Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hunter’s son is a little strange. 

Multiple people have expressed to him that his son is extremely quiet and bookish, and that he doesn’t get along well with the other kids. Hunter has stopped trying to convince everyone that his son is really just the opposite at home—that kid never stops running circles around him both with his mouth and with his legs, and Hunter has never successfully finished a book with him since he was a toddler. Sure, he can believe Marshal doesn’t have many friends (by evidence that he never speaks about any), but Hunter would have thought it would be the result of Marshal being.. too much, not because he was too quiet. 

Hunter knows everyone isn’t lying to him—that would be an odd conspiracy. He instead worries he might be the cause for Marshal's social troubles. Growing up in a strange environment has made Hunter a strange adult, and perhaps an incompetent parent. Maybe Hunter’s thoughtless isolation from the world has stunted Marshal’s growth as a person? His own friends tell him they ‘miss him like crazy’ whenever they see each other, and Hunter finds himself surprised by it each time. It never feels like he’s been withdrawn for too long and, besides, aren’t adults supposed to be busy? He certainly is, being a single parent and all. Maybe they just don’t see that yet—he is the oldest, after all. Or maybe Darius was right, and Hunter is still too young to be raising another person. Whichever the case may be, he doesn’t regret any of it. He loves Marshal.

Speaking of which..

Hunter peers around the door to Marshal’s room and smiles at his son’s precious face. Marshal is a deep, if fitful sleeper, and often ends up tangled in his sheets, hair in disarray. A line of drool marks his soft cheek. Cute.

Hunter pads softly to Marshal’s bedside and kneels on the rug, careful not to make any sudden, loud noises. He brushes a lock of brown hair behind his small ear.

“Pipsqueak, it’s time to wake up.” Hunter murmurs, hardly having it in his heart to wake his son. “You need to have breakfast and get ready for school, okay?”

Marshal’s eyelids flutter but do not open. It’s hard for Hunter to admit any shortcoming in his son when he’s so different to how Hunter was as a child—paranoid and high strung as he was at even Marshal’s age, Hunter would have woken at the sound of footsteps outside the door. Or better yet, he would have been out of bed long before anyone else even had the chance to come to consciousness. He has a hard time gauging if something is wrong. Hunter feels the weight of the folded paper in his pocket. That’s why..

“Marshal, baby, it’s time to wake up!” Hunter whisper shouts, rocking his son’s shoulder. “We’ve got oatmeal and goreberries and a griffen egg omelet today!” Marshal groans, but refuses to open his eyes. Well then. Hunter will just have to pull out his secret weapon. “Hey, if you get out of bed right now, we’ll have enough time for you to help Dad pack your lunch today!”

Marshal opens a single eye, considering.

“...Will you let me put two milks in it?”

Hunter smiles.

“You can have two milks AND two cookies. But I’m not going to pack them for you, you have to put them in there yourself. How’s that sound, Pipsqueak?”

Marshal is fully awake now, and nods.

“That’s acceptable,” he says, and on the flip of a snail, he’s sitting up and slipping out of bed.

“Do you need any help today, Pipsqueak? Or should Dad excuse himself?”

Marshal thinks about it for less than a second before he’s pushing at Hunter’s legs.

“It’s okay! I can do it myself.” A stray lock of hair falls between Marshal’s eyes. “You can brush my hair though.” The way he says it makes it sound as if he’s conceding something for Hunter’s sake—and he might be, but Hunter also knows how much Marshal adores having his hair done.

“Okay, Pipsqueak. I’m going to wake up Waffles now, so just shout if you need me.”

“Okay! Bye. Bye!”

Hunter chuckles as he closes his son’s door behind him. Waffles is already eating their breakfast, but it seemed like a lie Marshal would like. Right? So he wouldn’t feel like a burden, because Hunter is used to this, is fine with waking him up, and so he’d know that it’s normal for him to do it because, see, even reliable ol’ Waffles needs Dad to wake them up! Hunter frowns. He really does like to do it. 

Hunter rummages through the drawers of the bathroom, trying to find wherever Marshal misplaced his hairbrush. Hunter got them a matching set, because Marshal has a similar hair texture to Hunter, and because he thought it would be cute. Hunter would share, because Marshal knows to be careful with Hunter’s things, but he personally can’t stand the thought of mixing their hair, even if he removes every strand after brushing. It’s bad enough that Hunter has two colors of his own, so adding a third would just be too much, especially since it would smell different. He’s aware it might be an odd thing to get hung up on, but as long as Marshal’s hair and scent stays on Marshal’s brush, Hunter couldn’t care less. Marshal is ambivalent to this one rule, thankfully.

Hunter waits patiently for his son to come find him in the bathroom, setting up their stools in front of the mirror so Marshal can brush his teeth while Hunter deals with his hair. He’s long done with his own morning routine—as much as he loves Marshal, Hunter would probably die of stress if he had to live by the kid’s same schedule. He just can’t sleep in like that—Hunter likes to take his mornings slow, agonizingly slow to some, and so he wakes at an ungodly hour to fit it all in. Sometimes he runs early, like today, so he waits.

Marshal rewards him soon enough, opening the bathroom door and barging in without a care in the world. Hunter pats the stool in front of him, which Marshal eagerly clambers up. For a boy nearly eight, he’s quite small, so he huffs a little as he struggles to get on top. Hunter is fairly certain he was also small at that age, so it’s probably nothing to worry about. It’s endearing too—despite all this time, Marshal is still just his baby.

Hunter starts by parting Marshal’s hair into fourths, combing through them with his lightly oiled fingers first, the motions ingrained long before Marshal came into his life. He had never minded this part, because it felt– normal. It didn’t feel as if the world would end if he tugged a little too harshly on a knot, nor did his careful passes with the brush feel like an apology. It was just time and motion, Uncle and Nephew. Father and Son. 

Uncle would speak of his day in slow, sweet words, asking Hunter of his own. They would wind down together, and if he was lucky and good, Uncle might have sent him to bed with a candy he definitely wasn’t supposed to have after brushing his teeth. Now, Hunter makes sure Marshal is quiet during the process if only because his mouth is full of toothpaste, and it’s morning—they’re preparing for the day together instead. There’s no candy, but Hunter has made breakfast already, brought down to and kept to a Marshal-acceptable temperature before they eat it together. There’s no medicine to be taken, no curse, and– oh. Hunter supposes he’s not one for too much chit chat when he’s so focused on his son’s hair. As a whole it remains familiar, but Hunter doesn’t mind doing a few familiar things with his son.

Hunter finally finishes brushing Marshal’s hair, and hands him a few hair ties and pins for him to do with as he likes. Even after all this time, Hunter isn’t especially skilled at styling hair, and Marshal’s preference changes day to day and often hour to hour, so it’s really best to leave this part to him. Marshal drops the pins on the sink counter and uses a single hair tie for a low ponytail. Hunter rolls his eyes, making a mental note to slip some of the bobby-pins in Marshal’s school bag—he’ll get annoyed when his hair starts to frizz later and want for all the pins Hunter just offered him.

Marshal hops off his stool and grabs Hunter’s hand, leading him to the dining room. Looks like Hunter will just have to put the stools away after taking Marshal to school, then.

“Okay, so Dad, today I was thinking we could go to the creek after school and we could play, hmm. Um, I don’t know yet. But it’s gotta be at the creek because I wanna see the crawbuds. Do you think they like goreberries? Or should I save them some of my omelet..?”

“What if their most favorite is oatmeal?”

Marshal makes a face and squeezes Hunter’s hand tighter.

“Ugh. I’m not giving them my oatmeal. We don’t have to be friends.”

Hunter laughs at that, but isn’t sure he means it. And maybe he shouldn’t have laughed at all, because that’s encouraging this behavior, right? And so– Tsk. See? 

Marshal squeezes his hand again, but Hunter doesn’t know what for. Hunter squeezes back once, taps Marshal’s knuckles once, twice– and now his son is racing to the table, leaving Hunter’s hand limp in the air. It’s fine. He’s just a kid, and it’s only because he enjoys Hunter’s meal, made with love. It’s not that serious.

Between bites of food, Hunter only half way seated himself, Marshal asks again, almost certainly making a bit of a mess intentionally. He’s lucky Hunter is such a lax parent, because if he had done the same by accident, he would have been… But that’s ‘apples to oranges’, or something. Maybe Marshal isn’t so lucky, all the same.

“So, can we go to the creek today?”

“..Maybe, Pipsqueak.” Hunter smiles wanly. He takes his first bite of food to put off responding to Marshal’s inevitable consequent questions for as long as possible.

Marshal scrunches his nose and furrows his brows, throwing his head back as if there was ever any hope he could look down at Hunter. It’s really rather uncanny.

“So what’s wrong with you, Dad? What’s happening today?”

Hunter chews his food into a paste smoother than most spackle. Eventually, he has to swallow. He reaches for his cup to wash it down and motions for Marshal to do the same. Lord knows that kid needs to drink more water. Marshal rolls his eyes but obliges.

“I’m sorry,” Hunter always starts with sorries—is it undermining his authority? Does it make him less respectable? “I should have given you more of a warning.” There, concise and to the point. “After school today, we have to see a real nice person and have a talk about.. you and me.”

Marshal gapes at him, betrayal written all over his face. Why does he have to be so perceptive, and know what Hunter really means? Hunter’s heart can hardly take it, and he almost calls the entire thing off right then and there, except the whole point is that he needs to be more firm, isn’t it?

“We.. We’ll see about going to the creek after that, okay Pipsqueak?”

“No!” Marshal stands in his chair just to have the higher ground. “No, I don’t wanna talk to anybody! I don’t even know them! No!”

Hunter panics, “Marshal, please, you have to get down, he’ll–” see you, and you’re being very bad. Hunter swallows and says nothing else.

Marshal looks close to tears, small hands balled into fists at his sides.

“It’s because you’re afraid of me, right?”

What? They’ve never– They’re not supposed to– 

“I knew it, I knew it! You always- you’re so- Ugh!” Marshal jumps down off his chair. “We aren’t going ANYWHERE after school, because I’m not going to school!” He screams, and turns on his heel to run back to his room.

“Marshal, baby, wait-”

But he’s already gone.

They don’t do this. It’s a rule, like their hairbrushes. Hunter digs his nails into his clammy palms. It’s so unfair. He follows the rules but they alway end up broken at his feet anyways. He lets out his shallow breath. No, Marshal is seven. 

Is that what he means?

“..What did I do wrong?” Or really—where? When did it start?

Waffles chirps cutely, but they’re also at a loss. Hunter brushes his thumb over their little head, back and forth, back and forth. He mourns Marshal’s only quarter-eaten plate. This is going to ruin his appetite for days.

“I guess I should still pack his lunch.. Maybe he’ll come around in a little bit?”

Waffles sings and hops over to Marshal’s plate, pecking at his goreberries. Hunter shoos them away.

“Stop that, he needs to eat still. You can have some of mine.” 

Hunter leaves the table, fishing out Marshal’s lunchbox and beginning to gather the pre-planned meal into containers. The lunchbox is something he got from the Human Realm, frog themed and soft. He’d pointed it out to Luz, and she bought it for Marshal’s fifth birthday. Marshal hid behind Hunter for most of the time she had come by for, but thanked her loudly and proudly for the lunchbox when he received it.

Hunter smiles at the memory, but it’s quickly soured by his current predicament. He should have told Marshal beforehand—a few hours notice wasn’t enough time to prepare him for something like that. How would he feel if– well.. It would literally never happen, but regardless! He knows Marshal doesn’t do well with strangers, he just didn’t want him to stew on it. It’s. There’s no winning. Hunter wishes he could ask– Hunter wishes he could get some advice. From someone.

That’s what today was supposed to be for. But maybe he shouldn’t have brought a stranger into it. Some things are meant to stay in families, right? It isn’t Marshal’s fault that Hunter was made all wrong. That’s the rule.

Marshal. Fuck, was he supposed to follow him?

You’re an idiot, Hunter.

Hunter closes the frog lunchbox and strangely feels sad for a moment, envious even. He sighs. 

Maybe Hunter was too young when he first became a parent, but he really is an adult now, and Marshal only seven. These are their roles. Hunter writes a note for Marshal’s lunch and sets the box in its usual place on the counter before heading for his son’s room, as much as he’d rather run and hide in his own.

