Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Roman stared out the window of his room, glaring at the cold rain and snow mix tapping against the glass. It was too dark to see anything beyond it, despite it nearing morning. Still, the faint flicker of a candle on his nightstand, one of the only pieces of furniture in the room, cast enough light to reveal the outline of his bed: a bare, rusted iron frame with no blankets or mattress. His skin rested directly on the freezing metal slats, making sleep impossible.

Not that he wanted to sleep. That’s where the nightmares lived. Even locked away in the attic, he couldn’t sleep. His body didn’t know how to relax anymore. He’d flinch awake at phantom footsteps, sure someone was coming. His brain whispered danger even in silence. After years in hellish foster homes, he’d learned not to let his guard down for that long.

He curled tighter, staring into the early morning fog like it might stare back. The bed and nightstand were shoved into the coldest corner, directly under the window. A cracked mirror hung beside it, and a splintered dresser slumped against the wall, barely holding his few belongings.

Not that he had many to begin with. A toothbrush. A hairbrush missing most of its bristles. His prized possession, an old teddy bear with a green bow. It was Remus’s, from before they were split up. A few clothes, stretched thin, none of them warm.

He was small for his age, which wasn’t surprising. Being underfed for most of your life would do that. At barely five feet tall, Roman looked more like a twelve-year-old than sixteen. He wasn’t even sure if he was sixteen. No one celebrated his birthday. But he remembered seeing his file once, back when a distracted caseworker had left it open. It had said that his birthday was sometime in early June.

That same file told him his parents were shot when he was three.

His twin brother, Remus Reston, had been with him for the first few placements. But they were separated years ago, and Roman hadn’t seen him since. He prayed Remus had landed in a good home. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that didn’t break him. Unlike Roman.

Thirteen years in the system, and this was his eleventh foster home. He’d been here almost a year, one of the longest placements since his early childhood, and... There . The Millers didn’t raise their hands, but their neglect bruised in quieter ways. Silence. Cold. Hunger. Threats. They didn't need fists to leave scars.

He stayed in the attic. They claimed it was for “privacy,” but mostly they just wanted him out of sight. No heat. No food. No bathroom access unless they granted it. There was no overhead light, but sometimes he managed to pocket old candles when they let him out. The Millers told his caseworker they were homeschooling him, but even Roman could tell the man didn’t believe it. He also knew the caseworker didn’t care. He’d gotten dangerously sick that first winter and had never fully recovered. Now the dreaded season had circled back again, and he wasn’t looking forward to what it would undoubtedly bring. Then again, he might not be here that long.

The Millers, like so many others, were only in it for the state checks, and Roman could tell they were getting nervous. His caseworker might not care if he attended school, but if anyone outside the home took a closer look at the situation, or him, those checks would stop. There had already been a few close calls with suspicious neighbors. He was sure it wouldn’t be long until they sent him back. Probably before the month was over.

A sudden pounding on the attic door made him jump; he hadn't realized so much time had passed. “DAMN IT, BOY! WAKE UP!” The unpleasant shriek from Mrs. Miller pierced the silence. Roman scrambled upright, forcing himself to stand straight just as the lock rattled and the door slammed open.

She gave him a once-over and scoffed. “My God, child. You look half-dead. Try to clean yourself up after you’re done scrubbing the house. I need you to fetch groceries, and I don’t need the cops thinking you’re a shoplifter. I haven’t got time to bail you out of jail.”

Roman bit his lip. She knew full well his other clothes weren’t any better. But arguing was pointless. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, barely audible. Talking hurts. It always did. Like nails down his throat, squeezing the sound out of him until he couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t mute. He couldn’t be. Speaking was just as necessary as silence; both were weapons, and he had to know when to use which to survive. That didn't mean it wasn't a fight to get the words out. And sometimes he lost; those days were always particularly painful.

Mrs. Miller spun on her heel, leaving the door open behind her.

Roman sighed and stepped into the hallway. At least cleaning meant warmth, and maybe food. If he was lucky, he’d find some loose change for another candle. He’d learned early on that asking got him nowhere. Everything he had, he’d earned, scavenged, or quietly taken when no one was looking. It wasn’t stealing if they never noticed- or if they didn’t care.

He glanced at his wrist. Once, names had been there. His soulmates... Three of them. Boys, he remembered that much. It was rare to have so many. Special. Something worth hoping for, once upon a time.

That had changed one night, years ago, at another home, when he accidentally broke a plate while cooking. The punishment had come swiftly and without mercy for the small child no matter how much he screamed; a forced press of his arm to the stove burner until the skin hissed into blisters. Now the names were gone, replaced with warped, angry skin. He always kept the scar covered.

A strip of cloth wound tight around his wrist, like he could hide the memory if he just tied it down hard enough. People looked at it funny when it slipped into view. He understood. It made him uncomfortable, too.

He didn't remember their names but he remembered the colors: purple, dark blue, and baby blue. In the end, he knew they'd be better off never meeting him. He’d spare them the disappointment.

Lost in thought, Roman walked face-first into the living room wall and fell back hard with a grunt. Blood trickled from his nose. He touched it, fingers coming back red. “Damn it,” he whispered ever so quietly to himself. “Not again...”

His last foster brother had broken it with a punch after Roman waved goodbye to the guy’s girlfriend. She’d always been kind to him, brought him snacks when she visited, and smiled like he wasn’t invisible, like on some level she knew he needed the kindness. She’d been several years older, and Roman hadn’t meant anything by it. But his foster brother had decided otherwise.

It had mostly healed, but was wrong. Now, even a bump could set it off again. Crooked bones and chronic pain. Just another leftover mark. Footsteps approached, heavy ones. Panic flared and Roman quickly grabbed a rag and a tissue, scrubbing the carpet and wall before any blood could be noticed.

“What the hell are you doing in here, boy?” Mr. Miller wasn’t loud. That made it worse. Roman had learned the quiet ones were the ones you really had to watch. “S-sorry, sir... I- I walked into the wall.” His gaze stayed fixed on the man’s shoes.

At barely five feet tall, Roman was used to looking up at everyone, but the man’s build and presence far towered over him in more than just his height. “What are you, blind? I’m not paying to fix you.”

“No, sir. Just clumsy, sir.” Mr. Miller grunted and stepped around him.

Roman exhaled, relieved too soon. Hot breath ghosted the back of his neck. He flinched. “Be careful not to break anything,” the man muttered. “Or I’ll throw you out in the snow.” Roman nodded quickly, the cold in his chest sharper than anything outside. He didn’t answer. Just turned back to the bloodstain and kept scrubbing.

Chapter Text

Once Roman was finished cleaning he quietly moved to the kitchen where the grocery list would be located. He took the paper and the stack of bills placed beside it, along with the usual, unspoken death threat should he “lose” any of their money, and made his way to the front door.

It was already deep winter, and darkness fell early. The wind cut like knives against his bare arms as soon as he stepped outside. His sneakers were too thin, soles peeling, and his socks were still damp from the last snow that crept in through the holes. His clothes hung off his frame; patched, threadbare, stained. The kind of outfit that made people stare.

It was about a 40-minute walk to the store from the Millers' house. He walked faster than usual, hoping to make it in under 35 minutes. If he could shave time off the trip, maybe he wouldn’t get punished this time. Maybe if he got everything exactly right, he could buy himself a night of peace.

The thought was laughable. He knew better. The lights of the corner store glowed like a mirage through the falling snow. Roman kept his head down, shoulders hunched in defense against the wind and the looks. Someone outside the store muttered something about him. He didn’t catch the words, but he felt the judgment like ice water down his spine. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere.

Inside, the store was warm. Too warm. It made his freezing skin sting and itch. He didn’t look at anyone, just moved quickly through the aisles with the list clutched tight in his hand. People stared. They always did. At his clothes, his shoes, the hollows under his eyes he couldn't hide behind his hair. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass door of the freezer and immediately looked away.

He looked like a corpse someone had forgotten to bury. At the register, he placed the items carefully, avoiding eye contact. The cashier said nothing. She didn’t smile. Roman didn't expect her to. He paid quickly and turned to leave, but was stopped at the door by a man in a security uniform. "Hey. Wait a second. Lemme see your bag.”

Roman froze. His lungs seized. He knew this dance, he’d been here before; accused of stealing, cornered in a tight space, people were watching. He handed over the bag without a word, keeping his gaze locked on the floor. The man rifled through it with practiced indifference. “Alright, you’re good. Move along.” Roman nodded and left. His fingers trembled even more now, but not from the cold.

He hated that it still scared him. Being touched, being watched, being spoken to like a criminal. He hadn't done anything wrong. He never did, unless it was absolutely necessary. That didn’t seem to matter.

The snow had picked up while he was inside. By the time he reached the road again, it was falling thick and fast, soaking into his already worn clothes. Halfway back, his fingers started to go numb. He hated the snow. He hated how it got into his bones. How it felt like punishment. The cold always reminded him of that first winter in the attic, when he got so sick he stopped remembering things clearly. Fever dreams and chills, and his own ribs pressing against his skin. The most recent of many shitty winter memories.

He nearly passed out for good last winter. They only noticed when the check-up visit came. That was the only reason he was still alive. Now, the snow felt like a slow erasure, scraping away at what little he had left. His legs ached. His jaw shook so hard it made his teeth hurt. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, trying to keep his core warm, but it barely helped. Especially with the plastic bags taking up so much space in his arms.

Every step hurt, and it only got worse when he realized how much time he’d lost. He was going to be late. He knew what that meant. His stomach twisted in dread. Maybe he’d say nothing. Maybe he’d just grunt and walk away like earlier. Roman tried to believe it, tried to lie to himself just enough to keep moving.

But he’d been in the system too long to believe in luck. When he finally reached the front steps, he could barely feel his hands. Struggling to turn the doorknob with frozen fingers. “Where the fuck have you been?” Mr. Miller asked as soon as he entered. His voice was calm. Too calm.

Roman wasn’t fooled. His blood ran colder than the wind outside. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. His throat seized the way it always did when danger got too close. Like his body had already decided: silence or survive.

He forced it. Had to. “I-I got stuck in the s-snow… sir…” he croaked out, barely audible. The words scraped his throat raw on the way out, like his body was punishing him just for using them. “Put the bags in the kitchen.”

He obeyed, moving carefully so the plastic wouldn’t tear with his shaking hands. He placed them on the counter exactly how he’d been taught; slowly, neatly, labels forward, no noise. “Come here.”

Roman hesitated. His legs didn’t want to move. His mind didn’t want to understand. But his body knew better, and so he walked. Mr. Miller grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked hard. Roman bit back a cry, though the sound never would’ve made it past his throat anyway. His voice was gone. Shut down and locked away. Just like the rest of him.

He was dragged out the back door into the open air, and the cold hit him like a punch. Snow up to his knees. Wind like serrated blades.

“Strip.”

Roman blinked. His mind stalled. “W-What?” The word came out small, not confused, just afraid.

“DO IT,” the man bellowed. His face was red, and his breath puffed out in front of him like an angry dragon.

Roman used to like dragons.

Time stuttered. His hands didn’t move. His chest tightened. His body screamed no , even as his brain started begging just do it just do it just get it over with-

His ears rang. He was shaking too hard to think. The last time someone said that, "strip," he’d come out of it bruised and too scared to talk for days. He’d shoved it into a box in his head and locked it tight. But now it was wide open again.

Roman stripped. Because he had to. His hands fumbled with frozen buttons, his shirt caught on his shoulder. He nearly fell trying to get his shoes off. By the time the wind touched his bare skin, he felt like he was already somewhere else. Not here. Not now.

The man took the clothes. “If you’re gonna tell lies,” Mr. Miller said with a smirk, “then you gotta learn how to live with ‘em.” The door slammed behind him.

Roman collapsed into the snow. He didn’t mean to; it just happened. His legs stopped working. His arms curled in tightly. His fingers had gone numb. His mind was too loud and too quiet at the same time.

He didn't cry. Crying was dangerous. Crying was noise. He'd learned that too young. His skin burned from the cold, but deeper than that, he could feel the cold in his bones. The kind of cold that didn’t go away. The kind that remembered.

It reminded him of the first winter in the attic. The sickness, the fever. The way his limbs stopped working right. The way the world had blurred at the edges until it felt like he was dreaming himself away.

He stayed quiet. Even now. No one would come, and if they did, it would only be worse. The snow didn’t let up until morning. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t move. By the time the sun started to rise, he felt like if someone touched him, he’d shatter.

