Introductions II.
Nothing's ever really quiet,
When you need distraction to survive.
Yves Davian's anger is cold. Frostbite instead of fire.
He knows a lot about pain and even more about how to deal with it. He knows a lot about shouts through thin walls. He knows a lot about how fast the bruises will fade from his cheekbone, ribs, collarbone. He knows a lot about the type of ache that resides in his neck from tilting it forward and down and away for hours at a time.
Yves knows a lot about a lot of things. Music. Academia. Isolation. Anger. Fear. Disappointment.
Love isn't one of them.
He navigates through life with a careful precision, his interactions measured and deliberate. To those around him, he appears as though he carries an invisible barrier, one that filters and moderates every expression of warmth. His affection is a rare commodity, doled out only on terms that he himself sets, and even then, it's often cloaked in a veneer of detached indifference. Yves' demeanor is one of studied aloofness, a carefully constructed facade that shields himself from the world, because why should he ever let anyone else in?
He cares for Maelle; she shares his own blood. He wants to get her away from their parents. But is that love?
Did he love Tova? She was the one who got his sharp jokes and dry humor, the only person that gave a damn about him when he joined the Academy. And now she's dead, a broken corpse instead of the hellstorm Yves knew her to be. There's a void in his chest that no other person can ever fill; not even his own sister.
At night, on the shoddy mattress he scavenged from a dumpster, Yves wonders if he's even capable of love. He didn't cry at his best friend's funeral. What does that say about him?
He left home to escape his father, but his shadow seems to follow him everywhere, especially now, under the flickering lights in his bathroom.
Yves stares at his own reflection in the cracked mirror. He's struck by the hollowness in his eyes, a familiar image of the emptiness he had always seen in his father. He can almost hear his father's voice in his head, taunting him with the same criticisms he had heard growing up.
Do better! Be faster! Act like you actually care! You call that your best?
Yves' own gaze, flashing with uncertainty, seems to search for any sign of redemption or change. Yet, the reflection offers no easy answers. The lines of his face, though softer and less hardened than his father's, begin to adopt a haunting set of contours—those of tension and rage. The sight of his own eyes, so reminiscent of his father's, strike him with a paralyzing fear that he is becoming the man he despises despite his every effort to chart a different path.
Perhaps there's a version of him somewhere that possesses the ability to make a real human connection. A version that is so unlike his father. But Yves killed any chance of becoming that person in order to survive. In order to win.
It's been three days since he was announced as this year's top volunteer prospect, their district's prize jewel, but he couldn't even enjoy that. While the whole banquet hall glimmered and shone, all he could focus on was Tova's absence. It was supposed to be them, partners till the end. Tova, ever impulsive, decided to break that pact.
And now here is: alone.
He's no stranger to the silence of a space—to isolation. Every morning Yves wakes in a cold bed, to an even colder room. His father ensured that when he kicked Yves out of the house, fists bloodied and teeth bared, enraged that his ticket to glory dared question his true intentions. To think Yves tried to impress the man once upon a time, stayed up all night practicing at the local concert hall until his fingers bled raw.
After Tova died, it didn't matter any longer. He can only imagine what she would've said as he stumbled to her house, shattered but free. A porcelain doll broken beyond repair. Probably something about finally growing a spine.
Imaginary words from a ghost will do him no good, though. Not anymore.
Yves dresses himself in the white of the Academy's uniform, ice freezing his veins despite the thick, summer heat that stifles the room. The shoddy fan one of the ladies at the library gave him works hard to dispel the oppressive heat of the attic he's been renting for the past year. He's been meaning to tinker with the broken blade, but never got around to it. In a few weeks, he won't have the chance. As he fights in the Games, dust will eventually settle on every surface that Yves makes sure to meticulously clean, a time capsule for a boy that may as well have never existed.
Downstairs, in the theater he practiced in as a child, the cool air is a welcome reprieve. Rather than exit through the back to head towards Glamour street, Yves' feet take him through the rows of seats and up the steps of the main stage. The air is thick with the scent of old leather and polished wood, mingling with a faint trace of perfume from previous patrons. The gentle slope of the aisles, lined with polished brass railings, always used to offer a sense of descending into a sacred realm where the mundane is left behind.
Yves is not the little boy with stars in his eyes anymore. All he feels is a profound sense of…emptiness. The atmosphere of the auditorium is heavy with the weight of past brilliance and present apathy.