“Why did you name him that?” Luz asks, chuckling behind her fist.

“Well, you absolutely forbid me from naming him Pipsqueak, because ‘that’s such a bulliable name, dude, you can’t do that to a kid’. I still think it would have been fine,” Hunter harrumphs, crossing his arms. “This is the Boiling Isles, not Earth.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for my nephew! Who knows, you could end up in the Human Realm one day. For an extended period of time.. Who knows…”

Hunter shuffles his feet. His kid isn’t anybody’s nephew. And while Hunter had been happy in the Human Realm, sure, it wasn’t exactly caused by the change in scenery. His friends all urge him to visit it more, but Hunter honestly doesn’t want to. He thought having Marshal would make his intentions of staying in the Boiling Isles permanently clear, but they haven’t gotten the memo, apparently. Miss Camila had even extended her kindness and offered to host Hunter and Marshal indefinitely nearly the moment Luz informed her of the situation, knowing how hard it can be to be a single parent. Hunter was touched, but declined. While being nineteen technically makes him a teen parent, Hunter isn’t a child. He and Marshal are doing fine.

“Well, maybe you’re right.. If I were to visit, it could make park days awkward.”

Luz nods her head enthusiastically with her hands outstretched, See? , but her smile is a little strained. She knows Hunter is only humoring her.

“Still, my guy, ‘Marshal’ is not much of an improvement. What are you gonna name the next one—Ross? Nordstrom? ”

Hunter rolls his eyes.

“Ugh, you act like that’s happening anytime soon. And no, I was not thinking about human department stores when I was naming my baby. ” 

Luz nods sagely.

“Right, right.” Her expression softens. “Hey, Hunter?”

Great, here they go.. 

“Yes?”

“I’m.. I’m proud of you. I know a lot of people have been telling you this was a dumb decision and, yeah, I’ll admit I thought so too for a minute, but I can tell you really love this kid and I- I don’t ever want you to doubt yourself. You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve come out of it as a pretty great person, someone I look up to, even.. Me and everyone are all here to support you if you need it, so don’t be afraid to ask, okay? I know you’d do the same for us. Besides, you’re family and that makes Marshal family, too.”

“Oh.” Hunter swallows. “Thanks. Um. Just, thank you.” Hunter looks over to where Marshal is sleeping, adoring the way his little chest rises and falls. “I- I don’t know about everyone else, but I believe you. You’re.. You’re my family, too, Luz.”

Luz half-smiles at him.

“I’m really glad you believe me. But, um, if this is about Darius.. We all think he’s overreacting, dude. I’m sure he’ll come around soon, though.”

“Nah, it’s whatever. He can think what he wants. It’s not like he’s my dad.”

Luz sighs.

“I guess.. I guess not, huh. Oh! My mom made you a buuuunch of heatable meals,” Luz begins digging around in her new enchanted tote bag, pulling out tupperware after tupperware of Camila’s cooking. “She said you can keep the containers too, if you want.”

Hunter laughs at the sheer amount of food piling up on his table. Does he even have enough room in his freezer?

“Thank you,” Hunter says, smiling and wiping away a happy tear, “thank you.”

Hunter raps his knuckles on Marshal’s door.

“Hey Pipsqueak, can I come in?”

A muffled yelp and a soft thud comes from behind the door. Hunter winces. He didn’t mean to startle the kid so badly. He waits a moment before opening his mouth again.

“Marshal?”

“No! Go away!”

Hunter sighs.

“Do you really want me to leave, or do you just not want to have that counseling meeting?”

Marshal’s silence is legendary. Hunter almost rolls his eyes. Brat, he thinks fondly. He’d pulled worse stunts on Darius for less during the short time he’d been under his care, so he’s in no position to complain.

Still, Marshal’s stubbornness runs deep. Hunter’s never been able to out wait him.

“How about.. Just you and me talk, okay? I won’t make you go anywhere after school that you don’t want. We can go to the creek like you said, or anywhere you’d like.” 

Hunter briefly considers lying and simply taking Marshal after school anyways. He dashes the thought, and crumples the referral letter in his pocket for good measure. Hunter knows his son better than anyone—it would take no less than eternity to soothe the ensuing grudge.

Marshal grumbles something incoherent behind the door. Hunter hums and leans his forehead against the wood.

“Pipsqueak, you know I can’t hear you.”

“Fine! Just come in already!”

Hunter reaches for the door handle, almost wishing he’d been spurned some more, and goes inside.

Marshal isn’t a very neat child, although Hunter doesn’t have a hard time keeping his room clean. He has a habit of sometimes trashing things when he gets frustrated, so Hunter had been preparing to walk into an utter mess. But it’s no less organized than it had been when he woke Marshal maybe only an hour ago. The only thing out of place is a lump of blankets on the floor at the foot of the bed, small and Marshal-shaped. Hunter feels compelled to rush over and dote on his baby, but he’s also wary of getting too close. He wouldn’t appreciate it, if he were in Marshal’s place—he’d even bit Darius for trying to comfort him, once.

But Marshal isn’t him. 

Hunter sits next to the blanket bundle and wraps an arm around it, loosely at first, just in case– but of course Marshal leans into his touch. Hunter isn’t sure why he feels like crying. Marshal peeks out from between blankets, peering up at him with his big blue eyes. It really can be so uncanny sometimes. He reaches his other arm around and brings Marshal’s head to his chest.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Pipsqueak. I should have asked you about all of that first.”

Marshal nods vigorously into his chest, next words coming out muffled.

“Yes, you should’ve.”

Hunter sighs and places a kiss on Marshal’s covered head. He’s just no good at this part, at being firm. Uncle certainly never had a problem with it—and Hunter knows he shouldn’t take any examples from that man, okay, he knows —but Darius never had much trouble with it either, and even sweet Miss Camila could reliably put her foot down. He wonders if that’s what Marshal meant.

“Pipsqueak? Can I ask you something?”

Marshal groans but manages a stiff ‘whatever’ anyway.

“Why did you say I’m afraid of you? Or rather.. what makes you feel that I am?”

“Ugh. Do we have to talk about that, Dad?”

“..I think we kind of do.”

Marshal sighs and burrows further into Hunter’s arms. He allows the silence for a minute, almost glad to have a calm moment with his son for once. Even as young as twenty five, Hunter’s knees are nowhere near as spry as they used to be, nor his hips nor back. His friends don’t complain of the same things, but it’s not surprising to him that his body is already falling apart. It was never meant to last very long, after all. Hunter tightens his grip around Marshal. No, no, he’ll be running around in circles with his son until the sun blows up. No matter what.

“…Marshal?”

“I’m just– I’m just thinking, Dad.”

“Okay, baby. Take your time.”

Hunter makes sure he himself doesn’t peek at the clock on Marshal’s nightstand. It’s okay if Marshal is late to school today. It’s only one day. He’s only a little boy, not even eight. No one will be mad. Even if someone is, they shouldn’t be, because Hunter is Marshal’s parent, not them. If Hunter isn’t mad, nobody in the entire world has even a smidgen of a right to be mad. Not that he would be mad, that is. He could never–

“I feel like.. you get lost in your head a lot. And you’re not really scared of me, but you treat me the way you’d treat someone you’re scared of.”

Hunter swallows. Okay. That’s… certainly something. He didn’t think it was so bad.

“Can you describe that to me a little more?”

“Sometimes you make me feel like I’m the one in charge of you.”

Hunter wants to protest how unfair that statement is. No one has been in charge of him for years. And after everything he’s done for Marshal, that’s how he feels? Hunter works everyday and still manages to be an extremely present parent in his life, he cooks and cleans, he brushes his hair and makes his bed, he plays with him, indulges him, loves him, puts him to bed with a smile and a kiss. And he does it alone. 

All he’s ever done is play caretaker, even back then. Sometimes he thinks that’s what he was made for. It isn’t fair. That’s what happened to Hunter, not Marshal. And he wasn’t even allowed to raise his voice, let alone throw tantrums and slam doors.

“What,” Hunter grits out, trying not to let his irritation show, “am I doing that makes you feel that way?”

Marshal looks up at him, blue eyes accusing.

“You don’t get it.” He scoffs. “Look, you’re bad at this whole thing. We can just stop.”

“Oh, please. You’re not getting away so easily. I do want to understand.”

Marshal deflates. Yes, Hunter is onto him. 

“Fine. Hold on.”

Hunter gives him some time.

“You.. You never tell me no. You expect me to make choices for you.”

Hunter blinks. Ah. He kind of feels like they’re having two different conversations. He has the decency to feel embarrassed. He should have known Marshal didn’t mean it in the same way—Marshal has basically no responsibilities other than keeping himself alive and well between Hunter’s weary blinks. So, no, he might not get it.

Hunter groans. It has to be something he’s self-conscious about too, huh?

“Ah, kid, I’m sorry. I think I’m starting to see what you mean. Hmm… Let me try to explain myself a little, would that help?”

Marshal shrugs in his arms. Hunter was told to hold his peace and make no excuses as a child, but free of that admonishment now, he actually finds this to be more constructive in most cases. Still, for Marshal’s sake, he’ll keep from being too emotional.

“Okay. Your Dad grew up thinking he was an adult the whole time. When he was your age,” Hunter boops Marshal’s nose, procuring a small, reluctant laugh, “he already had a job and duties. Not big ones yet, but he shouldn’t have had them anyways. His peers were adults and so they always knew a lot more than him. He didn’t go to school with other kids like you do, so it felt kind of like he was the smallest, least knowledgeable person in the whole world. He never really..” Got the chance to grow up? Stopped pretending to be an adult but then realized one day that he actually was one, except still as small and stupid as before? They aren’t sentiments Marshal would relate to, or even care for. So Hunter decides to drop that line of rationale. “Sometimes I’m still that little kid, you know? So when I don’t know something, I just assume that it’s my own shortcoming and everybody else knows the right answer. But that isn’t always the case, and it isn’t fair to you, because you’re too young, and you’re my kid. So, I’m sorry Marshal. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah..” 

Marshal doesn’t seem surprised. He’s a really perceptive kid.

“Look, Pipsqueak, this is the reason I wanted us to go to that meeting– and I’m not taking you there today, don’t worry. But how would you feel about going, one day? We’d have someone help you not feel so in charge of me, and have them help me not burden you with things like that. We could talk about other things too, anything that’s bothering you.”

The look Marshal gives him isn’t exactly withering, but it’s something close to it. Hunter sighs. So maybe he still didn’t get through to him, fine. It’s a work in progress.

“Kid, I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m not.. I can’t do this by myself. Not all of it.”

That is what gets Marshal to relent.

“OKAY. Fine. Just.. I like it when it’s just us. It’s always been just us, forever and ever. You- we- I like that you’re my dad.” Marshal mumbles.

“I like that you’re my kid, too. But it doesn’t have to be just us forever, Marshal.. I’m sure there are lots of people who would love to be your friend. ”

Marshal rolls his eyes. Yeah, maybe that was laying it on a bit too thick.

“Okay, okay. Are you overheating yet, kid? I’m sweating just looking at you.”

“You don’t even get hot. And I’m not too hot like this. Blehh.” Marshal complains and sticks out his tongue, but Hunter thinks he spies a telltale flush to his cheeks.

“Oh, so you won't mind me doing.. This! ” Hunter buries Marshal’s face completely with the blankets and squeezes him tight, blowing raspberries all over his covered head, delighting in his giggles and shrieks.

Hunter only lets this go on for a few seconds before he allows Marshal to come up for fresh, cool air. He laughs at his son’s messy hair, and smooths it down with his hand as Marshal pouts at him. 

“Alright. Do you want to go see how much breakfast Waffles has left for us?”

“Yeah!”

They’ll be okay. They have to be.

***

Marshal crosses his arms as he pouts, contemplating whether he should stomp his feet as well, but deciding against it even as his right foot twitches with the urge. That would be just too childish. Dad wouldn’t care or belittle him for it, but Marshal’s own pride would feel the bite.

He doesn’t want to go to school—it’s mind numbing, torturously so, utterly dull and beneath him. He hates the other kids, how dirty and loud they are, how prone to crying and throwing tantrums they are. Some kids even piss and shit themselves too, can you believe that? Marshal has never done any of that in his ENTIRE LIFE. Ask Dad, Marshal was a perfect toddler, and he’s content to know that he’s a perfect seven-year-old, too. Dad never did any of that stuff at Marshal’s age either, so it’s probably hereditary.

