I feel it is my duty to insert a trigger warning for those who have been raped or sexually abused and still feel the trauma of their past experiences. Nothing overtly graphic is written here, but this isn't supposed to make you smile.

If there is character bashing, I didn't mean it and I apologize. The characters were mostly chosen not because of their personalities, but because of who they are and how much family they had that I could use. I understand that, for the most part they are out of character and do not represent their canonical personalities.

This is set in an AU.

One-shot is based on the song Run by Air which was the only song I listened to on repeat while typing this.

Edit: Fixed some narrative shifts that were a mistake that were so kindly pointed out by Verran. Thanks, you rock!

∞§¶•Ω•¶§∞

She supposed that he had been in her life since the day she was born, but her earliest memory of him was when he taught her how to catch toads. She was on the verge of turning five then, an important stage for a child who is just beginning to see the magic of the outdoors.

He'd come over their house often in a disheveled state, as if he'd dropped everything around him just to see her. He had the habit of running his hand over his five o'clock shadow every time she would rub her cheek against his, almost the way a cat does. She liked feeling the rough texture and she wondered when she would be old enough to grow a beard.

He'd laugh when she expressed her wish. "Hopefully never, pet. You are beautiful without one." He called her many nicknames - sport, pet and kid among others. But she especially liked it when he called her pet. She supposed it had something to do with the way he made his lips pop softly at the 'p' sound.

Sometimes he would lift her in the air and whirl her around in a circle, making rudimentary air plane noises with his mouth. She loved that. She loved the way his large, warm hands felt when they wrapped around her waist and held her high above him, secure and stable. She would soar through the air with her hands outstretched as he guided her across the sky. For a moment, she felt boundless, free and powerful. And then he would bring her down to earth and sling her over his shoulder and march around her old house. From there, they'd play dolls, play pretend, color, or go insect hunting. Or he would take her within the deeper parts of the house.

Her parents never spent time with her. They were the kind of parents who dressed her up in frilly pink frocks, itchy stockings, and decorative shoes that pinched, making it painful to take even a step. They were the parents who dragged her along to their stupid dinner parties, the stuffy kind where it wasn't okay to stick your finger up your nose and where you had to use two forks - one for the salad and one for the main course. She never knew which was which, and her parents would lock their jaws in mortification when she used the wrong one for the wrong course. The Onett child, they would later say on the car ride home, always knew which utensil to use. And he got straight A's on his report cards with an Above Satisfactory in the behavior section. They would sigh in disappointment or sometimes bicker with each other about which parent gave her the imperfect genes. Her mother, a beautiful yet gradually aging blonde would snap and say that she was a lady and that she certainly hadn't given her clumsiness.

Her father would retort coldly that his wife may be beautiful and graceful but she was to put it frank, stupid.

The child would sit silently in the backseat, looking at the lights against the dark backdrop of the city. She didn't mind that they didn't attempt to understand her and she didn't mind that they spent most of their married life bickering. After all, he took care of her and that was perfectly fine.

He usually came on the weekends. "Uncle Toad!" she'd squeal, even though his real name wasn't Toad. She called him that because he always caught more toads than she did when they went frog-hunting. He in turn called her Firefly because she captured more of those than he did.

"Magic attracts magic," he said as a way of explanation, the first time they'd compared their jars full of flies. The words didn't make sense to her, but somehow the look in his eye did, whenever he said this.

Sometimes - once a month, really - he didn't show up. When he came the following weekend, he would apologize. "Sorry, sport," he'd say, ruffling her brown hair. There were soft bruise-like shadows under his eyes, suggesting that he'd been up for a very long time. "I wasn't feeling too well." His smiles would be somewhat heavier and weaker at the same time when he said that. She'd bring up her finger and trace his lips, trying to wonder what secret he was trying to hide. She wanted to know.

I wasn't feeling too well.

Somehow she knew that it didn't mean catching the flu or the cold, the way she did every couple of years. It felt to her like there was more to it than that. She had asked her parents once about his illness.