He reaches his hand out towards the piano, slim fingers hovering above the pristine wood. The lacquer gleams in the gentle light, reflecting the theater's muted colors. Yves runs his fingers delicately over the smooth surface of the piano lid. The wood responds with a subtle resonance, echoing the quality of its construction. He traces the outline of the keys with a light touch, feeling the polished ivory and ebony beneath his fingertips.
As he glides his fingers over the keys, the touch feels foreign and alien, like a ghost of a past self. The sound that emerges is uneven, a jarring contrast to the seamless harmonies that had once flowed so naturally. Each note seems to carry a weight, a burden of unspoken grief and unresolved pain. The music is there, but it feels hollow, as if the keys are mere instruments of his sorrow rather than sources of joy.
If only his parents could see him now.
The scars on his hand have healed since the accident seven years ago, but the emotional wounds remain fresh in spite of his best efforts to bury them in the dirt.
Today, Yves leaves the past behind. He might seem uncaring, frigid even, to his peers but to Yves, it's all white noise. He no longer cares about the approval of others.
Right?
Standing before the instrument that defined his early childhood, Yves wishes he could tell that lie to his younger self. Little fables wrapped in silk, softening the sharp edges of his adolescence. If only he could have convinced himself that everything would be okay, that tomorrow would bring clarity and hope, or that the weight he had to carry wouldn't be so heavy after all. But painting a rosy picture was never an option. The truth? It stings. It feels like cold water splashed in Yves' face—jarring and undeniable.
All these years later, he's become well acquainted with that feeling.
Yves Davian is a logician, cold and still full of anger and grief. But for the first time in what feels like forever, he's made sure to make this all for him. This is his story.
Odi Belsvik knows his pride will be his downfall.
It's a familiar heaviness that settles in his chest, a gnawing awareness that his pride will slowly suffocate him. He can see it now, clear as day: his refusal to ask for help is more than stubbornness; it's a barrier he's built around himself, brick by brick.
Why would he ever reach out? The thought of admitting he might need assistance feels like stepping off a cliff, an act of vulnerability he can't bear. To ask for help would mean acknowledging weakness, and that is something he is unwilling to face.
He often imagines how it might go if he ever did ask for a helping hand. The blank stares, the nervous shuffling of feet, the polite I'm busy or I have my own problems, kid. Who in their right mind would want to burden themselves with his troubles? And why would he ever allow anyone to think his family is not as respectable? Not as strong?
It's pride that pushes him forward; pride that causes Odi's nostrils to be hit with a blast of sour ale as he steps through the door of the only pub in town. The dimly lit interior is filled to the brim with drunken bodies. Obnoxious laughter and incoherent yells blend together into an overwhelming cacophony. Odi hates it here. If it was up to him, he wouldn't be visiting this pathetic place at all.
But Odi's gotten used to not getting what he wants.
Odi takes a step towards the bar as the creaky door swings shut, only to find a pitcher collide with his front. The cup goes flying and alcohol splashes everywhere. A wave of laughter ripples further down the bar, where a group of mill workers sit. His insides flash bright and hot and wild. He wants to throw something. Break something fragile. Destroy anything within his reach. Nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms.
Mira always said he was shit at hiding his emotions.
Odi has to control himself. He's better than that. Broken bottles and screaming matches need to become a thing of the past. If his own father refuses to set a good example, then Odi has to step up. He can't start shit now, despite his clenched teeth and rageful thoughts. Letting his father take the brunt of his anger tonight should be enough to quell his desire to explode on everyone in the pub.
Key word: should.
Odi wipes the excess beer from his face, pushes back his hair, and walks further into the pub. Stepping over spilled drinks and sleeping bodies, he strains his neck looking for the person some might call his father. It's only when he moves toward the back of the building, where the lighting is particularly shit, does he find the fucker.
Slumped over a table, the older man looks dead. Odi tries to push down the momentary relief that fills his chest. Sure, his father is a deadbeat, but their family needs the meager wages he brings home. Erish and Mira can't survive on what he makes at the logging camp. His siblings deserve more than overbaked bread and pine bark soup.