Marshal uncrosses his arms when he realizes Dad isn’t going to look at his protest, and subconsciously worries with the tip of one of his ears as he waits for Dad to finish packing his bag for him. Well, fine. They’re almost perfect. But it’s almost better than it would be otherwise, so Marshal drops the thought in favor of picking on Waffles. They dodge his pokes and quickly get the upper hand, tugging a strand of his hair loose, chirping mischievously in victory as Marshal yelps.

Dad looks over at this but only rolls his eyes at the two of them and returns to Marshal’s school bag. The sound of the zipper makes Marshal sigh, wringing all the fight out of him. Time for school.. Waffles chirps consolingly at him, but that traitor is the one who will be transporting him there, so Marshal pouts some more.

He considers just digging his feet in and announcing once and for all that he won’t be going to school today. There’s no such thing as pushing his luck with Dad, but education is important. Of course, he belongs leagues ahead of his current peers, but that would only make Dad worry more. Dad’s fretting is as endless as Marshal’s luck, and as much as he hates school, he’d much rather not be the cause for any more distress or.. conversations. What a bother. He just wanted to go to the creek today. When he had run off to his room he’d decided that he wanted to play out a scene they did a long time ago, but it’ll just have to wait until after school. He’s already planning his escape route to the library, so hopefully today won’t be too bad.

“Alright Pipsqueak, are you ready to go?”

“Ugh, I can’t believe I have to go to school so you can do taxes all day. That is sooo boring and uncool of you.”

“Hey, it puts food on the table!”

“I know you like it, you’re such a nerd.”

Waffles chortles with small tweets of agreement. Dad blushes and blows a loose curl out of his face as he huffs and puffs in offense.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever… C’mon, you’re going to be late.”

Marshal tries to send a look to Waffles, his usual partner in crime, but they’re already dutifully transforming into their staff form in Dad’s hands. Not fair.

***

Luz has been excited for this day for a while. Marshal’s eighth birthday isn’t for another month, but the kid is untrusting of most people outside of his household with no friends to boot, so Hunter wanted to have a smaller, lowkey party with only Marshal’s favorite people—himself, Waffles, and surprisingly Luz—before having a shorter celebration on the actual day with everyone else Hunter would like for Marshal to consider family but simply doesn’t. He didn’t want to offend anyone and made her promise not to tell their friends and family about today, but Luz doesn’t think anyone can really get mad at him. It’s Marshal’s birthday, not Hunter’s, so of course the kid is allowed to play favorites on his special day. Of course, maybe she only thinks that because she just so happens to be a favorite, but oh well. She’s an amazing aunt, sue her.

Aunting aside, Luz still doesn’t understand why someone her age would want to become a parent. Kids are a huge responsibility, and to do it alone too, is just– what about Hunter’s future, all those things he said he wanted to do? But there was no convincing him. He’d gotten one good look at those blue eyes and that was it. From that moment on, it was Hunter and Marshal, against the world. Luz wishes they didn’t see it that way. 

The whole thing still rubs her the wrong way at times—Hunter had spent his entire life catering to his uncle’s every whim, no matter how much it hurt him to do so. And only two years after escaping from under his thumb, Hunter makes himself a caretaker to yet another person? Luz gets that Marshal is a child, she does, he’s not responsible for Hunter putting himself in this situation but, also– Well. Hunter lets Marshal walk all over him. 

Sure, Luz isn’t a parent or anything, but even she can see that Marshal is kind of spoiled, and Hunter is kind of stressed out. Two years of being a kid wasn’t enough, in Luz’s opinion. It wasn’t enough time to be a kid, grow up, and learn how to be a person, let alone an adult (or especially a parent!!). It felt maybe a little immature, like the moment he stormed out of Darius’ house he instantly set out to create a new family, one without any of them in it. Luz can’t figure out if he’s trying to prove something, or if he really just doesn’t know how to live by himself.

But what’s done is done. And for the record, Luz loves that little booger, even if he can sometimes be something of a spoiled brat hellbent on driving Hunter to an early grave. She’s just happy she’s allowed to be the fun aunt at all.

She hopes Hunter took her advice of looking for a professional to talk to, though. His house may look perfectly functional and almost aggressively clean and orderly, but she’s seen his depression hovel he calls a bedroom. It’s the one room in the whole house Marshal isn’t allowed to go in, which just makes Luz feel bad for him—Hunter obviously doesn’t want his kid to see that. Even after all these years, some things still haven’t changed.

Luz grips Stringbean tighter as she flies over the woods to Hunter’s home. She’ll see him soon.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He’s tired and lost and his heart just isn’t in it anymore. He kind of wants to go home now. 

Hunter would have thought this place to be completely deserted if not for the huge billboard telling him that sinners will burn in hell. Oh, and the highway right there. That might be an important sign of human life. He’s not sure why God might condemn him to burn in hell when it’s already so hot here. It’s dry in a way the Boiling Isles simply isn’t, not even in Palm Stings—Hunter thinks his sinuses might actually crack apart if he takes another breath. He tries it, but no. Unfortunately still breathing, this one. Isn’t that a sin, too? Wishing you were dead, that is. It shouldn’t be an affront to God if Hunter thinks it as maybe more or less than a joke, as he is not one of God's creations seeking to destroy themself—he’s just Hunter, a pale imitation. Would he be offended, even then?

He wonders if Uncle is burning in hell for killing the image of his brother over and over again. Likely, when Hunter dies, he won’t go to hell or heaven. It saddens him for a moment—he’ll never get the chance with Uncle ever again, even after eternity. But maybe he’ll be over it by then. It doesn’t seem likely.

Well, he’s been told the Boiling Isles is pretty much like hell anyways, so maybe what time they had together did count for something. Life is a lot of maybes, Hunter is finding. 

There’s still a lot he needs to find. The nearest town, for example. He’s been wandering around for the better part of six hours today and he should probably refill his water bottle. When he found the road he thought it didn’t matter which direction he followed it in, but maybe his feet have discovered the most incorrect path anyways.

He stops for a moment, just standing and listening to a hawk cry out, trying to find where it might be circling overhead. He spots it as it begins to dive somewhere far off. It doesn’t help him to watch. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

Hunter finally pulls out the phone Luz insisted he get, but becomes confused by all of the apps that come preinstalled. He’s not sure how to get to the maps one. This comes so easily to other people, but not Hunter. Admittedly, he hasn’t tried very hard to improve. It’s not something he wants to be easy. 

34 missed calls and 54 unread texts. Yeah, he’s been putting that off. But maybe it’s okay if he asks for help, even now. There’s only one person he can really call.

“Hey, Luz? I’m kind of lost….. Yeah, I figured you guys would worry, which is why I left you that note and those chocolates.. Did they melt or something? …..Oh, you want me to tell you to your face next time. Okay, sorry. Anyways, I just wanted to know if you could teach me how to use GPS again….. Oh, okay. No, I’m fine. Sorry to worry you…Yes, that was a car. I’m by a highway, so should I just catch a ride? Is that safe? …..Oh, gotcha. I have a knife though, I think it’ll be fine…No? Okay, fine. I’m by this giant sign that says something about Jesus saving sinners from burning in hell. The other side has a guy in a suit offering me his phone number if I crash my car….. How do I share my location? Oh, let me see.. Okay, I think I got it. Is it working? ….Yeah, I’m on the West Coast. I’m not really sure how I got so far away, either… Aww, you’re looking at directions for me? Thaaaank youuu. ……Okay, bus stop half a mile south, take it into town, sit tight in a public area? Got it. I can do that.. Thanks for putting up with me. See you soon.”

Stopping for a little while sounds nice.

It takes some time for the bus to come when he does find the bus stop, but it does come. Hunter even has his meager funds prepared and everything. The bus has maybe only five passengers, so Hunter is free to sit by himself on the slow trudge to town. Nobody even looks at him twice.

The part of town where the bus drops him off seems to be the commercial area grown around the older, original buildings. On one side of the street is a small, white chapel, and on the other a grand church. There’s a diner two buildings down from the chapel, neon lights advertising milkshakes and burgers. Well, he has to sit tight somewhere , doesn’t he? 

Hunter walks towards the church, interested in how it might compare to the castle he grew up in. The doors are unlocked, not a soul to be seen at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, although there are cameras watching him. Likely, there’s someone in an office somewhere, but they don’t make themselves known to him. The narthex is very plain, just white walls and white tiles, the only thing of interest being a wooden podium where a large book rests. Various names are written in it, mostly by different hands, but a few seem to have more people to worry about than others. Hunter walks through to the nave and takes a seat in one of the empty pews.

Hunter stares up at the figure in the glass window behind the altar, several times larger than himself, and a few times larger than strictly needed to be attention-catching, too. It’s supposed to command his respect probably, his pity and his gratitude. He feels none of that for the man nailed by his hands and feet, bleeding out his side. Jesus died for our sins, people say. Well, what good did that ever do for Hunter? He didn’t ask Jesus to do that. He can die for his own sins, thank you very much. Not that Jesus was thinking about little blonde clones when he gave up his life for humanity. Even if he had given Hunter at least half a thought, it wouldn’t have changed anything. It wouldn’t have stopped Uncle from sinning all over his poor little clone life. After all, Jesus died for sins’ forgiveness, not their elimination. 

Hunter wonders why not. God did it before, in the form of a flood. That certainly took care of humanity’s sin. But was there truly a human race so horrible, so cruel and vile that God needed to flood the entire world and start anew with a single family? And what about this generation had God look and think, Ah, this is good. I shall forgive these ones of their evil, by killing my only son. Is that the kind of convoluted nonsense that filled Uncle’s head? It’s no wonder he killed his only brotherclone-nephew-son in an attempt to.. forgive? his real brother for leaving him to consort with witches and woodland creatures. Well, there wasn’t only one. Hunter thinks he might be number sixty-something. Does that make him a stowaway to Uncle’s flood that killed his predecessors? Hunter isn’t so naive to believe he was ordained to live and sail through the storm—it would go against all evidence of Uncle’s multiple attempts on his life. 

Maybe that’s the real story of humanity’s evil—slipping from ark to ark, hiding below the lid with all of the animals, hiding from God’s sight as he declares the rest of it good. Well, it didn’t happen that way for Hunter. He hadn’t been able to hide. He had to run and run and drive Uncle out of his body. Maybe evil had to do the same. He wouldn’t blame it, as he doesn’t hate it—the definition of evil doesn’t seem to have much ethically separating it from God’s good, beyond the authority of because I said so. 

Hunter always wanted to ask why Uncle made him. He’s afraid the answer might be similar. 

Because. Did Uncle even think he was good, once?

Well, he’ll never get the chance now. So he sits in these church pews and contemplates Uncle’s maker, asking him why. God, of course, doesn’t answer, and neither does the man staining the ginormous glass window with the blood and water coming out of his side, his hands and feet nailed to wood, crowned with thorns and probably still sweating blood as he suffers and dies to complete heaven and forgive sin. Hunter stands to leave. It really has got nothing to do with him.

The chapel is much more unassuming. Hunter almost skips it entirely, but considers that he has some time to kill before Luz can get the coordinates to work properly. It’s barren compared to the church. White walls, blue carpet, creeky pews, an altar and candles. It’s probably closer to what Uncle grew up with. No, he shouldn’t have come in, even if he’s bored. Hunter turns back. He’s not interested in that.

***

“I thought I was gonna do it. But I guess I just got tired.”

“Isn’t that like reason number one to.. Yknow.”

Hunter shrugs and takes a sip of his milkshake Luz bought for him.

“The whole thing is really a lot of work. I think I’d rather just coast by right now. It’ll get better, or it won’t.”

“Dude, you are so depressing.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Luz looks to the side uncomfortably. Her life got so much better after Belos died—a great deal of her problems were fixable, because she and the people she loves were all willing to work and listen. It isn’t always a cakewalk, but it’s good. It’s the best thing that ever happened to her. Hunter’s life hasn’t been quite so simple since. He’s been bouncing between the homes of Darius, Mr. Porter, Dell and Gwendolyn, and Luz’s mom, as well as going through his bouts of.. This. Getting lost on his own. Luz doesn’t know how else to help, other than listen. She can only find him when he wants to be found. She’s afraid that might not be enough, and they are really going to lose him for good one of these days.

