outside, she and Milligan will sit on the porch and look at the stars. She talks about how she too has her own room now, with a window that leads out onto the roof (which she is forbidden to climb out of). 

S.Q. gets so immersed in the conversations and all of the sounds, that by the time he takes note of Number Two’s stern glances aimed at his plate, his food (Coq au vin with creamy mashed potatoes) has gone cold. He takes a few bites of some vegetables anyway, looking at Number Two apologetically. He knows she’s not angry with him, but he still wants to avoid her hardened gaze by any means possible. 

After dinner, Kate, Constance, and S.Q. end up in the library on the third floor, which just so happens S.Q.’s favorite out of all the libraries in the house. While the entirety of Mr. Benedict’s house can be likened to a massive library, with bookshelves decorating every wall and stray books decorating any remaining empty space, the third-floor library is by far the most cluttered. Shelves are filled to the brim with books and the most random assortments of things. Even the floor is covered in rickety towers, containing books that have seemingly all been read (S.Q. actually took the time to investigate one of the towers once and found that all of the books either had dog-eared pages or a brightly colored bookmark wedged between its pages). 

For the first time in weeks (excluding the period during which S.Q. and Constance’s rooms were being refurbished), the house doesn’t feel so quiet. 

For hours Kate tells stories about her new life, which Constance enhances with her usual dosage of sarcasm and snark. On occasion, S.Q. dares to chime in with some questions of his own (“What kind of animals do you have at the farm?” “Have you seen any eagles?”) or to supplement Constance’s less than informative ramblings about current events in the Benedict house. 

By the time they’re told to head to bed (by Rhonda and Milligan), the view outside their window is pitch black and the room is lowly lit by a stray candle Kate managed to light. S.Q. is feeling warm, but tired, almost stretched out too thinly by the hours of conversation. Yet, it’s a good kind of tired, he thinks.

The next morning, S.Q. wakes up early, though not of his own volition. While he’s more or less gotten used to his new room and sleeping alone, he supposes he will never stop being a light sleeper after being ruthlessly woken by a pillow being smacked against his head by his former tiny, angry roommate. 

Which perhaps might be why the repetitive thudding that is quiet enough to be ignored by the busy mind – yet loud enough to intrude on said business – is what suddenly wakes S.Q.. With his thoughts still tinted by a deep (though abruptly interrupted) sleep, he initially tries to dismiss the sound as the work of Number Two moving some furniture, or perhaps Mr. Benedict re-organizing one of the house’s many bookshelves. 

But as the minutes pass and the sound continues in its near mechanical rhythm, S.Q. finds himself wide awake. And as he gets out of bed and starts getting dressed, he finds that this sound cannot be ignored at all and has indeed become a source of great nuisance and intrigue. 

The downstairs library, which S.Q. also mentally refers to as ‘the piano room’ given the grand piano placed in the corner of the room, is located in the east wing of the house and appears to contain the source of the noise. On days when the house gets a little too peaceful for Constance’s liking she – being ever so charitable – remedies the situation by violently smashing her hands down on the keys in as disharmonious a fashion as possible. As S.Q. carefully avoids the creaks on the wooden steps, he mentally prepares himself to be greeted by a grumpy and possibly sleep-deprived Constance who has found a new instrument to play. In his mind, he can already envision her piercing glare. 

In consequence, S.Q. is quite surprised when he opens the doors to the library and is instead greeted by a bright red bouncy ball that flies past his face and is caught by Kate who is casually draped over one of the leather armchairs. Upon seeing S.Q. she straightens up ever so slightly. 

“Oh, hey,” she says, sounding only somewhat surprised. Kate re-adjusts her grip on the bouncy ball and something in S.Q.’s brain clicks into place. 

He clears his throat in slight embarrassment. “Um,” he starts, pausing to think of a good excuse before finally settling on: “Is it okay if I sit in here and sketch?” He raises the sketchbook and pencils that he had grabbed before leaving his room more out of absentminded habit than anything else.  

“Of course!” Kate smiles. “Be my guest,” she adds in a singsong voice whilst dramatically gesturing towards the opposing armchair. 

Trying to ignore any feelings of awkwardness while simultaneously feeling quite pleased with himself for not being so slow of mind for once, S.Q. sits down and opens his sketchbook. As he flits through the pages, Kate raises her arm and throws the bouncy ball. It bounces off the floor, against one of the bookshelves, and on the floor again before Kate catches it. 

