Work Text:
1832
The wind howled outside, whipping through the cracks of the small, shabby cabin that Victor called home. He sat huddled on a threadbare blanket, watching the dim glow of the fireplace flicker shadows across the walls. His father, Thomas Logan, sat hunched over a small wooden table, a bottle in hand, the sour stench of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin. Victor had grown used to it, had learned to associate that smell with danger.
Distant screams suddenly pierced the night, carried over from the large estate across the clearing—the Howlett estate, looming like a ghost in the darkness.
Victor shifted, his small body tensing at the sound, but he didn’t dare move closer to the window. He knew better than to show interest in things that weren’t meant for him.
Thomas Logan took a long swig from his bottle, letting out a rough laugh. "Hear that, boy? That’s your little brother bein’ born," he said, voice thick and slurred.
Victor’s heart skipped a beat. He stared up at his father, confusion knitting his brow. “Little brother?” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
Thomas leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he stared into the flames. “When the time comes, I’ll take him and his mother, and we’ll be out of this place. Away from all this. Ain’t no one gonna keep me from what’s mine.”
Victor swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “What…what happened to my mama?” he asked, innocent and curious, his voice tinged with longing.
The words barely left his lips when Thomas’s expression darkened, and without warning, he hurled the beer bottle against the wall, glass shattering in a spray of amber liquid. Before Victor could even flinch, his father was on him, smacking him across the face with a force that sent the boy sprawling onto the floor.
Victor tasted blood in his mouth, felt it trickle from his busted lip, but he didn’t cry out. He’d learned not to. Instead, he curled into himself, shielding his face with trembling hands, waiting for the next blow.
“Don’t you ever speak of her again!” Thomas roared, his voice shaking the cabin walls. “You hear me, boy?! Never!”
He smacked Victor again, the sound echoing in the silence, and Victor bit back the whimper that threatened to escape his throat. The pain was familiar, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
Thomas stood over him, breathing heavily, staring down at his son with a mixture of anger and disgust.
“You’ll learn,” he muttered, turning away, stumbling back to his chair. “You’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.”
Victor stayed on the floor, his cheek pressed against the rough wooden planks, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. He didn’t move, didn’t dare to breathe until his father’s snores filled the room.
He let himself relax, just a little, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. The wound throbbed, but he knew it would heal. It always did.
10 years later
Victor, now a teenager, sat in the corner of James's room, eyes fixed on the floor. His claws were out, gleaming in the dim candlelight, but he kept them hidden beneath his hands, forcing them to retract, feeling the sharp sting as they pulled back into his skin. Across from him, James sat on his bed, watching his older brother with wide, curious eyes.
"Victor," James began hesitantly, "what…what happened to your mother?"
The question hit Victor harder than any blow ever could. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, trying to keep the claws at bay. It took everything he had not to lash out, not to let the rage consume him like it always did.
"It’s none of your business," Victor snapped, his voice colder than he intended.
He looked up, and for just a moment, his eyes flashed yellow, feral and dangerous, before he managed to rein it back in.
James flinched but didn’t look away. “I just… I want to know. I've never seen her. Where is she?"
“I said it’s none of your business!” Victor growled, slamming his fist against the wall.
The impact left cracks in the plaster, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to remember the nights spent cowering on the floor, blood dripping from his lips, while his father yelled at shadows that weren’t there.
The room fell silent, and Victor forced himself to calm down, to breathe. He unclenched his fists, staring down at the faint lines of blood where his nails had cut into his palms.
“There are some things you’re better off not knowing, Jimmy. Not yet anyways.” he said finally, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. “Trust me.”
James nodded, his eyes softening, and for once, he didn’t push. He reached out, placing a hand on Victor’s arm, a silent gesture of comfort, of understanding.
Victor stared at his brother’s hand, the warmth of it seeping into his skin, and something inside him shifted. He would protect James. He would keep him safe from the truth, from the pain that had shaped his own life. Because if there was one thing Victor had learned, it was that no matter how much you tried to bury the past, it always had a way of coming back.
“Come on,” Victor muttered, rising to his feet and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You should get some sleep. I'll be back tomorrow.”
James nodded and slipped under the covers, and together, they sat for a moment in the dim light, two brothers bound by blood and secrets they could never escape.
When he left the room, Victor cast one last glance at the mirror, at the reflection that stared back at him—wild dark blue eyes, claws just beneath the surface, and the features of his father already edged into his skin. A beard stubble that would grow into mutton chops later and the unmistakable rage of his father bubbling beneath the surface.
And for the first time, he wondered if he would ever be able to escape it.