I really wanted to write about this and there aren't nearly enough Finral stories on this site (or in general) so here y'all go! (Spoilers, I guess?)
TRIGGER WARNING: contains scenes of (non-graphic) physical abuse and mentions of verbal abuse. If you are highly sensitive to these topics, I encourage you not to read.
He was in his room, reading a book he didn't particularly hate or enjoy. He loved mornings like this though. Nothing to do but sit and be at peace. Nobody ever bothered being angry at this time of day.
"FINRAL! LET ME IIIINNNN!"
Well, except for his little brother.
He really didn't see the point in being so aggressive, he never liked it, but his little brother was the family favorite so perhaps there was merit to his way of thinking.
"Yes, Langris?" he sighed, opening the door. Immediately, a fist hit him right on the nose. He had a nosebleed now, but that was nothing all things considered.
"My favorite toy broke!" Langris was nine, he should've outgrown those toys by now (Finral did) but he was spoiled to death. (Either that or his mother hated him more than he thought.)
"H-How is that my fault?" he asked. Langris glared at him. Then he raised his hand and slapped Finral across the face. Not wasting any time after that, he jumped on Finral and started punching him. He didn't stop for over an hour.
Finral layed there in shock long after it was over. That was the very first time Langris had hurt him so badly.
Finral was a ghost as he walked to his room, careful not to wake anyone. He'd fallen asleep in the library after a hard day of being thrown around by his magic instructor. The family thought he needed one. He likely did.
He ran smack-dab into Langris.
The fourteen-year-old staggered away from his little brother. Langris marched closer to him, enraged.
"How dare you harm me in the dark of the night!" Finral knew better than to scream as his brother jumped on top of him, dragging him into a nearby closet and slamming the door shut. Leaving many a mark that one one bothered asking him about.
That was the first time Finral can recall Langris using a whip on his back.
He was fifteen now. His grimoire had finally been given to him! He stared at the cover, enchanted. He paid no mind to his mother and father's disappointed, accusing words; they always sounded like that. He drowned them out. He was aware he was a disappointment and he didn't need reminding anymore. He knew not to sit too close to the rest of the family at dinner, or to pester his parents with questions, or to bother saying whether or not he was leaving the house. It was only a matter of time before they disowned him completely and he was a Vaude in name alone. It would be sometime this year, in fact.
He didn't care anymore. If anything, he was happy he was almost out.
He didn't escape to his room anymore. Anyone could enter without his permission and if they were going to do that he would rather be anywhere else in the impossibly large Vaude estate. His room had gradually been cleared of any personal, caring touches by his soon-to-not-be-his-parents. Whether it be crushing his toys or burning his studies in a topic he'd been interested in at the time, he learned not to store things he loved in his room. Only one last box existed of things he treasured, and he never took it out of its hiding spot. He intended not to until he moved out.
It was burried just outside the estate so it was kind of hard to get to anyways.
Nevertheless, they couldn't destroy his grimoire. If he remembered correctly, it was impossible to destroy one. He could be wrong, but he still didn't think they'd do it.
An unnecessary knock at the door broke him out of his musings. The person knocking entered without him answering just as he was setting his grimoire down to go and get the door.
His younger brother walked through the door and slammed it shut behind him. Finral took a step back. He couldn't lie to himself: he was afraid of Langris. He wouldn't hesitate to die for his brother, but he was deathly afraid of him.
"So you've earned your grimoire, let's see it then!" Langris snapped, tone cold and voice loud. Finral picked up his grimoire and handed it to his brother cautiously. "Hm. Just as worthless as Mother and Father said. You really are a complete and utter disappointment." Langris tossed the grimoire carelessly onto the bed. He closed the door. "It's a little early, but let's be honest, no one cares and everyone knows."
Finral nodded. He knew better than to fight this; it was routine. He stood still and waited for the first of many, many blows.
They've gotten worse over the years, haven't they? he mused to himself. Musing was nice. It numbed the pain a little. It was a strategy he used. Whenever his brother beat him, he moved outside of himself. Thought to himself. He dealt with it all after Langris left.
They really had gotten worse though. What was once only a good few slaps to the face was now and endless barrage of kicks, punches, lashes, and occasionally burns (his brother got a hold of matches sometimes) all while screaming and yelling and cursing him with insults that blended together to the point of incoherence after a while.
He cried out every once in a while, but he tried not to. That only made things worse.
His brother stopped, finally satisfied. He left the room without a word, shutting and locking the door behind him. He'd taken the key long ago. Finral groaned and tried to sit up but he couldn't. He was too tired, too hurt. He was crying. He. . .