It’s a distinct rhythm. One-two-three-catch. One-two-three-catch. And it’s less bothersome to the ear now that it’s evident where it’s coming from. 

S.Q.’s gaze follows the path of the ball. It’s sort of hypnotic, almost pleasant to look at. The sketchbook in his lap is soon forgotten. 

One-two-three-catch. One-two-three-catch.

It’s easy to get distracted, he finds, when the mind is always so busy, so cluttered. It’s like that sharp edge that he so often finds himself pressing against, as though it were a bruise. A smidge of pain for a smidge of relief feels like a worthwhile trade-off. 

One-two-three-catch. One-two-three-catch.

S.Q. turns to Kate. Her movements are made in that sleepy, second-nature manner and her eyes are sort of glazed over, like someone who’s repeated a task too many times to count. Her clothes are also wrinkled and a few stray strands of hair are peaking out from under her green beanie. By the looks of it, she’s been up for a while. Perhaps all night, S.Q. figures. 

“How’s it been? Living with your dad and all,” he asks and it’s a similar question to the ones he asked the previous night in the library. Only with one key difference. 

One-two-three-catch. One-two-three-catch.

He’s curious, and he’s been curious for a while now. Because Kate and Milligan seem so happy. Milligan hugs her and calls her ‘Katie-Cat’ and listens to what she has to say and Kate will roll her eyes but still smile. Despite the events that tore them apart, they seem to have reunited so effortlessly. 

It feels,

One-two-three-catch. 

aspirational,

One-two-three-catch.

in a way. 

“It’s great!” Kate begins with a particularly dry delivery that even she must’ve noticed herself for her face contorts into a grimace. She shoots S.Q. a brief look and whatever remains of her mask deteriorates. 

One-two-three-catch. One-two-three-catch.

The girl sighs, “But it’s uh… just so quiet, you know? I mean, I’ve never had a room by myself before. It’s weird not falling asleep to, like, at least four other people snoring.” She chuckles a little at her own humor and S.Q. lets his lips stretch into a small grin. But he can also feel his heartbeat quicken. 

One-two-three-catch. One-two-three-catch.

“Is that why you can’t sleep?” S.Q. only dares to give Kate a fleeting glance. 

One-two-three-catch. 

Silence . 

A sigh of surrender. 

“I’m… I’m supposed to just adapt, which is, like, fine I guess, I’ve done that all my life,” Kate begins. “But it’s just– I used to be this whole other person, you know? I was an orphan that ran away and joined the circus and now I have a dad and I live on a farm and I’ve kind of saved the world and…” Kate sighs again. 

She shifts her position, still laying horizontally on the armchair with her legs over the armrests, but she now faces the ceiling. “And I don’t know if I’d say I miss that part of my life, but I guess I just…wish I could’ve spent more time with it. Like, if I had known that things would be so different now maybe I would’ve… I don’t know.” 

“Done things differently?” S.Q. attempts to fill in. Something inside of him is shaking, as though he’s standing on unstable ground. 

“Maybe. Or maybe it would’ve just been nice to know in advance how things would end up, does that make sense?”

S.Q. nods and looks down at his hands. The skin around his fingernails is covered in scabs, some of which have started to bleed again. He must’ve been scratching at them without knowing it. 

It’s about independence. It’s about relying on no one but yourself. It’s about mending your own clothes, tending to your own wounds, and taking your own first steps out into the world. 

Except that doesn’t work, not for S.Q. at least, who trips and scrapes his knees at every attempt to run on his own two feet. Even if he wanted to (and honestly, what does he even want?), his dependency is something he could never escape from. 

He glances in Kate’s direction, at her bright red bucket which is resting on the floor in front of the armchair. Even back on the island, in the midst of their elaborate ruse, the bucket was always attached to her belt. It was quite an eyesore in the sea of homogenously dressed students. 

Kate says that it’s good to be prepared. That you never know what’s going to happen. Maybe that’s where S.Q. went wrong. He simply wasn’t prepared enough. 

“But, you’re happy now, right?” He asks, his voice low and uncertain; a deep, muted teal. He has to know. He has to know. 

Kate nods, almost aggressively. The ball in her hand is thrown high up into the air, missing the light fixture attached to the ceiling by only an inch.