He’d curled into a tight ball earlier in the night, knees pressed to chest, arms wrapped under his ribs, trying to trap what little heat he had left. He’d read once in a shelter pamphlet that it helped. He wasn’t sure it was true. But it gave him something to do besides shake.

His fingers and toes had long stopped burning; they were numb now, far too numb. That frightened him more than the pain. His skin felt tight and stiff, like it no longer belonged to him. He didn’t dare look. Didn’t want to know what kind of damage the cold had done this time. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him. But it was close, and close was bad enough.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Miller walked outside, tossing him a pair of pants and a shirt that clearly didn’t belong to him; too clean, too new, the kind of thing that might make him look like a normal teen. “Shower and dress. Your caseworker is coming to get you today.”

She spoke with no emotion, her expression as cold and rigid as the frost still clinging to Roman’s skin. There was no compassion, no empathy. Just that subtle, practiced contempt in the way she carried herself.

Roman’s heart gave a dull thud in his chest. He wasn't surprised. Somehow it still hurt. 

“You’re… sending me back?” The words slipped out before he could stop them; slurred and broken, his lips numb, jaw trembling. His voice cracked in the frigid air, barely more than a whisper. His teeth chattered on the last syllable, as if even his body recoiled at hearing it said aloud.

He wasn’t really feeling things, not yet. Just vague, pulsing awareness. Words came slower. Thoughts fuzzier. His skin still felt like it didn’t quite belong to him. Mrs. Miller didn’t blink. “Yes. You’re not worth anything anymore, and you’re too troublesome to keep. Get moving.”

She turned without another word, retreating into the warm house. Roman stood for a long moment, frozen in more ways than one, before finally following her inside.

The shower scalded where it touched him. Even lukewarm water burned against frozen skin, but he didn’t make a sound. He just scrubbed quickly, out of habit, out of fear, his hands shaking as he washed. He’d learned at the orphanage how important speed was. There was only so much hot water to go around. You didn’t waste it. You didn’t waste anything.

He was out in under five minutes. Dressed in the clean clothes Mrs. Miller had provided, he styled his hair as best he could with water and shaky fingers, then joined them in the living room.

“Hello, Roman.” His caseworker, Andre, greeted him politely. Roman could see the poorly concealed frustration behind the smile. “Hi, Andre…” he mumbled quietly, each word thick and sluggish on his tongue. “Let’s go. We don’t want to bother these lovely folks any more than you already have.”

Roman didn’t argue. He followed Andre out to the car, carrying his small bag, the same one he’d had for years now. A handful of clothes, his bear, and what was left of his candle. As soon as the car door slammed shut, Andre let him have it.

“Really, Roman? Really? That’s the third house in two years. You even made it almost a full year this time! What did you do to get kicked out?”

Roman kept his eyes on the floor of the car, jaw clenched.

“Do you have any idea how difficult you are to place? All your mental issues, your record, it’s exhausting. I’m running out of people willing to take you.” Andre’s voice sharpened. “At this point, I doubt anyone will want you. I’ll have to send you to a group home.”

Roman’s stomach dropped, colder than the snow had ever made him. Not the group home. Not again. They weren’t like foster homes, there were no illusions there. No holidays, no quiet kindness. No adults who pretended they gave a damn. They were warehouses for the forgotten. Places they sent you when even the broken families wouldn’t keep you.

“Please- please not a group home,” he whispered, throat tightening with every word. “I-I’m trying. I really am, I swear. Just… please…”

“You’ve been trying for thirteen years.” Roman’s breath stilled. That hurt more than anything Andre could’ve yelled. “You know the drill. I’m dropping you off at the orphanage until someone shows interest. Or until they get too full. Then…” Andre didn’t need to finish.

Roman nodded. Of course, he knew the drill. He’d lived it on repeat. He watched the scenery pass by in a blur of gray and frost. When the orphanage came into view, a strange numbness settled over him. It was familiar. It felt almost like coming home. In a bleak, hopeless way.

“Welcome back, Mr. Reston.” The matron’s cold voice rang out the moment he stepped from the car. Her gaze bored into him like twin needles. He kept his head down, as if fascinated by the pattern of his shoes.

“Hullo, mother…” His words slurred slightly on a swollen tongue. 'Mother.' That was what they were required to call her. A weird illusion of family. “It’s ‘hello,’ Roman. Not ‘hullo.’ Please refrain from such improper grammar.”

He nodded again, jaw still tight from the cold. She sighed. “Bring your things inside and come to my office when you’ve finished.” Andre had already driven away. Roman climbed the steps alone.

His old bed was still there, no one else had taken it. They never did. It sagged the same way it always had, the frame creaked the same when he shifted. Even the blanket was still there; small, full of holes, but waiting like it had always been.

No one else ever stayed in it. Because no one else ever came back to it.

He dropped his bag down and unpacked quickly, tucking the teddy bear into his side drawer. Then, without hesitation, he walked back down the hall and knocked on the matron’s office door.

“Enter, Roman.” He stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. “At least you’ve retained some of your manners,” she muttered. He said nothing, only bit the inside of his cheek. “Today, I’ll let you settle in. But starting tomorrow, you’ll be responsible for cleaning the kitchen and dining hall, and for tending to the younger children. Am I understood?”

“Yes, mother.” He whispered, unable to force the words louder. “There’s another adoption day at the end of the week. I expect you to prepare the kids accordingly.”

“Yes, mother.” He echoed again. She waved a hand, dismissing him. Back in his room, Roman sank onto the bed. His muscles still ached. His skin burned where it hadn’t gone numb. His eyelids felt like they were made of lead.

He didn’t expect to sleep. He rarely did. But tonight… tonight his body didn’t give him a choice. It wasn’t comfort that pulled him under. It wasn’t safety. It was exhaustion, the kind so deep it forces your brain to shut down when you can’t do it yourself.

He curled beneath the blanket, shaking, and opened the drawer beside him. Inside, the old teddy bear stared back. Roman pulled it close, burying his face in the threadbare fur.

"Where are you, Remus..." he whispered, voice raspy. The bear didn’t answer. But it stayed. Just like Roman always did.

Chapter Text

Roman shot upright in bed, gasping for air. His hand clutched his chest, trying to slow the panicked rhythm of his heartbeat. Eyes flicked around the room, searching for danger, expecting it, but finding none. Only the quiet rise and fall of sleeping breaths. Only the dim wash of pre-dawn gray pressing against the old dorm windows.

He took a few long breaths and sank slowly back onto the mattress. His shirt clung to him with sweat. He brushed damp hair from his forehead and pulled his tattered teddy bear close, burying his face into the worn fur. He took good care of it, but the bear had been through hell with him. He clung to it like it might keep the dreams away next time.

People with normal lives wouldn’t understand. But the kids here did. Everyone at the orphanage had one thing that got them through: the idea of soulmates, a toy, a memory. Something small and sacred to keep the world from swallowing them whole.

Roman used to hope for soulmates, too. But now, the thought just made his stomach twist. No one could want him. Not really. Not with how broken he was, it would be cruel to burden them. He avoided the idea like it would burn him again, worse than the scar on his forearm.

Remus was his reason to keep living. Finding his brother was the only thing that kept him tethered. He probably wouldn’t have made it past thirteen if not for the hope of seeing Remus again.

Remus had always loved him unconditionally, back when they were kids. But that was a lifetime ago. Roman wasn’t the same. He wasn’t sure Remus would even recognize the boy he used to be, let alone want anything to do with the version that survived. But if he could just know Remus was okay, it would be enough.

He checked the clock, barely past five. Still too early. Getting caught out of bed before six was against the rules, and he'd had far too many warnings for gentle punishments. Breaking the rules now meant being stuck in the time-out room. Roman knew that room far too well.

He spent a week there, once, for something stupid. A vase. A lie. A stupid punishment for a kid so young. A week of darkness and silence and cold. He hated the dark.

Roman tightened his grip on the bear. He still had nearly an hour before he could move. But he didn’t want to sleep again. So he curled up tight, heart pounding too hard in his ears, and tried to think of something else.

He wondered if Remus would even recognize him. They were identical twins, sure, but Roman had changed. Years had passed. He looked different. Felt different. Was different. What if Remus had found someone better? Someone who wasn’t a broken mess of scar tissue and broken sentences?

Roman scratched at his arm without thinking, dragging his nails down the pale skin until faint white lines bloomed beneath them. He didn’t realize what he was doing until it stung. He stopped immediately, curling his fingers into a fist.

He used to do that during panic attacks, scratching hard enough to bleed. It anchored him. It was something he could control. And when no one else punished him, he knew how to punish himself. He had to. If he was bad and there was no consequence, it meant worse would follow. That lesson had been carved into him young.

Some foster homes would send him back for hurting himself, so he learned to hide it. But the habit never really left. Art helped, sometimes. Drawing horses, or dragons, or noble princes to rescue him. Imagining the feel of reins in his hands, of wind in his hair, or scales and fancy fabric. One of the better homes he'd stayed with had been a ranch. They taught him to ride, gave him chores around the stables. Let him name the horse he rode most: Brownie. A gorgeous, chocolate-colored Arabian with more attitude than patience. She liked Roman, though. He liked to think maybe she still missed him.

They sent him back when his case file caught up with him. Said he was “too much work.” That still hurt. They’d made him feel like a person, until they didn’t. It never lasts. He wondered if Brownie had been sold too.

The clock chimed six, finally. Roman sat up slowly, his body aching in quiet, constant ways. He tucked the teddy bear into his bedside drawer and got changed into the standard uniform: black pants, white shirt. Everything here was drab. Practical. Gendered. No room for questioning or softness.

He didn’t feel like eating, but he brushed his teeth and combed his hair anyway. Just because he didn’t want to be seen didn’t mean he wanted to be punished for looking unkempt. The cracked bathroom mirror caught his eye. Sharp edges. Warped glass. He’d tried to clean it once, ripped a rag in half on the corner. He never tried again.

He laced up his worn sneakers and grabbed a few chore slips, his version of hall passes, and got to work. Roman was one of the oldest now. The only one on the board older than thirteen. He sighed. That meant most of the chores fell to him again. Parentified, overworked, but too afraid to push back. He didn’t want to be seen as lazy. That got you labeled, and labeled kids didn’t get adopted. He already had too many labels.

So he worked. Quietly, and efficiently. By the time 7 a.m. rolled around, he had done more than half his list. He set the rest aside and made his way to the younger kids’ dorm to wake them. Roman had a system. First: turn on the light. Second: ring the bell. Third: go bed-to-bed, waking the heavy sleepers with the gentleness of someone who knows how scary it is to be yanked awake by shouting.

He didn’t remember all their names. Too many came and went. But he remembered who cried in their sleep, who wet the bed, who clung to his sleeve when their hands shook. They didn’t see Roman as a big brother. Not really. But he took care of them anyway, because someone had to.

After a small breakfast, stale cereal he barely touched, he returned to his chores. He could feel his muscles aching under his skin. Still tired. Always tired. But at least he wasn’t cold.

He was... warm. That thought alone made his stomach twist. Warmth meant safety, but safety always meant something bad was coming next. It was too quiet. Too... soft. His body didn’t know what to do with it. He made it back to his room around lunch and collapsed onto his bed. The mattress was thin and lumpy, but it didn’t creak like the metal frame at the Millers'. It felt... stable.

He lay on his side, watching snow fall beyond the window. The view here was different. Hills and trees instead of concrete. Dead grass, maybe, but it wasn’t gray. Not completely. It was something else. Roman didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Just stared. He wouldn’t eat dinner tonight, he didn’t deserve to. Not after getting sent back. Not after being thrown away again. He curled tighter under the blanket and tried not to think. Just until morning. Just until chores. Just until he could stop feeling.

Chapter Text

The week passed in a haze. Roman worked himself into exhaustion every single day. The matron didn’t ask him to take on extra chores, he just did. Cleaning the kitchen floor until his knees ached. Reorganizing the supply closet that hadn’t been touched in months. He even helped the cooks carry heavy boxes down to the pantry without being asked. It wasn’t about kindness. It was about guilt.

Every time he sat still, he could feel the cold again. In his bones, under his skin. He still wrapped his arms tightly around himself when no one was looking, like he was bracing for wind that never came. Warmth made his skin feel wrong, like it was borrowed. Like it might be taken away again if he stopped earning it. So he didn't stop. And if he finished early? He found something else to do. Something quiet. He didn’t want attention. Attention led to questions.

