A/N: Well this is embarrassing. I'm not much for trigger warnings, but I do care about the welfare of readers. Don't read the trigger warnings if you want to avoid possible spoilers.

TW: Cutting, self-harm, depression, death, child abuse, suicide idealization and attempt.

This story is almost complete and will be uploaded in its entirety quickly. I wrote this last year and figured I might as well post it now. It'll probably be just another generic hurt/comfort piece, but I tried to be a little different. My main goal was to avoid the cliche of a depressed character magically getting better because they find love. So this isn't a romance and the struggles don't just disappear.

Chapter 1

Into the Ocean

Feliciano nearly tripped over his own shoelaces as he hurried up the stone steps into the academy. He was running late, which was a very common occurrence with the young man. The bell signaled the start of class and he flew into his first class, barely seating himself before his teacher could turn around to shut the door.

"That's the third time this month, Feliciano."

"S-sorry, I missed the bus again."

The older man sighed in obvious irritation. "That excuse won't fly in the real world, Vargas. If you're late one more time it's detention. Understand?"

Feliciano's face burned with embarrassment and he muttered, "Si, understood, sir," while his classmates failed to conceal their snickering. High school wasn't a friendly place for someone as alone as he was, he was always odd-man out and nothing seemed to change that.

The class went by uneventfully and slow, which was nothing new for a junior literature class. The bell rang and he gathered up his tattered books into his arms, ready to speed out of the room where his embarrassment still lingered heavy in the air.

"Not so fast, Vargas."

He sighed and turned away from the door, going against the current of classmates to his teacher's distant desk. "Yes, sir?"

"This is your third offense this semester, you know what that means?"

"Uh… slap on the wrist and no more warnings?"

"Nice try. It means I need to conference with your parents about this behavior before it becomes a habit." He tore out a sheet of notebook paper and scribbled down a quick note, passing it to the young student. "Here. Have your parents sign this and bring it back to me tomorrow."

Feliciano took the note and placed it securely in his binder. Before he could leave he was stopped once more by the bane of his existence. "And, Mr. Vargas? Your books were just issued in August and are already in terrible condition. Any more damage and you'll need to pay for them in May. I'm already giving you slack considering its current condition."

It was true, Feliciano's school-issue books were in almost a worse shape than his own supplies, no matter how new or old they were. It wasn't his fault, though, books just weren't safe in his home. It was not a building of learning like the school; it was a building of learning to hold your tongue.

He nodded and rushed out of the room to his next class, which was luckily in the same hallway, otherwise he'd be late again. It was an art class, his favorite class (along with World History). He plopped down at his easel, next to his good friend Alfred and his twin brother, Matthew.

Their elderly teacher hobbled around the room, setting up a still-life in the center of easels. Alfred leaned over as Feliciano began to place his books and binders under his chair to make room for paints and brushes on the stand under his canvas. "Hey, you were almost late again," he whispered.

"I know, my English teacher had me stay late."

Matthew leaned over as well. "Why did he make you stay? Did you miss the bus again?"

"Si."

Alfred loudly exhaled. "Dude thinks he can do anything he wants because second period is his planning class! I have him fourth and he never holds us back. He makes you late for being late? What a hypocrite!"

A glare from their elderly teacher silenced them and she gave the class today's lesson plan. "Class, settle down! Who can tell me what we're doing today? Hm?" There was a long silence and students avoided her gaze, looking anywhere but at her. "No volunteers?" She picked up her class seating chart. "Matthew!"

The soft-spoken boy startled. "We're… painting?"

"Very good! Class, remember, easels mean painting! This week I want everyone to wear old clothes because acrylic does not wash out! I have a box of aprons in the back for anyone who needs one."

The class continued on smoothly. Anyone who knew Feliciano knew that this was his thing: he was always found doodling on homework page margins or working all class in art to perfect something as simple as shading. He was very driven when it came to creating his own personal masterpieces, something that tends to distract Alfred (who would get so caught up in watching his friend paint that he would neglect his own work). Alfred, being a suspected sufferer of ADHD by his teachers, always complained that he couldn't just make his own "piece of garbage" while Picasso was right next to him. He also admitted to enjoying Feliciano mix paint into tie-dye-like colors on his pallet.

The brunette smiled to himself, very pleased that he finally found the right shade of brown to mix into the shading of the plastic apple on display in front of him. His canvas had the pencil sketches of all the fruits and empty wine bottles perfectly laid out, looking surreal against the nearly-finished painted apple and orange. Alfred marveled at his ability to put so much effort into painting one tiny part of the canvas, while he always tried to cover his entire board with a layer of paint before class let out. As a result, his canvas was a shiny beige of drying paint with nothing to indicate it was a still-life of fruit except for a few blobs of color at the bottom (where he "totally was gonna add some high-lights or whatever to make them into fruit").