"He's got a problem here and here," her mother had said, pointing to her chest and her head. "He has to talk about the problems he feels in these locations to a doctor once a month."

"Why can't the doctor just give him medicine?"

Her father's mouth twisted underneath his mustache. "Talking is his medicine. Someday, when you're older you'll understand."

She thought she understood slightly. Perhaps it had to do with that sad look in his eyes. She could sometimes see it when he thought she wasn't looking.

He'd stare at her for a moment when she did this, the sensation of her fingers against his lips growing almost unbearable before he would grab her hands and nip at them, prompting her to shout in laughter. He knew how to make her forget. He knew what could make her smile.

He had her wrapped around his finger tightly, and nobody, nobody else had a tighter hold on her than he.

Not even that pesky boy next door who always wore that blue parka and constantly watched her, the one who always had streaks of mud all over his face and snot dripping down his nose. And certainly not that Onett child who was perfect to a fault and pointed his nose down at her. "A C in Math? Well, I suppose you aren't doing very well after all then," she would quote him in lofty tones to her uncle.

He would touch her on the shoulder when she made fun of the boys, lightly, pushing her hair back. She felt the way he'd look at that white, blank stretch of skin, as if analyzing every bit of dip and arch and the way the shadows played across them. He was reading her through her very appearance. "Don't you want any friends, Firefly?"

Without missing a beat - "You're my friend."

His lips would lift up slightly at that, going against gravity. He would pull her against him and run his hands over her hair, her cheeks and eyelids tenderly. He drew her face close to him, his hands running down her arms. She would shiver at the touch. It seemed intimate, secretive, like it was exclusively meant for her but she was still trying to figure out if she liked it or not. She couldn't comprehend why she wouldn't but then...

His hands would lower down to her upper thigh and rest there for a moment. He usually did this when her parents were gone away for the night.

And there it came, as he reached for her in the swallowing darkness, the same question for every visit. "Do you love me, Nana?"

It was said with such child-like wonderment, as if he earnestly wanted and believed what she would say next. There was always the edge of doubt creeping with the way he said her real name. When he didn't call her Firefly, she knew that he was being serious and honestly wanted to know what she really thought.

She knew with absolute certainty what she wanted to respond with but for some reason, she had always hesitated when he asked and she wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was because he sounded uncertain himself that she felt it within herself too. He would balance her on his knee and run his hand down her hair, down her back before coming back up again. He'd bring his hand down her chest and down, down, down between the space of her legs and his hands would still there, feeling the heat there and waiting for her response...

With complete sincerity she said, "I do." His fingers twitched to her response, sliding against the thin layer of cotton.

Because she did, and she would let him do anything to make himself feel better.

∞§¶•Ω•¶§∞

But it didn't last. Someday, little girls have to grow up.

He continued to visit and she went to school, alone and friendless for the most part. There was that Popo Climber, the blue parka boy with the mud-streaked face, who followed her everywhere. It was irritating at first to have him follow her everywhere like a lovesick puppy. The Onett boy - the one they called Ness - would sneer at the sight. "He only likes mud so you must be mud."

It was an unkind thing to say, the kind of thing that only a child of eleven would be creative enough to think of. But by now Nana was used to ignoring his snide comments. However the thought of Popo liking her in that way almost repulsed her. The thought of his face and mouth covered in dirt made her want to gag. His face would not come anywhere near her body if all he liked to do in his spare time was play in the dirt and eat it.

Besides, she already had somebody who made her feel like she was the only person in the world and that was quite enough for her.

