COMPLETE: I'm A Marionette [MATURE]

[Welkamo]

Spoiler: Content warnings

Discussions of sexual abuse, mental illness, self harm, and suicide; mentions of past suicide attempt; injuries and body dysmorphia; intrusive thoughts; past physical, verbal, and sexual abuse; Stockholm Syndrome; religious themes; suicidal ideation

Spoiler: Notes

Special thanks to @Spiteful Murkrow for beta reading this chapter.

Steven left two days after the intervention on the promise that he would come back in two months to reevaluate whether or not his relationship with Wallace and Winona would still be on hiatus. Other terms of their hiatus were laid out—lots of other things. The three agreed to be open to the possibility of forming other sexual or romantic relationships, depending on their various needs. Steven would only make contact with Winona and Wallace (and vice versa) if there was an emergency. The three would all seek out individual therapy to try and address their various issues. And most important of all, Wallace would make a point of taking showers regularly again.

The water rushed out of the faucet, splashing into the bathtub. Wallace was mystified by it. Water was so gentle, so powerful. So calm, so aggressive. A giver of life, a killer.

“Do you want me to help you take off your clothes?” Nicole asked.

Wallace’s bloodshot eyes were wide with fear as he looked up at her. “Can’t I bathe alone?”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself in the bath. You know…” Nicole swallowed. “...I’ve heard of all sorts of ways people kill themselves in the bathroom…” She shook her head. “Not to mention how frail your body still is.”

At that, Wallace had to look down at his body.

“But there are scars all over my body. There’s bruises and imperfections and bad things.”

“Would it be better if Winona helped you bathe?”

Wallace grimaced, then he shook his head. It was no secret to Nicole that Wallace had sex before marriage—she was frankly indifferent to his intimate life—but that didn’t make her implication anymore… embarrassing? Sinful.

“She’s… She’s never seen me naked.” The only color on his face was the blush forming on his cheeks. “We’ve always… I’ve always done… those things fully clothed.”

Duncan rolled into the bathroom. He, too, was covered in splatters of paint, though he seemed to enjoy being a round paint canvas. Wallace smiled as Duncan rolled into his leg.

“Can’t I bathe in my clothes?” Wallace asked.

Nicole sighed, raising her head to her forehead in resignation.

“Will you at least take off the coat?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“Well… if it means you’ll get in the bath.”

-

Wallace’s clothes stuck to his bony body, but at least they covered his bruises and scars.

Nicole let him shower by himself with her supervision. Humiliating, but he’d grown used to being watched while bathing by now. Back in the hospital, Sister Dymphna would watch him shower and brush his teeth and… use the bathroom. She had to so he wouldn’t try to off himself.

Wallace wasn’t thinking of attempting anything right then, but… well, he had attempted something before. Maybe even several times before, when he was drunk and/or high. As shameful as needing someone to watch him shower was, as humiliating as the lack of privacy was, he couldn’t blame Nicole for being so worried about him.

It felt nice to wash the oil and grime out of his hair. It felt nice to let the water cleanse him, envelop him, soothe him, purify him. It felt nice to free his soul of its pain and Sin. It felt nice to be at peace. The water was sacred. The water would protect him. The water would never hurt him. The water would never slap him or choke him or use him or hurt him.

Megalos didn’t hurt you, either.

Go away. Like your therapist said. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the water

Megalos cared for you. Megalos loved you.

Shut up.

The bath afterwards felt like a blanket, maybe even better, with warm water that smelled faintly of lavender. Safe. Safe in the water. Safe with Nicole. Safe with Duncan.

You were safe with Megalos. You were—

“SHUT UP!”

Wallace slammed his hands against the water, splashing water all over Nicole. His heart stopped as he looked at her, and she stared back with wide eyes.

“I’m…” Wallace stuttered. “The thoughts. Miku’s thoughts were loud.”

Nicole’s expression softened, her eyebrows furrowing with worry. “What kind of thoughts?”

“Scary thoughts. Mean thoughts.”

A small bark came from outside of the tub, and Nicole looked down at the floor.

“Duncan?”

(“Put me in the bathtub! I want to help Wallace!”)

Nicole thought for a moment, then she smiled and picked up Duncan to put him in the bathtub. He looked up at Wallace, a big grin on his face.

(“Wallace is safe with his friend Duncan!”)

Being smaller than the average Spheal, Duncan could fit with Wallace. Duncan was eager to float on the water’s surface and spin, spin, spin, but hugs from Wallace were also welcome. He was like a squishy toy, a rubbery ball that would keep Wallace safe from any scary thoughts.

“Can I sleep here?” Wallace asked.

“No,” Nicole chuckled. “It’s not safe.”

Wallace frowned. “But water is safe, and the world is scary.”

“Are beds safe?” Nicole asked.

Wallace about that question for a second.

“Depends.”

“Are beds safer than the garage?”

Annoyed, Wallace flicked water at Nicole. “I like the garage. I’m safe with my art.”

“What kind of art do you make?”

Wallace shuddered, and he picked up Duncan. The Spheal patted a flipper on Wallace’s arm.

“I can’t show you,” Wallace mumbled. “It’s bad.”

Nicole shook her head, but she smiled.

“Wallace, you’re a very talented artist,” Nicole insisted. “I’ve seen the work you’ve done.”

That only made Wallace hold Duncan closer and lean against the side of the tub away from Nicole.

“It’s bad art about bad things.”

Nicole raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

Wallace held Duncan tighter against his chest and shook his head.

-

Wallace wrapped himself under several layers of towels. The water dripping from his hair was quickly cooling down, until it became cold enough to make him shiver.

“Mind if I come in?” Nicole asked as she peeked her head into the bathroom.

“S-sure,” Wallace said, teeth chattering.

A sympathetic smile came to Nicole’s face as she walked into the bathroom. She was holding a blue bag—Winona’s shopping bag.

“Winona bought you a present that might help.”

She took something out of her bag: blue pajamas with fluffy white lining. They looked cozy. Very, very cozy. And a size too big, but something about that fact made them even more comforting in Wallace’s mind. Not to mention the Winona charm of them being Altaria pajamas.

But there was a problem.

“I can’t wear those. I’m supposed to be in mourning.”

Nicole sighed. “Wallace, Megalos wasn’t your father. He wasn’t related to you in any way. You don’t have to keep wearing black, especially to bed.”

“But I need to,” Wallace insisted. “The scripture says—”

Nicole jabbed a finger at Wallace. “The scripture says nothing about wearing mourning clothes at night.”

“It doesn’t not say anything about it!”