“What are you looking for, out here? What keeps you from just.. Staying still?”

Hunter looks at her with eyes that only get deader by the week.

“..It’s not something I can really explain. My life feels inevitable. I don’t feel like I can stop it, so I’m just trying to understand it.”

Luz rolls that around in her head for a while before responding. She can’t just spit out whatever at Hunter right now—he seems so raw, like if she poked him he’d start bleeding from a finger-shaped wound that won’t ever go away. 

“I.. I don’t know what to say.”

Hunter softens his gaze at her.

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m just glad you’re here.”

Luz swallows, “Okay. Where do you want to spend the night?” She pats the suitcase on the stool next to her. “I can take you wherever you want to go.”

She can see Hunter think about it for a minute, craning his neck in different directions as he visualizes every possibility, fidgeting with the glass of his melted milkshake. He gets stuck on one place, she can see it. She hopes it’s Darius’ home. They need each other, they just.. Need to talk more. Hunter glances at her tentatively. Luz smiles at him. Finally, he smiles back.

“Okay, okay,” he cracks, “there’s someplace I’ve kept to myself. You can’t tell anyone about it yet. Do you wanna see?”

“Um, yeah . Yeah!” Sorry Darius. It would be counterproductive to force Hunter to do anything. And if he wants to let her in, she’s absolutely not going to stop him. “Where is it? Do I have to put in special coordinates? ‘Cuz this thing’s still kinda finicky… I had to catch a bus to get here, too.”

Hunter shakes his head.

“No, we can just go to the Clawthorne’s estate and walk from there. It’s not that secluded.”

Luz hops down from the stool, excited despite herself.

“C’mon, c’mon let’s go!” 

She grabs his hand and picks up the suitcase with the other, leading him into the family restroom in the back of the diner. Hunter laughs and lets himself be tugged along.

“Oh, this is so not gonna look good on camera..”

“Oh, ew. Let’s just get out of here.”

She opens the suitcase, bright light blinding them for a moment as it unfolds itself into a portal door. Hunter had built it for her sixteenth birthday, and King and the Collector had breathed life into it. The Clawthorne estate is one of the easier places to get to through it, for some reason. She’s been trying to research that, but it’s had to take a back burner to school and rebuilding the Isles and, well. Hunter’s whole thing. They’ll find out one day, though, she’s sure. 

Hunter is the one to grab her hand, this time. He grins at her, still more tired and worn out than anyone their age has any right to be, but at least he has these moments. He leads her through the portal, helps her watch her step, and carries the suitcase as he practically races towards wherever it is he wants to show her. She laughs at his eagerness, but makes no move to try to take the lead. He sees far better in the dark than her anyways. It’s nice too, that he can still act like a kid.

The Boiling Isles can be dangerous at night, but that doesn’t deter them in the slightest—the Isles can be dangerous during any time of day. Even with no glyphs and no palismen between the two of them, Luz trusts that they can handle whatever the night may hold. Hunter isn’t afraid to use the suitcase as a bludgeon, and Luz has really taken to potions since the obsoletion of her glyphs, especially since Stringbean is taking a well deserved nap with Vee at their house in Gravesfield. 

Even a little more than two years since, Luz feels.. wrong, flaunting Stringbean around Hunter. He’s never said anything to make her think that it hurts him but she can just never be too careful. Flapjack was more than a palisman to Hunter—he was his goddamn lifeline. Sure, he’s always with Hunter or some spiritual junk like that, but that doesn’t stop him from being really, really dead, okay? She sometimes thinks that Hunter might resent the rest of them for having things he doesn’t, things he can’t ever have in the same way. She wouldn’t blame him.

Luz squeezes his hand more tightly. The important thing is that they’re together right now .

Hunter squeezes back, and continues leading her along, absolutely confident in his path. Before long, Luz can make out a soft glow through the dense foliage, illuminating the rocky side of a large boulder. As they come closer, the destination becomes more clear. A cottage rests partially hidden by the boulder, obviously aged but certainly not condemned or even unsafe—Hunter has clearly been working on this. The walls are a light pink, sun-bleached and faded, but there are new cans of paint by the front door, and old broken windows lay on the ground, already replaced. Luz feels a little sick. How long has he kept this to himself? Months? A year? How long ago could he have found this place— two years ago?  

Did he ever plan on not being on his own? He’s brought me here now, Luz reassures herself. He can’t take that back.  

“Whoa, have you been working on this all by yourself, dude?” Luz whistles. “That’s impressive.”

Hunter ducks his head, blushing at the perceived praise and completely missing her tone.

“Maaaaybe. Look, I even set up the light system—that lantern is on a switch!” He shares excitedly, dropping her hand to point at the lantern on the front door. “It’s got running water, plumbing, heating and cooling, and I’ve even got a working stove in there. There’s only an icebox instead of a proper fridge but I think that’s okay. Basically I’ve just got to paint the outside and it's gonna be a real house— my house.” Hunter says with a big smile. “I’ve already put up wallpaper inside and everything!” He sighs, tilting his head fondly, puffing up his cheeks in that stupid way of his. “Man, it was a LOT of work, but this is actually something I feel proud of, you know?”

“That’s so cool Hunter! How- How did you learn how to do all of this? Why? And how long have you been working on this, again?”

He takes her hand again and leads her to the porch steps.

“Oh, you know how we fixed up that house in Gravesfield? That’s what gave me the idea. I always used to help Un- uhh, Belos with his more complicated projects, so just following manuals was easy enough most of the time—I already knew how to get power in here, but the plumbing seriously took forever, it was so outdated and Titan, Luz, the smell – Anyways. The windows were kind of a pain in the ass too, but that’s just because of transport. I had Steve make them for me. He’s such a nice guy, didn’t even ask me what I needed them for. But yeah, as of today I think it’s taken me.. Two years and three months? Wow. I’m really behind schedule..”

Oh great. So he started working on this basically as soon as he moved in with Darius and started his apprenticeship with Dell. And what does he mean by ‘behind schedule’?

“Wow Hunter, I still think that’s impressive all for one guy.. But, uh. Why all this again? It’s really great! Don’t get me wrong, I just uh.. Dooon’t get it. Sorry.”

Hunter pauses his opening of the door to look back at her.

“Well, I can’t just mooch forever. I’m almost nineteen, Luz.”

Yeah, but you were sixteen, too.

“Happy early birthday, by the way.” Luz says, hoping he’ll still let her in.

Hunter smiles and turns the handle, “Thanks!”

She doesn’t understand how someone can go from wandering around in one realm for two days contemplating how they might kill themselves the entire time to chatting about their passion project and getting excited about birthdays in another. It must be worse to be Hunter than it is for her to simply experience him, but the whiplash is no less confusing. What gets him to flip like that? Was it actually her offer to take him home?

“Man, I really hope your plumbing works like you said. I’m lactose intolerant.”

Hunter rolls his eyes.

“Oh, haha. …Um, okay, but I kind of think I shouldn’t have cow milk either.”

Luz’s snort turns into a gasp upon seeing the inside of the cottage.

“Oh, Hunter, it’s beautiful. ”

It’s not a realtor’s wet dream or anything you’d see on a soulless episode of house flipping, but it’s neat and clearly made with love. The patterns of the wallpaper—she remembers Hunter sketching a similar pattern out and asking Willow and Gus for their input, adjusting it meticulously until it must have become this. Did he get that commissioned? The interior colors too, those were Amity’s suggestions from some debate they had, weren’t they? The dining table—Hunter had worked on that for the better part of eight months last year. She’d always wondered what happened to it. Luz tears up. Oh, he even remembered to carve the otters on the base of the table like she said would be so freaking cute Hunter!  

There’s hints of them all over the house. Mamá and Vee took him out to buy those couch pillows, the pictures of their friend group encased by Mr. Porter’s old picture frames Hunter must have gotten during his garage sale three months ago, that busted old coffee table used to belong to Darius and the lamp on it definitely used to be Dell and Gwendolyn’s. You wouldn’t need so many reminders if you’d just spend more time with us. It’s more complicated than that, she knows. There was a period of time when Luz herself had withdrawn from her friends and family, lied constantly, and had some other.. not so great thoughts. But she’d had Hunter, and she thought even now, he had her too. Have they grown apart so much? He still called me. That has to count for something. He called. 

Luz tugs at Hunter’s sleeve. He looks back at her, eyebrow raised.

“Hunter.. You’re still with us, you know?”

“Um, yeah?”

Luz frowns at him. He wilts.

“Okay, I can tell you’re trying to be serious, but I don’t understand what you’re saying. Can we at least sit down?”

Wow. Way easier than she thought it would be. Luz lets him lead her to the couch, thumbing the soft throw blanket she’d seen him crocheting a month prior. There’s something missing from all of this, but she can’t put her finger on it.

“Hunter, I know you’re depressed. I mean, you’ve literally told me this, so don’t even try to play it off. You were just telling me how much you want to kill yourself like, half an hour ago. This place,” she gestures vaguely to the whole house, “is great. I can tell you’ve put a lot of work into this and it’s brought you a lot of joy. I’m really happy that you did this, because it clearly makes you happy but I just.. You talk about being a mooch, but you’re not, and even if you were– we’d all still want you in our lives. You’re my friend. Basically family. I love you, so it hurts that you just. Ugh. What I mean to say is, none of us are gonna kick you out of our lives. You didn’t have to do all of this, and especially not in secret. We wouldn’t punish you for wanting to be on your own, either. I guess what I’m saying is that I wish you’d talk to us more. And- and if you’re afraid to then what… what am I supposed to do to not make you afraid?”

Hunter’s brown eyes are big and scared.

“...I don’t know,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Luz, half the time I don’t understand what I’m doing, let alone why I’m doing it. I don’t know. It’s just something inside me.”

Her depression got better once her circumstances gave her room to breathe and heal. She thought Hunter’s had as well, and maybe it had, for a time. But that time is clearly over now. They’re different people and she can’t fix him. It breaks her heart.

“You know we’d all miss you, right?” It’s about all she can think to say.

Hunter nods.

“..Yeah, I think I do.”

“Hunter, I miss you while you’re alive, too. I love you. I hate being so distant from you.”

He avoids her eyes.

“I know,” he whispers. “I can’t help it.”

That almost makes her mad because he can. He can help it, they can all help, he just needs to- to. Ugh. He just needs to let them. She just doesn’t know how to say it in a way he’d understand. In a way that he’d take in. 

“Okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’re all right here.”

“Thanks.” He chokes out, eyes wet. 

This is too big for just her. But she does what she can, and stays with Hunter the whole night, because it’s too big for him, too.

After dropping Marshal off at school, Hunter sits outside of his home for ten minutes in an attempt to restart his brain and get a fresh perspective on the interior. When he does go back inside, he immediately starts singling out whatever may indicate the mess of this morning to Luz and carefully cleaning it or putting it away. Crooked chairs straightened, crumbs cleared, table cloth squared, dishes washed and drying, rugs smoothed out. He even opens the windows to get rid of the smell of breakfast and begins on lunch. It’s simple enough, because Luz and Marshal happen to have similar dietary restrictions, so he has all the right ingredients. 

He trays up their plates and puts them in the heated oven to keep them warm while he waits for Luz, and begins to clear away any sign of him cooking lunch, too. Being restless, Hunter even enters Marshal’s room to tidy it up too, as unlikely as it is that Luz will venture over there. It’s more of a feeling of anxiety than an actual preference for cleanliness. His own room is certainly proof of that, but it’s too overwhelming of a task to begin in the short time between now and Luz’s arrival. And so when everything he can do is done, Hunter waits quietly at the table, hands clasped in front of him, staring at nothing, not even the time. Hunter doesn’t own very many clocks, so there’s no ticking either—the ones he does have are battery powered and digital from the Human Realm for that reason. Waffles prefers to nap in his hair than to stew, so beyond their gentle snores, the house is silent.

There’s a million other things he could do. He could read a book, do a crossword, check his work messages, doomscroll on penstagram, pick up that crochet project collecting dust in the cabinet, or that sewing one, or that carving one. But Hunter just sits quietly and tries not to move. When it occurs to him that he’s doing this, he tries to unclasp his hands, lean back, anything. This is an ingrained behavior that he was supposed to get over years ago. Probably it was meant to break like a curse the instant his uncle died. He’s not going to hurt me. Not anymore. He manages to lay his hands flat on the table. He’s not going to push his luck.

