Chapter Text
The first thing Scar noticed was that his mom had both hands gripping the steering wheel.
Not unusual, really. Cleo always drove like the roads had personally offended her. But tonight her shoulders were locked tight beneath her cardigan, and the little crease between her eyebrows hadn’t disappeared once since they left the school parking lot.
Scar shifted in the passenger seat and watched the mountains slide by outside the window.
Early summer in their town always smelled green. Wet dirt, honeysuckle, river water, cut grass. The mountains crowded close to the roads here, rolling dark against the orange evening sky. Most people complained there was nothing to do in town, but Scar liked it. He liked knowing every bend in the road. Which porches had wind chimes. Which gas station sold the good sweet tea. Which hills hurt the least to walk up on bad pain days.
The debate trophy dug into his thigh where it rested awkwardly beside his cane.
“We absolutely crushed Empires Academy,” he said finally.
Cleo hummed. “Mm.”
“You didn’t even ask what category.”
“I assumed you’d tell me anyway.”
“I would have,” Scar said. “It was Lincoln-Douglas.”
“Congratulations.”
He glanced sideways at her.
Still tense.
Still weird.
Scar leaned his head back against the seat. “Okay, what happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“You’re driving like you’re fleeing a crime scene.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I’m your kid. Drama is my birthright.”
That got the tiniest snort out of her, but it vanished almost immediately.
The truck rattled over a pothole. Pain flickered hot through Scar’s hip and down his leg. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and adjusted carefully, trying not to make it obvious.
Cleo noticed anyway.
“You okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You took your meds after school?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“Too late. I’m gifted.”
Another almost-smile.
Then silence again.
Scar watched her thumb tap against the steering wheel.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“You got in,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you?”
Cleo’s eyes flicked toward him.
And there it was.
Not guilt exactly. Not sadness either.
Something bigger.
“I got the call this afternoon,” she admitted.
Scar sat up straighter despite the ache in his back. “Mom, that’s amazing.”
“It’s the Durham program.”
Scar actually swore out loud. “Fuck.”
“Language.”
“You got into Durham?” He laughed incredulously. “That’s insane.”
“I know.”
“You said they only took like— what, six people?”
“Four this year.”
“Mom!”
Now she smiled for real, sudden and bright and exhausted all at once. “I know.”
Scar grinned at her. Genuine pride swelled warm in his chest. Cleo had been working toward this forever — late nights at the kitchen table, stacks of papers balanced beside cold coffee, muttering about research proposals while Scar and Bdubs made grilled cheese at midnight.
“You’re literally a genius,” he declared.
“Debatable.”
“No, that’s my department.”
Cleo rolled her eyes fondly.
For a minute, the tension eased.
Then Scar noticed she still looked nervous.
And the warmth in his chest slowly twisted.
“…Why do you look like someone died?”
The smile slipped off her face.
The truck filled with the soft hiss of tires against pavement.
Finally, Cleo exhaled.
“The program starts in September.”
Scar nodded slowly.
“In England.”
His stomach dropped.
The mountains outside suddenly felt very far away.
“Oh,” he said.
Cleo’s grip tightened on the wheel again. “I wasn’t keeping it from you, sweetheart. I just didn’t want to say anything until it was certain.”
“No, yeah, obviously.” Scar swallowed. “That makes sense.”
She nodded once, relieved he wasn’t upset.
“And…” she started carefully, “Your brother is coming with me.”
Scar stared at the dashboard.
The air conditioning hummed softly against his skin.
Right. Bdubs and I.
Outside, someone had hung little American flags from a fence already, even though the Fourth was weeks away. They fluttered red and white in the evening breeze as the truck passed.
“Okay?” he said after a moment.
Cleo glanced at him quickly, like she was checking for damage.
“And you’d stay here with your dad.”
There it was.
Scar looked down at his hands.
He already knew why. Before she even explained it, he knew.
Insurance.
Doctors.
Physical therapy.
Prescriptions.
Specialists.
The whole endless tangled mess of it.
Switching countries would mean rebuilding every single support system from scratch.
It would mean waiting lists.
New physicians.
Different healthcare rules.
Months of paperwork.
Maybe longer.
And his family already had everything set up here.
So Scar understood.
That almost made it worse.
“Oh,” he said again, quieter this time.
Cleo’s voice softened carefully, like she was approaching a frightened animal. “It wouldn’t be forever.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
Three years.
Scar looked out the window before his face could betray him.
Three years was forever when you were sixteen. Even longer when you were twelve like Bdubs.
The truck turned onto their road, winding deeper into the trees. Their town disappeared quickly once you left Main Street. Just forest and scattered houses tucked into hillsides.
Cleo kept talking gently.
“You’d still see us during breaks.”
“Mhm.”
“And video calls exist.”
“Yeah.”
He rubbed his thumb against the seam of his jeans. “Does Bdubs know?”
“He knows I got in. We haven’t talked about the details yet.”
“Gotcha.”
Cleo went quiet for a moment.
“You can be upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Scar.”
He stared stubbornly out the window.
The truth sat heavy and ugly in his throat.
He was upset.
Not because Cleo was leaving.
Well. Maybe a little because of that.
But mostly because the decision made sense.
That was the horrible part.
No one was choosing against him. They were choosing what worked.
And what worked just… didn’t include him.
The truck pulled into their gravel driveway.
The porch light glowed warm against the deepening dusk. Scar could already hear Bdubs somewhere inside the house, probably yelling at a video game.
Cleo turned off the engine but didn’t move.
Neither did Scar.
Crickets buzzed loudly outside.
Finally, Cleo reached over and squeezed his shoulder.
“You are not being left behind,” she said softly.
Scar looked down at his cane leaning against the console.
At the ache already spreading through his leg from sitting too long.
At the medication reminder flashing on his phone screen.
He knew she meant it.
That didn’t stop it from feeling true.
“…Okay,” he whispered.