A/N: Hey there! I hope you don't mind, I'd just like to say a few words before we get on to the story.
First off, in this fic (for the most part), we'll be telling the stories of the TF2 characters before they became mercs. All genres will be included - some chapters will be angsty, some fluffy, some funny, some downright ridiculous - basically, a little bit of everything. I'll let you know which one each story belongs in beforehand. We'll also have more than one chapter for most of the characters, depending on how much we think there is to tell.
Secondly, we already have ideas for what we want to write for them, but if you have any prompts, headcanons, or something you'd like us to write, don't hesitate to tell us! We always love to hear from you guys.
Phew! That was a long A/N. Shoutout to all of you still reading this. Anyway, let's get on to the chapter!
Pyro
Angst/Family
And so that night, as it had every other, the music would begin to play.
Firstly, the sound of the conductor stepping up to the podium; the beginning. The child's father, a large man with oily skin that matched the tones of the wooden walls, entered the living room. The floor groaned with every step he took, hinges sang from an opening door. The harsh, pungent smell of something the child knew far too well followed the man as he stumbled into the room, leaning on the doorframe, mumbling obscenities under his breath. Papa always did smell funny, the child thought. Sticky, sweaty, like he hadn't showered in days. The man's face was painted with dirt and grease. The stubble of his white beard glowed like stars against his dark skin. Beads of sweat gleamed on his collarbones like his wife's old pearls - lost many years ago to an unknown man to whom papa had owed a debt. Above him, a single light bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying lightly in the subtle night's breeze, casting strange, blotchy shadows on his already dark face.
Quiet. A pause, a breath, a moment of silence before the show may begin. Then, the dancer - the mother's hand would sway to her child and tighten on their shoulder, so hard it would leave a bruise on their soft skin, afraid of what would happen if she'd let them go. Terrified of what would happen if she didn't. The child felt her heart beat through her small palm.
Had someone asked Avi what they'd thought of their mother, they would have simply called her thin. Her body was thin, her fingers were thin, her nose, her lips, were all very thin. On top of a thin neck stood a thin face, and around it, thin hair. Her clothing was always thin, her voice was thin, the soup she made for them every day was always thin.
And in front of their father, she did look very thin indeed.
Father slammed a fat fist on the coffee table, steadying himself and grimacing. His smell grew stronger - had Avi not been accustomed to it, they would have very well been sick. Grime hid beneath his yellow fingernails, and his mouth parted slightly. Papa's teeth were like tombstones - a graveyard was hidden behind his lips. He danced - one foot finding its way in front of the other, left right, left right. It did not follow any beat or any rhythm, any tune that Avi had heard before.
"Go to your room darling," mother spoke. Her voice sounded like ashes rising from a fire. He looked up at his mother again, not to protest, but to understand. Her face was far too young to be as wrinkled as it was now: too many tired creases were drawn across her face, too many sagging folds pulled at her meek features. The child had wondered, what would she have looked like without them? They could not picture it. No, they decided, the wrinkles on her face belonged where they were - when she'd smile, they'd smile with her. When she'd frown, they'd frown with her. Mama.
Carefully, slowly, it was their turn to move. Avi learned the floorboards by heart - which one was where, their shape, their size, how hard they could step on each one until it would cry. They counted their steps, not missing a beat. Without daring to look back, they stepped into the hallway, and snuck into their room.
Avi turned the rusted key that hung from its keyhole, the faint snaps of a lock clicking filling the air. The door itself was etched with knife marks, painted with dirt, flecked by imperfections. Splinters stood out of it at awkward angles and the doorknob fell off if they turned it too hard. It provided little protection - the child themselves could have very well knocked it down - but still, it gave a sense of safety, if a false one.
Night was stealing into the room, enveloping their trim physique in fluid shadows. Through thin walls, Avi heard a scream, a yell, a plea. Then a crash. How strange it was - every night the voices seemed to grow more quiet, the sounds softer, so much that they could barely hear them over the hiss of ferocious wind clawing at their window. Did mama yell less, or did the child stop noticing?
Silently, like a cat about to bounce on their prey, Avi stole his way to the closet. It was an old, flimsy thing. Dark and large, with a missing door. They placed one foot on the lower shelf and hoisted themselves upwards, feeling around the top of it. Between the dust and lint, their fingers felt it - the rectangle shape, the rough paper on one side. Victoriously, they pulled out their most precious treasure.
The front of the box was worn off, yet patches of green paint still hung on to the thin cardboard. They pushed it open. The sound of matches tumbling over each other followed as Avi fingered through the box, as though they were impatient to be lit, to be sent up in smoke. To be free. To be burned. A warm sensation came over them, crawling under their skin, begging to be let out, enveloping their very soul at the thought.