Wallace wanted to shoot something back at Nicole, but then he stopped himself. He didn’t want to get into any more fights with her. Instead, he glared at her. Nicole held up her hand, breathing harshly. For a few moments, she didn’t speak.

“Wallace… Spenser told us that we need to respect your grief and all of the emotions that come with it,” Nicole started. “But… well—and maybe it would be helpful if you… talked to him about your grief? I could take you to church every week or every other day, and you two could talk through your feelings.”

Wallace looked down at his feet. “It’s hard to talk about my feelings.”

“What do you mean?”

Wallace leaned against the shower door, sliding down until he could sit and curl up his legs against his chest. “Miku doesn’t like talking about their feelings. It hurts them to talk about it. It’s scary. Scary. Scary.”

-

Winona had always been plagued by worries. Something always seemed to be nagging at her in her head: Was she a strong enough trainer? Was some shadowy figure going to rape and murder her in the streets if she didn’t get all A’s? Was Wallace going to off himself?

Luckily, Wallace was with Nicole, so there was little chance of him attempting to off himself. She was getting A’s—barely. She had other priorities. She was still a Gym Leader, so she was probably a strong enough Trainer.

So then her brain tried to find other things to worry about.

What did Wallace do in the garage? Why was he in there all day? Was he huffing fumes? Was he huffing paint? No, Duncan wouldn’t let that happen… unless Duncan was accidentally huffing fumes himself. Maybe Wallace was accidentally huffing fumes. Or on purpose.

Eventually, Winona’s worries took over the rational part of her mind, and she had to investigate.

She slowly opened the door to the garage. The lights were off, and the air smelled of dust and paint. Alarm bells began to ring, but then the sound of a fan registered in her mind. Good. Air. Ventilation. But was it enough? She flipped on the light switch to check if—

Canvases, paper, canvases, canvases, canvases. Watercolors splatters. Graphite dust. Acrylic blotches. Sketches of Spheal drawn in graphite and red pencil. Lake and ocean landscapes. Charcoal scribbles of arms bloodied with ink. Depictions of consensual sexual acts and… nonconsensual sexual acts. Eyes all over the papers and canvases and walls and floor. Hands scratching the paper and grabbing bodies. Bold, messy scribblings in Chrysosian, Hinodego, and Galarian that blurred into each other:

ΒΟΗΘΗΣΕ ΜΕ ΒΟΗΘΗΣΕ ΜΕ ΒΟΗΘΗΣΕ ΜΕ ΒΟΗΘΗΣΕ ΜΕ

ΔΕΝ ΜΕ ΒΊΑΣΕ ΔΕΝ ΜΕ ΒΊΑΣΕ ΔΕΝ ΜΕ ΒΊΑΣΕ

ΜΕ ΒΊΑΣΕ

DON’T TOUCH ME

病病病

永遠に愛してる

ΌΧΙ ΌΧΙ ΌΧΙ ΌΧΙ ΌΧΙ ΌΧΙ

お前嫌い

GET OUT OF MY HEAD

もう生きたくない

ΕΙΝΑΙ ΔΙΚΟ ΜΟΥ ΛΑΘΟΣ

THEY’RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY

WHY DIDN’T YOU LOVE ME WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME

未来がない 未来がない 未来がない

At some points, the writing became too scratchy or smudged to read, until they blurred into nonsensical scribbles hidden by paint splatters.

Most notable, however, was the large canvas leaning against the garage door. It seemed to be an outline of a person: gangly arms and legs, disproportionately skinny torso, and hair with two distinct curls… an over-exaggerated form of Wallace. Red pencil scratches raked his arms and legs. Blotches of purple watercolors bruised his whole body, most notably his neck. Gray acrylics assaulted his genitalia, upper chest, and mouth.

Winona could only walk around the garage, staring at every drawing. She couldn’t even feel her heart sink; it had already felt the darkest, most awful pain a heart could feel. All she could feel was shock. She didn’t know a whole lot about art, but she could feel the rawness of the drawings bleeding out, like Wallace had cut open his heart and left it out on the table.

She felt like she was walking in on something sacred and desecrating it with the dirt of her awareness of it.

She shut the door rather quickly, her heart racing faster than a Swellow. There wasn’t anyone in the hallway. Good. She hadn’t—

“Winona?”

Fuck.

Wallace’s silhouette appeared in the doorway at the end of the hallway. Her eyes adjusted to the harsh contrast of light and shadows, and she saw he was wearing his pajamas—the pajamas she had gotten for him—under a black robe.

Fear sparkled in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Wallace,” Winona gasped out. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I’m sorry.”

Winona looked back up at Wallace.

“I’m sorry for making such horrible art,” Wallace said. “It’s… it’s how I voice my thoughts and emotions.”

Winona nodded, trying to make sure Wallace wouldn’t misinterpret her body language as anything more than curiosity.

“Is it easier for you to speak with art?”

Wallace nodded. He slowly walked over to Winona as he continued speaking: “No dissociation. Just putting my thoughts on paper.”

“I see.”

Wallace drifted from side to side, until he rested his forehead against Winona’s shoulder. He lazily wrapped an arm around her.

“You know, when I was a kid, I didn’t speak a whole lot. I used ‘Mamá’ and ‘Táta’ to call for my parents, but beyond that, I didn’t speak like a normal child until the age of seven. Instead… I drew.”

As if possessed, his eyes grew wide, and he dashed down the hall and into the living room. He flung open the cabinets, searched through moving boxes scattered around the room, until he found a box with the label “Μίκουρι”.

He pulled out a messy drawing of a child in bed. “Back then, I drew to tell my parents I felt unwell.” as the drawing floated to the ground, he took out another drawing, one of a child crying.

“I also drew to tell them I was sad.” Another paper fell. Another paper was pulled out. “And I drew to tell them I was angry, scared, happy. I drew to tell them I wanted to go with Mamá to the store, to learn our people’s stories with my Táta, to go on a journey to see the world alongside a partner Pokémon. Emotions were overwhelming to me, and words were terrifying.”

Winona’s mind was running faster than Wallace’s hands. He looked close to passing out from fear. On instinct, she grabbed his hands.

“Shh… it’s okay. Sit down.” Winona still had to process what Wallace had just said, but she had to be calm for him.

Wallace collapsed in the chair in the corner, then his head fell in his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

Winona cocked her head. “For what?” Was he apologizing for the art again?

“For making bad art.” He was apologizing again, but Winona couldn’t even be annoyed with him. He seemed genuinely remorseful for some imagined crime he had committed.