He needed some sleep.
He groaned and got up. His competitor had really done a number on him. He lost. It was obvious. The fight was over and he could go have a nap until the end of the exam.
A healer walked up to him, offering assistance. A very pretty woman. He gladly accepted. It felt so nice and relaxing to feel all his wounds close up. For every bruise to vanish back into the skin. How long had it been?
He never ended up getting his nap. The fighting kept him awake and before he knew it he had to see his results.
Predictably, he got no offers. Many people laughed, a few felt bad for him, but neither of those changed the result. He sighed, wondering why he'd even bothered. He turned away-
"Captain Yami Sukehiro of the Black Bulls makes an offer!"
Finral did a 180° spin on his heel. Much to his shock, a single hand was raised in the air. As the announcer said, it was Yami Sukehiro, Captain of the Black Bulls.
"I. . . I accept!"
Sure enough, his parents disowned him after the Magic Knights Exam. He felt relieved. He didn't have to worry about that responsibility anymore. He could do whatever he wanted! Get drunk, spend his entire paycheck on a cool-looking pin, and of course practice his already master-level flirting skills! What could he say? He had a weakness for gorgeous women.
As a symbol of his newfound freedom he changed his last name to Roulacase. He wasn't a Vaude anymore, he was a Black Bull.
Ah, the Black Bulls! They were. . . an interesting squad. Very small, but interesting. There were only three other members (besides the Captain). Vanessa: the lovely (drunken) lady, Henry: the sweet but sickly man, and Zora: the. . . highly unpredictable.
Vanessa and Zora were very touchy-feely. He. . . didn't like that. He tolerated it more from Vanessa, but even she could learn to keep a little distance! Touch scared him. He never realized it before, but it actively scared him! A sudden pat on the shoulder, a surprise hug from behind, a stray blow in training, he hated being touched. Even touch he knew was coming was awkward and uncomfortable. Every brush of someone's hand made him shiver, jolting him back to his old room at the Vaude estate. He didn't know how or why it followed him here. He wasn't a Vaude anymore.
Henry was more courteous about it. Whether it was due to his illness or if he just noticed the discomfort, Finral didn't care. He was extremely grateful. If he was asked to guess, however, he would say it was purposeful. It wasn't just in touch. Henry made a point not to slam the doors or stomp up the steps. He made it a tendency not to raise his voice (not that he did very often to begin with) or do anything in a manner that seemed aggressive (Vanessa and Zora didn't seem to understand why he always thought they were mad at him because they folded a sock too fast or set down the groceries too hard.). Once again, Henry didn't do this much in the first place, but the extra effort not to was very much appreciated.
The Captain seemed to be on the same page as Henry. While he wasn't half as understanding, he tried to keep his voice a little lower and be just a little less loud in general. Every once in a while he could see the Captain shake his head, almost sadly, at one of many of Finral's poor reactions to various things. He kept pushing, though. Like he was trying to goade Finral out of it. Get him used to the new way things were done in his new life. "Surpass his limits" as the Captain would say.
He became a glorified chauffeur for missions whether he was going on them or not. Most of the time he was, since they were a small squad that was short on staff, and sometimes they would force him to go on a mission just so he would be able to transport them to that place later. He really hated missions. There were so many ways to get hurt or die and if he was a coward than cowards lived. Vanessa was able to motivate him into bravery every once and a while, and "bravery" became a little easier as time went on.
And oh, time went on. He gained rank in the Bulls. More people came. Grey the year after him, Gauche and Gordon a year after that, Luck and Magna the following year, Charmy the year after, and Asta and Noelle as the most recent members (ah! He forgot Nero!). He wasn't as childish as he used to be. He didn't spend his whole pay check on a shiny pin he saw, or cower and hide during missions like he used to. He was more than a chauffeur now, though that would always be one of his chief responsibilities.
He. . . gradually got over his fear of touch. He would never completely conquer it, but he could try. He didn't mind hugs or pats on the shoulder, especially if they were from the front. The back still made him a little nervous. He got better with the other stuff, too. Someone performing an action quicker or louder didn't mean they were mad at him, a slammed door could mean anything from drunkenness to too much strength in one arm (Asta was notorious for pulling his door off its hinges by accident), raised voices meant Magna and Luck were arguing (brawling) again. The new meanings of things outlasted the old ones.
Because in the end, he was always a Bull, not a Vaude.
How do y'all like it? Hopefully a lot! Tell me what you think!