Odi had to grow up fast. He doesn't want the same for his brother and sister. They've lived with a drunk for the past few years, but Odi's tried shielding them away from the worst of it. He's the only one that can take on his father's drunken shouting matches and get him to bed at the end of the night. The only one who can provide for his siblings during his father's days-long disappearances. They still deserve to have at least one parent in their lives.
This isn't the first time he has played this role—the protector, the shield against the world's scrutiny—and it won't be the last. Which explains why he's here now. It's why Odi will continue to make the walk to wherever his father is found next, ready to drag him back to their cabin, away from prying eyes.
A cup full of ale sits next to his father's outstretched hand. Odi doesn't hesitate in turning it over and pouring the liquid over his father's head. The older man springs up, hitting his forehead on the low-hanging light fixture above the table, slumping back in his chair and wincing in pain. Odi meets his father's gaze, still cloudy with stupor and confusion.
"Party's over, asshole. Time to leave."
He's met with an unintelligible mumble. Odi grits his teeth, refusing to engage any further. Clearly, there won't be a conversation happening anytime soon. Honestly, it might be for the best. Like this, Odi has found his father to be more agreeable. Less combative. If he plays his cards right, they won't wake up Mira or Erish upon their arrival home.
Odi takes a few steps out of the way so the graying man can climb out of his seat. Sickness is dried into a swirling pattern on his father's pants, another unfortunate victim of his bad decisions. Odi will have to be the one to clean them in the tub before work tomorrow.
Like usual.
His hand latches onto the fading flannel his father still wears from his day at work, trying to keep the larger man steady. Getting him up from the floor would be an inconvenience Odi doesn't want to deal with right now. With a tight grip on his father's arm, Odi carefully leads them out of the pub. Hoots and hollers sound off as the pair bypass the other inebriated patrons. Odi hates them all. For allowing his father to get this wasted. For allowing themselves to fall off the wagon. He knows for a fact that most of them have families too. Partners and kids that depend on them.
Bear's Creek is a small town. Word travels fast and reputations stick. Like most places in Seven, they're a tight-knit community—fiercely loyal and protective. That doesn't mean they're immune from the problems other people face.
A cool breeze offers respite from the pungent aroma of the ramshackle building. Odi's father is still unstable on his legs, much like a fawn learning to walk for the first time. He resists the urge to kick the drunk's feet out from beneath him. It would be satisfying to see his father face down in the muck, but Odi doesn't want to clean him up any more than he has to tonight.
Once they get home, all he wants to do is sink into his uncomfortable bed. Work starts early tomorrow, which means Odi has to be up even earlier to help everyone else get ready for their own day ahead. Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like if his mother was still around.
Would he be nicer, maybe? More carefree? Less bitter?
Doesn't matter, much. She left and there's no use in dwelling on foolish fantasies. Odi hates her too. Because she left, yes. But also because she left without him.
Odi's father groans in his left ear, arm draped lazily over his shoulder. Taking a deep sigh, he gets a better grip of the sagging man's upper body. Odi's mastered the art of supporting the weight of a drunken man for a few miles. Still, it's going to be a long walk back.
"Alright, you bastard. Let's go home."
The moon hangs low in the sky, its silvery light filtering through the thick canopy of trees that lines the narrow path out of town. Odi trudges forward, the weight of his father's arm slung over his shoulder pulling him down. The man stumbles, the stench of stale alcohol clinging to him like a shroud. Each step feels heavier, not just from the physical burden, but from the shame that churns in his gut.
Odi can feel the eyes of the night watching him—every rustle of leaves seem to whisper judgments, every shadow a reminder of how they look, a father and son tangled in a web of despair. He casts a furtive glance around, half-expecting someone to emerge from the trees, ready to offer help or, worse, pity. Being mauled by a bear would be preferable to letting anyone see the truth of his life.
"Keep moving, just a little further," he whispers, urging his father along as they walk through the shadows. The trees loom above them, the night closing in, and he feels an ache deep in his chest—a longing for a way out, for a breath of fresh air that doesn't reek of regret.
But Odi would rather walk this path alone, facing the suffocating silence of their reality than risk exposing the cracks in their world. As they continue on, he holds his ground, resolute in his pride, even as it threatens to swallow him whole.
Introducing a new face and one that should be familiar.
Ain't got much to say other than thank you for all the support as I get this story back on its feet! I'm excited to actually get past intros this time around. Hopefully you are too.
Chapter title and lyrics sourced from "Keep The Rain" by Searows.