Winona knelt on the ground so she could hug Wallace. She was quiet for a moment so Wallace could calm down with deep breaths. His clothes were soft; she chose well.

“Have you ever shown your therapist your drawings?” Winona asked softly. “The ones in the garage, not the ones you drew for your parents.”

“Well, Sister Dymphna and Sister Chara Joy knew about the drawings. I drew them all the time in the hospital. Cyril? Haven’t shown him. Too scared.”

Winona nodded before kissing the top of Wallace’s head.

“Well, maybe you should consider it. I think it might help communicate how you’re feeling, what you’re going through.” Winona tossed her hand. “Stuff like that.”

Wallace still frowned. “Do you think Brother Spenser would like my art?”

Winona nodded. “I think he would. It’s very good art, Wallace. You’re a very good artist.”

“But is it sinful?”

Winona didn’t know how to answer that. She wasn’t religious like Wallace; she believed in spiritual energy that flowed on the wind, not pantheons of gods. But…

“Your creator god also gave humans the freedom to make art, right?”

Wallace raised a curious eyebrow. Some of his despair seemed to fall to the wayside. “Arousésou, yes. They created a world, and humans create art to celebrate it.”

Winona took Wallace’s hands in hers. “Well, the way I see it, art is a way to explore Arousésou’s world, both the good and the bad.” She smiled. “And if they saw that you were using art to explore yourself and your world… they’d be pretty proud.”

Wallace hid his smile with his hand. “The thing is that Arousésou is asleep. Making the universe takes a lot out of a god.”

Wallace’s smile was contagious. “Well, that’s even better.”

Wallace raised a cocky eyebrow. “Because they can’t see the horny pornographic drawings?”

Spoiler: Translation notes

ΒΟΗΘΗΣΕ ΜΕ - HELP ME (Greek)
ΔΕΝ ΜΕ ΒΊΑΣΕ - HE DIDN’T RAPE ME (Greek)
ΜΕ ΒΊΑΣΕ - HE RAPED ME (Greek)
病病病 - sicksicksick (Japanese)
永遠に愛してる - I LOVE YOU FOREVER (Japanese)
ΌΧΙ - NO (Greek)
お前嫌い - I HATE YOU (Japanese)
もう生きたくない - I DON’T WANT TO LIVE ANYMORE (Japanese)
ΕΙΝΑΙ ΔΙΚΟ ΜΟΥ ΛΑΘΟΣ - IT’S MY FAULT (Greek)
未来がない - NO FUTURE (Japanese)
Mamá/Táta - mom/dad. “Táta” is an ancient Greek word for “dad/daddy”. “Babá” is the modern day equivalent, a carry over from Turkish, and since Sootopolitans came to Hoenn pre-Ottoman(????)/Turkish(????) influence, I figured that “Babá” wouldn’t be used for “dad”.
(Special thanks to @lisianthus for help with the Japanese translations)

 

[Welkamo]

Spoiler: Content warnings

Content warnings: Discussions of sexual abuse, mental illness, self harm, and suicide; fucked up perceptions on relationships and power dynamics, mentions of past suicide attempt; injuries and body dysmorphia; intrusive thoughts; past physical, verbal, and sexual abuse; Stockholm Syndrome; suicidal ideation; panic attacks and dissociation

Spoiler: Author's Note

Special thanks to @Spiteful Murkrow for beta reading this chapter.

The first day back at the Gym was, as Wallace expected, terrifying.

As soon as Cockburn announced Wallace’s return—without Wallace’s knowledge that he was returning—the signs already spelled disaster. Media outlets ate it up, sending out responses ranging from the pitiful (“Will Wallace Come Back After Tragedy?!”) to the scornful (“Sootopolis Gym Leader Returns After Accusing Cerulean's Gym Leader of Rape”).

The return to Sootopolis City wasn’t any better. The entrance to the Gym was crowded with people, questions, demands, loud sounds, bright flashes. It was a miracle Wallace made it inside the Gym without passing out or vomiting.

“Welcome back.”

Juan was at the entrance, and Wallace immediately fell into his arms. Luckily, Juan took that as a sign to hug him, even though his body seemed tense with surprise.

“Miku doesn’t like all the people outside,” Wallace whispered.

“Shh… all is well… Come with me, my child.”

With his head down, Wallace stuck to Juan’s side as the two walked down a corridor to the left.

In contrast to the elaborate splendor of the Gym’s waterfalls and tiled floors, the office corridor was much quieter, much simpler, with white tiled floors and wooden doors. Every now and then, there was a framed painting, ten in total—Wallace had examined every one countless times over the years to analyze Juan’s skills as an artist.

Juan’s office was similarly simple with flashes of decor here and there: potted hyacinths in the corner, old books on the wooden shelves, a fish tank of Luvdisc against the wall, a plush chair by a bookshelf holding Paldean and Kalosian textbooks and classics. Wallace was safe here. Wallace was safe here. All would be well.

“Sit down,” Juan said, pointing to the chair in the other corner. His voice was breathy, almost anxious. “I’ll make us some tea. Black, green, or herbal?”

Without looking up, Wallace held up three fingers, indicating he wanted herbal tea. Juan seemed to pick up on Wallace’s use of nonverbal communication from a very young age, and so Wallace felt safe using it around him.

Megalos always demanded that Wallace speak. Megalos never understood.

“Alright then. Well… I have a blend of pine needle and lavender Winona recommended to me. Have you tried it yet?”

Wallace shook his head.

The two were silent as the water poured into the pot, as the pot clattered on the stove, as the water began to boil. Wallace tried to focus on the sounds. He couldn’t look up; he was too scared to see Juan’s expression. (Did he hate Wallace? Was he disappointed?)

Juan knelt in front of Wallace, who turned his gaze to his lap to avoid eye contact.

“Wallace, can you look at me?”

A head shake in response.

“That is quite alright. As long as you can hear me,” Juan reassured him. “I believe it's… a bit thoughtless of Cockburn to be forcing you to go back to the Gym so soon.”

“But I have to be ready!” Wallace shook his fists by his side as he said that. If Cockburn said he had to be ready, he had to be ready.

“Wallace, Wallace, Wallace,” Juan chuckled, “it’s okay if you’re not okay yet. It’s okay if you’re not ready to work at the Gym yet.”

Wallace shook his head. He felt ready to keel over. “But then I’ll get fired and my family will hate me and—”

Juan grabbed Wallace’s hands, gently squeezing them. “Deep breaths… Deep breaths… Breath two three—”

“YOU HAVE TO START ON ONE!!!”