I hate living like this. It’s a brief thought, but he still feels the need to destroy it with vitriol—his life is great. There’s nothing to hate about it. If he thinks like that, then he’ll only make it come true. The thought alone is enough to ruin things. Hunter lays his forehead on the backs of his hands and counts the seconds until Luz comes to knock on his door. He wonders if maybe he doesn’t hate his life, but merely dislikes parts of it. That wouldn’t be so odd. No one's life is perfect. Hunter restarts his count, opening eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Bad thoughts lead to worse ones. It’s better not to dwell. You don’t hate your life, you just hate him. There it is. Hunter starts to count something more tangible, like his breaths. He knows it isn’t true. He’s just never learned how to unthink a thought. Is this really how other people live? The guilt sits with him, pooling in his gut and tightening his chest. He’s never understood why this is hard for him.

“I’m sorry,” Hunter says aloud, about to begin a mantra of apologies before remembering no one is here. And it would do him good to remember that no one is in his head, either. Waffles shuffles in their sleep, probably displeased with the movement of their designated pillow. Hunter snorts at their tiny, sleepy grumbles. Fine, so Hunter is technically wrong on both accounts, but it’s not a bad thing, finally.

Hunter sits up and carefully pries Waffles from his hair, cradling them to his chest and inspecting their blue feathers with gentle pets. A palisman is meant to be a friend and trusted companion, but he can’t help but feel that they’re his other child sometimes. Adorable, adorable.. Maybe it’s just because Flapjack was so much older, while Hunter carved Waffles into existence. Being the older one this time around makes the duty of care fall onto him, doesn’t it?

…He wonders what Flapjack would think about all this.

Hunter’s nineteenth birthday is fast approaching. He’s running out of time to complete all of his projects. There’s a list of things he needed to do before turning nineteen: Finish the cottage, tell Darius and everyone about the cottage, move in, paint the palisman he started carving more than two years ago and release it, decide if he should drop flyer derby or palisman carving as he starts going full time at his job, learn how to live with himself again or, failing that last step, kill himself. So far he’s only completed step one, and he turns nineteen in two days. Really, he was supposed to have all of this figured out last year, but he’s given himself some grace. The last part has been eating a lot of his time, to be honest. But as of that talk with Luz six days ago, Hunter is pretty sure he actually wants to see this through, so he can’t contemplate that anymore. She’s right—the cottage was a lot of work for one person, and he is impressive for it, thank you. It has made him happy and he wants.. that. He wants to continue to be that. He wants to like his life again.

So he’s going to start with today. Today, he’s going to tell Darius he’s moving out. Not that he’s crashing at Camila’s or Perry’s or Dell and Gwendolyn’s, but really, fully moving out on his own. And then he’s going to pack up his room and do it. Like ripping off a bandaid. 

Darius is going to be home any minute. It’s going to go like this: Hi Darius, welcome home. Hello, Hunter. Bad/Good day at work. Oh really how come. Well you see… Oh, that sounds great/horrible. Hey Darius? Yes, Little Prince? Is now a good time to talk about something? I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to say for a while now. It’s not bad, don’t worry, it’s just.. different. Okay.. Go ahead. Well, you know I turn nineteen soon and I’ve been an adult for a while now so I was thinking I should move out soon. Like, it’s time right? I want to do this, I don’t feel unwelcome or anything I just.. want to start a new chapter of my life more.. Independently. Where would you go? Hunter, you should give this more thought. When were you thinking of moving out? See, I have given it a lot of thought. I’ve got a place ready for me to move into and everything, so don’t worry about that. I was kind of thinking I’d start packing.. Today…?

Titan, it sounds bad even in his head. This is what he gets for putting things off. Okay, okay, breathe. In, and out. In, and-

Darius walks through the door. Hunter chokes on air, then his own spit. Darius takes in the sight of Hunter doubled over and violently coughing for all of a millisecond before rushing to his side and asking if he needs the heimlich or something. Hunter shakes his head– Titan, no, the last thing he needs right now is to be stabbed by Darius’s thumbs. 

“No,” gasp “I’m okay, I just-” cough “I was breathing and then” phlegmy cough Oh, gross. “you startled me and I-” gasp “just started choking on air. I’m” deep breath “fine. A-oka–” cough cough “Wow, I suck at breathing. Anyways. Yes. Hi Darius welcome home howareyou.”

“Hunter, do you need a minute? Some water maybe?”

Hunter shakes his head and his hand.

“Nope, no I’m good. I’m good. Look, uh, is now a good time to talk? About something? I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to say for a while now. It’s not bad, don’t worry, it’s just different.”

Darius furrows his brows and rubs Hunter’s back.

“Well, if you’re feeling up to it.. Sure?”

“Right, um, so you know I turn nineteen soon and I’ve been an adult for a while now so I was thinking I should..” Like ripping off a bandaid. “..Move out soon. Like, it’s time right? I just.. want to start a new chapter of my life more.. Independently. And see, I have given it a lot of thought. I’ve got a place ready for me to move into and everything, so don’t worry about that. I was kind of thinking I’d start packing.. Today…?”

Darius presses the back of his hand to Hunter’s forehead.

“Are you feeling well?”

“What? Um, I mean. Yes?” 

Darius cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh really? Then would you like to explain where this is all coming from? You understand my concern—you coughing up mucus like a dog in my home and then suddenly prattling about moving out when I’ve never heard a peep of this before? Did something happen? Did someone put you up to this—Titan, Hunter, don’t tell me you’ve got a secret partner who’s convinced you to move in with them. You know, I always say-”

Great. How did he walk into this one this time?

Hunter pushes away the hand on his back.

“No, Darius, that’s not it at all–”

“I can provide for you perfectly well, so you can tell that bumbling predator to fuck right off and never contact you again-”

Hunter liked the babying, at first. He’d never been coddled in his whole life, so it was nice to feel wanted and protected. But it’s suffocating in its own way. He doesn’t know what to do with it, how to refute it or reason with it. Camila and Perry aren’t like this, even if they fret about him sometimes. Dell and Gwendolyn care for him, sure, but they don’t ever treat him like their child. Darius just.. overcares, or something. It makes Hunter feel bad for not wanting it or reciprocating, but mostly it stumps him.

“Darius, if you’d just listen..”

“And then you’re going to give me a picture of this person and a name and we’ll file something to keep them away from you-”

“Daaaariuuuus..” Hunter sings nervously. How long is he going to go on with this scenario? “Darius, c’mon. Darius.”

He’s literally an adult. This is ridiculous.

“Hunter, please, I’m not going to have you be a teenage horror story, my heart couldn’t take it-”

“DARIUS. Titan, do you ever shut up?”

Hunter smacks a hand over his mouth. He didn’t mean to say that. Shit.

It at least gets Darius’ attention.

“Excuse me? ” 

Hunter swallows. His hand falls from his mouth. He’s just going to have to go through with it, or he’ll never get the chance again.

“Look, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of already a teenage horror story. Also—no, I am not dating someone, and certainly not someone older. Even if I was, it would be none of your business because I am an ADULT, and I am MOVING OUT on my own. Okay? I wasn’t asking permission, I was just letting you know. God. Titan.”

Darius crosses his arms.

“Oh, really? So, what, I let you into my home for two and a half years, integrate you into my life and heart and then I barely get a warning when you want to leave? Really? That’s.. so mature of you, Hunter.”

Hunter’s face burns.

“Yeah, well, that was nice of you and all, but I never actually asked you to do that, so. Surprise! You played yourself. Guess I’m just some spoiled kid who used up your kindness without a thought, huh? That’s what you get for taking in strays who– who cough up mucus in your beeeautiful, perfect home. ‘Cuz it’s not like it’s mine. So, yeah, I am moving out, and you should be glad a mutt like me had the decency to warn you, frankly.”

Darius rolls his eyes.

“Oh, you’re so dramatic.. You always do this, twist my words and make me the bad guy. Not everyone is out to get you, Hunter. I’m not your uncle-”

“THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH HIM!”

They’re both surprised by Hunter’s volume. The next moment is so silent Hunter can only hear his heart beating in his ears. He wets his throat in preparation for his next attack, holding back tears.

“I’m not Hunter Deamonne, I’m Hunter Wittebane. I’m not your kid and I never will be. My uncle was the only parent I’ve ever had, and you didn’t replace him, so this conversation is pointless. I can do what I want, and I will. I’m going now.”

Hunter turns to retreat to his room, but a gloved hand on his shoulder stops him. The touch is gentle as it moves to stroke the back of his head, the precursor to a rushed apology he never wants to hear. He’s not sure what comes over him, but suddenly there’s bloody fabric and torn skin in his mouth, and Darius is gasping in pain and holding his hand close to his chest, anger and even a shred of fear in his eyes. Hunter bit him as if he really were a feral mutt. 

He can taste it.

“I’m. I’m sorry. Oh Titan, Darius, I’m so sorry.” 

Darius grimaces as he inspects his hand. Hunter thinks he might see bone.

“Just go if you want to so badly, damn it.”

Shame burns in his chest as he backs up slowly, but so does relief. Darius isn’t going to stop him now. All at once he is turned back around and rushing to his room.

Hunter strips the space with far more ease than he thought he’d have, packing everything into an enchanted crate he’d prepared ages ago. He ignores the warm blood and the hot tears dripping down his face as he takes away any personal trace of Hunter Wittebane. He really is a spoiled kid, isn’t he? Taking what isn’t his to have. He never should have accepted to live here. If he wasn’t ever planning on being Darius’s family he shouldn’t have pretended. Not even for a moment.

***

When Hunter gets to the cottage he sets the crate of his belongings down on Darius’s old coffee table. He has no energy to unpack right now. He needs to take a bath and scrub his skin off or something, he needs to feel clean.

Hunter inspects the dried blood on his face in the bathroom mirror. Did he really escape out the window and run through town like that? He looks just as much the wild animal he feels like. It’s got to come off. God, Titan, he needs to get it off now. Hunter scrubs and scrubs at his face and neck, rinses out his mouth and runs the water until the sink holds no trace of his crime. There.

Hunter settles into the bath and sits in his shame and fear. This is it. This is what he ruined his life for. Why does he need to be alone so badly? Luz was right. He should have told someone about all this ages ago. He knows Darius doesn’t—or didn’t—hate him, it was just a shock. Hunter hates surprises himself, even good ones, so why did he try to pull this on somebody else? He’s a terrible not-son-coworker-roommate. Fuck. What if he just never left this bathtub, what then?

He slips his head under the water just to tempt himself. But Hunter comes up for air eventually. He’s died that way once before, anyways. It wouldn’t be anything special.

He wishes he could go back. Back to when everyone was afraid and needed him, back when he was actually glad his uncle was dead. Back to when he saw his friends everyday, ate every meal with them, slept in the same room as them. He misses them a lot. This independence thing probably isn’t for him—not for grimwalkers made to serve and follow blindly. 

Why is it so much harder to accept death the second time? He often wishes that he’d never been rescued from that graveyard, that he and Uncle had died together, once and for all. He knows he’s not supposed to feel like this. Regular people don’t think about offing themselves 24/7, and regular people don’t miss their dead, genocidal, abusive Emperors the same way they miss their very alive friends. 

But Hunter does miss him. He misses brushing his hair at night, misses building portals and artificial magic with him, misses that very short time when he was a small child that Uncle took care of and, it seemed at least, genuinely cared for. He’s sorry that it’s left such a big shadow in his life that Darius could never hope to fill. Nobody could, and likely, nobody should. 

It just hurts, and Hunter hates hurt. There’s a very easy solution to it all, but maybe he deserves to simply wallow in the pain for a while. 

He wonders about Darius’s hand. He knows intimately what it’s like to be struck by someone you trust. Privately missing his uncle was one thing, but now this? He really is terrible at being a person. And if the righteous scarcely be saved, where shall the ungodly and the sinner appear? If Hunter thought he had an eternal soul, maybe he’d seek more passionately an end to this wretched existence. But living is the only punishment available to a creature like him.