Food became a new problem. His stomach was in knots constantly. At first, he thought it was just stress, but no, it was the meals. He wasn’t used to regular food. Not three times a day. His body didn’t know what to do with it. Sometimes it made him nauseous. Other times, it cramped so badly he had to lie down.

And every time he sat at that long table, with its stained plastic trays and clinking spoons, shame burned in his chest like fire. He took up space. He took resources. He didn’t deserve them. So he started skipping lunch. And sometimes breakfast. The matron didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, and just didn’t care.

He was behind in classes. He knew that. Everyone knew that. The orphanage had a small classroom run by a retired teacher who volunteered three times a week. Roman tried to pay attention. Really, he did. But the words swam sometimes. He couldn’t sit still. His brain bounced from letters on the page to the shadows in the corner of the room to whether the littlest kids had eaten breakfast. And if the teacher asked him to read out loud, he froze.

He wasn’t mute. He could talk. But something in his chest just... locked. The words got stuck. And it wasn’t like the teacher was mean, but even patient sighs sounded sharp when you’d spent years being punished for asking dumb questions. He learned quickly to keep his head down, say as little as possible, and pretend he understood everything. It was easier that way. He hated that he felt stupid. 

The only time he didn’t feel like a burden was when he was taking care of the littles. He helped them button their shirts. Braided hair when the older girls got tired of doing it. Crouched down to tie shoes and wipe faces and explain how to rinse out their cups before stacking them. It made him feel useful; needed. And it kept him moving, which meant he didn’t have to think.

Some of them had nightmares, too. The really young ones. And Roman never yelled when they cried in the middle of the night. He just climbed out of bed and sat with them, quiet and steady, until they drifted off again. Sometimes they asked him to tell stories.

He made up fairy tales on the spot, about knights and dragons and brothers who always found each other in the end. Art helped, a little.

There wasn’t much to draw with, just dull pencils and scraps of paper, but when the chores were done and the kids were asleep, Roman would sit on the edge of his bed and sketch. Mostly horses, sometimes fantasy creatures. He wasn’t sure what made him feel better: the act of drawing or the feeling of creating something that didn’t hurt.

One night, he drew Brownie from memory. The curve of her neck. The angry look in her eye that always softened when she saw him. He stared at the page for a long time after, holding it in his lap like something sacred. 

By Friday night, his hands were shaking. Roman was running on instinct alone. His legs ached from climbing stairs over and over again, arms sore from scrubbing floors and carrying laundry baskets twice his size. His hands were raw. The knuckles split open in places, red and rough from the harsh soap and cold air that always seemed to linger inside the building. But he didn't stop. Stopping wasn’t an option.

He was mopping the hallway outside the kitchen when his foot slid on the wet tile, sending him sprawling forward. His elbow cracked against the ground, but it was the sharp sting in his palm that made him flinch. He looked down. Glass. One of the older food prep jars must have shattered earlier and been kicked under the counter, unnoticed. His hand had landed right on a jagged edge.

Roman pulled his hand back quickly, but the gash across his palm was already deep enough to bleed freely. It hurt more than he wanted to admit, but what hurt worse was the sudden wave of shame that came with it. He hadn’t even managed to mop a hallway without screwing up. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and pushed himself up. Then he moved on autopilot, tucking the mop away, wrapping his hand in the cleanest scrap cloth he could find, and retreating to the bathroom before anyone could see. There was a rust-stained first-aid box in the utility cabinet, but he didn’t touch it. He didn’t think he was allowed to.

Instead, he washed the cut quietly under cold water, scrubbing away the blood with shaking fingers and biting his tongue at the sting. He wrapped it in a makeshift bandage of toilet paper and the remains of some packing tape he'd scavenged. It would hold.

He didn’t even notice the small voice behind him at first. 

“You’re bleeding.” Roman turned sharply. One of the littles, maybe seven or eight, stood by the door with wide, worried eyes. He forced a smile and quickly moved his hand behind his back. “I’m fine,” he rasped.

The boy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t say anything else. He padded away without a word. Roman exhaled and turned back to the mirror, jaw tight. Later, just before curfew, the same little boy found him in the hallway and handed him a small, cartoon Band-Aid from his personal stash. “For your hand,” he whispered, before scurrying away. 

Roman stared at it in his palm for a long time. The tears didn’t come, not yet, but they burned quietly behind his eyes. Saturday was almost worse, he’d spent the morning dragging bins across the snow-covered yard, then ran three floors of laundry solo, then helped break up a fight between two older boys who wouldn’t listen to the staff. He hadn’t eaten more than a slice of toast that day. And he couldn’t sit still.

Because when he was still, the silence crept in. And silence meant cold. And cold meant the snow. So he folded sheets and scrubbed the entryway and reorganized the craft drawer. Again. He didn’t cry. He never cried.

But that night, after lights out, when the room was dark and the kids were snoring, Roman curled under his blanket with his bear clutched to his chest, and whispered, so softly he wasn’t sure he even heard it:

“I... don’t think I’m going to get better.”

Chapter Text

Roman sat stiffly on the battered old couch in the orphanage lobby, his hands folded tightly in his lap, thumb tracing invisible circles on the hem of his sleeve. This was adoption day. Not for him, of course. It never was.

Across the room, the younger kids clung to one another or tried their best to look adorable, smiling, laughing, twirling in skirts, or practicing polite handshakes. Roman had helped them with all of it earlier that morning. Brushed hair, straightened collars, told stories to keep them from crying.

Now, he just waited, watching silently from the sidelines. The front doors creaked open for the first time, letting in a gust of cold air and a flood of bright voices. A sharply dressed couple entered, scanning the room like they were browsing a catalog. The woman’s eyes landed on Roman briefly, and in that instant, her expression shifted, lips pressed thin, eyes narrowing. Her hand pulled her purse closer to her body without a word.

He looked away quickly, ears burning. The next pair who entered didn’t even glance his way. A tall man with a clipboard and a severe-looking woman in heels stopped near one of the toddlers and began fussing with the papers in her hand. Roman overheard the word “manageable” muttered under her breath as she surveyed the room.

He was not manageable. Another family arrived, two parents and a little girl. The girl stared at him before whispering something to her mom. The woman looked up, caught sight of Roman, and gave a tight, uncomfortable smile. She leaned down and whispered something to her husband, who then subtly steered their daughter in the opposite direction.

Roman’s stomach twisted. He shouldn’t have come down here. Still, the matron always insisted. To help with the little kids. To look “useful.” Maybe they thought someone might take pity on him if he was in sight. He doubted it. Or perhaps it made the younger kids more desirable.

He tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, shrinking into the couch as voices floated around him. Some couples asked about education or behavior. Some asked if they could “see the littles only.” Most didn’t even acknowledge him.

Roman was used to being invisible, but being ignored so obviously, in his own home, still ached in the places he kept hidden. He reminded himself he didn’t want to be chosen anyway. Not really. People didn’t pick kids like him because they wanted to love them. They picked them to fix something broken in themselves. Or for other, more calculated, reasons. And Roman had learned the hard way what happened when they couldn't fix him fast enough.

That was why he stayed still and quiet when the next pair walked in, one in a fuzzy pink sweater and the other in a brown leather jacket, holding a to-go coffee like he’d just stepped out of a commercial.

Roman noticed them before they noticed him, and even then, he didn’t expect much. He kept his head down. Until he noticed one of the toddlers trying to inhale a fucking crayon. The couple momentarily forgotten, Roman bolted across the room, handling the chaos with practiced ease. A gentle scolding, a wiped mouth, and a tiny laugh, before returning to the corner.

By the time he wedged himself back into his seat, the two men were still talking with the matron. Still here. Roman found himself watching them. The one with the jacket was wearing sunglasses. Indoors. In winter. That was... weird. The other had a really soft-looking pink sweater dotted with pastel cartoon characters he barely recognized. The one with the leather and jeans stood really close beside the one in pink, free hand resting casually on the fluffy-looking man's lower back. Roman blinked. That was interesting.

They didn’t look like foster parents. They looked like the kind of people who adopted toddlers and filled them with joy and color. Were they... together? They looked really cute together, like the sun and moon thing he heard the older girls giggle about. His cheeks warmed in embarrassment, then quickly chilled with fear. Boys weren’t supposed to look at other boys like that, or so many of his former homes had said. It was wrong. Sinful. Unnatural.

He looked up again, watching the two with a small amount of guilt. He wondered if they'd be allowed to take anyone after all. Something about them felt different. Softer, like they weren’t trying to take up space. Roman startled and slapped a hand over his eyes when Pink Sweater caught him staring. Through his fingers, he saw the man tug on Sunglasses’ jacket and nod toward him.

Roman froze. They’d seen him. They probably thought he was weird. Creepy. He must have made them uncomfortable, and they'd ask the matron to send him upstairs. His throat began to tighten, panic rising like floodwater in his chest. Then-

A gentle hand brushed his arm. Roman flinched, recoiling so fast he nearly fell. Steady hands caught him. “Sorry about that, kiddo,” said a warm voice. “I should’ve asked before I touched you.” It was Pink Sweater. Up close, he was even more disarming: soft brown eyes, warm voice, laugh lines.

Roman blinked up at him, confused. His panic frozen like someone had shoved a tack into it. “Y-you have a question about the little kids, right?” Roman mumbled. “I- I can get them…” He was interrupted before he could leave to find whichever kid they'd taken a liking to. “We’re actually curious about you,” Sweater said gently. “We saw you looking earlier-”

“I’m sorry!” Roman blurted out, panic surging forward again. “I didn’t mean to be weird- I just- I wasn’t trying to stare- I-” His throat caught hard. Too much. He was talking too much. Shut up. You’re making it worse. He bit down on the rising fear, but his chest was too tight.

“Hey,” said Sweater, calm and firm. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. You just seemed… kind of lonely.” Roman hesitated, going quiet, eyes darting between them. They weren’t mad? That line always meant the opposite. But he didn’t run. He sat back down slowly, shoulders tight. His hands trembled a little, fidgeting in his lap.

“I’m Emile,” the man offered, gesturing to himself. “And this is my husband, Remy.”

“...You’re both soulmates?” Roman asked before he could stop himself. The words burned on the way out. Boys weren’t supposed to look at boys like that. Not in most of the homes he’d been through. Emile smiled softly. “Yep. We've been together since college.” Remy smirked. “He cried when he saw my name show up.”

“Because I was happy,” Emile insisted, swatting his arm. Roman stared. They didn’t seem ashamed. They didn’t whisper. They didn’t even hesitate. A tiny, guilty warmth crept into his chest, and he hated it.

“I’m sixteen,” he said quietly. “Nobody adopts teens.” He expected that to be it, enough to deter them. They probably thought he'd be younger. Remy tilted his head. “When were you last placed?” Roman’s shoulders sank. Here it comes. “I was returned last week.” But they didn’t flinch. Just nodded. Sat down beside him like they weren’t going anywhere.

Emile spoke again. “The way you handled that toddler earlier? That was impressive. You seem really good with kids.” Roman shrugged. “I help out.” He knew this; it was familiar, maybe they needed someone to watch their younger kids.

“You always that calm under pressure?” Remy asked. “No,” he admitted. “Just… used to it.” Remy leaned forward a little. “What do you like to do when it’s just you?”

Roman blinked. That question was... not what he expected. He stalled for a second too long. “I draw,” he said finally. “Mostly horses.” Remy raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Why horses?”

“I like them. They don’t hide their emotions.” The answer slipped out too easily. Remy seemed a little surprised, but easily continued the conversation. “You’re a sharp kid,” he stated, like it was a fact. “Quiet kind of clever. I like that.” He wasn't trying to encourage the implications about people, just praising the fact that he seemed very socially aware.

They let the silence sit. He felt uncomfortable again. Roman found himself watching Emile’s expression. That one was more expressive, and he could see his eyes. He wasn’t looking for praise; he was watching for pity . Or judgment. Or anything that meant this was a setup. But it didn’t come.

A quiet pause. Then: “Do you want to show us your soulmark?” Emile asked. Roman’s breath caught. Most kids were thrilled to talk about their mark. He shook his head reflexively, then paused. They seemed like they had been relatively honest with him so far. Maybe… maybe it was okay to test them. To see what they really thought.

He pushed up his sleeve, and slowly, cautiously, he began unwinding the cloth from his wrist. Tightly knotted, long enough to hide the worst of it. His fingers trembled. The scars were pale, warped, and angry. A twist of old pain and melted memory. “Purple,” he whispered. “Dark blue. Baby blue. That’s what they were." He shrugged. "I had three."

