Carlos was six when he learned not to cry. Crying made everything worse. Crying drove Cruella crazy (well crazier) it never failed to make any punishment worse. Carlos learned that he needed to be alone to let the tears fall. When he was locked in the fur closet he sat still fearing the traps that sat with him. It always had to be quiet and soft. Never loud, never too much. Cruella could hear, and then he'd have a real reason to cry. He was eleven the last time he was weak enough to cry from his mother. It was his fault really. He forgot to scrub the insides of the cabinets and Cruella found out. His face stung after she backhanded him. She was screaming that he was a useless runt. That she should let the dogs feed on him. She dragged him by his hair, muttering to herself as she flung him on the floor. He yelped as she stepped on his hand. "Shut it runt." He clamped his mouth shut. She took her cane, worn and chipped like everything on the isle, and let the first blow fall. Over and over she struck him hard and fast. Carlos didn't know how much time had passed, but he felt a familiar burn behind his eyes and panicked. His mother was already out of her mind, if he started crying he didn't know what would happen. He desperately didn't want to find out.
Cruella had let up on the beating, seemingly out of breath. She walked across the room lit a cigarette and returned. "You're useless, no one would want you runt." She tapped the ashes of her cigarette on his skin. "Can't even clean some cabinets." She started muttering to herself as she paced in front of him. She flicked the bud onto him and lit a new one. With a growl, she yanked him to his feet and smacked him when a whimper left his lips. "You're lucky I don't get rid of you." The threat was clear. Carlos nodded. That wasn't the right answer. "Got an attitude huh?" She grabs his face. Her grip was hard enough to bruise. She slammed his face into the wall. "I'll teach you to respect your mother." She pressed her cigarette against his neck. It took everything Carlos had not to whimper. Over and over she burned him until she felt wetness on her hand. She recoiled back as if burned. Her eyes held otherworldly rage. She screamed. Shrill and sharp, she screamed and screamed until she couldn't anymore. Roughly she dragged him out the back door and she threw him in a makeshift cage. He heard the lock click and the door slam before he dared to move. He cried and cried. It was quiet and it held so much anger. Gods, why couldn't he just remember to clean the cabinets? Why was he so stupid! He knows better, He is eleven for fucks sake! He slowly leaned against the wall and sat there for who knows how long. He doesn't know how long he was in the cramped cage, but it was a long time. He was smaller when he was released, easier for Cruella to lift. His mother still didn't talk to him for a while after that, but he made sure to get his chores done, and he never cried in front of anyone since. Not since he went into that cage.
Jay was the oldest out of the gang. Or at least the tallest and strongest. He was pretty sure he was ten when he learned not to cry in front of his father. "You're not a child anymore! You can't be so weak!" Jafar always reminded him that he needed to be a man. He needed to be sly, coy, strong, and tough. He needed to be powerful. He needed to stock the store. Jay had gotten good at stealing pretty early in life. Picking pockets since he was tall enough to reach. He was able to outrun adults once he figured out not to trip over the street debris. It wasn't often Jafar struck Jay, not hard at least. He needed the boy to stock the store after all. But when Jay showed up completely empty-handed, he needed to learn a lesson. Jafar preferred to use a whip, he didn't want to scuff up his hands. Lashing Jay's bareback for every item he should have had. Over and over, blood splattering as the whip hit the oozing liquid. Jay would grunt and take it, but he never apologized and he never cried. He was a man who wasn't supposed to cry. He needed to be tough, he needed to be strong. He was often left to clean himself up and to rest in time to get stuff the next day.
One day he came home with little in his pockets. Mostly jewelry and trinkets he managed to snatch without notice. He tried to take some bigger things but the guy saw him and ran after him. Jay had gotten good at leaping over people and tables, but he was still a kid. When a cart appeared in front of him without warning he tried to flip over but miscalculated. He let out a shout as metal scraped against his legs. Blood trickled down his shins and he winced as he continued to run. The stolen goods were long forgotten, but he ran still fearful of punishment. He collapsed in an alley. Glass stabbed into his skin as he fell. Cursing he tried to stand, slipping and falling into a heap of garbage (?) He sat there for a long while until he could muster the strength to stand. Warily he wandered into his dad's shop. Jafar saw him enter and got what medical supplies he had out. Jay sat at the table and upon Jafar's return reached for the supplies. Jafar smacked his hand away and held out his hand. "What did you bring me?" Jay's eyes burned but he emptied his pockets onto the table. Jafar inspected the haul and left Jay a portion of the supplies. Looking at what was on the table Jay washed his legs and removed the glass. Luckily the cuts weren't too bad so he only needed some of the supplies, but he snagged a few extra things to keep to himself just in case. His father called for him from the storeroom. Wincing, he went to see what Jafar needed. His father was giddy. "Do you know what this is?" Jafar shoved a ring in his face. It was gold with a complex design on a flat top. It was a ring, right?