"Ten minute warning!" The old woman called out. Everyone filtered to the sink and trash cans and their artist cubbies where they were encouraged to cover their pallets in plastic-wrap to save their unused paint. Feliciano was notorious for working until the end of class, speeding through the cleaning process in a solid minute because he wanted as much time as he could get away with to paint. Once he started something, he couldn't leave it unfinished. It was, as his friend Kiku called it, curse of the artist.

It was three minutes until classes changed; most students sat and pulled their chairs together, or waited at the door like dogs. Feliciano walked to the empty sinks and washed out his brushes. He smiled when he turned back to his easel to see Matthew and Alfred had already cleared away his supplies and put them away.

"If we help you clean, then you have more time to paint, and that's more time for us to watch," Matthew would shyly say every time Feliciano asked them about why they helped.

The rest of his classes passed slowly, and lunch was excruciatingly slow considering he didn't have money for food. He sat in the bathroom stalls that day, sketching in his spare notebook until the bell changed classes again. Having last lunch meant switching classes as soon as he was done eating (or in today's case, starving alone in a bathroom).

After school he headed straight into town, on his way to his part-time job at a small flower shop. It was September and the business was slowing down. His hours were being cut shorter and shorter and he joked with Alfred that if he didn't know any better he'd say his boss was trying to get rid of him.

He frowned. It wouldn't be the first time he wasn't wanted.

Feliciano tugged his thin jacket over his arms tighter, the bitter wind causing him to shiver against the fraying fabric. He desperately needed a new jacket; this one was from middle school and only fit because it was his brother, Lovino's, and at the time it was cool to have clothes just a bit too big. He fingered the small, red embroidered tomato on the chest, wishing Lovino hadn't moved out so soon. His brother was twenty-two, while he was seventeen. It was hard having him away.

Feliciano smiled when he saw the storefront, the large windows full of colorful flowers and ribbons. He walked in, waving to his boss, Roderich Edelstein. He entered the "employee's only" stock room, cramming his books into the small locker and putting his jacket up on a rusty hook. Then he tied on an oversized apron with the company name Edelstein Florists in cracked print; the apron was so large it had to be wrapped around the young Italian's slender waist to resemble a dress.

"Good evening, Mr. Edelstein," he chirped when he reemerged from the stock area.

"Hello to you, too, Italy," he smirked.

Feliciano chuckled while he walked around the displayed flowers, checking for dead leaves to trim. "You're real funny, Austria." A small giggle alerted them to the woman at the front door: Elizaveta, Mr. Edelstein's young wife.

"Are you two still doing that?" She smiled softly and skirted around Feliciano to get a closer look at some white poppy flowers, delicately lifting the petals with her hands and taking in the scent.

Feliciano had an art-based mind, meaning he did poorly in other classes. While he enjoyed World History, mostly because of the renaissance period and the amazing art to come from it, he didn't have the memory to hold in the text from books or words from lectures. He nearly failed his sophomore year history class, almost having to quit his job at the flower shop, until Roderich decided the best route to take was to help Feliciano study at work since he clearly didn't at home.

"It's only been a month," he told his wife. "We can't let Feliciano fail History. I can't have my best worker quitting on me!"

Feliciano pulled a browning flower from the back of a display. "I'm your only worker," he laughed.

"I know."

The door had an old bell attached to it, dinging loudly whenever a patron entered. The bell dinged loudly as a regular, Ivan Braginsky, came into the florescent-lit shop.

"Hello, Mr. Braginsky!" Feliciano called from behind a large potted sunflower.

"Well, hello, Feli," he replied in his usual Russian accent. He continued to the counter, talking briefly with Roderich as Feliciano cut a few sunflowers by the stems and wrapped them up. He thanked the young teen while he handed Roderich his money. "My sisters will love these," he smiled.

He was gone in an instant and Roderich's eye twinkled before he pounced. "POP QUIZ!"

Feliciano moaned. His boss, to ensure he didn't fail, hammered him with pop quizzes on history (focusing on the World Wars) randomly throughout work days. To make sure he didn't forget, he'd ask the same questions multiple times. He said he didn't want Feli to skate through life on beginner's luck.

"What two countries are like sisters to Russia?"

He should have known he'd get a Russia question: Ivan was Russian, and a natural choice to represent the nation for his studies. "Belarus and the Ukraine," he sang out. Roderich smiled.