Emile gasped softly. Roman tried not to flinch, but his muscles tensed, ready to bolt. He braced for the disgust. But Emile’s voice was steady, even. “I’m so sorry, Roman.” Not pity, not horror. Not even disgust. Just sorrow. And... maybe something like respect.

Remy looked like he might break something, but it wasn’t directed at him. He didn't think so, at least.  “You didn’t deserve that,” Emile added, knowing better than to ask about it. Roman stared at the floor. He didn’t know what to say. Compliments were always bait. Kindness had strings. He didn’t believe them.

But when he returned to his room that night, something small and fragile curled in his chest like a candle struggling to stay lit. They said they’d be back. They always said that. He didn’t believe them one bit. But his chest wouldn’t stop aching anyway.

Chapter Text

Three days passed while Roman tried not to count them. He told himself they weren’t coming back, they never did. Visitors smiled, made promises, asked polite questions, and then left, like everyone else. So he worked. Harder. Longer. Anything to keep his hands moving and his thoughts quiet. He skipped breakfast again, ate half of lunch, his stomach still wasn’t used to food.

But the ache in his chest? That stayed. By the third day, he’d convinced himself he imagined it. The warmth, the softness. The way Emile had looked at him like he was a person, not a project. Like he was wanted . Not in a way that scared him. Just… wanted . It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. You would think his stupid brain and traitorous heart would have learned better by now.

So when the orphanage door opened that afternoon and Emile’s voice rang out, soft and unmistakable, Roman froze in the hallway. His breath caught. He stared down at his hands, they were shaking. The matron’s voice followed, clipped and skeptical. Roman didn’t catch all the words, just “...trouble placing him...” and “...aware of his file?”

He didn’t need to hear the rest, he already knew what it said about his chances. He couldn't help wanting to see them, though, even briefly. By the time he crept closer to the lobby, Remy had joined Emile on the couch. A small paper cup of some chocolatey smelling liquid steamed in his hand. Emile was holding something in his lap, one of the crayon drawings Roman had helped a younger kid make yesterday. A small dragon and a princess. Roman blinked. Had he drawn that corner detail? He must have done it without thinking.

They noticed him before he could run. “Hey, Roman,” Emile said, smiling softly. “We were hoping you’d come say hi.” He hesitated in the doorway. Remy tilted his head, giving him that laid-back smirk again. “We come bearing cocoa.”

“…Cocoa?” Roman repeated skeptically, like he’d never heard the word before. He had heard of it, of course, but he'd never had any. Or if he had, he didn't remember it. “Hot. Chocolate. Sugar,” Remy explained dryly. “You drink it with your face.”

Roman’s lips twitched. Just a little. He didn’t move. The man was kinda funny. “Is it okay if we talk for a bit?” Emile asked. “We can go somewhere quieter if you want.” Roman considered it. The matron was watching from the corner of the room, arms crossed. Roman nodded quickly; he shouldn't risk upsetting her or them. “Okay.”

They moved to a side room. Emile handed him the cocoa, which he held like it might vanish. He didn’t drink it yet. Just wrapped both hands around the cup like it's warmth might keep him from falling apart. “So,” Remy started, leaning back casually, “how’ve things been?” Roman shrugged. “Fine.”

Emile smiled gently. “You’re allowed to say if they haven’t been.” His tone was knowing, practiced. Like he was used to saying that sort of thing to people. “…Still fine.” They didn’t push. The silence wasn’t heavy. It just… waited. After a moment, Emile spoke again. “We were hoping to talk with you a bit more. Get to know you.”

“Why?” Roman asked before he could stop himself. “Because we like you,” Remy said plainly. Roman narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You don’t know me.” How could they expect him to just.. offer information like that?

“Not yet,” Emile said. “But we’re trying.” Roman shifted in his seat, okay, well... Now his argument sounded kinda dumb. Obviously they had to ask him questions to get to know if if they wanted to like him. “That’s usually when people stop.” He said instead. Remy gave a slow nod. “Yeah. People suck at sticking around, huh?” Roman blinked at him, caught off guard.

“No offense,” Remy added. “But you’ve got that look.” He said knowingly. “…What look?” Roman asked slowly, finding that with these people, the words were easier to get out. But maybe that was just because they kept disarming him when he wasn't prepared for it. He should work on that. 

“Like you’re already packing a bag in your head. Just in case.” Roman went quiet. “Would it be okay if we asked a few questions?” Emile asked softly. Roman hesitated, then nodded. “What’s your favorite animal?” That was a pretty basic question.

“…Horses,” Roman said, guarded. “But... I like dogs too.” He got to pet a really massive dog once; he had no idea what breed it was, but it had been super soft and friendly. “Favorite color?” He wondered if they'd ask his favorite food next. “…Red. But I like green too.” That was Remus' favorite. He felt a little bit proud of himself, offering two answers for one question.

“Favorite book?” He didn't have one. “…Didn’t get to keep any. 'nd the words blur a lot. Reading is hard.” Surely they knew that already; his grades were abysmal. That one did shut the room up for a moment.

Then: “What kind of family would you want if you got to pick? No strings attached.” Emile asked. Roman stared at the table. What kind of question was that? “One that doesn’t leave.” It was harsh, designed to make them uncomfortable. It didn't. “Same,” Remy said quietly, once again disarming Roman completely. Another pause. Roman bit his lip.

“I had a horse once,” he said suddenly. “She wasn’t mine. Not really. But they let me ride her and take care of her. Her name was Brownie.” He didn't know what made him offer the information. “That’s a great name,” Emile said, smiling. “Was she friendly?”

Roman shook his head slowly. “Not really. But she used to follow me around, even when I didn’t have treats. I was one of the only people she seemed to like.” Remy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Sounds like she saw something special.” Roman scoffed before he could filter. “She didn’t know better. And I was small, she didn't like big people.”

“Or maybe she knew exactly what she was doing.” Roman blinked again. That one caught him off guard. “Roman,” Emile said gently. “We don’t want to rush you. And we’re not expecting you to be anything other than yourself. But we were wondering…” Roman held his breath.

“…How you’d feel if we applied to adopt you.” His heart stopped. “I-” Roman’s mouth went dry. “You mean… for real?” How had he not scared them off yet? He was even trying to for a short moment! Remy nodded. “Real as it gets, kid.” Roman looked down at the cocoa. Still warm in his hands. “I’m… not good,” he whispered. “I don’t behave right. I mess things up. I don’t… fit.”

“You’re not broken, Roman,” Emile said. “You've been surviving. That’s not the same thing.” Roman didn’t move, his shoulders were rigid, his eyes started to burn. “What if I ruin it?” he asked. Remy leaned back. “Then we deal with it. Together.” That word, together, sent something cracking loose in his chest. When was the last time someone had said something like that to him? This was either the best day of his life, or the cruelest set up he would ever experience. 

No one stuck around to help him fix things. That wasn't how this worked. Roman didn’t answer. Not with words. Just a tiny nod, almost invisible. Emile smiled, eyes soft. “We’ll be back after the inspection. It won’t be long.” Roman nodded again. He didn’t say “okay.” Didn’t say “thank you.” Just held the cocoa tighter, like it might keep him upright.

When they left, he didn’t cry. Not yet, he couldn't let go yet. He just went to his room and curled under the blanket, the bear against his chest, the faintest warmth still on his fingers. He didn’t believe them. He couldn’t. But something in his chest wouldn’t let go. Something like hope. For once, some frail dying part of him wanted to believe in a promise. He so desperately wanted to believe...

Chapter Text

Three months had passed. Three whole months since the day Emile and Remy had promised they’d come back. At first, Roman lingered near the windows, just in case. Then, outside on the front steps during quiet hours, trying not to flinch when the cold bit too hard. Every time the front gate creaked open, his heart leapt. And every time it wasn’t them, it sank lower than before. A part of him still thought maybe he’d see them, like a dream catching the corner of his eye. But they never came. And eventually, he stopped looking.

They weren’t coming back. He told himself that every morning now. Like a mantra. Like a scar that still needed touching. He repeated it as he watched sleet fall down the dormitory glass. As he wrapped the same cloth tighter around his wrist. As he skipped meals out of a guilt he could no longer name.

He hadn’t said a full sentence in days. The words stayed locked behind his teeth, gathering dust with every unanswered question echoing in his head. Did they change their minds? Was I too much? Was I too broken again? He knew better than to ask. People got tired of broken things. People left when kindness didn’t fix you fast enough. He’d seen it happen before. He’d survived it more times than he could count. But this one, this one stung deeper.

Because he’d almost believed them, not just hoped, believed. That was the real mistake. He’d wanted it too much, hoped too loud. Believed in something soft and warm and impossible. Always impossible.

So now, he lay in bed long after morning bells rang, the bear tucked tightly under his chin. He barely combed his hair. Ate even less. Just enough to avoid being monitored, in the beginning. The ache in his stomach was sharp, hollow, strangely grounding. Hunger was a language he understood. So was the quiet. At first, the littles noticed. A few of them mimicked him, skipping their breakfasts, staying silent, watching the door like it owed them something.

That scared him more than anything. He started eating small bites in front of them, just enough to keep them from copying. But it didn’t stop all of it. One kid stopped sleeping in their assigned bunk and curled up beside their stuffed rabbit on the floor like Roman sometimes did, when the bed felt too soft. Another started avoiding hugs and flinching when someone raised a hand. Roman hated that. He hated being watched, hated that they thought he was worth mimicking. He wasn’t. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t better. He was just older, and more tired.

Sometimes the staff noticed the kids’ changes. Sometimes they didn’t. They put a quick end to the behavior in some of the little kids, but they never said anything to Roman. Not about the meager amount weight he had that he was quickly losing. Not about the way he flinched when touched. Not about the way he walked, like the cold lived in his spine, like it stayed in his bones no matter how many layers he wore. Even indoors, his fingers ached. He slept too much and still never felt rested.

The bear, once left in his drawer during the day, now followed him everywhere. Tucked under his arm throughout the day. Held close at night, he whispered into its fur when the nightmares came. He hadn’t spoken aloud to another kid in nearly two weeks. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore. He kept it in his arms like armor, tucked under his sweater when he moved through the halls. If anyone looked at it funny, he looked away first.

He stopped doing chores. No one assigned them anymore. Maybe they’d given up, or maybe they figured he was going to age out soon anyway. He had been 16 for a while now, just a few months from seventeen. Close enough to age out. Easy enough to overlook. He told himself he just had to hold on. Another year. Maybe less. Then he could disappear, then he could find Remus.

He clung to the idea like a splinter in his side. He didn’t even know if Remus was still alive. But that was the pattern. When everything else fell apart, Roman promised himself he’d run; find his twin, or whatever was left of the kid he used to be. There was always a fallback. There had to be. That’s what surviving meant.

Grayson had shown up sometime in mid-January. Roman didn’t learn their name until a few weeks in. He just knew that they were loud, taller than him, and had already gotten into it with two staff members and three other kids by the time they made it into the dorm on the first day.

On the third day, he was curled on his mattress when they dropped onto the edge of his bed like they owned the place. “Y’know,” the kid said, voice light, “I thought you’d be... taller.” Roman blinked, slowly sitting up. He hadn't realized anyone was talking to him.

“Grayson,” they had introduced themselves. “They/them. You’re Roman, right? Heard you got stood up.” Roman flinched, he looked down at his knees. Grayson kept going. “Don’t take it personally. Grown-ups always lie.” Still no reply. That was Roman's impression of them. Big presence. Bigger voice. Big enough to make Roman flinch the first time they slammed a door open in the dorms. At first, Roman just ignored them. He didn’t have the energy to care about new kids. But Grayson didn’t take the hint.

They hovered, like smoke, around the edge of his orbit. Always nearby, always watching. They asked questions other kids didn’t dare ask. About the bear. About what happened with “the couple.” About why Roman never talked. “Everyone says you’re the one they wanted,” Grayson had said once, leaning against the wall. “But you don’t act like it.” Roman didn’t answer.

Grayson had freckles, sharp teeth that had likely been chipped more times than could be fixed, and a laugh like broken glass - harsh and sharp. They didn’t feel like a threat, not exactly, more like a storm that hadn’t decided which way it would break. And Roman... understood that. In a way. He could feel their damage a mile away. Another kid trying not to drown, this one was just messier about it.