"Um, a gold ring?"
A light smack hit the back of his head. "No, you fool! It is my seal! A symbol of power!"
Of power he didn't have. Jay would never say it, but it was hard to remember that his father was once a sultan. Jafar was putting the ring on and grabbed Jay's face. "We will rise again one day! We will destroy the people who did this to me!" He let go and admired the ring more. Jay was overwhelmed with exhaustion. He couldn't keep standing, his legs burned and he just wanted to sleep. He didn't even realize that he had started to cry until his face stung from his father's strike. "You will not tarnish this moment!" Jafar looked furious. "I'll give you a reason to cry." He went to retrieve his whip but paused as he gazed at his ring. A cruel smile wrinkled his face as he took his ring and held it in a candle. "Come here boy." Wide eyed Jay slowly moved forward. Jafar snatched his shirt up as he continued to heat the ring. A putrid smell filled the room as the ring was pressed into Jay's shoulder. A guttural noise left Jay as his skin burned and melted around the ring. An ugly burn was left behind when the ring was removed. Jafar smiled and tossed the ring next to the candle. "Now everyone will know you are mine." Jay was sent to his room and was there for two days, not allowed the leave. Jay never cried again after that day.
Evie cried. She cried all the time. It was a wonderful tool when she needed something. Grimhilde taught her how to use it appropriately and how not to cause runs in her makeup. A princess needs to look perfect even when she is brought to tears. She knew how and when to cry. But she never really cried. She never sobbed or screamed. Nothing that could ever be deemed 'ugly' because princesses were not ugly. Her mother never let her forget what happened to ugly princesses. The Evil Queen never hit her beyond an occasional smack. It wouldn't do if Evie's looks were damaged somehow. Instead, she was forced to beautify quite aggressively. Hours of applying makeup over and over until it was deemed worthy. Days without food or workouts to be sure she earned her meals. She couldn't be too skinny, but she could never ever be fat. Hair was done over and over until it was absolutely perfect. Screams echoing the halls if Evie couldn't get it quite right. She was locked away if she was ugly and not allowed to leave the castle. You can't be seen if you aren't beautiful otherwise others will know the truth.
Evie only cried when it was to her advantage. She hadn't cried since her mother sold her for a night to one of the barge workers in exchange for some makeup from the mainland. He was rough and mean. His hands were calloused and hard. He ripped her clothes and bruised her in places she can't quite recall. She was returned to her mother the following mother with the makeup and she couldn't stand for long on her own. Tears streamed down her face and sobs escaped her lips even as her mother screamed. The door to her room shut with a loud thud and a click of the lock made her cry more. Evie couldn't stop the tears no matter how hard she tried. She sobbed until her throat was raw and her face was swollen and red. She desperately held herself willing her mind to stay together, she felt that she couldn't breathe. She felt hollow, a shell of who she used to be. A piece of her was missing and never was coming back. She felt disgusting and no matter how much she bathed it still covered her skin. She learned to be flirty and coy with the men her mother bargained with, but that first night ruined her. Evie cried whenever it gave her what she wanted.
Mal didn't cry. Mal doesn't ever remember crying. She knows she must've when she was a baby, but she wasn't totally sure. Maleficent did not accept weakness, and crying was one she could not afford. She has had her eyes pour when there was dust in her eyes or something, but she never cried. She has endured through her shortcomings enough to know that crying was a death sentence. A crack of her rib as Maleficent's goons kicked her for being late. The sting of her mother's hand on her cheek. The ringing in her ears as stars danced in her vision, a bat swinging nearby. Her lungs burned as her face was held under water. Nothing made Mal cry. Mal learned to let whoever was punishing her have their fun and she would be somewhere else. Somewhere close by, but different. Somewhere she was in charge and not fighting to breathe. She would imagine how she'd get revenge or how she'd make sure she didn't screw up next time. Mal didn't cry but she knew how to make others feel her pain. Her fist was hard and she wasn't scared of anyone. (Except her mother) Mal didn't cry but she knew how to make others sob.