He’s not sure when he stood up, but as soon as he knows he’s gotten out of the bath, Hunter remembers that he didn’t bring a towel or a change of clothes in with him. He walks back to the living room to retrieve something to wear from his crate of things, uncaring of how water drips onto the floors. He’s probably going to just throw away his bloodstained clothes and not even bother to try and wash them.

It’s late, the evening sun beginning to dip into the Boiling Sea by the time he finds something comfortable to wear. Clothes and any number of random items are strewn out on the coffee table from his search. Hunter eyes the mess without feeling. He’d prided himself on becoming neat during his stay with Darius, but the thought of returning to his old messy ways doesn’t bother him. It would be easier to just leave it all here. It would be easier to never do anything.

Finally, Hunter gives in. 

He starts with the bedding and toiletries first, then the meager utensils and cookware, tools then clothes and lastly his books. An ochre hardback with orange fore-edging catches his eye. He’s not even sure why he owns it, or why he brought it into his new life, but the first book Hunter puts on the shelf is the Bible. 

*** 

“The Titan has a plan for you.” 

Hunter hears that often. It’s not really the source of comfort Uncle thinks it is. He’s grown past voicing questions like if there’s a plan, why aren’t I in on it, but certainly not past having them. Of course, he has no doubt that Uncle only has Hunter’s best interests in mind, or if not, then at least it's only the whole Boiling Isles that come first. His uncle is Emperor, after all. Hunter just doesn’t deal well with the ambiguous, is the thing. If there is a plan, he’d like to ease its way, and he’d like to know how. Uncle is very good about instructing him on the latter ( Obey my voice and retrieve one body from the stonesleeper graveyard and cut out its organs so that I may sacrifice its hollow stone body to the Titan during my communion with Him, and tacked on, and maybe He will tell me more about your purpose, but no promises, because Uncle wouldn’t make him a promise just to break it, and Hunter is not such a child to need promises to know of his uncle’s care), but the Titan hasn’t revealed his more intricate designs for Hunter quite yet. Or else Uncle would simply tell him. It would make things simpler for the both of them, he imagines.

It would make things simpler for everyone, if the Titan could just speak to all of them.

Hunter isn’t one for praying. He can never get it right in his head. Does he start it like a letter? Dear Titan? Should he clasp his hands together, should he drop to one knee, or to both? If he keeps his eyes open, he can’t focus, but if he closes his eyes, all he can see is his uncle’s face. So he decided early on that it wasn’t worth the trouble—if the Titan wanted, he’d simply make himself privy to Hunter’s thoughts. And so Hunter lays on his back at night, not quite praying himself to sleep, but thinking over and over and over, and over. It’s probably true that the Titan isn’t paying him any mind, too busy attending to the more careful and more pious prayers of somebody else, or imparting his knowledge to Hunter’s own uncle, but it may be equally likely that he has enough omnipresence to lend Hunter an ear as well.

I’m sorry, just give me time. I don’t know why I struggle with this sometimes. I always come right back to you, don’t I? Please be patient with me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know why this is hard. I’m sorry.

Of course, Hunter isn’t so much of a heretic to believe he can hear the Titan in return. Only his uncle has that power, that right. But he imagines a hand brushing his hair back anyways, settling on his nape as a hot puff of laughter shakes his loose curl, warms his forehead. 

The Titan has a plan for you.

And Hunter can only apologize again for not understanding what he was never made to know.

Hunter blinks, vision blurry for a minute as he tries to get the sleep out of his eyes. He wonders briefly if this is where he was meant to wake up, but decides soon enough that everything else was just a dream as the memories of the day before come filtering through his groggy mind. He’d read himself to sleep last night, see, and that’s even the last page he remembered! Hunter frowns at the wrinkles on the pages. He needs to stop sleeping on his research material. It’s disrespectful and it wasn’t even comfortable. His neck already hurts.

Hunter looks at his arms, relieved to see those scars aren’t on them. It really hadn’t happened, then. That was exhausting. All those people.. where’d he even come up with a thing like that? There isn’t going to be a human on the Boiling Isles, and his uncle certainly isn’t one either. It was frankly blasphemous that Hunter had even dreamed to know the Titan’s plan for the Day of Unity. That was his uncle’s purview, and no one else’s. Everything is fine. 

Hunter takes his pulse. See, he even has a beating heart. He’s really a witch. One, two, three, four.. There, he doesn’t even need to count to a fifth one. Now, if he could only remember his schedule for the day and prepare. As usual, he’s woken up two hours before he strictly needed to, which will give him just enough breathing room to figure out whatever it is he needs to do today. Ideally, he’d already know, but rough mornings aren’t uncommon. Hunter is just glad his body cooperated in giving him the time he needs this morning.

Hunter starts by opening the window. It would be dangerous to leave it agape during his sleep, but the fresh air will do good in waking him up and keeping him alert to any potential threats. He breathes in the morning mist—being so far from the Boiling Sea, it’s actually cool here. Outside of the castle, the Isles are just as he remembers them. Limbs all accounted for, red, decaying, alive. Great. Hunter moves on to his next task—tidying his desk. He smooths out all the papers as best he can and puts them in their folders on shelves or loose in their drawers. He sets his quietest alarm for twenty minutes, then forty, then an hour and fifteen. He makes his last alarm for an hour and forty five minutes from now, in case he forgets to make the rest by the second alarm. His next tasks aren’t timed, per se, but he’ll probably dawdle too much if not for the reminders that, yes, the passage of time is real and affects his life. Ugh. Hunter wonders sometimes if getting more sleep would make him more efficient in the mornings, but he’s too nervous to try, and he also doesn’t care to. He likes being able to take his time.

Hunter slips out of his room with his alarm and quietly makes his way to the bathroom he shares with his uncle. He goes through his routine there, trying to read the rest of his research during the process. It’s easy enough to comb his hair and brush his teeth while doing so, but he waits until his first alarm to change his clothes. He’s very good about shutting the thing up the instant it makes any noise—Hunter can never tell when his uncle will be awake, but would rather not accidentally cause to wake him early. He needs his rest. 

Hunter checks how much time he has to spare until his next alarm as he puts on a new pair of socks. He’s running early by ten minutes. He should just set the other alarms now, before he forgets. He sets them, then sits on the cold tile for the remaining minutes he’s earned himself, making sure to remind himself this is the last page before he needs to close the book, okay, this page, okay, really this page– Hunter shuts the book mid paragraph upon the start of his alarm. He has no more time, he needs to get back to his room.

Hunter pads softly back to his room, but not before checking his uncle’s door. He twists the handle each way twice before letting go. Good, it’s locked. That’s good.

“It’s just Hunter,” He murmurs, in case Uncle is actually awake and wondering who could possibly be trying to break in. 

Uncle is used to this by now, Hunter is embarrassed to know, but still. It’s only respectful to announce himself. He didn’t used to, he’d used to think he could get away with sneaking and checking but that hadn’t ended well the first time he made enough noise to wake his uncle. Uncle hadn’t minded when he explained what he was doing, but was annoyed by him keeping secrets and meddling without word. Hunter understood—that had been bad of him. In his defense, it really was just him, and Hunter would never hurt his uncle. It had slipped his mind that he could make Uncle uncomfortable. No, no excuses. Hunter twists the doorknob twice each way again.

“Sorry. It’s still just Hunter,” He says again. There. Now he can go.

Hunter slips back into his room soon enough, his own door left cracked open, but the window closed. That was fine, because he wasn’t in there and he’d taken everything off his desk, so there was really nothing any assassin or spy could gain from entering his room. Besides lying in wait to kill him, but Hunter even left the lights on. Hunter locks the door behind him, though, and peeks out of his window. No sign of disturbance. Clear, good. 

Oh, and Hunter supposes he ought to trust the guards at the end of his and Uncle’s shared hall. This morning is actually going great, considering the terrible, tiring dream he’d had. The dream that had so completely disoriented him that he was really behind in his day planning. Right. He should start that now.

Hunter pulls a stack of loose papers out of the third drawer of his desk. They go back weeks and weeks—only when the year is complete will he put them in a binder. Maybe it would be neater to write these planners in a dedicated journal, but Hunter’s always done it this way. He doesn’t mind the wrinkled paper and torn edges, so long as they’re all legible.  

Hunter mulls over his duties for the day and contemplates the guard rotation, trying to gauge how bad of a day it’ll be. Ugh. He hates dealing with supply shipments—unfortunately not something Kikimora has time for today, nor something Lilith has ever been instructed to do, leaving it to him. Maybe… yes, Lilith has an open hour, and he could probably push back her other duties by another. He’ll bring her along today, so she can start doing it more in the future. He just has to frame it the right way—she’s being trusted with more duties because of her exemplary service, or something. She always likes hearing that. Maybe she could bring Steve, too. Hunter likes Steve.

Hunter groans at the rest of his own busy schedule. Lilith has been in the Emperor’s Coven for longer than he has. She should be able to do this better than he can, by now. …If there was one nice thing he could say about Kikimora, and only one!, it would be that her time and experience shows. Between Hunter and the last Golden Guard, she had picked up all the slack when Lilith had first taken up the mantle of Coven Head. She had personally taught him how to complete his duties, even. But that was before he had surpassed her in usefulness. Theoretically, the three of them should be able to split the administrative work, but Lilith is also kept busy by leading the Emperor’s Coven outside of the castle too, which has little to do with Kikimora or Hunter, unless asked. He’ll just have to suck it up. Hunter hates delivering extraneous paperwork to his uncle.

Hunter rubs the heel of his palm across his left cheek. Flapjack would sympathize, chirping condolences and reassurances. Hunter loves the little– He blinks. No, no. No. That was the dream. He digs his palm into his cheek. Hunter would never keep a palisman from Uncle, would never endanger- No, that’s wrong too. He digs his palm into his cheek. He’d never defy the Emperor, nor keep a healing balm from him. It was really that simple. He digs his palm into his cheek. Hunter doesn’t have a palisman, will never have a palisman, and doesn’t desire one beyond their ability to soothe his uncle’s curse. He digs his palm into his cheek. Again. There, now he can get on with his life. All those people in his dream—it was nice for a time, but he knows now it was just a deception of his mind, the wicked parts of it trying to make him stray from his path. They don’t mean anything, and most of them aren’t even real. It wasn’t real, and he’d best forget all about it. 

Or, maybe that was wrong too? Should he contemplate his actions and beg the Titan for forgiveness? Hunter taps his cheek once, twi— SCREEEE —Hunter jolts out of his seat and quickly shuts his alarm up. He needs to put on his gloves and boots, his mask and cape. There’s no more time. His day has begun–

He sits up.

Hunter hates having dreams like that, the dreams inside of another one, and especially the memory ones. He knows this must finally be reality, because there are scars all along his arms, and he knows now that his pulse is too slow to belong to a witch, he does know all of those exhausting people, the Titan’s left hand is outstretched to the sky, and this isn’t his room in the castle but rather the one in his miserable little cottage. There was a time when his discernment between reality and dreams wasn’t so swift, but he thinks of it as a skill he’s slowly honed.

So this is real, unfortunately. He bit Darius and ran off here. Titan, he can’t believe he actually bit Darius. Of all the ways to ruin a relationship, Hunter wasn’t expecting that from himself. It.. it might be fine? Eberwolf has probably bit Darius just as hard a few times, right? It was just a shock because it was Hunter. Yeah. It could be fine. 

Just go if you want to so badly, damn it.

Hunter groans and rolls over. It’s not fine.

He stays in bed for a frankly absurd amount of time. He’d slept in until six a.m., but it’s the early afternoon by the time Hunter manages to get his feet on the ground. It’s not really a victory over his inner turmoil—mostly he just has to piss. When Hunter’s done with that he contemplates crawling back into bed until the end of time, but now that he’s up, he’s up. He might as well do something productive before tomorrow is consumed by his workday. Unfortunately, there’s not much for him to do besides cook or finish unpacking. Even if his body is hungry, Hunter just can’t make himself eat, but..

There’s just one last thing in the crate left for him to unpack.

He wasn’t trying to replace Flapjack when he first started carving. His design was just the only thing Hunter could think of at the time, and one he could probably mold in his sleep. Maybe it was more of a tribute to him, like a statue or an idol. But he shouldn’t have made such a thing out of palistrom wood. To create life so carelessly, to infuse it with your grief over another—it wasn’t fair. Hunter of all people should have known better. He’d made one red stroke when Dell gave him the go ahead to start painting before he realized what he’d done. He’d run off crying into the woods—typical of his life since leaving the Emperor’s Coven, isn’t that pathetic—and that’s how he originally found the cottage. He hasn’t made any progress on the palisman since then. 