This changed in the sixth grade when the Climber boy underwent a metamorphosis of sorts over the summer. He had left with his parents to the beaches of some place called Iceland and so she'd never gotten to witness the change. He had walked into the classroom late on the first day of school and for a moment, Nana thought that he was a completely different boy until he took a seat next to her and offered her an almost barely there smile. He'd had a new haircut, a tan, and strangest of all, his face was clear of dirt. He was no longer the sniveling boy, he was now the boy who when he grinned the right corner of his mouth somehow looked disproportionate to the left side. It surprised Nana that she was okay with this fact and she found herself studying his face more and more, searching for more clues as to how the air in the room seemed to be sucked out entirely every time he occupied it.

Once he caught her staring at him and when their eyes locked he grinned slyly, his confidence crashing over her in waves. She turned away quickly. It was a dance of eye flirtations and she never won any of them. When had he become this way? For as long as she knew Popo wasn't mysterious, he wasn't desirable. He wasn't for her.

And yet...

She would watch him carefully from the corner of her eye as he walked away with Ness, who now deemed him acceptable to keep company with. Every glance she managed to steal at him, she would gripe about it for hours afterward. She would feel the guilt stabbing into every orifice of her body. She wasn't supposed to feel this way about him.

The feelings were confusing and every night, the nights that her uncle wasn't paying her a visit, she'd stare into the darkness and try to figure everything out. She wasn't a bad girl, but feeling this way about two people? She worried her lower lip into a bloody mess night after night.

Uncle Toad asked her what was wrong. He noticed that she no longer detailed her entire week to him. How could she, when her entire days seemed to consist of that Popo Climber boy? She couldn't tell him how she no longer wanted to play their little game under the covers because of the way she'd lose her mind about Climber.

She couldn't remember when it happened, but she began to dread each weekend. Relief would sweep through her body, like a sudden downpour of sleet if he couldn't make it. It was becoming harder for her to pretend that she liked it.

"You've always liked Uncle Toad, though," her mother would say, when she tried to explain that she didn't need a babysitter. She was eleven and she ought to be able to stay home by herself on the weekend.

"Please."

"You're too young."

She felt a savage bite of hatred when she heard that. When would she ever be old enough? She was old enough already...

Old enough to...

It didn't matter to her parents. They could not understand. So she bowed her head silently, and under the flickering fluorescent light in the kitchen she waited for him to come. She was tired of pretending, of doing the clockwork impressions of a happy person. She wondered if he noticed that every flick of her wrist was artificial, that every time she squirmed it wasn't because she was happy.

She no longer wanted to please him.

∞§¶•Ω•¶§∞

She grinned at Popo one day six months later in her room, and her lower lip blossomed in red pain from last night's worry. The grin turned into a grimace.

"What happened?" he asked, noting her expression. She lied and said the sun was in her face. Well, it wasn't a total lie. He was like the sun to her, radiating warmth. He even smelled like it.

He traced her lip with the pad of his thumb lightly, the way she had so many years ago with somebody else... Was the memory even real? It seemed like an old film strip meant for somebody else. But those were his lips and those were her fingers and it was she who had initiated it. She'd gotten herself into this mess after all.

Popo's eyes brought her to the present. She stood still because time seemed halt. The wheels of her brain turned and sputtered and sped up all at once. She could not look away from Climber even though it hurt to look at him this close and to notice the light smatter of freckles across his face, the fringes of soft brown hair that bristled around his face. His features seemed so far to her even though he was only a few inches away.

It became a mistake when he kissed her.

Her heart registered the shock with heartbeats crashing and flowing into her ears, a crescendo of sorts.

Her brain went on autopilot when it couldn't register the shock. So her body knew what to do and acted on instinct. She grabbed his face and pulled him down towards her. She opened her mouth, wrapped her legs around him. It was what she knew. It was how she'd been taught all these years after all. The kiss was a pull of the trigger and this was her conditioned response.

It became her fault when he pulled away, quick as lightening. One moment he was in her vice-like grip and the next second he was ten feet away from her flat against the wall, staring at her with an expression much like how he used to look when he still ate dirt and refused to wipe his nose. Too fast, his eyes seemed to communicate with that slightly dazed yet frightened expression.

"What was that?"