"See, Italy? I knew you could memorize this if you could see the nations as faces!" He tossed a candy bar to the teen (the traditional reward for correct quiz answers), who snatched it up greedily and ate it instantly. He hummed in contentment.

Elizaveta swept the floor and watched the boys from afar, feeling warm inside, proud them. Ever since Feliciano began working for them he's been like family, even if he doesn't know it yet. There was something charming about the clumsy teen. She checked her watch, calling out, "Feli, honey, it's seven. Time to go home." She was always surprised when Feliciano would frown and quickly recover at the idea. The three of them did one more sweep of the shop, cleaning up the rest of the spilled dirt or fallen petals. They sent Feliciano out ahead of them while they locked the shop up.

"Good night, Mr. Edelstein! Good night, Elizaveta!"

He fumbled with his jacket's zipper as he walked down the dimly-lit sidewalk before remembering it had been busted since January. "I really need a new jacket," he hummed to himself. It was nearly eight o'clock by the time he returned home and, though he lived close to work and school, he made an effort to be late on his return trips. His parents didn't need to know it only took ten to twenty minutes on a good day to get to town or to school.

He gripped his books to his chest tightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to another, eventually gaining the courage to open the front door, which was unlocked as usual. The floorboards creaked under his weight and the door made a loud wood-on-wood scratching noise since the door wasn't aligned right with the frame. The house was cheap and everyone knew it, though that was far from why Feliciano never had guests over. Or friends. Or anyone.

He toed his shoes off, carrying them in his other hand as he walked to his room. In all honestly he was surprised no one stopped him yet. His father was usually on the living room couch (being the first room you enter when you enter the house). His mother was always in her bedroom, another place he had to pass through to enter his small sanctum. Remembering the teacher note he, for once, hoped frantically they hadn't left without telling him again. He knew he was in trouble for having a note, but he was dead if they had to get called by the school.

He made it to his bedroom, pushing the solid door open with his shoulder. The doorknob was broken and in the kitchen drawer, leaving his room to be the easiest one in the entire house to "break into." He stopped when he saw his parents sitting on his bed, the mattress sagging heavily under their combined weight and the broken spring box. They looked livid and their eyes told them they had been drinking.

Dad drinking alone was bad. Mom drinking alone was bad. Dad and mom drinking together? He was inevitably screwed.

His father was a large Italian man, fresh off the boat and very mean. His mother was the seventeen-year old who he married in a teenage act of rebellion against her parents. Neither had graduated school, and both blamed it all on Feliciano. Lovino was born when their mom was eighteen, but he wasn't around to be yelled at anymore. Logic took a backseat and anger took control of everything and anything.

"What is this?" His mother slurred, holding up a beginning-of-the-year test Feliciano took (and failed) in World History. "F? You failed a fucking test on where you're from?"

"Mi dispiace, mamma," Feliciano panicked. "It was to see how much we already knew and they teach history differently from middle school did—"

The rage in his father's eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. "Che cosa?" he screamed. The burly man continued to yell in slurred Italian. He was accusing Feliciano of trying to lie, though Feliciano couldn't make out half the words. His father was already on his feet, his arm swung back and hit Feliciano's cheek so hard it knocked him and his belongings on the dirty floor. His eyes stung and he opened them to see his sprawled out notebooks and an empty liquor bottle. His father stepped over him (not before stepping on his hand) and turned to his wife, slurring for her to come with him before walking out to collapse on the couch.

His drunken mother narrowed her eyes when he saw Feliciano weakly pull his books together in a pile, the teacher's note falling freely to the floor. "What's that?"

Feli swallowed. "A… a teacher note…"

"The fuck did you do this time?"

He stumbled to his feet, taking his father's place on the bed and handing the note over. "I was late to class again… he wants to talk with you about it…"

Another smack on the cheek had him reeling while his mother angrily walked away with the note, slamming the door the best she could. Feliciano stared at the round hole in the wood, barely making out his mother walking in the direction of her room. The loud snores of his father calmed him down and the fear crept away, though never fully leaving. He curled up under his blanket, closing his eyes, forcing his burning cheek against the cool pillow.

A/N: The story title is taken from the song "Silence Louder Than Thunder" by The Devil Wears Prada. It was that song that inspired the story, actually. Chapter titles will be songs that I listened to and felt related to the chapter... because I'm a nerd and naming things is hard.

"Into the Ocean" by Blue October.

I want to swim away but don't know how

Sometimes it feels just like I'm falling in the ocean

Let the waves up take me down

Let the hurricane set in motion

Let the rain of what I feel right now... come down

Let the rain come down