The bear was the line. Roman should’ve seen it coming. But that morning, he was so tired. He hadn’t slept, the cold was worse. His fingers shook from carrying laundry, a task he'd forced himself to do the day before, when the thoughts got too loud. The bear had been sitting next to him on the bed for just one second too long. Grayson leaned over him, grinning. “Hey,” they said casually. “Can I see it?” Roman blinked.

“...What?” He asked softly. “The bear. Lemme see it.” Roman instinctively pulled it into his lap. “No.” He couldn't let anything happen to it. “Oh, come on. What are you, six? Grow up.” Grayson huffed. “I said no.” Roman’s voice was low. Firm. The most authority he'd managed in a long time. Grayson rolled their eyes and grabbed it anyway. Roman’s body moved before his brain did. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t based on strategy. It was instinct, formed from being cornered into a place of pain and fear one too many times.

One second, Grayson was standing. Next, Roman was off the bed and on them in one fluid motion. Throwing his entire body weight at them, knocking them to the floor with a snarl of sound that barely registered as human. The punch cracked against bone. Roman’s fist screamed in protest, the impact made his knuckles sting and pop. Grayson yelled, scrambling up, and shoved him hard. Roman’s back slammed into the bedframe with a loud metallic clang. Pain exploded at the base of his skull. His vision flashed white. He didn’t scream. He didn’t move.

“Freak!” Grayson shouted, throwing the bear at him. “Take your damn toy!” They bolted from the room, clutching their jaw. Roman didn’t chase them. He just lay there, curled in on himself on the floor, arms around the bear, blood beginning to mat in the back of his hair. The sting in his knuckles matched the throb in his ribs, breath sharp in his lungs. But it was nothing compared to the silence. He hadn’t meant to lose control. He hated fighting. But that bear was Remus. It was safety. It was the only thing left that still felt like his. So he cried. Quietly. Mouth pressed to soft fur, body curled in on itself on the cold tile floor.

And no one came. Not to yell. Not to help. He stayed in the dorm for days after that. Even when he got dizzy from standing. Even when the pain in his neck made it hard to sleep. He kept quiet. Kept still. He wasn’t worth the fuss. The bear stayed glued to his chest like a lifeline. He didn’t believe in adoption anymore - this was the final straw. His brain finally got it. He didn't believe in safety. Or warmth. He believed in surviving long enough for it to hurt less, maybe, but even then. Would it really stop?

Chapter Text

One morning, just after they'd crossed the line into month four, a tiny knock interrupted the hum of silence. Roman sat by the window, legs tucked to his chest, staring at the yard without really seeing it. He didn’t answer, it was likely for someone else. The knock came again. “Reston…?” said a soft voice. It was a young girl, maybe ten. Her pigtails were lopsided, and her voice was shy and a little nervous.

Roman turned slowly. “The matron wants to see you,” she said. “Right now.” He blinked. Roman’s stomach twisted, his first thought wasn’t hope. It was punishment. Had Grayson complained? Had they reviewed his file again? Was this it? Being sent away for good?

The girl tilted her head. “I think… It’s something good.” She tried to offer him hope. Roman didn’t believe her attempt, but he stood. The bear stayed tucked under his arm, like it always did now days, as he followed her down the hallway, one step at a time.

Each footstep echoed as if it didn’t belong to him. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t breathe too deeply. That was always safest. His mind cycled through every possible reason for being called: the fight. The missed chores. Maybe someone new had complained about the smell of his clothes. Maybe he was being transferred. Again. He hugged the bear tighter. Its stitches had frayed even more in the last month. He hadn’t had any thread to fix it.

She led him to the front hallway, then darted off. He stood before the office door for a long moment, hand hovering just above the wood. Then he knocked. “Come in,” the matron called. He opened the door and stepped inside. Eyes down. Shoulders tense. “Posture, Mr. Reston,” she said briskly. Roman squared his spine automatically. His gaze never left the floor. “Roman?”

The voice. He froze. His throat tightened. That wasn’t the matron. Slowly, so slowly, he looked up. Emile was already halfway out of his chair, eyes wide and glassy. Remy stood just behind him, more reserved, but no less real. “…Why are you here?” Roman whispered.

“We’re here to take you home,” Emile said, smiling like it hurt to hold back the joy, but there was something behind it too. He wasn't sure what it was, but it probably wasn't good. Perhaps the state of him was making them regret the words. “The inspector came yesterday. We passed.” Roman couldn’t breathe. His lungs forgot how. He stared at them, every muscle straining to stay still, to not hope too much. Eyes searching for the catch. “So you- you didn’t change your mind?” he asked, barely audible. “You didn’t forget?” Emile stepped forward- too fast. Roman flinched hard, the motion instinctual.

Emile froze. His hands rose slowly, like he was surrendering. “Oh- kiddo, I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. We never forgot you, Roman.” Roman's fingers curled tighter around the bear. Remy placed a steadying hand on Emile’s arm and gently guided him a step back. “We wanted to come sooner,” Emile said, slower this time. “We tried. But the adoption agency… they didn’t make it easy.”

Roman blinked. “What do you mean?” Remy sighed. “They didn’t think it was a good idea. Said you’d be better off somewhere with more… structure. Resources. Said we didn’t have the training for someone like you.” Roman stared at them. His chest felt like it was cracking open. “You mean… they didn’t want you to take me?” How could that be? They were supposed to help him, weren't they? “Not at first,” Emile admitted. “They didn’t believe we could handle your file.”

“Your history scared them,” Remy added, softer now. “But it didn’t scare us. We had to fight through meetings. Sign extra paperwork. Prove ourselves over and over.” Roman’s legs felt unsteady. He swayed slightly, his eyes burned. “No one’s ever fought for me.” He said it without thinking. Emile smiled again, that same quiet ache in it. “Well, you'd better get used to it. Because we’re not going anywhere.”

Roman looked away quickly, like that would keep down the tears threatening to fill his eyes. “Why?” he whispered. “Because you matter,” Remy said. "To us. And to Thomas, too.” Roman blinked again. He felt like a lizard, with all of his blinking, but his body had apparently defaulted to stupid slow surprised blinking as a means of processing things. “Thomas…?”

“He’s our son,” Emile explained. “We’ve had him since he was a baby. But we didn’t want to rush anything with you. We needed him to feel good about adding someone new. Especially someone who’s been through… well, a lot.” He didn't say it like it was a burden, but he also wasn't shying away from the weight of it. That was... Interesting. Good or bad, he wasn't sure yet. 

“He’s excited,” Remy added. “He keeps asking if you’d want spicy noodles or grilled cheese for your first night. He already put your name on a coat hook next to his.” Roman made a sound halfway between a laugh and a strained sob. “You’re serious?” They both nodded.

“They will be your guardians now, Mr. Reston,” the matron said from her desk, tone brisk and unreadable. Like his pain was boring to her. She adjusted a paper on her clipboard as if she wasn’t watching his life shift on its axis. “Assuming there are no further incidents, of course.”

Roman stiffened. Of course, they couldn't leave it there. His fingers dug so hard into the bear’s worn fur, he might have torn a few threads. “He’s had… difficulties, in the last few months.” The matron added with a tight-lipped smile. “Tendency to isolate. Poor appetite. Behavioral volatility. He’s prone to lashing out. Fights, mostly. One recently.” She didn’t look at him as she said it. “It’s understandable, of course. Trauma leaves marks. But we do expect a smoother transition from this point forward.”

Emile’s brows pulled together, but he wasn't the one to speak this time. “He’s been through hell. You expected it to be smooth?” Remy didn’t raise his voice, but the chill behind his words was sharp. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the environment was part of the issue?” The matron blinked, startled by the pushback. “We provide stability.”

“No, you provide order,” Remy said. “Not the same thing.” Roman stared at them, stunned. They weren’t just defending him; they were naming it. Out loud. Like he wasn’t too much or broken. Like this wasn’t his fault . “We know what we’re stepping into,” Emile said gently, trying to diffuse some of the tension so they didn't loose their case now. “He’s not a risk to us. He’s a kid.”

“A kid who’s had to survive more than he should’ve,” Remy added, refusing to be done just yet. “And still managed to hang on to hope, even when everything else tried to beat it out of him.” Roman’s eyes burned. His throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. “Roman.” The matron spoke, voice clipped. “Their car is waiting out front. Go collect your belongings.” She didn't acknowledge the pushback at any further. 

Roman didn’t move right away. He looked at Emile, then Remy. Then down at his shoes. “…I don’t have much,” he said quietly. “That’s okay,” Emile replied. “We’ve got room either way.”

Roman lifted his eyes again and just... stared at them. Like if he blinked, they’d vanish again. “Are you ready?” Remy asked. “To come with us?” Roman opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…Can I… sit in the back?” he asked. It didn't really make sense, of course that's where he'd sit, but something about it just... He wanted to pick his spot in the back, like a normal kid would do. Emile’s eyes softened further. “Of course you can, sweetheart.” That shouldn’t have made his throat burn. But it did.

“You can sit wherever you feel safest,” Remy added without missing a beat. Roman nodded. Then, slowly, he turned and walked out; his steps mechanical, clutching the bear like a lifeline, still pressed tight to his ribs.

Behind him, voices resumed, Emile asking about any remaining forms in a soft tone, Remy's quiet supporting tone firm and even. But Roman didn’t hear the words, he wasn't listening to their message for scraps of safety. He just breathed. For the first time in months, he let himself breathe. He didn’t run to his bed, didn't cry with joy or relief that they'd come back for him at last. But something behind his ribs started to loosen. They came back. Maybe… just maybe... Someone had actually kept a promise to him.

Chapter Text

Remy and Emile waited by the front steps, their faces bright with anticipation, but the excitement dimmed slightly as Roman approached. His shirt was too thin, his shoes barely holding together, and the small drawstring bag in his hand was sunken from lack of contents. Even less than before, the institution had thrown some of it away. Now the bag held just a toothbrush, and one extra shirt. He wore the other one, and his only pair of pants, clutching the bear close enough to wrinkle its fur. It was the only thing in his arms that looked like it had any weight.

“Roman…” Remy said softly, taking a small step forward. “Is this all you have, bud?” Roman’s shoulders drew up like a turtle retreating into its shell. “Y-Yeah,” he muttered. “This is it.” They didn’t pity him. At least, not visibly. Not in the way adults usually did.

They just glanced at each other and nodded, like this was just another thing to adapt to. “We were planning to stop at the store anyway,” Emile said gently. “Might need a few more bags, that’s all.” Roman didn’t know what to say to that. His fingers twisted tighter into the bear’s ears as he followed them to the car, each footstep careful and quiet, like someone walking through someone else’s dream.

The drive was quiet, at least on his side. Emile tried small talk; he mentioned their son, Thomas, who was turning 18 and in the grade above Roman. "He's been asking about you all week," he added brightly. "Really excited. He’s already got ideas for what kind of movie nights you two could do."

Roman only nodded, shifting slightly as the seatbelt pressed too tightly against his side. The bear never left his lap. Remy cracked a light joke about Thomas’s obsession with kettle corn, which earned a flicker of a smile from Roman, so brief it vanished before it even reached his eyes. They stopped trying after that, letting the silence settle in. Not out of discomfort, but care. Like they sensed that pushing too much might pop a balloon already stretched too thin.

For once he didn't know if his silence was forced by his mind and body, or if he just... knew he didn't have to fill it this time. That he was safe, despite choosing not to talk this time.

The house was empty when they pulled up. It wasn’t big, but it was warm. Pale yellow siding, a garden of mixed flowers and leaves spilling over the stone walkway, and a red front door that looked freshly painted. Roman scanned every inch of it, eyes flicking from the mailbox to the neighboring houses, down to the curb.

There were too many windows; bad for hiding. The bushes weren’t dense enough to disappear into, but maybe the neighbor’s porch had better cover. There was a corner of the fence he could scale if needed. If he ran, he could make it three blocks east before anyone noticed. Maybe five, if he left the bear and his things as a decoy. But he wouldn't do that. He couldn't leave Remus again.

“You okay?” Emile asked gently as they stepped out of the car. Roman blinked and nodded. “Your house is really cute.” He said simply. Polite. “It’s your house now, too, kiddo,” Emile said. That made Roman flinch. They all said that, the good ones. Just before they didn’t mean it anymore. He thought he heard a soft sigh, but maybe it was just his imagination, neither adult seemed upset. 