It was all he said before he left, leaving her on the floor of her room.

Nana decided that his tone was not very encouraging. For a long time, she sat there until the sun slowly made it's way down the horizon leaving her in darkness. Once or twice, she sniffled, not bothering to staunch the flow of tears, not bothering to try and hide the shudder that ran through her body with each fresh wave of tears.

What had she done? It was a thoughtless question to block out what she really felt - What she'd known all along in the back of her head and just refused to address because it was too painful to understand.

Her parents did not comment on the redness of her eyes when she came down for dinner. They seemed to gloss over her features, like she was just an empty chair or a faded carpet that had lain on the floor for years and had lost its attractiveness. For one long moment, Nana wanted to yell at them. She just didn't know what she was going to say. But maybe she didn't need to say anything. Maybe all she needed to do was make noise. Would they notice her then?

She studied her mother's face, and the way her eyelashes pointed downwards at her own peas. The eyelashes hid her blue eyes that, when pressed, could quite accurately produce the emotion she needed to get what she wanted. She was a beauty with that voluminous blond hair and even though she was a mother, she still looked like a woman in her late twenties thanks to all the beauty products she lavished on herself.

Her father wasn't really a looker, but then her mother hadn't married him for how he looked. It had been for his wealth.

Watching both of them hardly saying a word to each other nearly broke her heart.

She decided not to say anything at all.

∞§¶•Ω•¶§∞

The next day at school, the Climber boy did not look at her or speak to her. She tried to catch his eye many times, but she wasn't sure what to say. She knew she had to rectify the situation and soon. She wondered if he would tell Onett. She prayed feverishly to nobody that he wouldn't. Did anybody hear her prayers?

But the Onett boy merely sneered at her as he usually did. Other than that he did not say anything that seemed suspicious. When the bell rang and they all walked their separate ways home in the dry heat, Popo decided to say something. The walk home was short - It was probably only ten minutes. But Nana made her feet drag so they could talk more.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"I don't know."

Popo wasn't looking at her, but his face twisted into a gnarled stump of a tree, flat and ruptured at the same time. "Liar."

"Yes," Nana agreed. "But I can't tell you."

Popo was silent for a long time. She watched his eyes withdraw, as if he was searching through his memories, searching for an answer. He was looking, and Nana wondered if she wanted him to find out or not. She still didn't have her answer, even when his eyes lit up and then just as immediately darkened when he came to a conclusion. "That man. Your uncle." He was looking at her now, and Nana wasn't sure if she liked it. His eyes had widened, his face looked incredulous.

There was something about that expression that made her stop walking. "Wait," Nana said, latching onto his arm to prevent him from escaping. She didn't know why he would, but she wasn't prepared to let him go so easily. She had to make him understand. He flinched at the way her fingers, nails bitten to the quick, dug into his arm but he didn't try to pull away. "Don't tell." She bit her lip, ignoring the fact that she'd been doing this for many nights now. What could she say? "He's my uncle." And I love him.

She didn't say it aloud, but she might as well have done it because something seemed to change in Popo's face. His face seemed to close up, withdraw with the tightening of his lips. He wrenched his arm away from her's and left. But not before he looked back and said something that made the blood drain from her face. He whispered it.

She didn't know why it hurt, because she'd heard worse at school. The Onett boy called her many names after all, insulted her even worse. But maybe it was the look on his face before he left. Maybe it was the way he said it. Or maybe it was because it was just the fact that it was Popo who had said it.

"You're sick."

∞§¶•Ω•¶§∞

She came to the decision the moment she saw him on Saturday night. He came in as usual; exhausted but cheery to see her. They played games, talked about Nana and watched TV. Then he grabbed her hand and steered her towards the bedroom. She found herself asking questions she'd never asked herself before.

She knew from the beginning that she never wanted this, that he'd never forced it on her. So how did it happen? When did it begin?

She let him seat her on the bed. Watched him unbuckle his belt in the darkness. Swallowed dryly in anticipation.

