Work Text:
Claude was seven years old. Coloring with crayons in his sketchbook at the kitchen table when a new person walked through the front door, much to his mother’s protests.
The man was tall, with dirty blond hair reminiscent of Callie’s, silvery gray eyes, and a hulking demeanor to him.
“Fred, no.” Gracie begged, tugging him back away from the table. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Ignoring her, this Fred walked up to Claude, who looked up to see him, bright blue eyes flickering with curiosity.
“Hello, little guy.” The man greeted, a smile on his face despite the hostile tone he took.
“Hi.” Claude waved a little before turning back to his sketchbook, taking the blue crayon and drawing what he imagined to be a boundless ocean.
“Come with me.”
“Fred, no. Don’t do this.” Gracie bit her lip, tugging at him again. “You said you wouldn’t.” Wordlessly, Claude heard a noise like a clap. His mother cried out and backed away from the newcomer.
“I said come with me. I have something to show you.” The man turned back to him, a glint in his eyes as he closed his sketchbook.
Claude was eleven years old. Adding finishing touches to a drawing of his mother in his sketchbook, hidden in the safety of his room. Her long brown hair, her heterochromic eyes sparkling in sapphire and emerald hues, her smile.
Downstairs, his mother was not so happy, screaming and crying hysterically as Callie tried to talk her down. His sister had snapped at him to go upstairs, they had it handled. So he did. There he was, alone in his room, drawing his mother to pass the time.
Not too long after, red and blue blinking lights lit up the room as his ears alerted him that policemen had arrived. He watched from the window, grayish blue eyes blinking back tears as he watched them take his mother out of the house.
After that, he saw her a lot less. Which was understandable, the mental institution didn’t particularly care for visitors.
But then his dad got worse. Claude never knew what happened, but it seemed like Fred hated them so much more. Nothing Claude did was right, nothing his sister could do would give her the recognition she desired. Nothing was ever enough.
But Claude didn’t want to think about that right now. So he just went back to his sketchbook.
Claude was fifteen years old. Long gone were the days of visiting Gracie, of getting along with Alix, of being okay. It wasn’t uncommon that Claude would limp to school, or write with his non-dominant hand because everything hurt.
He and his sister would fight over the smallest things and Claude never really knew why. Was it because she thought she was better? Was it because she would have done better? Claude had no idea.
Claude hadn’t felt truly alive in a long time. He had almost forgotten what pure, unadulterated joy felt like, what it was like to be safe and happy with people he loved and cared about. Whatever he did feel, it was a shell of half-hearted emotion barely coming through past his pain, cautiousness, and tiredness.
But he could hide that. In his sketchbook.
Masking was something Claude had gotten freakishly good at, and if he thought about it, masking really was like drawing. There’s this thing called art imitation, and it’s basically when you subconsciously make the face that you’re drawing because that’s just how your brain works. Or something like that, anyway.
Claude drew pictures of his family, his classmates, people he saw on the street, but they were always happy. So whenever he was asked if he was okay, he’d smile and say everything was great.
But he didn’t want to think about that right now. So he just turned back to his sketchbook.
Claude was seventeen years old. To say that he was tired was an understatement. Despite his best attempts to remain ‘okay’, he was noticeably losing weight, with dark circles under his eyes that seemed almost permanent. He was so ready for something to change, for something to end, but he wasn’t sure what that something was.
He didn’t feel like masking anymore, but whenever he thought he could stop, just tell someone, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t hurt his dad like that. He couldn’t let that happen. Because, even though he was battered, beaten, and bruised, he was still Fred’s family. And family was supposed to be there for each other no matter what.
Even if he’d never be there for Claude.
The end came sooner than Claude had expected, to be honest. And in the worst way possible. Claude was just in his room, doodling in his sketchbook as he kept his rolled ankle resting.
Then Fred came in. Without a reason, Claude didn’t even do anything before he was on the floor and Fred had the sketchbook. Sneering down at Claude, who had defensively curled slightly inward to protect his stomach, he shot him with a glare he rarely used, even on Claude.
“You’re a disgrace .” He spat, shoving the sketchbook at Claude’s face. Claude thought he’d done a pretty good job, taking what he remembered of Gracie and making her happier. What she could’ve been. “You do things that are useless . Unhelpful! You’re supposed to be my son, the one I can depend on, the one who’s going to take over all of this ! And instead, you waste your time on a stupid drawing !”
Claude saw red as Fred ripped the sketchbook in half and cast it out the open window before shutting it closed with a slam. “W… How dare you.” Claude managed a hiss of his own, making his way to his feet and shooting a look of his own, stormy eyes that were still a good bit bluer than Fred’s glaring daggers.
“You dare?” Fred scoffed, stepping forward and making Claude back into the wall without even thinking. “You’re just a child pretending to be formidable at anything . And I’m just about fed up with dealing with it.”
Claude gulped as he moved further back, dreading what was to come. Any way this could go, Claude wasn’t going to like it. He saw Fred’s hand coming and ducked, moving back out of his range and forcing a wall between them.
Fred growled. “You dare? When I’m the reason you are what you are? You can’t beat me with my own ability, you’re just pretending that you could even come close. You’re what I made you. A monster , just like me. You’re nothing but an animal.”
“You know what? Fine. But you can only hit an animal so many times before it bites back.” He forced the invisible wall further from him and Fred fell to the ground, allowing Claude enough time to rush to the door, practically flying down the stairs.
He shoved past his sister, who had looked up with a start to ask him if he was okay. Before he knew what he was doing, he was out the door, running towards a destination he didn’t even know where, he just had to keep moving.
By the time he stopped to catch his breath, he was in front of the Eiffel Tower. He considered going back home, but he knew that wasn’t going to end well. Ladybug . He needed to find her.
Or maybe he shouldn’t. Thinking about it, he had known his father was Le Mime his entire life. How bad would it look that Kid Mime told her only now that he was scared, fed up, and tired of everything? He couldn’t do that. And plus, Fred was family. He couldn’t do that to him.
But he couldn’t worry about that right now. Right now, he just needed to breathe.
So he just turned back to his sketchbook, still in tatters in his hand.