Chapter Text
Pawbert had always seen the world differently. At least, that’s what his mother used to whisper while brushing away the tears on his cheeks.
Back when her voice still lived inside the house.
He must’ve been six, maybe seven, small enough to still remember the warmth of her fur, old enough to realize it had been a long time since anyone held him the way she once did. He still remembered the first time he felt it.
Different.
His little arms rested on the window ledge, chin pressed to his forearms, eyes bright with hope. It was his birthday. Another year older. He’d spent weeks crafting paper invitations, coloring each one carefully for every classmate. He didn’t have a best friend, not really. But he liked to think most kids liked him.
He was gentle, soft-hearted. How could anyone hate him?
So he waited. One hour. Two hours. Three…
The house stayed silent, the kind of silence that stung. Once upon a time, that quiet would’ve been broken by humming in the kitchen, by a soft laugh, by someone reminding him cakes taste better when shared. But those sounds belonged to a time that no one spoke about anymore.
“Seems like I was right, after all.” A voice cut through the quiet like a blade. It was his older brother, Cattrick. He wore that familiar smug grin, completely ignoring the sadness in Pawbert’s eyes.
“There’s still time,” Pawbert murmured, a tiny spark of hope clinging to his voice.
“Is there? How long have you been glued to that window?” Cattrick chuckled as he stepped closer. “Five hours? Six?”
Pawbert didn’t answer.
“Face it, little brother. No one’s coming.” Cattrick’s tone was bright, sing-song, the kind of cruelty only a kid could perfect. He snatched the green birthday hat off Pawbert’s head and crushed it in his fist.
“Give that back!” Pawbert stood up, reaching for it. He tried, really tried to jump high enough, but Cattrick only burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained. Like this was all some big joke to him.
“You’re all grown up now, huh?” he teased, holding the crushed hat above his head. “Then fight me for it.”
He shoved Pawbert hard. Pawbert hit the floor face-first, a sharp thud echoing through the living room. Tears sprang up immediately as his cheek smacked the wooden boards. Cattrick rushed over, not to help, but to pin. He grabbed the back of Pawbert’s neck and pushed him down, claws digging in just enough to make him cry harder.
“You’re hurting me!” Pawbert pleaded, voice cracking.
He tried to wriggle free, but Cattrick was older, stronger. Always stronger. Pawbert was small. Way too small to even stand a chance. Cattrick? He was the golden child. Faster, taller, athletic even at thirteen. Every coach loved him. Every adult praised him.
Pawbert didn’t understand why things were the way that they were. It was too complicated, too cruel, for a child to comprehend.
“Come on,” Cattrick taunted, twirling the crushed hat like a toy. “Do you even want this stupid thing back?”
Pawbert jolted backward on instinct. His head snapped upward
Crack.
He headbutted his brother square in the nose. Cattrick reeled back with a yelp, more offended than actually hurt. His paw flew to his face when he saw the trickle of blood.
“You little…!” He lunged. Claws raked down Pawbert’s face. A white-hot sting tore across his left eye and Pawbert screamed—a tiny, broken sound that echoed down the hall. His paw flew to the wound; warm blood slipped between his fingers.
The sound finally caught someone’s attention.
Footsteps.
Heavy ones.
His father.
Milton appeared in the doorway, expression blank, as if he had walked in on nothing more than a spilled drink.
“Daddy—please, help.” Pawbert reached for him with a trembling paw, blood dripping down his face.
Milton didn’t even look at him. “Cattrick. I need you,” he said simply, nodding toward his office.
No concern. No question. Not even a glance in Pawbert’s direction.
Cattrick brushed past his little brother, but paused just long enough to place one heavy paw on Pawbert’s head. He pressed his claws straight into the wound.
Pawbert whimpered.
Cattrick smirked, nose still bleeding. “Happy birthday, runt,” he whispered, voice dripping with childish venom.
Then he shoved Pawbert’s head down and walked away, following their father.
And Pawbert was left alone. The silence felt bigger than the mansion itself.
The living room once decorated with balloons and streamers, once full of Pawbert’s excited breath, seemed darker now. The balloons sagged against the walls, the birthday cake sat untouched, and the window where he’d waited for hours showed nothing but a pale, trembling reflection.
Small, shaking, forgotten. That’s how he felt.
Somewhere deep inside him, an old ache pulsed, the same ache he’d carried since he was six years old. Since the day his mother vanished without a word.
No one ever told him what happened to her. Not whether she left, not whether she died. Not why his siblings changed overnight—why his sister grew sharp-tongued and cold, or why Cattrick started treating him like he wasn’t even family.
His father refused to speak her name.
And as Pawbert grew older, he understood something terrible: he wasn’t part of the family’s picture-perfect life. He wasn’t in the photos on the hallway walls, nor was he invited to events, celebrations, portraits, or anything that mattered.
He existed beside their life, but not inside it.
The only warmth he ever felt came from the housekeepers. Kind otters and gentle deers who offered small smiles, soft voices, and the same sweetness his mother once had.
Sometimes, when they brushed his fur or quietly asked how his day went, he imagined that’s what it felt like to be loved.
And overtime, the scar over Pawbert’s left eye never faded. It thinned with time, paling beneath his fur, but the shape remained.
A reminder. A warning. A story no one in the mansion ever acknowledged.
Twenty years later, he was still there.
Still in the same house, still in the same halls, still forgotten.
But he wasn’t seven anymore.
He was taller, fluffier, and clinging to humor because it was the only thing that ever made this house feel less empty.
He was still awkward, still nervous, still afraid to raise his voice too high in case someone snapped at him for it.
But somehow, he’d kept his warmth.