But now’s as good a time as any, right? He’s an adult living on his own. He’s done pretending he can have the dead back. He doesn’t need them anymore. He’ll just finish what he started and let someone else bond with this palisman, and then he’ll never have to think about this again. He hasn’t seen Camila or Perry in months. Now, there’s no one left. The part of his life when he needed to be taken care of will finally be over. 

Hunter sighs, thumbing the smooth wood, worrying over the lone streak of red. 

“Okay,” he mutters, “okay.”

It can all finally stop.

Hunter opens a window and starts to paint.

Hunter’s home is as neat as ever. She finds him sitting at the table he carved all those years ago, hands tucked neatly in his lap, leg jostling from utter boredom, she imagines. He really needs to get another hobby. 

“Guessss whoooo!”

He turns to her with scrunched eyes and a toothy grin.

“Luz! I made lunch.”

“Ooh, very nice. Let’s get to that in a minute.” Luz rushes over to Hunter, barely giving him enough time to stand before giving him a tight hug. “It’s great to see you dude, it’s been a while!”

Hunter laughs and pats her back.

“Yeah, you know, work and the kid. I’ve been a little busy.”

“‘It’s great to see you too Luz!’ Hmph. Nah, I get it. My master’s program is not easy. I’ve been busy too.”

“It is good to see you. I’m happy you’re here.”

Luz grins and gives him a squeeze full of pent up friendship-aggression. Hunter is always so earnest. His returning squeeze is much looser—typical—but she doesn’t mind. After a moment, she remembers that she has to let go before he does.

Pulling back, she asks, “Okay, lay it on me—what’re we doing for the little guy today?”

Hunter brushes a lock behind his ear, eyes wandering past her.

“Aren’t you hungry? You should eat first.”

“Yeah– I guess I could eat.”

He makes her sit at the table and goes into the kitchen alone, coming back with two steaming dishes in his hands.

“Careful, plate’s hot.” He says obviously. When he notices her raised eyebrow at the difference in portions he tacks on, “I seriously feel like I just got done with breakfast.”

Luz sighs. She can’t force him to do anything.

“Thanks, Hunter! You’ve gotten really good at cooking, you know.”

He shrugs, but she can tell he’s pleased.

“Marshal is such a picky kid, I had no choice.”

“Yeah, I’m on Marshal’s side.. I don’t trust your definition of picky. You’d eat anything.” Luz grimaces at the mental image. Food in the Boiling Isles still manages to gross her out most days, but her other friends agree Hunter’s tastes are questionable. Even Eda has taste buds!

Hunter smiles briefly and pokes at his food. He usually forces himself to eat at least for the energy.

“Hey, did something happen earlier?”

He looks up at her and just stares for a while, seemingly weighing something in his mind. After a moment, he sighs, body completely deflating.

“Yeah.. Me and Marshal had an argument before school.”

Should she be checking for other signs of the apocalypse? Since when has Hunter ever had enough of a backbone to ‘argue’ with his son?

“Oh, wow. That doesn’t sound like you guys. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, I just.. You know,” Hunter waves his hand in the air, “life. It’s whatever.”

“Dude, you look like you’re about to cry. It is not whatever. What did he say to you? Look, I know you love the kid but you can admit he’s kind of a brat sometimes–”

“No. No, don’t- It’s not his fault. I- It’s me. I was never. Hm.”

Luz puts her fork down. Yikes.

“..I just worry about him. He doesn’t get along with the other kids at school. He doesn’t have any friends. Me and Waffles are the only people he talks to– and you, sometimes. He’s so different when he’s not at home. I got.. I was talking to his teacher, and they gave me a referral to a child therapist. I kind of. Sprang the idea on him.”

Luz feels bad for the guy. She refrains from telling him that a similar situation is what made her run away to the Boiling Isles all those years ago, because that wouldn’t be helpful and, honestly? She does think Marshal and Hunter need a little outside intervention. The circumstances aren’t a perfect one-to-one, anyways.

“Maybe you didn’t handle it perfectly but.. I think you’re doing the right thing. Marshal could really benefit from something like that. Have you looked into the person you were recommended?”

“Um. Yeah, I have. You- you think it’s a good idea?”

“Dude, I was literally telling you to get a therapist for yourself last month. Yes, I think it’s a good idea!”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Hunter pinches his brow. “..Look, Darius made me go to one when I was living with him. I did not have.. A great time.”

Well, she didn’t know that. Sorry for trying to help.

“Coping generally isn’t, no.”

“Ugh- no. He was a shitty therapist. Trust me. He.. Well, it’s not important. Anyways, I spoke to the one for Marshal and she agreed to let me be part of the first few sessions of theirs, so we’d all be comfortable with the idea moving forward. I still don’t… like it, but I should have told him sooner. We were supposed to go and just meet her together after school, and then he’d come home to the surprise you and I should be setting up right now, by the way, and then he’d forgive me because he loves being spoiled, but. That didn’t really go as planned.”

“Well, shit. What are you gonna do?”

“I’m not taking him today. But, I talked to him and got him to agree to go another day. Just, no surprises. So yeah. Kids, haha..”

“Good. Hunter, that's really good! Just- make sure you get a date out of him. Otherwise, I’m telling you this now, he’s never going to let it happen.”

Hunter nods.

“You’re right.. Anyways, enough of that. How’ve you been?”

I think I love you. I used to be sure. There was no thought, no wondering, no questions, just being. But I learned who you really were inside and I hated you then. But I’m no longer sure of things—not of my future, not of my past, not of this body, not even my mind. So I can’t really know if this is hate. If this is hate I hate it. But what does any of that matter? You’re dead and I’m here, just being, without you. It’s not even worth wondering if you can finally love me now that you’re dead. 

It would be easier if he simply wasn’t dead. But he’s not supposed to wish things like that about the most hated man on the Boiling Isles.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he tells the palisman. “I’m not a very good creator, so I hope you’ll forget all about me soon after you wake up. I won’t try to cause you any pain, promise.” He sets it down to let the paint layer dry, inspects the whole body and makes note of fixable flaws. 

“I’m not sure you’ll have this question, but if you ever end up wondering why you were created, I’ll just tell you now—I don’t know. It would be better if you understood that early on, that there’s no purpose you need to live up to. Just do what you want, okay? If it matters to you at all what I want, I just want you to be you.” Hunter smiles at how a row of feathers ripples on a fluttering wing.

“Not yet, buddy. Not yet. I’m almost done.”

Hunter picks it up again, glad for how quickly palisman paint dries. He realigns the strokes that are shaky, smooths over uneven patches, and finally begins on the eyes.

“When I’m done, you’re free to go, okay? I’m not going to keep you, but I’m not gonna mess with you—if you need to stay for a little while to get used to things, that’s okay too.”

He knows it’s not worth contemplating, but Hunter can’t help but pretend this is how he was created, too. That he was given kindness and honesty, and most of all choices. He thinks he might remember a bit of it, an obscure and tattered memory that had never made any sense in the worldview crafted for him. He barely knew anything about breathing except that suddenly he couldn’t, couldn’t comprehend grime beyond what clung to his newly exposed skin, didn’t even know that existence was possible until the presence of his first other, his beloved uncle. And then he was named, branded, made; Hunter. He’s been that ever since.

“You can choose your own name,” Hunter promises as he places the black dots for pupils. “It’s not too late for you.”

It begins to blink and chirp in his hands. Maybe he was being too slow. Hunter sighs and places them on his desk, conjuring up a small smile. It’s not as thorough as he would have liked, but it’s no tragedy either.

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

Waffles finds him before anyone else.

“Oh, good. Is it time to go home now?” 

Waffles sends him a cutting side-glare from their place on his shoulder. Marshal rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, you know I’m not like the other kids. I’m not hiding from them, I’m just.. Removing myself from their frankly revolting presence. Honestly, I could puke just from sitting next to one of them. It isn’t good for me.”

Waffles chirps in a low tone.

“You wouldn’t get it. You’re just a baby. You can’t even read yet.” Marshal giggles at how Waffles’ feathers puff up in offense. They look like a little blue ball of yarn! “It’s okay, I said I’d teach you more soon, didn’t I? Dad probably makes it all confusing. He’s really bad at explaining himself.”

Waffles agrees to that.

“Hey, you can’t tell Dad about what I’m reading, okay? I’m not supposed to touch this one,” Marshal warns, thumbing the orange edges, “and he doesn’t even think I like to read anymore. Can this be just between us?”

Waffles tweets. It doesn’t make any difference to them.

“You’re my favorite palisman, did you know? You’re very sweet…. Dad’s worried again? Ugh, when is he not? Fine, I’ll go back to the classroom.”

Marshal closes the book and stows it away in his school bag. He’s not sure why he still reads this one. It isn’t relevant to his life. He doesn’t need it, and he’s decided not to want it. And yet he’d taken it off the shelf.

Waffles tugs at the hair that’s come loose from his ponytail. Marshal swats them away with a groan.

“D’ya think Dad packed me some bobbypins? I hate this!” 

Waffles laughs at him and pecks at one of the pockets on Marshal’s bag. Of course Dad remembered! Marshal pins his hair back and makes his escape from the school library. There’s no need to hide from the librarian—he really couldn’t care less that Marshal comes here to cut class, as long as he’s quiet and reading. He’s been coming here essentially ever since Dad put him in school. His teacher must know he’s missing for most of the day, but it never becomes an issue until it’s time for him to be picked up. As long as his scores are passing, nobody can say he’s ‘failing’.

Marshal pouts. Well, maybe that’s not so true. Somebody must have put the idea of counseling in Dad’s head. It just isn’t Dad’s style—he hates giving people authority over his thoughts as much as Marshal. He’ll have to be more careful to get through these elementary years, then. It’s not forever, just annoyingly long. Maybe he could apply himself to skip a few grades.. It’s worth considering.

Marshal plans his route carefully to limit the amount of adults who see him return to the classroom. It’s not that he’d really be in much trouble, but much like the kids here, Marshal would just rather not interact with them. 

“Okay Waffles, this is where we split.. When I walk back in, I’ll just say I was in the bathroom down the hall, okay?”

Waffles gives him an unimpressed look, whistling in a low pitch. Marshal frowns.

“I don’t.. I don’t know why. Look, does it really matter to you? Can’t you just do this?”

Waffles tilts their head but agrees.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a big liar and you’re being made into my accomplice. Whatever. Dad won’t be mad at you….. Yeah, you’re right, he’s not ever mad.” Marshal has an inkling as to why that is, but he doesn’t think he needs to feel guilty over it. He’s seven, and Dad is twenty five. That time is extremely over. “Can you just be on my side? It’s not a big deal.”

Waffles grudgingly relents, but sends him a nasty squint to show their disapproval as they fly off his shoulder and tap at the classroom’s door first. Marshal is a liar and a big meanie while Waffles is his poor, put-upon guardian angel, he gets it. Ugh, where did they get all that drama from? It’s certainly not from Dad.

Marshal waits a minute before entering the classroom himself. His teacher is sitting boredly at their desk, eyeing Dad as he paces the empty classroom, worrying with his hair. Waffles sends Marshal a dirty look from Dad’s shoulder. You did this. Marshal shrugs at them. He can’t control Dad’s anxiety. ..He’s sorry to have contributed to it but really, they go through this almost every pick up. 

Nevertheless, it’s finally over! Marshal runs up to Dad with a big smile, already celebrating the end to this wretched school day.

“Hi! I was just in the bathroom. Can we go now?”

“With your backpack on?” His teacher asks dryly, but goes ignored.

Dad’s face lights up with a toothy, closed-eye grin. It makes Marshal feel all warm inside, embarrassingly so. This is his dad!

“Okay, Pipsqueak, we can go now—I know you wanted to go to the creek today, but we have to stop by the house first. I have some paperwork I have to send out.”

Marshal shrugs and grabs his hand. It doesn’t really matter to him. And after this morning, he told himself to be on his best behavior. They’re already on their way out the door when Marshal’s teacher coughs into their fist. Dad looks back sheepishly.