You had to start on one when you counted. That was how things were meant to be. You had to start on one. You had to start on one. YOU HAD TO START ON ONE.

“Hey, Wallace, it’s okay. We’ll start at one then, okay? Can I hold your hands as I count with you?”

Juan was here. Juan was here, still leaning in front of Wallace. Juan was here, still holding Wallace’s hands. Juan was here to keep Wallace safe from the chaos. Juan was here. Juan was here. Juan was here.

“We’re going to count to ten, okay?” Juan’s voice was still calm. It kept Wallace from spiraling out of reality. “Okay.” With each number, Juan raised Wallce’s hand up or down a bit. “One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten…”

With each number, Wallace’s heart rate slowed more and more, until he could notice the feeling of Juan’s smooth hands, notice the feeling of sitting, notice the books on the shelf, notice he was still a real person in a real world.

A world he still wasn’t ready to function in yet.

“Why am I not ready to be normal already?” Wallace muttered.

“It takes time to recover, Wallace,” Juan insisted. “If you broke a bone, you would take time away from work to heal. If you were afflicted with a serious illness of the lungs, you would rest until breathing became easy once more. Why should it be any different now?”

Wallace didn’t have a good answer. He didn’t have any sort of answer. His body and mind were heavy with nothing. All he wanted to do was lay down in bed and drift off to sleep. He still didn’t want to look up at Juan, though now it was because he was too tired to.

“Wallace, why don’t I take care of the Gym duties while you recover?” Juan suggested. “Paperwork is easy to do, and if I increase the difficulty of the Gym puzzle, and if I just convince the Trainers who do get past not to tell Cockburn… why, he'll never know the difference!”

But that won’t… Wallace couldn’t think of a good response. Maybe he was too stressed to, or maybe Juan had a point. Juan was the smartest person Wallace knew, after all.

“I guess so…”

Juan chuckled. “Hahaha, that’s the spirit, my son!”

Son. Not chiquito, but...

“Son?”

Wallace couldn’t see Juan’s face, but he could see his hands tense up.

“It’s-It’s an old saying in… um… A mistranslation of chiquito!” Juan stammered. “You see, it's Paldean for 'my son' and—”

Wallace fell against Juan, flinging his arms around him. Juan gasped, but soon Wallace felt Juan’s arms wrap around him.

Megalos would never hug Wallace—only grab his neck. Megalos would never whisper so kindly to Wallace—only shout at him. Megalos was like Wallace’s father—except Megalos was never like Dorian. Dorian never drugged him, beat him, yelled at him, held him down on the bed to use him—

Juan was… a good replacement for Dorian, and a good replacement for Megalos.

But Juan couldn’t get back the time that Megalos had stolen with beatings, shouting, or rough sex. He couldn’t reverse the pain, the scars and bruises that would haunt Wallace for the rest of his life, or the nightmares that tore at his mind. He couldn’t fix all of Wallace's long-term side effects from being so fucked up: the fertility issues, the esophageal damage, the heart problems—

But Wallace deserved those things for not listening to Megalos. He deserved them for failing to save Sootopolis City. He deserved—WHY THE FUCK DID HE HAVE TO GO THROUGH SO MUCH PAIN?! WHY THE FUCK DID HE HAVE TO GO THROUGH SO MUCH PAIN WHY WHY WHY?!?!

He buried his face against Juan’s chest, sobbing. It was nice to be allowed to cry. It was nice to not have someone yell at him to be a man and stop crying. He wasn’t a man. He was Wallace, and he was afraid. And Juan was here to hold him, care for him, love him.

-

All eyes were on Wallace when he entered the conference room with the other Gym Leaders.

He didn’t look at any of their faces, but he could feel their stares burning into his skin.

“Good to see you again, Wallace,” Wattson said.

There was a world where Wallace wasn’t in this room because he had killed himself. There was a world where he killed himself. That thought alone made him want to run out of the room to have some privacy to cry.

Wallace took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “Good to see you, too.”

“Why don’t you sit in between me and Winona?”

Winona. Thank the heavens. Wallace didn’t know what he would do if she wasn’t a Gym Leader. Sure, the other Hoenn Gym Leaders were nice, but Wallace… well, he didn’t know them. They were like his college roommate Filbert in a way: he knew who they were, but he didn’t know anything about them.

But they sure as hell knew about him now. Thanks to his stupid fucking disobedience, he would forever be known as “the Gym Leader who accused the other Gym Leader of sexual assault”. Wallace had to live with that baggage she forced on him until he either died of heart failure or killed himself.

But what about Lisia? What would she say if she found out her beloved uncle killed himself? What would Sootopolis say if their Gym Leader was tainted with the Sin of suicide? What would your family say if Dorian's fucked-up son continued on the family curse by offing himself?

“Wallace?” Winona whispered. “Do you… need to step out for a moment?”

Wallace looked up at the sound of her voice. “I’m fine.” Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to lie anymore. “Nevermind, I’m not. But I need to stay.”

Winona gave Wallace a small, sympathetic smile, and he looked away to stare at his hands on the table. He felt pathetic. He didn’t deserve to have a girlfriend like Winona. He didn’t deserve to have a friend or even colleague like her. She deserved better, and he deserved to—

“Winona,” Wattson said, “why don’t I… talk to Wallace outside? Maybe it’ll be good for him to get a less attached point of view on… stuff, you know? Besides, he probably needs a break.”

“I don’t,” Wallace insisted. He couldn’t embarrass himself like this, not in front of every single one of his colleagues!

Wallace heard Wattson stand up.

“Come on, youngster.”

-

The next moment, Wallace saw himself outside of the conference room, in a different room, sitting down, shaking. There was the smell of… something. Something sweet. Hot chocolate? His mother made it for him once, but he couldn’t remember much more than that. If only he did.

“So, Wallace,” Wattson began, “how are things?”

Wallace made eye contact with Wattson. A sudden thought struck him, a horrible, terrible flash of him having sex with Wattson. Why had that come up when he looked up? Why wouldn’t it go away?!

Wattson wants sex with you, Wallace. You want him to love you, don’t you?

Stop it stop it stop it stop it I don’t want it stop it

You need to if you want him to love you. You need to if you don’t want him to abandon you.

He thought about all of the older, richer socialites who would attend Megalos’s parties, who needed sexual favours from a young man like Wallace, who Megalos needed to save Sootopolis. He was wanted, needed by other people. He—

“Wallace?”

