Chapter Text
“In days gone by I never repented of my acts. I was sorry always only for what I didn’t do. Professions I did not choose; adventures which I dared not have (in spite of the chances I had to have them, to be sure); various experiences with which I did not meet.”
― Atsushi Nakajima, Light, wind, and dreams
~~~
If you were to ask Alex if he had any regrets, he would reply that he had a great many. He would not elaborate further than that, and most would not ask beyond such a question.
This is most likely because they know that, even if they were to, Alex would not answer. Not verbally, at least. In his mind, however, he would review the list of plights and missed opportunities that made up his life.
Having neglectful parents, – that one wasn’t his fault – never making friends, – that one was – and refusing help – that last one was a mix. Alex’s pride, fear, and uncertainty constantly warred against each other when it came to trusting people. His peers, yes, but especially adults.
Alex found something sinister in them, despite how quickly he was approaching the age where he, too, would be considered a legal adult. They seemed to forget so quickly what it was like to be a child – powerless and voiceless against those older than you, with a natural authority children could never compete against.
He wanted to vow to never become like them, but Alex was sure that the adults he so despised had made those same promises to themselves. How could they have not? When experiencing injustice, one never wants to become someone who perpetuates that cycle.
They forget, though, the moment they are comfortable, of that Alex is sure. Once they have that power and authority that tormented them, and they suddenly don’t have to put up with any of it. They can fight back. And so entrenched in their own problems, they no longer see a need to change the system that once chained them.
What was that saying? ‘The privileged never want to give up their power’? It seems that that is true for all humans.
Alex doesn’t blame them. He wants to, and that lack of blame doesn’t stop him from not trusting them, but to Alex, it feels as though blaming the adults is just shifting where his anger truly should be.
No, blaming the adults isn’t right. Blaming the system is. Society, he means.
The system that makes children powerless, and adults overworked. That burns out teens and makes preteens self-conscious. That’s what Alex blames.
But, he won’t say that, not to anyone. Who would he tell, anyways? His parents, who had too much money and too much time, and a desire to never be around the family they created? His friends? Of whom he had never had beyond friendly acquaintances.
And certainly, he couldn’t tell his sister. Not Annie, not the little eleven-year-old girl he had looked after ever since he was six.
Alex has shielded her from their troubles thus far – he doesn’t see the benefit in unloading all of his troubles on her now.
So he doesn’t. He goes about his day – he makes their meals, cleans their house, and helps his sister with her homework. He answers questions about his family as vaguely as possible, and evades the well-meaning teachers who try to pry into his life.
They could help, maybe, but they could also make things worse. There was one teacher, back when Alex was eight and terrified of the responsibilities that came with taking care of not only himself, but also his sister, that tried talking to him. Tried reporting his parents to CPS.
It didn’t work – at least not for long. Alex’s parents had more money than anyone could know what to do with, and everyone who’s anyone knows just how much the government loved hush money.
And so the investigation was settled, and Alex was transferred into a different class. He never did find out what happened to Mrs. Bell. That was probably for the best – Alex would be heartbroken if his old teacher had been fired because of him. Ignorance is bliss and all.
Anyways, despite the many, many problems plaguing his life, Alex liked to think he was doing rather well for himself. Sure, he’d probably need a lifetime's worth of therapy once he was independent of his parents – a day that would hopefully come soon, with all the part-time jobs he managed to squeeze into his already busy schedule – and enough friends to fill the ever growing gap in his heart, but hey. He could be dead, or seriously injured. Or, at least, something like that.
He didn’t really like thinking about it, except when he did, and that was only when he was alone and in the house. Currently, he was in the house, but he wasn’t alone, and so he’d have to leave his doom spirals for later.
Speaking of which – Annie was sitting in front of him now, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunks as she chowed down on store bought blueberry pancakes. Her hair was done up pigtails, courtesy of Alex himself, and there was a spot of whipped cream smeared across the collar of her baggy purple shirt.
She was why Alex put up with all of this. Why he worked himself to the bone, why he put up with their parents. Why he did everything, really.
Seeing her happy, like this. Brimming with joy and energy and life , it made it all worth it, even if she could be a little shit sometimes.