“Sorry.. We really will reschedule with her. Just give me some time?”

They eye Marshal’s family, unimpressed, but don’t comment otherwise. Dad squeezes Marshal’s hand as he waves goodbye and leads them out.

“Just between us, I’m kind of glad I never went to school.” Dad whispers conspiratorially. “I don’t think I like teachers.”

Marshal gives him the stink eye. Tell me about it. Dad just laughs and pats his back.

“Come on, it’s good for you. You don’t want to grow up into a government auditor like me, right? Aren’t taxes sooo boring for you?”

“They’re mind-numbing, actually. It’s the worst use of math ever invented!”

“Well, it’s not all taxes—I’m not an accountant, you know. Actually, what I do is really interesting because–”

“Ugh!” Marshal covers his ears. “I don’t wanna hear it!” That has got to be his least favorite part of government.

Waffles covers their own head with their wings, chirping with laughter. Dad huffs, cheeks puffing up as he smooths some hair on the back of his head.

“Yeah, yeah I get it. Let’s go home.”

The bird tilts their head at him, tweets slowly. Hunter can’t help but smile genuinely this time. They even sound young. He extends a hand to them, intending to give them a gentle pet, but they hop on instead without any fear. They tweet again and peck at his hand. No. No, he’s not gonna let this happen. Hunter brushes them off. They chirp, sounding a little upset.

“I’m not letting you in my head,” Hunter warns, putting up a finger. “..But I will feed you. What do you want, uhh.. Waffles? Omelet? I’m sure I could get some goreberries from the forest.”

The little bird cheers with a song. Hunter groans.

“That’s not– It’s a food. I was asking if you wanted waffles, I wasn’t-” Hunter throws his hands up with a sigh. “ I didn’t name you, alright? You decided that all by yourself.”

Waffles agrees, but it might just be to make him happy.

“You did hear everything I just said, right? You’re not mine. You can make some other witch or demon happy. Or you can be your own palisman, I don’t care.”

Waffles hops back onto his hand and chirps for food. Hunter considers ignoring their voice and pretending he doesn’t understand. Would that be cruel?

“Okay.. Just for one day. Goreberries it is.”

Hunter lifts them to his shoulder. He catches them when they try to hop off.

“Uh-uh. You’re too new. Just stay on my shoulder, okay? The palistrom woods here are pretty tame compared to the rest of the Isles, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Waffles huffs but deigns to sit on his shoulder. Hunter pats them and looks out the window.

“We’ll be quick.. It’s almost dark out.”

His whole day, gone. Hunter can’t believe he has to go back to work tomorrow. On his birthday. And Darius will be there, because their offices are down the hall from one another. Great. He’ll be looking into working from home for the foreseeable future.

Hunter tarries a bit in the forest, not quite willing to go back to the cottage once he’s gathered enough goreberries for Waffles. He’s hungry himself, but the thought of cooking almost moves him to tears, and even the thought of eating goreberries with Waffles puts ash in his mouth. 

Waffles nudges his cheek with their stained beak, eking out a small chirp for a question. Hunter sighs and finds a tree to lean against. It’s getting even later. They should really head back inside before it gets too dark. He should have brought a bat or a wrench or something.

“..I’m sorry about all this.” Hunter mutters miserably, sinking to the ground and bringing his knees to his chest. “I’m not myself today. I- I haven’t been for a while. I thought all of this would help. But it’s me. It’s just.. Me. ”

Waffles tweets. They don’t know anything about that.

“Yeah, this is what I mean. You deserve someone better, someone.. Fresh. Without all,” Hunter knocks a fist to the side of his head, “of this. I just wish– Is it crazy of me to say I miss everyone I know? Luz would probably tell me to just say something and have dinner with them all but it’s not like that. I feel like I’m the one who’s gone. Without my uncle I feel… hopeless. Purposeless. Alone. I’m like a dog without an owner, a wolf without a pack, a popped tire, a knife that doesn’t cut. And it was all–” God, is he crying? “It was fine, the first time I thought he was dead. But now Flap’s gone too, and he- You’re not him. He can’t come back. Neither of them are- here. With me. And I just don’t want to be alone anymore. I want it all back, everything! The castle, my uncle, Flapjack, the mask—I’d take it all back!” Hunter sniffles and wipes his eyes. “Okay, I know that’s crazy of me. I just miss them. I miss everything, even though I shouldn’t.”

Waffles coos, but has no words of wisdom to offer.

“Ugh, Titan, I could go for a tissue right now. Sorry about that. Forget everything you just heard. I’ll be fine.” Hunter gets to his feet. “We should go back now. It could get too dangerous for you out here and I have to be up for work tomorrow.”

Hunter frowns. He knows he didn’t step on a twig just now.

“Waffles, did you hear that?”

Marshal makes sure to give Dad a big long hug for the surprise. Taking the day off work to set this up, inviting one of the few people he can stand, streamers in his favorite color, his favorite flavor cake, and surely his favorite gifts all wrapped to perfection—it’s a wish come true.

“Happy early eighth birthday, Pipsqueak!” Dad laughs, picking him up and spinning him once, twice, thrice, ..again. Fource? Catorce? Marshal doesn’t think he’s ever known a word for that.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TINY!” Luz shouts and blows a.. kazoo? That must be from her list of fun ideas.

“Thank you, thank you!”

Marshal makes them play game after game with him, convinces Dad to cut the cake before dinner, demands Luz braid his hair. This sort of simple thing with family is what he’d rather have, nowadays. He never had this before.. Before Dad. Marshal blinks away the traitorous wetness in his eyes, even if they come from a happy place. It would still be embarrassing.

“Can me and Waffles open the presents together? Since we’re basically the same age and all?”

Dad chuckles.

“Don’t you think Waffles would want some presents-” he reaches behind his back, “-of their own?”

Dad produces a box and shakes it, revealing that it contains multiple items. Waffles cheers from their perch in Marshal’s hair.

Luz scratches her head.

“Wait, did Waffles ever get a birthday party?”

Dad whispers to her, but Marshal still hears: “They like to imitate me you know, and I didn’t do anything special for mine so they didn’t want to either.. I know better though. Wait. This is fine, right? Lots of siblings have joint birthday parties, don’t they?”

Luz snorts.

“Dude, you’re fine. Both of them love this!” Luz waves a hand to Marshal and Waffles who are eagerly opening and comparing presents together. She frowns. “Huh. shouldn’t they have the same birthday..? Yknow, I never asked you why Marshal’s is next month instead of the day you found him.”

Dad laughs.

“Well, it’s not like he was born in the woods.”

“..Wait, Hunter, are you- did you– who– how- what? Are you two actually.. biologically... Related? Somehow?”

Dad looks to Marshal. He shakes his head.

Dad wiggles his fingers at Luz with a smirk, “Oooh, whoo knows… Seriously Luz, when would I have had the time to have a kid? Without anyone noticing. Really.”

“Wha- Well I don’t know!” She sputters. “He kinda looks like you! …In a way!”

“Right.. Well, we celebrate his birthday next month because that’s when he was born. Simple.”

“Okay, but how did you find that out? Two year olds don’t exactly know all the months of the year.”

Dad shrugs and feeds Waffles a piece of cake. 

“Magic.”

Waffles flies from his shoulder in an instant.

“Hey!” Hunter calls after them. “Don’t go toward the sound! What did I just say about it being dangerous out here?” 

Waffles only leaves a trail of chirps and birdsong behind them. Hunter looks at his darkening surroundings, at his fuzzy slippers. Great. A horrible idea comes to him. After his little performance yesterday, he could always just bite any danger he comes across! Haha.. It’s not funny. But be the situation as it may, he isn’t about to lose a baby palisman. He takes a steadying breath and begins the chase after Waffles.

Hunter doesn’t have to chase after them for long. Waffles is tweeting fiercely around a lump in the soil, pecking at it between divebombs. Hunter snatches them out of the air.

“What were you thinking!? You can’t go out investigating the wild, you could get really hurt!”

Waffles chirps indignantly and pecks at his hand, trying to break loose.

“Oh, tough luck. I’m not letting you go after that stunt. We’re going home.”

A whine from the lump in the dirt catches his attention.

Dirty, covered in leaves and soil, is… a toddler? Hunter lets go of Waffles to inspect the child. 

His glass heart stops. He thought it was over. He was trying to get over it. 

Is this an act of God?

He doesn’t want to get over it. Hunter hasn’t wanted to get over anything in his entire life.

The toddler sneers at him, but those fat cheeks and big eyes get in the way of any attempt at intimidation. He probably doesn’t remember well, given the state of his entire rather confusing existence. Hunter laughs at him, a little hysterical. 

“Hello. You don’t have to be afraid.” Hunter crouches down and extends his hand with a smile. “Something is bound to eat you up out here. I can see your arms—no magic, huh? Let me help you.”

The toddler stares at him distrustingly. 

“You’re just a pipsqueak, but I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Waffles chirps in agreement, eagerly hopping from side to side on Hunter’s shoulder. Hunter extends his pinky.

“C’mon, I promise.”

Blue eyes meet brown. Ever so slowly, he slides his pinky against Hunter’s own. His adorable little face screws up in what Hunter fears might be the beginning of a tantrum, but what turns out to be blubbering tears. He stumbles toward Hunter with wide open arms. Hunter catches him and holds him close, patting his back, brushing a hand through his hair.

He smiles. He finally has it back. It can’t be exactly the same, of course not, but it's back and he’s never letting go. 

Fuck work.

“Here’s how this family is going to be.. My name is Hunter, and you’ll be my little Marshal.”

Waffles chirps cheerfully, newly made and having no idea what they’ve done, only knowing that they’ve made their creator happy. They nuzzle both their witches, liking the sound of one of those words—family.

Hunter doesn’t forget his promise of taking his son to the creek.

“You’re pretty bad at playing house.” Marshal comments, after Hunter’s admittedly terrible performance. 

“Only this part. I don’t know how to be your kid. Next time let's be brothers.” Hunter suggests.

“No. Next time, you’ll really be my baby.”

“Alright, but I make no promises to be good at it. Again. I’ve never been one of those before.”

“That’s okay. You will be,” Marshal promises, “you will be.”

Philip brushes his knuckles against the soft cheek of the child before him and marvels for a moment at how.. cute it is. Was his own brother so precious at this age? He’d only just been born himself, so he now can do no more than wonder. 

His last attempt had certainly borne a strong resemblance to Caleb, but for this one it’s simply too early to tell anything but the differences. The hair is multicolored with wispy curls, the top so blonde it might as well be white, and the bottom only a shade darker than Caleb’s had been. Possibly, it will thicken and darken, and the ringlets will come loose—but still, it’s a little left to Caleb. The gap between those front baby teeth Philip finds himself fond of, despite the divergence from canon. But the skin is even more sickly than its predecessor’s, a terrible gray hue only found in witch- and demonkind leeching at Caleb’s pink tan, nearly the same color as when Philip had acquired his body.

The eyes and ears, there’s never been any hope for. 

Its little chest rises in its sleep, visible even swaddled as it is. Philip contemplates at once choking it or cradling it. He hasn’t made one so small in a long time. Maybe he’d only accomplish the first if he attempted the latter, so Philip settles for petting its fine hairs.

“Now, what shall I call you?”

This one could very well be his last, if it does well. Less than fourteen years is all it needs to survive. Philip slips his pinky finger into the child’s curled hand, smiling at the way it clutches at him so tightly, as if it really were an infant and not an approximation of a toddler. He hopes, not for the first time, that this one lasts for a long while.

“Here, let’s play a game.. I’ll be your general, and you’ll be my Hunter.”

Caleb’s face is hard to remember, now. For hundreds of years he could picture it clearly, how he’d smile before an embrace, how wide his brown eyes could open in fear. Although, his face as a child was harder to recall, even back then. When Hunter was first created, his young face began to replace what little recollection he’d had. 

But now it’s all Hunter. He can remember thinking the differences between him and Caleb more than he can spot them. It was worse to realize that the memories were gone than it was to actually lose them. To realize he hadn’t noticed. To lose what made him him for centuries. But Caleb has been dead a long time, and it’s time to finally lay his memory to rest. Besides, Hunter’s carved out a new life for the two of them.

Marshal and Dad.

He likes that. And this time, he gets to have it forever. 

And ever.