"Do you love me, Nana?"

Same doubt written in his eyes. Same...

It would be so easy to say, "I do." Like a wedding vow, or a declaration of something important. It would be so easy to just get it over with, to give him what he wanted.

"I..." she said, slowly leaning towards the next word.

He didn't wait for her to finish. He placed his hand on top of her head, fingers running through her damp hair and lightly grazing against her scalp. Then like a gentle nudge he guided her head down, pressing her lips to his warm, hard surface.

"No," she barely managed to say. She backed away and stared up at him. In the darkness it was hard to read his expression. She wrenched her eyes shut, hoping he wouldn't get mad. She didn't think he would, he never did.

She was right.

"What?"

"I... I can't."

She heard the bed springs creak as he sat down next to her. "What happened? Don't you love me?"

How could she tell him what happened when she didn't even know where to begin? "I do," she said. "But I can't do this." She thought about the way Popo looked at her before he left and swallowed thickly, trying to resist the urge to vomit. "It doesn't feel right."

He didn't say anything. Or if he did, she didn't know what he said because after that a strange sort of buzzing filled her ears. She couldn't decide if it was the result of guilt or relief or shame.

She didn't know when he left. She was still sitting on her bed long until even her parents returned home and shut off all the lights. They didn't check up on her, and for that she was thankful. She felt too lightheaded, too confused to carry on a conversation that required answering questions that seemed perfunctory.

∞§¶•Ω•¶§∞

The news came a week later.

Nana had been doing her homework on the floor, pencil in her mouth, not really paying attention to the words on the page, when her parents came in together. That was odd. Her parents never did anything together if they could help it. Their faces were gray, unsettling. They did not take a seat on the bed. They sat on the floor next to her and her mother did not criticize her for not sitting up straight like a lady. Something was terribly wrong, Nana knew. She wondered if they'd found out what had been going on almost every weekend. She wondered if that was why they sat there with their faces looking like shattered glass. She was in trouble.

"Uncle Luigi is dead."

The report had stated that they'd found him in lukewarm water in his tub. There was a hair dryer in his hand and it was surmised that he'd electrocuted himself.

Nana's parents thought it was because the pills he had been taking weren't working. They nodded sagely to themselves. Yes, that must be it. The poor man couldn't overcome all the psychotic problems he'd had after his wife left him. The depression coupled with the other problems he'd acquired over the years must have led him to the inevitable decision. Her mother wept to herself, daintily like a lady.

Her father was a bit more complicated to read. Grief was fresh on his face. Nana could tell from the way his blue eyes could not seem to focus on one thing for too long. But he did not cry, or if he did it was somewhere private.

They'd found a note, presumably his last words to the world. But nobody understood it.

it was always you firefly. magic attracts more than just magic.

She knew it was for her, but she didn't know what it meant. If what her parents had once said were true, then maybe one day she'd understand it better when she was older.

She didn't cry at the funeral or at all. The words that the priest said slid off her, like water did to plastic. They didn't make sense because they didn't describe who her uncle really was. He was not admirable, he was not great. But he wasn't troubled either, and he wasn't evil.

He just was.

Even she couldn't describe him and she doubted she would ever understand. Did anybody truly understand another human being, down to their very core? Down to their very intimate thoughts?

Popo was at the funeral. He kept trying to catch her eye and afterward, he said something.

"I'm sorry, Nana."

She ignored him. She knew it was the thing that everybody had to say towards the deceased member's family. It was a premeditated response, just like her mother would say, "How was your day?" when she came home from school.

She wasn't going to play for that bullshit. Not anymore.

She wondered if she even deserved to cry, or if he was worth her tears. She didn't know which was right, but either way her face stayed dry, a white backdrop against the black and gray. She took one last glimpse of his face at the wake. He looked asleep.

Ironic, since he had finally fallen into an eternal slumber and she...

...She was finally awake.

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End.