Like now, as she leaves her messy plate on the table and bounds towards her backpack, covered in crumbs and with her clothes as stained as they could possibly be from pancakes.
“Annie.”
He called, exasperation in his voice, watching as his little sister immediately twirled towards him, a large, mischievous smile on his face as she bounced on her tiptoes to try and be eye to eye with him, – thank god he was tall and she was short, otherwise she’d try lording it over him that she was ‘taller’ when he was sitting down – the girl cocking her head to the side as she answered.
“Yes?”
The girl crooned, a playful smile on her lips as she stared at him, hands clasped behind her back.
“Your dishes, Annie. And! Your clothes. You're a mess, clean yourself up.”
Annie scoffed slightly at that, but it was clear she wasn’t truly irritated, or put out. She was simply putting on a show – performing the same song and dance with him that they did every morning. A routine of scoldings and laughter and sass.
Watching her dramatically drag her feet back over to the table, wailing and bemoaning the torture Alex put her through, heaving up her dishes like they were weights, Alex couldn’t help but sigh fondly.
Yes, she was a pain. But she was his.
And watching her frog match to the sink like it was a death sentence, Alex hoped it would always stay that way.
***
There was… something ringing near him. In him? High-pitched, like when you hit your head and your vision goes white.
It makes him feel disoriented, weighed down. Fuzzy .
His skin felt too tight on his body, and there was a sickly swirl of nausea stirring in his stomach, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut – did he have them open? – and bend over.
He felt short of breath, despite the heavy, hot pants he could feel leaving his lips, and the static blanketing his brain made it hard to think, hard to comprehend what was happening.
He hadn’t thought he was sick – wasn’t he just… wasn’t he just…
What had he been doing? Something had obviously happened, what had caused it? He couldn’t– he couldn’t remember, why couldn’t he remember?
There was… he was… his sister? He had a sister, right? He was supposed to be with her, he thinks.
Who is he? He has a sister, that he can remember, but his name? He has a name, he’s sure, but… what is it? Why can’t he remember it?
He opens his eyes – or at least, he tries to. Everything spins in front of him, and for all that he can’t remember much right now, he certainly can remember that that’s not normal.
He’s… sitting on something. Or rather, laying on something, and rather pathetically at that.
It’s not soft, but it's not hard either, and with a lot of concentration, he slowly moves one shaky hand to feel out the surface.
It’s bumpy, dirty, and feels almost like static under his hands. It’s a mattress, he thinks. A worn down, filthy mattress, but a mattress all the same.
So. He’s on a bed. Why? He hasn’t yet figured that out, but he will. He will. Once he can see more than smudges and abstracts built out of color, and once his body feels more like a body, rather than a puppet with its strings cut.
He lays there for god knows how long. A minute, five. An hour, two. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t particularly care to. All he knows is that what rouses him from his spinning contemplation is a shout, and the faint sound of banging wood.
It’s a woman's voice, hoarse and rough. He can’t recognize it, though he’s not sure he’d be able to even if he could figure out whatever seems to be happening to him and his memory.
He can faintly make out what she’s saying. She’s spewing abuse, hurling around words like ‘disappointment’ and ‘worthless.’ They’re cruel, but they don’t feel particularly wrong. How unsurprising.
Someone else must respond to the shouting, but he can’t hear them. He can only tell by the pause of the noise, and the annoyed scoff that follows said pause, and the repeated slamming of wood.
He thinks that’s it, until a slam jolts his body up in a reflex he didn’t know he had, blurry eyes focusing in on a tall, greyed-out figure that makes his head hurt to look at.
“Kiritsu-san…”
A small voice murmurs. A small voice that is distinctly not his – he doesn’t know how he knows that – and grants him the surprising revelation that he is not, in fact, alone.
He can’t see whoever it is with him – it’s not his sister, the voice doesn’t match. This, he knows instinctively.
Whoever just spoke has a soft, high-pitched voice. The voice of a toddler, likely a boy, but it's hard to tell when all he has to go off is the whisper of a name he doesn’t recognize.
“I’m not here for you, Sato-kun. I’m here for Chiye.”
The lady says, and it feels like he’s been sucker punched, because suddenly he knows his name, and it’s not Chiye. It’s Alex Fletcher.