warnings: child abuse, neglect, addiction, mental illness, alcoholism.

you can't change reality, just your perception

Ed is eleven and almost-a-half on the day Al turns ten. It's a quiet affair; just the two of them and Daddy, sitting at the kitchen counter eating store bought cake. Al is wearing a sweater that Ed made for him out of their old, too-small clothing. It was cheaper than buying one from a shop, and he did use his quirk to make it, so it wasn't exactly difficult, but Al had beamed after unwrapping it from the crumpled sports pages of that week's Sunday Times, and proclaimed it was the best birthday present he'd ever had—right after he'd opened the new sci-fi novel Daddy had found for him at the local charity shop. Daddy hadn't looked upset at all at the revelation, and Ed had caught him staring at the sweater with pride.

Which doesn't make sense, because it was Ed who made it, not Daddy.

Al doesn't have friends over because he doesn't have any. The kids at school still won't talk to him. Ed does what he can, but Al is in the school year below him, and while he's able to hang out with his little brother at playtime, Al is on his own in lessons.

Next year, when Ed transfers to their local junior high, Al will be on his own during playtime too.

It's not something he likes to think about. He doesn't know what he's going to do, for all that his teachers call him a genius, he honestly has no idea how to protect his brother.

But that isn't today—it's not even tomorrow. They have time—or rather, Ed has time. He'll think of something. He has to. And if worst comes to worst, he can just flunk his exams so they hold him back a year. Anything is better than Al getting hurt, and if that's the way it has to be then he'll do it. It shouldn't stop them from living their lives—Al will still be able to have a normal life.

Al's the one who matters.

"Can we get a cat, Daddy?" Al asks, curiously.

Daddy, who is sober and eating a second slice of birthday cake, chuckles. "You know, kiddo, a cat is going to be a lot of work. Are you sure you want one?"

Al, the newly ten year old boy, who likes cats and birthdays and heroes, matters more than the rest of the world, to Ed.

"Uh huh," Al stuffs another bite of fluffy icing and crumbs into his mouth. "I'm sure. Cats are my favourite."

Cats are a lot of work and they're expensive, even if they take in a stray, because of vet bills and cat food and all the other things cats need. Daddy has a part time job now, so they don't exactly have no money, but they sure don't have much to spare. Ed grimaces, because he knows Daddy can't say no to Al, and they really can't afford another mouth to feed.

"Sure, kid," Daddy says lightly. "I'll pick up a few extra hours at the shop. We'll get you a cat."

"Really? When?" Al grins, eyes bright as he peppers Daddy with questions. "Can we call it Butter? Do you think we can get a kitten? Should we get a boy or a girl? And do you—"

Ed tunes them both out. He's already started thinking about how he's going to break the news to Al. There's a reason Daddy's not in full time work, and there's a reason he doesn't usually pick up extra hours at the shop. Daddy's usually crying when he's not working, or he's drunk, or both. So they won't be able to afford a cat.

He thinks Al probably knows all this, but his little brother is and always has been an optimist.

Daddy is the same. Daddy is optimistic, for someone who's so often sad, but it always shows itself at the wrong time. Like now, because he somehow thinks he's going to be able to pull himself together enough to buy Al a cat of all things, and Ed is going to have to pick up the pieces.

"If we get a girl kitty," Al stabs at Ed's shoulder with his index finger until he's listening. "She can have babies and we can sell them."

"You're gonna be a cat breeder?" Ed is sceptical. "I thought you wanted to be a hero."

"Heroes can breed cats," Al replies confidently, with the air of a hero who does just that. "I can do both. Can I have another slice, Daddy?"

"Sure thing, kiddiekins," Daddy heaps another sickening helping of jammy victoria-sponge onto Al's plate. "Tell me again, what's your hero name going to be?"

It's supposed to be a good day. It's Al's birthday, and Al is turning ten, which is his first foray into double digits—and from then on out he's going to have to get through another ninety years until triple digits, so Ed reckons this is kind of a big deal.

It has been a good day. Al's been happy, which is Ed's measure for the good versus the bad days, doubly so since Al deserves to be happy today, not that he ever doesn't of course, but Ed is sure even Daddy understands the importance of being happy on birthdays.