Inside, the house smelled faintly of cinnamon and something savory, maybe stew in a slow cooker. The entryway was small and soft-lit, with a shoe rack and coat hooks. Roman immediately took off his shoes without being asked. He stood motionless in his socks, waiting for orders that never came. At least not in the way he was used to. 

“Go ahead,” Remy said gently, motioning him forward. He didn’t touch anything. The floors were clean. The furniture looked mismatched but in an intentional way, like someone had made it feel lived-in, not staged. There were framed photos on the wall, a varied display of the two adults and a boy with dark brown hair and a crooked grin spread across them.

Theatre playbills. A middle school prize ribbon from a science fair. A watercolor of what looked like a treehouse surrounded by glittering stars. Roman catalogued it all in seconds. Thomas’s things. Their real kid. But no signs of locked doors, most of them seemed to be open, actually. No bolts on the fridge. No holes in the drywall, so far. Lots of plants and blankets littered the home. They looked soft and warm... He felt cold, in his threadbare T-shirt. 

They took him upstairs, narrating each room like a guided tour. The hallway walls were painted soft cream with interesting art pieces. Instead of the plain religious or modern décor he was used to, there seemed to be an emphasis on cartoons, family, and hobbies of all sorts. It was weirdly colorful. They paused outside one door, not opening it this time. “This is Thomas’s room,” Remy said. “He’s still at school, so we'll let him show it to you another time, but he knows you’re here.”

“Listen, kiddo, we just want you to know…” Emile began, his tone steadying, just a touch firmer. “Thomas has been with us longer, yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to do everything he says.” He shifted slightly, then added, “He’s going to be your big brother. But you’re both our kids now. And even if Thomas gets a little over-excited sometimes, you’re allowed to set boundaries with him. And with us, too.” That made Roman glance up. They probably didn’t really mean that. He wasn’t supposed to tell people no.

"Sometimes we might ask you to explain, so we can understand better, but that doesn't mean we're mad or you need to backtrack. Okay?" He gave a small nod to appease them. All that meant was that they wanted him to genuinely want the things that they did, and that they would get upset when he inevitably didn't. 

They walked a little further down the hall, opening the last door. “This one’s yours.” The room wasn’t much, but it was clean. A wooden bed frame, with a big plush mattress on it, and so many blankets... There was a big wooden desk too. The walls were just basic blank white walls. Along with a closed closet, and a window that opened. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and paint. The carpet didn’t crunch when he stepped on it. No cameras. No bugs or dirt. No smell of rot or mildew. Or alcohol. 

He paced the room’s edges, quiet and calculating, counting steps, memorizing the layout. Testing the floorboards for creaks. It took a second to register the thought: They’re going to let me keep it. And then another, this one giving him pause: Why would I think that? What made him think they would let him keep anything? It was probably just the room they told the inspectors was his. He wasn't sure why his mind was so certain about this. Or why he was even bothering to learn it yet, let alone in front of them. 

“Customize it however you want,” Emile said casually. Roman froze more visibly this time. He knew better. There were rules. There were always rules. You can’t hang things on the walls. You can’t leave clothes on the floor. Don’t waste power. Don’t be loud. Don’t break things. Don’t ask. Don’t speak- He was spiraling internally, but they just stood there. Soft-eyed and still. It was weird. Dangerous. 

“This is… mine?” he asked. “All yours,” Remy confirmed, his voice gentle. “If this is a dream,” Roman whispered, “don’t wake me.” He didn't really mean for anyone to hear it, it was just so.. surreal. What he wouldn't have given for a family like this years ago.

“It’s not a dream, Ro,” Emile replied, stepping closer. “You’re here. You’re safe.” Roman didn’t cry in front of people. Not ever. But for some unknown reason the tears came before he could stop them. Subtle, just a few that slipped before he could get a hold of them. Even still, he had no idea why he was being so weak, so vulnerable. A part of him whispered that if he ruined it now, it would hurt less than it would if he got comfortable. Another part said they were still riding the high of the idea that they could help him, and he should get as much affection as possible while he still could.

And then, God help him, he moved forward. Just a step. Just enough for their arms to open and let him in. It was clumsy and tight and trembling. And it was real. The most real hug he'd had in.. Fuck, forever? Since Remus? When was the last time someone had hugged him at all in fact? Or had actually seen him as a kid?

He pulled back quickly, wiping at his face with his sleeve, ashamed of how stupid it was. “Sorry. Thank you,” he whispered, not looking up. “Of course, kiddo,” Remy said, giving his back a gentle rub. “We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.” That phrase struck something deep down and dead in his heart. Something old and aching, struggling to revive. He wondered not for the first time, with how many little comments Remy made, if the man knew on a more personal level what this felt like.

But Roman didn’t respond. He just nodded and turned to look at the room again. There was a beat of quiet, and then Emile cleared his throat gently. “There are a few things we should talk about,” he said. “Nothing too scary, promise.” Roman braced. “You’ll have your privacy,” Emile continued. “That’s important. But we also want to make sure you’re safe. If the door’s locked and you’re not answering, we might knock a few extra times, or call a little louder. Incase you can't hear us, or you just need a few minutes to answer the door.”

“Medical stuff too,” Remy added. “Food, rest, routines. We’re gonna help out with those, at least for a little while.” That was probably just an excuse to say he'd be monitored in what they gave him. Or.. maybe they just meant he'd have scheduled meal and rest times.. they didn't seem mean enough to starve him.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emile said. “You don’t get punished for feeling things here. But we’ll always try to talk things through with gentle words.” Roman said nothing. Just folded his arms around the bear, gaze distant. He wasn't fooled by that one; no one ever wanted to hear his opinions. It was just a way of saying he would sit while they listed how he failed.

They gave him space after that. Let him wander the room. Open drawers. Sit on the edge of the bed. He sat there for a long time, bear in hand, trying to memorize every corner like it might vanish the second he blinked. At some point, footsteps padded by the door accompanied by a soft knock. “We’ll be in the living room when you’re ready,” Emile said. “No rush, okay?” Roman didn’t answer. But his grip on the bear loosened, just a little. 

Chapter Text

The house stayed mostly quiet after they left him to collect himself. Roman lingered in the hallway for a few moments too long, like stepping away from the room might make everything good abandon him again. His fingers twitched against the plush fabric of the bear as he weighed his next move. But eventually, his feet carried him forward.

In the living room, Emile and Remy were waiting. Two mugs rested in their hands, and a third sat gently in front of the couch like an invitation he wasn’t sure he was allowed to accept.

“You drink tea, kiddo?” Remy asked, voice light. “We figured cocoa might be a bit much, but Emile makes this mint-honey stuff that smells like a hug.” That was a weird comparison, but sure...

Roman nodded slowly and perched on the far edge of the couch. He didn’t settle, just folded inwards with his socked feet tucked up under him, arms around the bear, hands wrapped tight around the mug like it might offer more than just warmth. He didn’t drink it, although it did kinda feel light a warm hug weirdly enough. He just held it so the heat might seep in through his skin and chase the ghosts back to their corners.

They talked a little, mostly Emile, soft and meandering, with Remy tossing in grounding comments like pebbles in a stream. Nothing heavy. Mentions of Thomas and his ridiculous drama club shirts. How he’d labeled all the bathroom drawers even though no one asked him to. “That way you won’t have to guess,” Remy said, grinning.

Roman gave a tiny nod. Somehow, that felt like the most comforting thing anyone had said all day. Eventually, Emile cleared his throat. “Before we head out shopping, there are just a few things we want to go over, not rules exactly,” he added quickly. “More like… guidance. Stuff that helps everyone feel safe.” Roman tensed. Here it comes.

“You’re not in trouble,” Remy added gently. “We just believe in being clear. So you’re not stuck guessing what’ll get you yelled at.” That earned a flicker of eye contact. Roman didn’t speak, but something shifted, his posture barely loosening. Huh, maybe this wouldn't be so bad...

“You don’t have to knock on our bedroom door,” Emile said. “But if it’s closed, it usually means we’re resting or just need a minute. You get the same courtesy.” Roman blinked, confused. That didn’t fit what he was used to. But, then again, it was beginning to look like that would be weirdly commonplace with these people.

“No lights-out time,” Remy added. “But if it gets too late too often, we’ll talk about it. Not to punish you. Just to help build a rhythm.” Still no response. Just his fingers clutching the mug a little tighter. “You also get privacy,” Emile said. “We won’t read your stuff or go through your things. If we’re ever concerned, we’ll ask first. Always.”

Roman’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re allowed to ask for space,” Remy said. “Or company. Or quiet. If you need help, we want to know so we can show up, not take over.” Roman twitched. Then, hesitantly, he spoke, his voice dry and unsure. “Why?” Remy tilted his head. “Why what, sport?”

Roman stared into his cup. “Why… do I get that? That’s not how it works. That’s not… how I work.” Emile’s voice softened. “We read your file. We saw the words they used. ‘Emotionally reactive.’ ‘Difficulty bonding.’ ‘Defensive and withdrawn.’” Roman flinched like the words had teeth. Honestly, to him, someone who had words weaponised so often, they probably did.

“We don’t care what they called it,” Remy said, firmer now. “We care how you feel. And we’re already seeing things they didn’t mention.” His voice had a way of being kind even when he was brutally honest and dry. “You’re scared of rules,” Emile added, “but also scared of not having any.” Roman stayed silent. “You flinch when we move too fast. You only speak when spoken to. You keep bracing like we’re going to change our minds.” His bear was nearly folded in half in his arms.

“I’m guessing they didn’t write that part down,” Remy said gently. Roman gave a tiny shake of his head. “They never write that part down. They don't care to know about it.” He mumbled. A pause followed. Not awkward, not empty. Just quiet. Remy stood and brushed off his jeans. “Well, their loss. We’re paying attention now.” There was a finality to his words, like it wasn't up for debate. 

Emile smiled. “Let’s get you some clothes, huh? I don’t know if you noticed, but your shoes are hanging on by pure spite.” Roman didn’t laugh, but he nodded. And when they left the house, he walked just a little closer behind them.

The car ride was quiet, it was starting to eat at him a little, that they were going out of their way to be quiet for him. Though it wasn't the dangerous kind of quiet, at least. No oncoming yelling. No pressure to speak. No warning signs disguised as silence. Roman clutched the bear tight to his chest like armor, trying to decode the air like it might shift without warning. His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

The silence wasn’t laced with tension or anger. No judgment curled at the edges of their voices, because there were no voices. Just soft music and the hum of the engine. He hated how his mind couldn't decide if it was good or not. No expectations, but a whole other kind of pressure. 

Roman’s brain didn’t know what to do with it all. It twisted the stillness into something dangerous, waiting for the part where everything snapped. Where it meant a storm was coming. When softness gave way to scolding. When someone decided he was too much again. Or too little. Too quiet. Gods just make it stop...

Emile caught his eyes more than once and always responded the same way: a soft, knowing smile. No anger or judgment present in his eyes. But Roman didn’t trust that. He didn’t know how. Not in this coffin of silence. It almost felt like his voice was being taken in a whole new way, despite the softness of the action. 

They passed a park, and Roman tracked it with his eyes, a small flicker of interest. His fingers curled deeper into the bear’s fur. “Thomas loves that place,” Emile said. “He once got his shoe stuck in a tree. Don’t ask.”

Roman’s lip twitched, barely. Not quite a smile, but the shape of one. He quickly looked away. “We can go sometime,” Emile added casually. Roman gave the smallest nod. He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either. He was grateful for the distraction. He wondered if Remus would enjoy the park. 

The store lights buzzed too loudly. Like wasps rattling around in his skull. Roman hesitated at the entrance, stood in front of the sliding doors, reluctant. Everything inside was too bright, too artificial, too much. The smells hit him all at once in a nauseating wave: cleaners, sugar, plastic. The space was crowded, buzzing with people.

Emile and Remy stepped inside with ease. Roman hesitantly trailed behind, quiet as a shadow. “You okay, kiddo?” Remy asked. Roman nodded automatically. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly, it was just easier than explaining the panic pooling under his ribs and the noise in his head.

The clothes came first. Roman tried not to look at price tags. Tried not to calculate the cost of 'kindness' in laundry detergent and zippers. “Pick something warm,” Emile said. “Whatever’s cheapest,” Roman muttered, eyes down.

Remy crouched beside him. “That’s not how this works.” Roman flinched, not from fear but confusion, and okay, maybe a little fear. How had he already messed up? That's how it always was. “We’re not keeping a tally,” Remy said. “You don't owe us a debt for any of this.” Roman said nothing, but his hands trembled as he reached for a plain gray hoodie. Safe. Invisible. Forgettable. The kind of thing that wouldn’t get him in trouble.