In a quick, perhaps stupid instinct, Wallace kissed Wattson on the lips. He forced as much fake passion into it as he could, even wrapping his arms around the older man. The older man tasted like... nothing. When he was younger, Wallace imagined kissing would taste like summer rain, but now... not even kissing Winona or Steven tasted like anything.

When Wallace pulled back, Wattson looked… scared? Confused?

“Wallace?!”

Wallace held the older man tighter, resting his head against his chest. He had to be perfect, or he would lose Wattson. He couldn’t lose Wattson. He couldn’t lose anyone.

“Whatever I can do to pay for your service and kindness,” he whispered with faux seduction and hidden desperation, “I am willing to give.” Was Wallace not good enough??? Was Wattson going to hurt him?!?!

“Wallace—”

“Use me for whatever you wish. I’ll do any—”

“Wallace!”

Wallace flinched at Wattson’s raised voice, and he backed away from Wattson and looked up. Wattson… didn’t look angry. His eyes were wide, and his brows were raised. Was Wattson impressed by Wallace’s service? Wallace had to impress him. Had to. If he didn’t—

“Wallace, I don’t want anything like that from you. I’m old enough to be your grandpa or even great-grandpa, and I’m... I'm married!”

Wallace gave Wattson a blank star. That hadn’t stopped people before. Megalos was married. The wealthy socialites of Sootopolis were all married. Wallace should have been married by now, but now he was just a dirty whore.

“So?” Wallace asked. “Don’t you still want… that from me?”

Wattson shook his head. By now, he was… shaking?!

“No!” Wattson shouted. “What on earth would make you say that?”

Wallace responded by falling back against Wattson into… something resembling a hug. Wattson's sweater was soft.

“Then how can I repay you?”

He felt Wattson stiffen. “Repay me?”

“For… for being… nice to me.”

Wattson gently pushed Wallace away, until Wallace was sitting again.

“You’re in therapy, right?” Wattson asked.

“Yes.”

Wattson sighed, and a soft smile appeared on his face. “Good. Keep going to therapy. You need it.”

What was Wattson talking about? What did that have to do with what Wattson needed?

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The smile quickly left Wattson’s face. “Wallace, you don’t… you don’t need…”

“That's how Miku got people to like them.”

Wattson looked at Wallace as though he had just said the stupidest, most impossibly ridiculous thing possible. Fuck, it was the dissociation speech, wasn’t it. It made Wallace sound like a child, not someone worthy of respect.

Wattson sat down in a nearby chair before moving it closer to Wallace. With his hands in his lap, Wattson looked up at Wallace, then down at the ground, then back up at Wallace, then to the wall.

“Wallace, you shouldn’t worry about those sorts of people liking you. People who like you only for your ability to have sex with them are the worst kinds of people,” Watson said. "Especially if they’re in a position of power over you.”

“But then…” Wallace was at a loss for words.

Wattson thought for a moment.

“Let me put it in a different way: Winona’s not in any position above you. She’s not a boss, a teacher, a parental guardian, anything. And you’re not in any position above her,” Watson explained. “My current wife is ten years younger than me, but we met when she was thirty and I was forty. It wasn’t like she was nineteen and I was twenty-nine.”

“But those are both adult ages.”

Wattson pointed his finger against his own temple. “A nineteen year old’s brain is much less developed than a twenty-nine year old’s. It doesn’t matter if they’re both adults.”

Wallace didn’t respond. This wasn’t making any sense. So what if his brain wasn’t as developed? So what… What... Maybe Wattson had a point. Even still, Wallace didn’t want to admit that he was wrong and, by extension, stupid.

Wattson sighed and shook his head.

“Wallace, I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I’ll tell you this: whoever hurt you… that’s not the kind of relationship you want.”

He smiled, crossing his arms. “Eat delicious food. Wear comfortable clothes that make you feel pretty. Surround yourself with good people who love you. And when you grow up to be my age—”

“If I grow up to be your age,” Wallace interrupted. “I’ll look back and regret all of the shit I did to myself.”

Wattson chuckled softly. “Hardly. You’ll look back, and you’ll see just how strong you were.”

 

[Welkamo]

Spoiler: Content warnings

Mentions of past abuse, discussions of mental illness, strangulation imagery, mentions of drug abuse and eating disorders, mentions of self harm, suicidal ideation, past suicide attempts by two characters, past character death (not by suicide), mentions of cancer, vomiting, arguing, familial abuse, really... shitty family

Spoiler: Author's Note

Special thanks to @Spiteful Murkrow for beta reading this chapter.

It was nice to have a routine again.

Wake up, fly to the Sootopolis City Gym either on Joan or the front seats of an air shuttle, rest in Juan’s office and catch up on schoolwork. Then fly back home, go to therapy, and go to Spenser’s church. After that was all over, he went back home, had… had dinner, maybe tried to do intimate things with Winona, and went to bed. It could get stressful, yes, but it was structure. In a way, it felt like control.

Such was routine as the weeks went on. July began to wind down as the temperature went up. Hoenn summers were notoriously hot, and that combined with Wallace’s previous purging meant that Nicole was adamant on him staying hydrated.

“You’re a Water type trainer, aren’t you?”

Wallace rolled his eyes at Nicole’s remark. “That sounds like something Yiayiá would say.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? And besides, water is good for the complexion.”

Wallace froze up at that statement. Shoot, his complexion. He had been struck with near daily panic attacks about his appearance: small breakouts from that time he didn’t shower for a week, red junkie eyes, the bruises Megalos had branded him with, the scars that he had inflicted upon himself. Sure, some things would go away with time (too much time), but there were some things that would never go away no matter how much sleep or how much therapy or how much medication or—

“What day is it?” Wallace asked in an attempt to snap himself out of his thoughts. His therapist would’ve liked him doing that.

“July twenty seven.”

Oh.

“So Fláoutoagáne’s Feast Day is in… three days?”

Fláoutoagáne Feast Day wasn’t the most important holiday of the Rounékyo calendar, but it was certainly an important one. It was a celebration of Sootopolis’s culture, something that had long been at political and social risk, like a coral reef facing storms that got harsher and oceans that got warmer with each passing year. It was Wallace’s duty to preserve his ancestors' culture, lest the world lose such unique and beautiful literature, music, art, food…

Wallace shuddered briefly at that last thought. Why the fuck did food have to be such a big part of culture? Why wasn’t it treated as a private necessity, like using the bathroom or having sex—

Using the bathroom or having sex. Shit, what the hell are you thinking?

“Wallace?” Nicole asked.

Wallace looked back up at Nicole. Stupid fucking brain. Did he not pay attention during therapy or something? Wasn't he supposed to be getting better?