But then Daddy disappears, maybe an hour after the cake, and Ed's heart practically sinks through the floor, even as he lugs himself off the couch to go searching, because they've been here so many times and he knows what's going on before he's even set foot in his father's bedroom. He enters anyway, because they've played this game before, only it isn't so much a game as it is a worn-out, bone-wearying farce of a routine.

Daddy is sitting crossed-legged on the floor, his shoulders against the bed frame. He's clutching a half-empty bottle of clear liquid—Vodka, Ed feels confident enough to presume—in one hand and his face in the other. He's crying, and he reaches for Ed when he sees him.

Ed takes a step back. "It's Al's birthday."

Daddy's face twists. "Eddie, your mother—"

"Don't call me that."

"Edward—"

He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know why Daddy's suddenly talking about her again—and in most of the ways that matter, he doesn't actually care.

"It's Al's birthday!" Ed snaps, and suddenly he's crying too. "Al's birthday! This has nothing to do with Mummy! Why are you so obsessed with her, Dad? She's dead. She's dead and she's never coming back and you're never, ever going to see her again," he wants to scream and hit his stupid dad in his stupid face but he doesn't, because he doesn't want to hurt him, he just wants—he just wants.

Daddy's eyes are wide, and for a moment Ed thinks he isn't going to speak, before; "Get out."

"I—" Ed stumbles back another step as Daddy rises to his feet.

"Get. Out." Daddy's fist is clenched. "I mean it, kid. Beat it."

Ed will look back on this moment with regret, because maybe—maybe he could've said something else; done something else. Maybe Daddy wouldn't then have ended up drinking the other half of that bottle, and maybe things would have been different if he hadn't. Maybe Al—

But Tomorrow Ed is not Today Ed. Today Ed doesn't know what he will or won't regret. Today Ed is an eleven year old child trying desperately to be a parent to his ten year old younger brother. Today, Ed is angry.

"What if I don't?" Ed goads, adrenaline making him bold. "What're you gonna do, Dad? Are you gonna hit me?"

Daddy hasn't hit him before. Daddy, as far as Ed knows, hasn't ever hit anyone.

But, in that moment, Ed finds himself flying back against the half-open door, cheek red and throbbing.

"You—" Ed stares. He stares, because all of a sudden he doesn't know the man in front of him. He doesn't know Daddy. "You actually did it."

Daddy's still sobbing. "I told you," he slurs his words. "Get out, Edward."

Ed gets out.

They're making dinner for two. Pasta and tomato sauce, bubbling on the stove, just as merry as it would have been on any other day—which is why if Ed could hate pasta he would, because he's spiteful like that. But that isn't going to work out at all, because he's hungry, and he thinks he might be incapable of hating anything edible at this point.

At least they don't have to eat anything green today. Al's using the healthy portion of tonight's dinner as an ice pack against Ed's face. Ed is mostly humouring him, as much as fidgeting, cross-armed and frowny faced, at the counter counts as humouring.

"Daddy punched you, didn't he?"

Ed scowls. He doesn't say anything, because he doesn't like lying to Al—but all the same, some things are better left unsaid, and this, he thinks, is one of them.

"I want to tell someone," Al presses the frozen peas a little too forcefully against Ed's cheekbone. Maybe on purpose. "We're gonna tell someone, right?" Ed must take too long to answer, because Al gasps and shakes his shoulder. "Ed, we have to."

"No," Ed finally finds his voice, though even he can hear how much it's shaking. "No, Al. It was my fault he did. I practically begged him to."

Al frowns. He's always quiet when he's thinking, which is pretty much the opposite to how Ed works. Ed is loud and shouts his unfiltered thoughts and gets into trouble because of it. In all honesty, Al is probably this way because he's quirkless. It helps him to be unnoticeable—which is sad, but Ed won't begrudge him the only way he has to defend himself.

But just because Al's quiet, it doesn't mean he's not smart. Ed knows this better than anyone.

Which is probably why Al comes to the conclusion he does. "I don't think it matters what you did," is what he ends up saying. "I don't think Daddy should have hit you. I think he was wrong to do that."

Al's right. Ed knows Al's right. He hasn't spent most of his life advocating for his little brother not to know what abuse is. He knows Daddy doesn't always treat them right—that's why he's the one looking after Al.

