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There’s an unspoken rule in foster homes. You don’t ask about someone’s past.
It’s general knowledge that scars, bruises, cuts, scrapes- they’re all no-go zones. They could have the most innocent backstory (“Oh, I fell off a swing when I was three!”), or they could open a whole can of worms that, unless you’re a qualified therapist with a master’s in psychology and years of practice under your belt, no one is really ready to deal with.
Billy knows this. Or at least, he knows it now, and has since he was about seven. But there was a time when he didn’t, just didn’t understand the weirdly specific and detailed social norms within the foster care system. It took getting a black eye from an irritated foster kid who did not appreciate being asked about the scar on their chin (talk about a kind welcome to the family) for him to learn that you just- don’t. You don’t look, you don’t stare, you don’t even think about it, and you sure as hell don’t ask.
But, he thinks, these guys probably don’t know that.
He really likes the Vasquez family. They’re the first foster home to really understand- he needs space, he’s not all that great with physical affection, yet he also needs reassurance that they’re not just going to abandon him, and he won’t turn down a hug every now and then. There’s a balance that they strive to maintain, and it means the world.
He’s only been with them for a few months and he already feels more content and comfortable than he has in his entire life. Even with the whole superhero gig they’ve got going on which, let’s be honest, can be a little bit stressful despite how fucking cool it is.
So yeah, generally, he’s happy. And he hasn’t had any problems with his new family. Other than the early fights with Freddy (which, let’s be honest, were Billy’s fault completely ), there hasn’t been any other conflict. Or at least nothing serious.
He may have jinxed it.
“Dude, that scar is gnarly!”
Billy freezes. The shirt he’s just taken off is balled up in his hands, ready to be thrown in the laundry basket in their bedroom. But he can’t seem to make his arms move anymore.
He knows which one Freddy means. There’s a pink, jagged line running along the curve of his left shoulder. He wonders, dimly, how Freddy hasn’t said anything about it before now.
It isn’t until Freddy speaks again that Billy realises a few seconds have passed in tense silence. Or at least, tense for him. Freddy seems completely comfortable as he grabs his cane and stands from the desk chair, heading over like he wants to get a closer look.
“It almost looks like a lightning bolt, actually. Ha, how wild is that?” Freddy laughs a little, and Billy can feel the breath of it ghosting over his back. That’s what does it for him, when he realises just how close Freddy is to him, close enough to reach out and touch and just-
Billy stuffs his arms back into his shirt and shoves it over his head. He turns so that he’s facing Freddy head-on, and can’t help but feel a little trapped, with the way he’s backed up against the wardrobe.
Freddy is oblivious.
“I only really have scars on my leg, from surgeries and stuff you know,” he rambles, shrugging a little. “But none as cool-looking as that one. I can’t believe I never noticed it before. It looks like it hurt. Did it hurt? How’d you get it?”
And there it is. The million dollar question. The question that earned Billy a lot of pain before he learned to just shut his mouth and mind his own business. Somehow, Freddy’s never learned that lesson.
Billy can feel the memories rushing back. The foster father, the wrong word spoken, the anger, the knife, the pain . He doesn’t realise his eyes are misting up until Freddy says “Uh, Billy? Are you okay?” and that’s it.
“I- I can’t,” he manages to choke out as he pushes past his foster brother and slumps heavily on the bottom bunk. He buries his face in his hands, breathing deeply and only just succeeding at keeping the tears at bay.
He dimly registers the sound of Freddy’s unusual gait moving across the floor, and only really recognises his presence when his foster brother sits gently next to him, as if he’s afraid to cause any disturbance.
Things are still and silent for a few seconds, and if Freddy couldn’t feel the tension in the atmosphere before then he sure as hell can feel it now. Billy feels Freddy’s hand come to lightly rest against his back, tentative and unsure in his attempt at comfort. Billy’s heart warms at the touch.
“I’m sorry,” Freddy’s voice pierces the silence. Billy immediately has the urge to reassure him, he doesn’t need to be sorry, he doesn’t need to back off, Billy needs to stop pushing people away- and then, “do you want to talk about it?”
And maybe Billy should. Freddy is no psychologist, he’s a kid but he’s been through some shit, just the same as Billy. Maybe he would get it, understand better than any professional ever could. Billy knows deep down that he needs to talk about this kind of thing eventually. It’s not healthy to keep it all bottled up, to try and ignore his past, which becomes impossible in the small hours of the night when his memories catch up to him. He should say ‘yes, it hurt. No, it’s not cool. No, I don’t want to talk about it but I know that I should.”
But. The thing is, Billy’s a hypocrite. He doesn’t take anyone’s advice, including his own.
He ends up somewhere in between.
“I don’t-” he clears his throat, and tries not to notice how Freddy startles at the sound of his voice, as if he hadn’t expected him to ever respond. “I don’t really want to say. At least, not right now. It’s not… it’s not a nice story, Freddy, and I really don’t want to talk about it.”
He lifts his face from his hands and stares across the room. He can feel the heat of Freddy’s gaze on him.
“You know, I lied earlier. When I said I only have scars from surgery. That’s not… it’s not true.”
Now Billy looks over at his foster brother to find him staring off at nothing in particular. There’s a certain haunted look in his eye that just doesn’t suit him.
Something inside Billy hurts at the thought of Freddy having a similar story behind a scar. He wonders if it’s as bad as his own. Is it worse? Did it hurt as much? Does Freddy still have nightmares?
“Do you want to talk about it?” Billy parrots the words back at him. He’s going against all his rules, asking about things he shouldn’t. But things are different here, in this house, in this family. Freddy would never hurt him. Billy trusts him completely.
Their eyes finally meet. “Not really, but, y’know. We can, if you want. Probably not right now, but later, whenever. If you ever want to, then you can tell me.”
And Billy’s never had anyone to share a burden with. No one has ever offered him something so simple; a shoulder to lean on, an open mind willing to listen and not judge, a comforting gesture, understanding.
He feels his eyes becoming damp again, and despite everything, a smile forms at his lips.
“Thanks, Freddy.” It’s not enough, but for the first time he feels confident that someone hears the unspoken message. The ‘thanks for being there, for not pushing, for trying, for everything.’
Freddy smiles back at him, that big goofy smile that can light up a room.
“No problemo. Now I sure hope you plan on washing that shirt. No offence but you stink, man.”
Billy scoffs. “Asshole!”
Freddy brings his arms up over his head to protect himself from the pillow Billy starts hitting him with, and their conversation is lost in the easiness of their laughter.
But Billy knows, now. He gets it. Freddy will be there, whenever he needs him. And Billy will do everything in his power to be there for Freddy too.