She nodded as the smile left her face. “We’re going to be celebrating it here–”

Wallace slammed a palm on the table. “We have to celebrate with our other family.” Part of that culture reef was family. It was the—what did Steven say it was called?—the calcium carbonate of Sootopolitan culture. It was the very foundation that its people were built upon.

Nicole, however, seemed to disagree. She just shook her head and said, “But Wallace—”

“We haven’t been to any family gatherings in, what, months?” Wallace grumbled. “How am I supposed to reintegrate into society if I can’t even attend regular…” The anger in his voice disappeared. “Nicole? Is everything okay?”

Nicole sat down at the kitchen table. Her face was uncharacteristically emotionless.

“Our father… struggled with depression and alcohol abuse,” she said in a tone just as lifeless. “Right before you were born, he… he drank himself into a stupor and overdosed on a bottle of sleeping pills.”

Silence. Cold, cold silence. Even if Wallace wanted to speak, he couldn’t find the words to think, let alone say anything of value.

Well, at least he had one thing to connect him to his father. And well… that also explained why Nicole held onto his medication so tightly.

“Did he leave a note?” he asked.

“He burned it when he got back from rehab. It reminded him too much of the shame he brought to our family, the supposed curse he brought on him and his descendants.”

Curses, curses, curses. The Papadakis family and their curses. Lydia and Kristina were cursed when Milas left them, Dorian was cursed when he conceived a child with a prostitute before marriage... Well, maybe the Dorian curse was real: Dorian had tried to kill himself, Dorian and Lucille had died, Nicole and Raphael had conceived a child before marriage, and now Wallace... Wallace felt like the walking personification of the Dorian curse.

Yiayiá stopped mentioning Dorian being cursed once Wallace got taken in by Megalos, but his aunts and uncles… they never forgot. In fact, their disdain for him and Nicole’s part of the family only got worse once that happened. And with Megalos gone, the family had no reason to even tolerate Wallace anymore. They could call him whatever he wanted, because without Megalos, he was no—

“Wallace?”

He looked back up at Nicole, who was now sitting right next to him and wrapping her arm around him.

“I want you to know that I love you very, very much, no matter what diagnoses you have,” Nicole reassured him. “But… the rest of the family is still very behind on such matters.”

“So we just won’t bring it up,” Wallace insisted. “Surely it will be as easy as that, right?”

-

“Wallace? Would you mind if we talked?”

Wallace looked up at Winona. “Sure? Is everything alright?”

Winona sat down at the kitchen table next to Wallace. She lacked her usual spirit, her usual smile.

“I don’t know…”

That didn’t make Wallace any less worried. But he had to stay calm. He had to stay calm for Winona.

“Are you…” Damn it. He shouldn’t have started speaking before thinking about what to say. “If you’re pregnant, um…”

For a brief moment, Winona smiled.

“I’m not.”

Then what was wrong?!

“Is everything okay?” He hadn’t meant to sound so… scared, but if something was wrong with Winona…

“Yeah, it’s fine, it’s just…” Winona sighed, resting her face in her hand.

Wallace put a hand on Winona’s shoulder. “Winona?”

“Dad has cancer.”

Wallace’s heart stopped. “Oh… Oh no. Is… Is he okay?”

“I don’t know.” Winona’s voice was a shaky whisper.

Wallace wrapped both his arms around her and gently pulled her into a hug. “You should… move back in with your family. I should be fine.”

Winona didn’t look too convinced.

“I’d rather not spend all of my time with my mother.” she sighed. “But… I have to take breaks, too. From the both of you. Not because I don’t love you, but—”

“I understand, darling.”

Winona smiled again, and this time, it stayed. Wallace gave her a small peck on the cheek.

“You’ve been doing… so much," Wallace sighed. "You deserve rest… and the best.”

That got a small chuckle out of Winona.

“I missed your fancy poetry and sappy rhymes.”

Wallace chuckled, but that statement made him feel…

“Have I… When was the last time I used ‘fancy poetry and sappy rhymes’?”

Winona shook her head. “I don’t even remember. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the old Wallace— this Wallace. The Wallace I fell in love with.” With that, she hugged him back. “I missed him.”

Wallace rested his head on Winona’s, smiling. “I missed him, too.”

-

Another agreement was written out and signed: Winona would spend weekends with Wallace and weekdays with her father. The exception was Fridays, which were reserved for therapy, training, and a 24-hour break from caretaking.

Fláoutoagáne Feast Day happened to fall on a weekday, not that Wallace planned on inviting Winona to it; Wallace’s extended family… wasn’t too fond of her. But part of Wallace wished he had support…

But he had Nicole. He had Lisia. He had Raphael. That would be enough, right?

Those thoughts kept pestering Wallace as he tried to tie his tie. It was too tight around his neck, and even just trying to adjust it either undid the whole thing or made its grip tighter. He felt like he was choking.

Like how Megalos would choke him. Like how Megalos would hold him against the wall or the desk. Like how Megalos would drag him around with the tie, the chain shackled around Wallace’s neck.

His shaking, sweating hands dropped the tie, and he had to sit on the bed before he passed out. He undid the buttons of his collar, which felt like hands tightening around his neck.

“Uncle Wall! Mamá says we’re leaving soon!”

Lisia’s smile fell as soon as she opened the door and saw Wallace. “Uncle Wall, are you okay?”

Still shaking, Wallace forced a smile. He probably looked like a mess, but he had to look like… less of a mess. Like a good uncle. Like the uncle Lisia deserved.

“Of course I am,” he forced out. “I’m just… cold.”

Lisia pouted, clenching her fists. “Stop lying! Mamá lies! Papá lies! Everyone lies!!!”

Wallace jumped off the bed as Lisia ran off.

-

Wallace had a very, very strong sense that he didn’t belong in his grandparents’ house that night, a sense that he wasn’t needed, a sense that he wasn’t wanted.

Perhaps it was the stares he got from his aunts and uncles, or the fact that all of his cousins would talk to each other and not him. In either case, he felt like an outcast, as though he weren’t a part of his own family.

Maybe they would have liked him better if he was dead.

On top of facing his family, he had to eat in front of them. And everyone was watching him, as though they were all expecting him to eat, to breathe perfectly.

Like always, it stung, this time more than ever.

“Uh… Manami, Amara,” Raphael said to the twins, “how’s… how’s modeling work?”

“Good,” Manami mumbled.

“Better than Wallace,” Amara added.