The problem is, Daddy is sick. It's not the stomach ache kind of sick, or the fever kind—Daddy says it's inside his head. He tries to look after Ed and Al but he's sick and so sometimes he can't, and that is why Ed has to make sure Al eats his peas and goes to bed on time. When Daddy drinks the way he does, he's just trying to cope. It's not his fault.

And even though they argue a lot, Ed loves Daddy, and he knows that Daddy loves him and Al too.

"If we tell," Ed counters as though he's brandishing a sword made of putty. For all that he knows he's right, he doesn't want to hurt Al. "We might not be allowed to live here anymore." He meets Al's golden gaze. His little brother's eyes are wide with uncertainty. "You do understand that, don't you?"

Al swallows almost nervously, and Ed only comprehends why when he begins to speak. "Would that be so bad?" He stares at the floor, refusing to make eye contact even when Ed looks for it. "Maybe it would be better?"

"We might be split up," Ed says plainly.

"I know," Al's voice shakes, a tell-tale sign that he's about to cry. "But, Ed, I don't want you to get hurt. If—if Daddy is starting to hurt you, I—I think we have to tell."

"You think you can protect yourself?" Ed suddenly finds himself standing, the peas falling to the floor as he grasps Al's shoulders. "It'll be like it is in school but worse, Al. You're quirkless, so they're gonna try to get you like they always do, and then you're not gonna be able to defend yourself because you're quirkless." It's a vicious cycle, and Ed knows, knows that Al won't make it. He knows his brother, maybe better than he does himself, and he knows that if he allows the world to beat Al down like that, the younger boy will break.

Al's expression belongs on a cracked mirror. Ed doesn't think he's ever seen him look like that before, and he has to swallow down the shock as he's shoved away, as Al chokes on his tears. "You think I can just stand by and watch you get hurt?" His little brother is almost shouting, which is wrong and weird and— "How can I become a hero if I do that, Ed? Heroes don't just watch. They save people. If—" Al takes a juddering breath. "If I can't become a hero because I'm quirkless, then—"

"You can," Ed hurriedly interrupts. "Of course you can, Al. I've told you—"

"You just said I couldn't!"

Ed is stunned silent.

"You said I couldn't!" Al sobs, and he's crying and it's Ed's fault. He made his little brother cry— "You said I couldn't defend myself because I'm quirkless. I want to be a hero so I can save people! I want to save you, but if I can't even defend myself then I don't know how I—how I can—" he dissolves into tears, the rest of his sentence unintelligible amidst the bawling.

"I didn't—" Ed swallows. He's messed up. He has to fix this. "I didn't mean it, Al. I just—I want to protect you. You're my little brother. I can't do that if we're not together."

"Yeah, well you can't do that if Daddy hits you either," Al's chin juts out defiantly. "He's bigger than you, and he's crazy too. He might kill you."

Crazy. Ed hasn't ever thought about it like that—Daddy's sick, not crazy. There's a difference, but it's a difference that their father has explained to Ed. Neither of them have ever talked to Al about it, because seeing Al cry is the worst thing in the world.

So, Al doesn't understand, and that's probably a mistake.

They're at an impasse, because it's not like either of them are going to back down and just let the other get hurt for their own sake—but they can't stay this way either, red-faced and teary and glaring.

Ed holds out an arm. "Hug?" he gestures weakly, hurriedly scrubbing at the few salt water tracks that have made their way down his own cheeks with his other hand. "Please?"

It's only when Al is clinging steadfastly to him that he realises something is wrong. It takes him just a few seconds to identify it, but he can smell smoke, and where there's smoke, there's fire. In their crummy apartment block with it's poor ventilation and papier-mache walls, the possibilities are almost universally disastrous.

So it's with a stiffness that comes from having his fraught nerves wound one too many times that Ed pulls back, shoving at his brother until they're face to face. "We need to get out of here."

Somewhere in the near distance, alarms begin to blare.

notes:

so... that was a lot

with Al calling their Dad crazy, he doesn't understand mental illness and addiction, and he's never been taught, so he's just trying to explain it in his own ten year old way. I just thought I should clarify that.

regardless, I hope you guys liked it!