They let him pick without hovering. Neutral colors. Soft fabrics. Nothing that drew attention. Each item felt heavy. Not physically, but emotionally. Too nice. Too soft. Too easy to take away. Every choice made him feel worse, not because he didn’t want them, but because he did. And wanting felt dangerous. Every shirt felt like a landmine. Every pair of socks was like a treasure he shouldn’t be allowed to keep. And every time he thought he was done, they gently nudged him to pick another item.

In the toiletries aisle, Roman froze. Shelves full of options stared back, bright and loud. Toothbrush. Deodorant. Shampoo. Too many choices.

He hovered near a familiar green bottle; he'd seen that one in a few houses he'd been in. But it was never supposed to be touched by him; he flinched and backed away. Too nice. Too expensive. Too… seen.

Remy’s voice came gently behind him. “There’s no wrong answer, Ro. You’re not being graded.” That stung more than it soothed. He didn’t know how to believe it. Didn’t know how to believe in softness that didn’t have a hidden meaning. Eventually, he grabbed the cheapest shampoo bottle he could see. Just in case. Not because he wanted it, but because it felt safest. He didn't even know what the scent was, it had a strawberry on it, some overly chemically thing probably. 

“Bubblegum or mint?” Emile asked, holding up toothpaste.

Roman hesitated. Would they let him pick something that wasn't one of their options? That felt terrifying but... His anxiety was grasping at straws, it needed limitations, there was too MUCH. There was a fairly inexpensive one on the shelf next to them. “Cinnamon?” He asked softly. Emile smiled and dropped it into the cart with an easy nod. That, more than anything, nearly undid him. He really did get to pick. At least for now. How the fuck was that supposed to help him now? What was the line? And he was kinda worried he'd hate the cinnamon. But there was no going back now.

By the time they hit the food aisle, Roman looked frayed. “We always let Thomas pick cereal,” Remy said. “Want to try?” Roman stared down rows of colors and cartoons. He didn’t move.

“Monster Marshmallows or Space Waffles?” Emile asked with a grin, holding up two. Roman blinked. “Are those real?” 

“Unfortunately,” Remy said. Roman hesitated. Then pointed to the one with a ghost. “Marshmallows,” he whispered. Emile lit up like he’d won something. Like Roman had just done something brave. Maybe he had. These people were weird.

Back at the house, Roman didn’t move until they asked. The paper bags felt too heavy, stuffed with proof that someone had chosen to care. He expected a jab. A sarcastic comment. A door closed in his face. Instead, Emile just said, “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

Roman flinched, again, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Why did they have to be so soft with him? It would hurt so much worse when they stopped. He took the bags to his room and placed each item down with ritualistic care, as if they might break. Folded the shirts. Lined up the socks. Tucked the hoodie and underwear carefully in the drawers with the pants. Hid the cereal under them in secret, just in case they tried to take it away.

He had ended up with a new pair of red sneakers that actually fit, a pair of regular brown boots that were incredibly warm, and some basic brown sandals. A soft gray hoodie, a package of seven whole t-shirts, they were just white, but it was overwhelming to hold the package and know that each one was his size and didn't have any holes in them.

They'd also had him pick out three that he liked, cheap, but they were soft and they fit. A red one with a star on the pocket, a soft gray one, and a black one. There was one, though, that he absolutely treasured... A cream colored sweater that was so fuzzy he couldn't believe it. It was a little more expensive than the other two, and he would have put it back, but Remy had seen the way he lit up looking at it. He couldn't help it; it was the softest thing he'd ever felt. And it was so warm.

He'd also gotten a few pairs of pants: jeans, leggings, shorts. It was overwhelming. They hadn't touched on room decor or a phone or anything like that. The two adults were able to see he was absolutely fried, but they did warn him it was something they'd have to do soon. He wondered if they would ask him about the cereal...

He was just settling on the edge of the bed when Remy peeked in. “Thomas texted. He’ll be home soon.” Roman froze. His stomach twisted. He wasn’t ready. But he’d never been ready. Not for people. Not for this weirdly normal home. Not for the twisted hope they kept shoving upon him. But families came with people. And he was supposed to be part of one now.

Chapter Text

Roman sat on the edge of his bed, fingers idly twisting the fabric of his new pajama pants, his bear tucked against his side like a shield. Every now and then, he glanced toward the door, as if Thomas might just appear like a jump scare. That’s how new people usually entered his life; loud, abrupt, already knowing the rules he hadn’t learned yet. He knew the other was home, had heard him a few hours ago.

So far, all he knew about Thomas was that he was 17, almost 18, and way too enthusiastic about having a brother. That was a word Roman hadn’t let himself touch yet. It was too close to... Remus. 

When a knock finally came, it was so soft he thought he imagined it. Then a pause. Then again. Light. Like someone asking permission to be let in. Not a demand, an invitation. Hopeful. Roman blinked. “...yeah?” The door cracked open. A head of wavy brown hair and a sheepish grin peeked in. “Hey,” the boy said. “I’m Thomas.”

He didn’t barge in. Just stood there awkwardly, hugging a folded-up blanket under one arm like it was a peace offering. Roman nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. “Hi.”

“I didn’t wanna bug you,” Thomas said quickly. “I just- uh, was gonna watch a movie. Dad said I could ask if you wanted to come?” Roman’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t an order. He didn’t have to go. But there were too many rules floating in his chest to be sure what the right answer was.

“I can watch it later,” Thomas added, like he could feel Roman freezing up. “I’ve seen it a bunch. It’s dumb. But it’s kinda funny-dumb, not awful-dumb. It’s this one where the guy turns into a llama and-”

“I know it,” Roman said, too fast. Nervous. “The one with the palace.” Thomas grinned. “Yeah! That one. It's Disney.” There was a pause. Roman looked down at the bear in his arms. His fingers twitched. “You don’t have to come down if you’re not up for it,” Thomas said, not unkindly, but a little disappointed. It was as if he were having to consciously restrain his energy. “But if you do, I saved the spot closest to the lamp. It’s the comfiest one.”

Another pause. Then, so quiet it was nearly a whisper: “Thanks.” Roman gave a nervous, slightly strained smile. But he was trying. Thomas bit back a grin, nodding; he backed away without another word. It took Roman nearly three minutes to convince his legs to move.

Roman crept down the hallway quietly, each step slow and deliberate. Voices drifted up from the living room, Thomas chattering, something about 'the superior method of popcorn distribution.'

“I’m telling you,” Thomas insisted, “it’s three layers. Popcorn, butter, seasoning, repeat. Otherwise, the flavor distribution is totally uneven and just criminal.”

“You’re the only person I know who plans popcorn like a layer cake,” Remy muttered fondly. “Because I have taste, Father.” Thomas' voice carried a level of sass that Roman couldn't help being amused by.

He hovered in the archway to the living room, hesitant. Emile noticed first. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, giving no sign that Roman’s surprise appearance was a victory. “Glad you’re here.” Thomas turned so fast he nearly dropped the bowl. “You made it!”

Roman flinched at the volume, shrinking in on himself. Instantly, Remy’s eyes snapped to Thomas with a subtle warning look. Thomas caught it. His grin didn’t falter, but his voice dropped a few notches. “Uh- sorry. I just… I saved your spot.” He gestured toward the armchair near the lamp, where a soft pillow and throw blanket were already waiting. Exactly where he'd said it would be.

Roman gave a cautious nod and padded over, sinking into the seat like it might bite him. He didn’t relax, not really. But he didn’t bolt, either. So.. probably a win? 

Thomas flopped dramatically onto the floor with the popcorn like it was a royal offering. “You want some?” Roman blinked, his voice coming out a little stronger this time. “You’re not using a bowl?” He asked, curious. “This is the bowl,” Thomas said, arms stretched over the rim of the oversized mixing bowl now sitting between them. “We share, unless you want your own?”

Roman shook his head quickly, unsure if it was from fear of inconvenience or not wanting to be weird. Apparently, this was a normal family thing. Or maybe they were just weird. But he could see himself sharing with Remus. Remy handed him a cup of water with a quiet “Here you go, kiddo,” then settled beside Emile on the couch. No one forced a conversation. No one filled the silence. Emile just picked up the remote. “Ready?”

Thomas gave two enthusiastic thumbs up. Roman nodded slowly. The movie began. At first, Roman didn’t watch it so much as monitor everyone else. Waiting for tension. Waiting for the moment when Thomas got too loud, or spilled something, or laughed at the wrong time. Waiting to be asked to leave. But it didn’t come.

Thomas laughed too hard at a line and spilled a few pieces of popcorn onto the rug- Roman felt his anxiety shoot up into the back of his throat- and no one yelled. Emile just reached down, picked them up, and tossed them back in the bowl with a wink. “You’re lucky we vacuumed,” Remy murmured. “No evidence,” Thomas said, grinning. Roman’s lip twitched. These people were so weird. He... kind of loved it. Even if the unpredictability of it sucked.

The movie was familiar in the way comfort food was familiar; Roman had caught glimpses of it in passing before. But this time, no one made him feel childish for enjoying it. No one changed the channel halfway through. No one turned it off because he’d laughed too loudly or taken up too much space. This time, he was allowed to just watch. He smiled, real and small, when Kuzco turned into a llama. Let out a tiny laugh when Kronk talked to his shoulder angel. Thomas saw it and absolutely beamed. “You like it?” he whispered, elbowing him gently.

Roman gave a tiny nod, eyes still on the screen. By the time the credits rolled, Roman was tucked under the blanket with the bear in his lap, a handful of popcorn still in his palm. His shoulders had dropped. Just a little. Not enough to call it comfort. But enough to notice. Thomas stretched with a loud yawn. “Ten out of ten. No notes. Except maybe a musical number for Pacha.”

“I think that’s a you problem,” Remy said dryly, getting up to collect the mugs. “I contain multitudes!” Thomas called after him. Roman blinked at the phrase. It sounded like something Remus would say. Or at least, how he imagined Remus would be. “Thanks for watching with me,” Thomas said, softer now, not trying to perform. Just… saying it.

Roman gave a faint shrug, like he didn’t know how to respond. But later, when Thomas had already disappeared upstairs, Roman lingered in the dim light of the lamp. His fingers traced the edge of the couch cushion like he was trying to memorize the stitches. Tonight had been.. weird. No yelling. No punishment. No tension. Just popcorn, cartoons, and a soft blanket. Something... almost normal. Huh.

Chapter Text

Roman hadn’t realized how long he’d been tracing the couch cushion until the TV dimmed to black and two sets of soft footsteps approached. “Hey, sweetheart,” Emile murmured, crouching down in front of him. His voice was soft and careful, like he was speaking to a child. Roman supposed he technically was, even though he hadn't really been a kid in a long time. “You hanging in there?”

Roman had startled a little at first, but he didn’t pull away. He nodded once. He could feel his body buzzing under his skin from the weight of the day, but it wasn’t the bad kind of buzzing. Not entirely. Remy leaned over the back of the couch, arms folded loosely. “Thomas already tripped up the stairs,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “We’re officially one popcorn bowl away from calling this a successful evening.”

Roman gave a tired little huff of amusement. He didn’t know if it counted as a laugh. “We’re gonna head to bed,” Emile continued, watching him with warm eyes but not pushing. “But you don’t have to rush. You can stay down here a while if that feels easier.” Roman looked toward the hallway, shadows stretching out past the edge of the lamp’s glow. His room was up there. His room. That still felt weird to think. Too permanent.

Emile caught the hesitation. “Did you want one of us to walk you up?” Roman shook his head quickly. He wasn't a baby. He didn't need his hand held just because he hated the dark. “No. I just… I’m not tired yet.” That wasn’t true. He was exhausted. But he didn’t want to risk what might come after lights out. “Totally fair,” Remy said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “There’s a nightlight already on in your room. And the bathroom’s right across the hall that you saw earlier. Sheets are fresh, Emile put lavender spray on them because he’s ridiculous.” Emile nudged Remy with his elbow but didn’t deny it.

Roman looked down at the bear in his arms, tracing the edge of its little ear. The light was comforting, at least. And he thought he liked lavender; he always liked it outside at least. “You don’t have to sleep if you’re not ready,” Emile added, gentle and sure. “But you’re safe here. You can just… rest. Even if you don’t sleep yet. The first nights are always hard, huh?”