Raphael winced at his failed attempts to be friendly. Well, at least he was trying. Wallace could appreciate that much. Maybe if he tried to speak himself—

“You’re so mean to Uncle Wall!” Lisia shouted to Manami and Amara. Wallace grimaced and shrank in his seat. He wished Lisia would stop talking; she wasn’t making anything better. In fact, she was just making things worse.

“He deserves it,” Amara snapped. “Out of all of us, he gets chosen as Sootopolis’s saviour?!”

“And look where that got us,” Manami added. “Now Sootopolis City’s economy is even worse, and it doesn’t even have a mayor anymore.” She stared at Wallace. "Great job saving us."

"I'm sorry..."

"Did you pick up any hints from other Coordinators? Did you give Megalos good hea—"

The table shook as Nicole stood up.

"You have no. Right. To say those things to my brother." Wallace had never seen his sister so angry, yet so calm. It made his rising nausea even worse.

Did Megalos really only keep Wallace around for sex? Was Wallace secretly a bad Gym Leader, a bad Lorekeeper, a fake?!

But Manami's words brought back flashbacks to the secrets he had to keep, the drugged-up nights at Megalos's estate and office, the... the...

“Tell them to stop being so mean!” Lisia shouted at Yiayiá, cheeks red with anger.

Lisia, please shut up.

Yiayiá shook her head at Lisia before looking up at Nicole with a stern expression.

“Why did you come into our home?”

Yiayiá’s voice was powerful, and even the clinking of silverware whimpered away in its presence.

“You invited us,” Nicole hissed without even looking at Yiayiá.

“That was before Meglaos dropped dead! I knew Dorian had cursed his family, but now the curse is killing others in this family?! Why, this curse will ruin Sootopolis City at this rate!”

At that, Nicole’s gaze turned to Yiayiá.

“My father, bless his souls above, had nothing to do with Megalos’s death.”

Yiayiá shook her head, glaring back at Nicole.

"Sure he didn’t,” Yiayiá harrumphed. “Surely even as a child, you knew your father hated Megalos.”

“But he didn’t kill Megalos!”

“His curse did! His curse damned his children, and you damn yourselves for speaking his name!” the woman shouted, waving a finger accusingly. “His name brought Wallace illness and Megalos death—”

“I brought illness on myself.”

All eyes were on Wallace again. Fuck… it was too late to back out. He had to get himself out of this. With a deep breath and with all of his emotional energy, he stared at Yiayiá directly and began to speak:

“Well, Megalos did, to an extent,” he began. “He… did some bad things to me. I guess. And I did… bad things to myself. Drugs. Self-starving. I didn’t have pneumonia; I had a ruptured esophagus and a drug addiction. Dorian didn’t curse me. I just have problems that I need to work through.”

Wallace braced himself for the worst: yelling, crying, physical beatings. Somehow, he got worse:

“Why would you do this to us?” Yiayiá whispered. “Why would you do this to yourself?!”

“He didn’t do anything to anyone!!!” Nicole screeched.

But Yiayiá was right. Wallace had brought upon his own illness. Wallace had brought about Megalos’s death. Wallace had cursed the family.

And then Wallace threw up on the table.

-

The run for the bathroom was a blur of terror. Wallace was barely able to think enough to get out get out get out.

He was too exhausted to keep himself from sobbing as he vomited into the toilet. Everything was too much. Why had he ever opened his mouth? Why had he ever been born?

He just wanted to purge himself until he was too empty to keep living.

“Wallace?” Nicole’s voice. Softer. Gentler. “We’re leaving.”

Wallace stood up. There were people outside the bathroom. Scary people. Scary eyes. Scary shouts. Shame. Guilt. Pain.

“I’m sorry.”

Except, it was too late for Wallace to say sorry.

 

[Welkamo]

Spoiler: Content warnings

Attempted suicide, discussions of dysfunctional family, suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts, discussions of drug addiction and eating disorders, use of the r-slur in a self-deprecating context, panic attacks, arguing, mentions of murder and suicide, discussions of mental illness, past parental death, despair and dissociation

I promise this ends on a happy note

The ride back on the air shuttle was silent. Wallace silently insisted on sitting in the back, away from all of the watching eyes. Motion sickness wouldn’t be a problem for him; it wasn't like he had anything left to throw up.

There was no chance in hell they would ever see that part of the family again, not after Wallace’s disgraceful episode. It was a miracle that Nicole still wanted to associate herself with him. Why, had he been in her shoes, he would have sacrificed his pathetic excuse for a sibling to preserve his family and reputation.

Every so often, Wallace caught a glance at Lisia, who was sitting in Nicole’s lap. Lisia didn’t say anything, but there was… terror shaking in her eyes. It broke Wallace’s heart every time he saw her.

He prayed that the air shuttle would crash, and that somehow only he would die in the process.

It didn’t, unfortunately, and it instead landed safely in the shuttle station. The platform wasn’t too busy, but Wallace still kept his gaze on his feet, too ashamed to look up at his family.

The walk back home was quiet, save for the occasional car that passed by the sidewalk. Wallace considered jumping in front of one of them, but decided against it after remembering Lisia was there. No, he couldn’t do that to Lisia. Killing himself in front of her would traumatize her, to say the least.

He went straight to his room once he got back home and buried himself under the covers of his bed, drowning in the sea of his sleepy thoughts.

Why didn’t you kill yourself? Why didn’t you kill yourself? Why didn’t you kill yourself?

-

He opened his eyes again. It was still dark, but things felt… different. He checked the clock: four in the morning. Well, that explained it.

“Uncle Wall?”

Wallace rolled over to face the door as it creaked open, and Lisia walked into the room, Ali in her arms. Her cheeks glistened in the moonlight; she was crying.

“Oh, it’s you, Lisia,” Wallace mumbled. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Lisia nodded as she sniffled again. The Swablu in her hands gave him a pleading look.

“Yiayiá was yelling at you and being mean to you and she killed you and everyone was sad…” The rest of her words were a bubblering mess.

Wallace forced himself to sit up, even though his chest and shoulders were weighed down by an incomprehensible force. Poor kid was caught in the crossfires of Wallace’s mental instability, and she didn’t even know what was happening.

“Do you want to sleep next to me?” he offered.

Lisia didn’t look very sure. Wallace couldn’t blame her; who’d want comfort from a drug addict who had shattered the family apart?

“Will you keep me safe?” she asked.

Wallace sighed, smiling. “Of course I will.”

“Is Yiayiá going to kill you?”

If only.

“No, Lisia.”

“Is Wallace going to kill you?”

…Oh. Oh. She was… She really…

“I…” I can’t promise I won’t. “I won’t. I promise.”