“Yeah, totally! I’m with my dad again, I have a bunch of new friends,” she nods her head towards S.Q., whose cheeks heat up at the insinuation. But then she looks quite solemn all of a sudden, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin straight line. “It’s just… It’s scary to find a home for yourself, to all of a sudden just belong somewhere, you know?” 

S.Q. feels his heart drop. “Y-Yeah,” he manages to blurt out. He’s lost his footing and he’s falling towards a now discernible and defined truth. It’s scary to find a home for yourself . He shudders. 

S.Q. continues falling and is struck with the realization that he isn’t entirely certain of what a home is. In his head, he tries to paint a picture of what it could be. White picket fences, large stained glass windows, two parents and a dog all swirl around his head but are ultimately scrapped. The colors all blend together into a bitter mess of browns and greys. 

“Hey, S.Q., can I ask you something?” Kate says, voice like a dull knife cutting through the layers of paint. 

S.Q. looks up, hoping his expression is clear enough to indicate that he’s urging her to continue. It’s not. He nods instead. 

“Are you happy? Here, I mean.”

S.Q. swallows thickly and wipes his sweaty palms along the sides of his trousers. He thinks of his talks with Mr. Benedict, the endless piles of books littered around the house, and his favorite place in the garden to sit and draw the birds. He enjoys it here, that much is true. 

And yet, he cannot belong here. Even a wish to belong, buried so deep down it can barely be reached, he cannot let himself dwell on. Because belonging means he isn’t dispensable. It means he isn’t to be cast aside. And if he can belong here, then does that mean he was never incapable of belonging in the first place, as he’d been made to believe all these years? 

 “It’s… complicated.” 

He thinks of the living quarters on the island, which was more of a room at the end of a corridor than anything else. The shadows and harsh lines grow fuzzy in his mind’s eye. Only the composition truly remains. Stone floors, blank walls, and windows that were always too small and always too far out of reach. 

Had that been his home? Is it still?  

S.Q.’s brain feels foggy, as it always does these days when old memories from the island resurface. When it comes to his father it feels gritty and feverish. Undoubtedly tangible and real. But everything else might as well have been a dream, it’s all soft and out of focus like the background of a portrait. Not entirely accessible. Not entirely real. 

As Kate often tends to do, she pries. And S.Q. can’t fault her for it. 

“In what way?” She asks with an innocent tilt of her head. 

S.Q. can’t explain to her that it’s not a question of if he does or doesn’t feel happy but it’s more of a question of if he should . If he is meant to find happiness in times like these. If he is even allowed to. 

He turns inward and feels that tug of grief in the pit of his stomach. 

There must be something within him, some immutable thing that is rotting him from the inside out. A flaw in his proportions, in the values of the underpainting, something that has forged this inherent disloyalty, this perpetual inability to do what he’s supposed to do and feel what he’s supposed to feel. 

Kate is still looking at him, more or less expectantly. So he tries again, fumbling in dark for a coherent answer: “I’ve never been around this many people who actually know me before. Back then it was only really Dad that knew me.” It feels unfinished, whatever he’s trying to say, but at least it’s true. 

“It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” S.Q. almost laughs. 

“But I think what’s so nice is that everyone kind of gets it, you know?” 

S.Q. isn’t sure he agrees with that but he nods anyway. He thinks back to one of his conversations with Mr. Benedict, about being known but not understood. There’s a difference, he’s realized. 

Perhaps, it’s about trust. It’s about trusting his friends. It’s about tearing out the barbed wire that’s been welded to your brain over the years with your bare hands and knowing that someone will be there to tend to the wounds, to help soak up the blood. 

They’re his friends . The term feels foreign, even in his head. 

His father had told him not to get stuck in the streams of false camaraderie. Regardless of what is true or false, to S.Q., friendships are a scarcity; a valuable resource, built on mutual understanding and trust. Whatever that means. 

But friendships are not made for people who are shattered reflections of what they once were. Friendships are not for people who are alone, alone, alone. 

S.Q. thinks of Reynie and the way his lower lip had sort of trembled when he asked if they would stay in touch. He thinks of his daily talks with Mr. Benedict and their walks to the park. He thinks of Kate and the engraved Swiss army knife currently residing in the drawer of his nightstand. 

Maybe bleeding is okay, if it means he gets to have these friends by his side. 

Maybe bleeding is a good thing, if it means he gets to heal.