Roman swallowed. His eyes were stinging again. He gave a small nod. Emile reached out, slow enough to give Roman time to move, then softly smoothed a hand over his loose curls. “Goodnight, sweetheart. We’re glad you’re here.”

“Night, kiddo,” Remy added. He raised two fingers in a lazy half-wave and tugged Emile by the sleeve. “Let him have his moment.” He said softly as they stood. They left the lamp on.

Later that night, Roman padded upstairs, it was long after the house had gone to rest, his bear clutched tight to his chest. The hallway looked different at night. A lot less welcoming and cheerful. Like, even the walls were whispering warnings. And the shadows were trying to grab at him. The door to his room creaked a little when he pushed it open. Did it do that earlier? The nightlight cast a soft blue glow over the space, catching the folds of the blanket and the edge of the bookshelf.

He stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping in. There was no padlock. No creaking bunk bed above him. No rustling from five other bodies. Just the sound of his own breath and the faint hum of something... Just something. A fan, maybe, or it was just in his mind. Buzzing at the edge of his ears. Roman crawled into bed hesitantly, still not quite believing it wouldn’t be taken away.

The sheets were cool, the pillow soft. The bear curled into his arms easily. For a long time, Roman lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't help but wonder if he would wake up and everything would have been fake. A dream. He felt like his skin was crawling, would they get mad at him if he slept on the floor? He doesn't want to be ungrateful. 

Still, no matter how long he lay there, no one yelled. No one banged on the door. No footsteps crept past. Eventually, his breathing slowed, and his body started to sink into the soft- so soft, mattress.

He didn’t know if he’d sleep. But he wasn’t... scared. Well, not like the scared he was used to. That was new. He distantly thought that maybe he'd like to put stars on his ceiling as his eyes slipped closed and his breathing eased.

The next morning, Roman didn’t really remember falling asleep. He just knew that when his eyes blinked open, the sunlight was spilling softly through the window, painting the blanket in golden light. For a second, panic surged; where was he, who was watching, had he overslept, but the stillness of the morning that met him wasn’t tense. It was… warm. The bear was still tucked under his chin. No one had taken it away.

He sat up slowly, every muscle stiff like he was bracing for a yell that never came. No banging. No threats. Just the faint clatter of dishes and a soft hum drifting up from the kitchen. Roman crept out of bed, bare feet quiet on the floor, and peeked into the hallway. The sun lit the edges of picture frames and hallway corners in a way that made the whole house feel... still sleepy.

The scent of toast and something cinnamon-tinged guided him down the stairs. And how wild was it to know that his bedroom door hadn't been locked in his sleep. Thomas was already at the table, one leg bouncing, crumbs in front of him, and jam on the corner of his mouth. Emile was humming at the stove, and Remy was pouring juice into a mismatched glass.

“There he is,” Remy said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Was he late? “Morning, sunshine.” Roman blinked. No one looked surprised to see him. No one commented on his messy hair or his slightly puffy eyes or asked why he didn’t come down earlier. “Want toast?” Emile offered. “We’ve got butter, jam, honey, or Thomas’ weird peanut butter-syrup combo if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Roman hovered in the doorway, still unsure if this counted as permission. Thomas grinned, mouth full. “Ten outta ten, would recommend. You can sit next to me if you want. I didn’t spill anything today. Yet.” He said mischievously. “Low bar,” Remy muttered fondly.

Roman’s lips twitched. He stepped into the kitchen. And when he sat down, awkward, tense, waiting for someone to say no, no one did. Emile slid a plate in front of him with toast and a little dollop of honey. He looked around, waiting to be told he couldn't actually eat with them, before easing a little more into his spot when he still received nothing of the sort. Roman didn't feel like he could speak yet, but they didn't seem to mind. He picked up the toast, taking a bite. It was warm. And the best thing he'd tasted in ages. He gave a soft hum of satisfaction, and the other three seemed happy enough with that to let him be for a bit.

Chapter Text

The sun was already climbing higher by the time they got into the car later that morning. Roman sat in the backseat, hands tucked under his thighs, shoulders drawn in tight. Emile was behind the wheel, Remy in the passenger seat, Thomas bouncing slightly with unspent energy beside him. “We usually walk,” Emile had explained as they piled in, “but it’s a little warm out and I figured we’d let Roman get a look around the neighborhood.”

Roman had nodded mutely, heart beating just a little faster. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for, but he kept his eyes glued to the window anyway. His brain cataloged everything: the twist of the streets, the faded mural on the corner bakery, the cracked sidewalk by the crosswalk.

He counted the turns. Left, then right, then another right at the park entrance. A blue bench near the fountain. A small alley with a rusted gate behind the bus stop. He didn’t know why he needed to know, only that it felt like he might need to; if things went bad, if he had to leave fast, if he had to sleep somewhere. It was better to be prepared.

The park wasn’t huge, but it was lively in a way that made Roman’s skin prickle. Dogs barked in the distance. A group of kids played tag near the swings. Someone had brought bubble wands, and the iridescent bubbles floated through the warm air. Thomas leapt out of the car the second it stopped, already talking about a game he’d made up as a kid involving pinecones and wizard duels. Roman stepped out more slowly. His eyes scanned the perimeter without meaning to. Trash cans, benches, a narrow space behind a cluster of bushes near the bathroom building; all possible shelter spots. He cataloged them silently.

“You doing okay?” Emile asked, gently nudging his arm. Roman blinked, startled, and nodded. “Yeah. Just… It’s a lot of people.” He mumbled, voice small. “Totally fair,” Remy said. “Wanna stick with us or wander a bit?” Roman hesitated. That felt like a test. But it wasn’t, he realized with a jolt, it was just a choice. One he could make. “I’ll… stick close.”

“Cool.” Thomas grinned. “We’re gonna sit by the fountain. The breeze is nice over there.” Roman followed them across the grass, his shoes crunching softly on gravel. He walked a few steps behind, watching everything: the toddler who cried when his balloon got caught in a tree, the man reading a newspaper on a bench, the bike leaning against a fence. His eyes lingered on the fence. It looked climbable.

They reached the fountain and sat on the edge, letting the mist drift over their legs. Roman glanced at the water, then at Thomas, who was making a duck with his hands in the spray. “Did you name the ducks?” Roman asked before he could stop himself. Thomas lit up. “Obviously. That one’s Sir Quackston. And the tiny one is Edgar. He's got rage issues.”

Roman snorted, the sound escaping before he could swallow it. Remy raised an eyebrow at the laugh but didn’t comment. Instead, he gave a small smile and leaned back, closing his eyes behind his glasses to enjoy the sun. Emile offered Roman a juice box, which he took with quiet confusion. It had a little picture of an orange smiling on it.

“This place has good ice cream,” Emile said casually. “Wanna get some before we go?” Roman opened his mouth to decline, an automatic no rising up. But something in the way Thomas was humming beside him, so unbothered, so… normal, made him pause. He hadn't had ice cream since he was a small child. “...Maybe.” It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no. And no one pushed him to decide. This was so weird.

The little ice cream stand at the edge of the park was painted with pastel stripes, slightly faded from sun and weather. A chalkboard sign stood out front, covered in colorful smudges of today's flavors: things like Double Fudge Chaos and Birthday Cake Bonanza . Roman hung back, letting the others walk ahead.

He wasn’t sure what to do. Whether he was supposed to ask. Whether he was allowed to choose. Thomas practically bounced on his heels at the counter. “Can I get the mango swirl? And the weird purple one! What’s that one?”

The teenager behind the stand, clearly used to this level of energy, grinned. “That’s Galaxy Crunch. It’s got Pop Rocks.” Thomas gasped, clearly delighted. “Even better.” Roman hovered beside Emile, his hands tightening around the hem of his shirt. He stared at the menu without really seeing it. “You don’t have to pick the most boring one,” Remy teased gently, glancing back at him. “We’re not judging your choice.”

Roman blinked. “I wasn’t-” He trailed off. “I don’t know what I like...” Emile’s expression softened. “Then this is a perfect excuse to experiment. Want to try a couple first?” Roman nodded, hesitant. The teenager behind the counter offered him tiny plastic spoons, one with pale lemon ice, one with soft pink strawberry, one with something blue and vaguely chaotic. He tried them all silently, lips pressed tight, as if this were a test he might fail. Finally, he pointed. “That one, please?” He asked softly.

“Birthday Cake Bonanza,” the teen announced. “Bold choice.” Roman didn’t say anything, but there was a small curl at the corner of his mouth. He liked the older teen's attitude. They sat at a picnic table in the shade, their cones and cups melting slightly in the warmth. Roman took slow, cautious licks, watching the others through his lashes. “So,” Thomas said between mouthfuls, “hypothetically, if you were a wizard in the pinecone war, would you rather have teleportation powers or summon squirrels?” Remy made a face. “Teleportation. Obviously. Who wants squirrel powers?”

“Squirrels are terrifying,” Emile offered seriously. “If you could summon enough of them, they could take over the battlefield. Overwhelm your enemies with tiny, crunchy little paws.” Roman let out an incredulous breath. “That’s kinda horrifying.”

“But effective,” Thomas added, licking a bit of ice cream from his knuckle. “I would totally command an army of fluffy chaos.” Roman stared at him, then snorted again, this time a little louder. “You’re not allowed to name your squirrels like you did those poor ducks.”

“I already did,” Thomas grinned. “General Flufftail. Colonel Hazelnut. Private Squeakers.” He announced seriously. “Oh my god,” Remy muttered. Roman shook his head, but the corners of his mouth refused to settle. It was ridiculous. All of it. And maybe that was the point. He took another bite of his ice cream. It was too sweet, a little too rich; he didn't really like it. But it was far from boring, and no one was hovering over his shoulder, or watching his hands, or rushing him to finish. So he let himself have another mouthful. Just because he could.

The sun had shifted a little by the time they started heading back, casting longer shadows through the trees. The park felt a little less loud now, less busy. A few families were packing up picnic blankets, and the kid with the bubble wand had moved on to blowing them over the duck pond.

Roman trailed a step behind at first, instinct still guiding him to the edges. His gaze scanned the route automatically. He clocked a little stone wall near the bathrooms, an old recycling bin someone had kicked over, and the narrow alley they’d driven past earlier. He counted each street they took to get here in his mind. Three turns from the park to the house. Right, left, left. He could walk it if he had to. But he wouldn’t have to. He repeated the thought quietly in his head, like an unfamiliar magic spell.

Then a realization hit him. He didn’t have his bear; he didn't have Remus . His arms twitched slightly, like they’d only just now realized they were empty. He hadn’t brought it. Hadn’t even thought about it until now. It had been sitting right on his bed when they left, he remembered tucking the blanket up around it like a stand-in body. He hadn’t needed to carry it all day. It had been months since he'd done that.

His mind immediately raced to justify it, maybe because Thomas had been there, or maybe because there were too many people and he hadn’t wanted to draw attention, or maybe he just… forgot.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The bear was safety, was comfort, was the only constant he’d had for longer than he could remember. It was Remus. And yet here he was, barefoot in the grass, sticky from ice cream, a little sunburned on the tops of his ears… and still okay.

Up ahead, Thomas was darting between cracks in the sidewalk like they were lava. It was interesting to see someone who had been in the system, like him, be so alive and carefree. Especially at Thomas' age. He supposed that was the benefit of getting adopted young. Emile and Remy walked close, side by side, chatting softly about groceries and some upcoming school thing Thomas had conveniently “forgotten” to mention. Roman’s feet slowed.

He hovered for a second. Then, pulse fluttering, he shifted course, just slightly, until he was no longer trailing behind. He stepped in between them. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make eye contact. Just… walked there. Close enough that his shoulder brushed Emile’s arm every so often. Close enough that Remy noticed and adjusted his pace just a fraction to give him room.

Neither of them said a word about it. Emile gave the faintest smile, barely visible from the side, and Remy just casually asked if he liked the ice cream. Roman nodded. There was silence for a few steps. Then: “That birthday one gets really gross near the bottom,” Remy murmured, like it was a secret between the three of them. Roman’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Too much fake frosting.”

“Blasphemy,” Emile said under his breath, clutching his invisible pearls. Roman snorted and shook his head, eyes fixed ahead, but he didn’t move away. The warmth of them on either side was strange. But not bad. Like armor, almost. Like… backup. Maybe that was why he hadn’t needed the bear today. He didn’t quite know what to call the feeling building quietly in his chest, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t fear. Just… a little safer.