Deep breath, they instructed themself. Deep breath. They must not light inside. Their small table was already freckled with burns and deep gouges - they mustn't make more.
As carefully as holding a delicate sparrow, they placed the matchbox in their pocket, preparing themselves for the hours before them.
The child slowly opened their window, careful to not cut themselves on jagged glass. They hoisted themselves upwards, thin legs finding their way into the night's air, bare feet meeting barren ground with a thud. Though most of the ground had dried up from today's rain, it was still strangely soft under their soles.
They slowly walked through the yard, a juggernaut of stars above them. Violent silhouettes danced on the living room's curtains, cutting away at the gentle light. They did not look at them, they did not notice them; that dance had been long worn out of any meaning to them.
The child crawled under the fence, gentle patches of grass tickling their skin as they made their way into the forest. They walked into the almost-warm, not quite cool night, following the path that lead to the trees. There was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and they looked around and realized that this was quite impossible so late in the year.
Little droplets of water washed away dirt from their skin as they walked through the undergrowth and into the forest, breathing in familiar coolness that accompanied nightfall. Even in the growing dark, the forest seemed to be breathing. The warm air hummed, leaving a metallic taste coating their tongue. Moonlight fought to break through the trees, scattering flecks of white onto the ground. Avi, however, did not need it - they knew their path by heart.
They walked until they reached a clearing, a circle no more than five feet wide, bare of any vegetation. There, the child sat down, thankful that the ground here wasn't as moist. Their hands slightly shaking, their copper eyes burning in the dark with the thoughts of what was to come, they took out their matchbox.
Deep breaths
The match hissed as it was scraped over rough paper, flying across the side of the box, letting out bright sparks, and finally, setting off into a flame. Avi watched it with longing, their face basked in a small, yet fierce light. Their fingers quivering, blessed to hold such magic. Blue at the base, flowing into deep oranges above and finally diving into a brilliant yellow at the tip, the flames licked the air, swirling, flickering, dancing. A warm sensation came over the child from watching it burn, not just from their fingers, but from their very being. They felt their lustrous thoughts sway with the flame, their shoulders, their legs tensing with the darkening wood. They needed more. They needed much, much more.
The match had gone out, dwindled into nothing but a twig darker than the night itself. No matter - the child gathered what few dry sticks they could find, thankful that the overgrowth had protected its lower branches from dampening, and set them into the middle of the barren ring. They took out a small ball of tinder from their pocket, the tips of their fingers glowing as it was set ablaze by another match. They set it down with the wood and watched it with great interest. Small flames as eager as the child themselves snatched at the bark, sending a kiss of smoke into the night. The leaves curled under the heat, throwing ashen doves lilting in the air. It was a pleasure to burn. Seeing the dull brown spark into a bright flame, so vigorous, so alive, then slowly melt into the darkness of the night. It was powerful, it was wild, yet they - a mere child - could conduct it as they wished. When it grew low, they could feed it. When it burned like passion and clawed at the night with bright fingers, like a lion begging to be let out of it's cage, they could extinguish it. They could change any object in the world with it, make it disappear as though it had never even existed. Flames, they knew, were nothing short of magic.
Slowly, gently, the child lay down next to the fire. This light, this warmth, this familiarity was their home. It called to them, it spoke to them, it comforted them. They shut their eyes, steeping themselves into darkness. The only sounds in the world were the crackling of fire, the gentle wind stirring leaves above them, and their breath, rising and falling with the flicker of the flames.
Hours later, the child awoke. The bright spark of dawn had replaced the silvery moonlight, it's colors mixing in with the dying flames. Avi did not want to leave. They knew, however, that they must. Mama would be worried. Their soul warmed, their fingers curled, their mind stoked by the night's events, Avi made their way back through the undergrowth.
By the time they'd gotten home, the sun had finished peaking over the horizon. It warmed their cool skin as they climbed into their room, putting the matchbox back in it's place with great care.
That morning, the matress' springs sang as they crawled into their bed, a fiery smile gripped at their face. It never went away, that smile, that tingling under their skin, that fire in their eyes, as long as they remembered.
A/N2: Woah, that was really angsty. On the bright side, this is probably the most angsty chapter we'll have.
You may have noticed that I used 'we' in the first A/N. This fic is being written by two people: my friend, Cynthia (which I'd like to both thank and condemn for introducing me to TF2), and me, Sonia. Reviews are always appreciated - like I said, we love hearing from you guys!
See you in the next chapter