Lisia jumped up onto the bed, and Ali landed on Wallace’s head just as he collapsed on his pillow again. Winona talked about how Swablu liked to land on people’s heads, how they liked to pretend they were hats. Not that Wallace minded; Swablu and Altaria wings were very soft, very comforting.

Lisia nestled against Wallace, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her. He had to protect her from the monsters in the dark, and the demons in his mind.

-

Wallace went through the motions of waking up and eating breakfast on autopilot. He could barely register the taste of his food; it just felt like mush in his mouth.

“Wallace? Do you want to say the morning prayer?”

His mouth moved without thinking: “Oh glorious Gourádon, Oméga tis Gis! Oh glorious Kaióga, Álfa tis Thálassas! Oh glorious Rekkoúza, Mesolavitís ton Ouranón! Thank you for keeping me from killing myself, and please keep on keeping me from killing myself—”

“Wallace.”

With a shaking hand, Nicole grabbed Wallace’s arm.

“Please, please, please promise me you would never, ever hurt yourself.”

Wallace gazed at Nicole. Horror filled her eyes; she looked damn near ready to cry.

“I already do,” he said calmly. “I make myself sick enough to tear my esophagus, I scratch and slap my arms and legs and body, I once hit my head with my textbook…” Wallace trailed off. “I mean, the worst ones were from Megalos, but without him… Nicole?”

She hugged him, and Wallace could feel tears fall on his shoulder.

“Come on, Nicole. Don’t look so sad; I’ll start to feel guilty about having these urges and habits—“

“Wallace—“

“My brain’s fucked up, Nicole.” Wallace pushed Nicole away. He pointed his finger against his head, imitating a gun pointed to his head. “My brain’s fucked up and I fucked up my body, too. I’m fucked up. I’m—”

“Uncle Wall! Stop swearing!”

Lisia stared at the two, pouting. Ali, who was sitting on her head, mimicking her expression. She must have walked in when Wallace and Nicole were talking—arguing?

“Uncle Steve said that swearing is bad!” she protested. “Uncle Steve said that only bad people say that swear word!”

I am a bad fucking person, Wallace wanted to yell. He hated Lisia in that moment. He wanted her to shut up about his fucking—

No.

No.

No.

He couldn’t get mad at Lisia. He couldn’t get mad at Lisia.

Wallace forced himself to smile. “I’m sorry Lisia. I won’t do it again.”

Lisia crossed her arms. “Good.”

-

Wallace couldn’t remember how long he had been sitting at the kitchen table. He didn’t have the energy to stand up and do anything. On the plus side, it also meant he didn’t have the energy to purge or hurt himself.

Fuck, he was ruminating. What would his therapist say?

Nicole was in the doorway. How long had she been there? Wallace hadn't seen her just a… second, minute, hour before.

“What time is it?” Wallace mumbled.

“Three. I… didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed a bit troubled after breakfast.”

Three in the afternoon? How… How many hours had he been sitting at the table? How much of a drugged-up freak was he?

“Was I just…?”

“Staring at the table. You seemed to be thinking.”

Goodness, how many sedatives had he gotten fucked up on over the… months? Years? How long had it been? Time didn’t feel real anymore.

He forced a chuckle nonetheless. “I wasn’t.”

Nicole’s eyes lit up. “Well! How about you and Lisia make lunch?”

Wallace’s heart stopped. Make lunch? Make food?! Did Nicole know who she was talking to?! The idiot who couldn’t remember his own mother’s food? The fool who sometimes went over 24 hours without eating? The bitch who almost died of a fucking eating disorder?!

“Me?!”

“The doctor said it would be good for you to prepare meals, especially with loved ones.”

Wallace looked down at Lisia and Ali. Right. Loved ones. Like nieces. Nieces who didn’t even know what drugs were, let alone the fact that her uncle was a drug addict.

He took a deep breath. “Lisia, Ali, let’s wash our hands and wings.”

-

“Lisia? Could you get me the basil and thyme?”

“Okay!”

Wallace smiled as Lisia hopped over to the pantry. Ali flew up to the top shelf in search of carefully hidden bird treats.

Nicole was sorting through the morning mail at the kitchen table, and everytime she looked up at the three, she smiled. Wallace was finally making her happy again, and that was enough to make him happy in turn. Exhausted, yes, but there was nothing fake about his smile, nothing fake in the glimmer of his eyes, nothing fake at all.

A bit of anxiety creeped in as his shaky hands picked up the pepper grinder. Three twists. Equal, precise, perfect. Not too much. He was going to keep feeling real happiness for once, because it felt better than fake happiness.

“Uncle Wall! I have the basil and thyme!”

Lisia was holding up the jars to Wallace. He smiled and put the pepper grinder down on the counter.

“Thank you, prinkípissa mou.” He took the jars and put them next to the grinder.

Lisia giggled and grinned, then she hugged Wallace. “You’re welcome!” Wallace could hear the smile in her voice. She looked back up at him, still holding his leg.

"Can I taste it?” She gave him Fidough-eyes for good measure.

“Of course.”

Wallace took a wooden spoon and scooped out a small amount of the sauce. He knelt down so he could give her a taste. Her eyes shut with glee, and she hopped on her heels.

“It tastes great!”

Wallace twisted open first the basil jar and then the thyme jar. He took a plate out of the cabinets and set it on the counter. After pouring a bit of the thyme on the plate, he started to count out the specks of thyme until he had ten. The perfect number. The—

“Wallace, why are you doing that?”

Nicole stood over him. Wallace sighed.

“I’ve got to measure it out so I don’t use too much or too little, you know?” That was what measuring cups and spoons were for, right? He was just using a more precise, more certain, more controllable method.

“Mikouri, Mikouri, Mikouri.” Nicole’s voice sounded slightly annoyed. “When it comes to spices, it’s best to follow your heart, take a handful or a dash, and just toss it in.”

She sprinkled some basil from the jar into the skillet.

Wallace’s smile fell, and his hands started shaking again.

That was too much basil. That was too much basil. That was—

“Wallace?” Nicole said as she took Wallace’s hands in hers, “are you okay?”

“No I’m not! The basil is unbalanced! Everything is—”

Wallace stopped himself and took some deep breaths. Nicole hugged him.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Duncan rolled into his leg, and Wallace knelt back down to pat his head.

“Nicole, could you finish the Alfredo sauce while Lisia and Duncan and I wash our hands?”

“Wa—”

“Mizouchá, parakaló.”

The two stared silently at each other. There was little emotion in their expressions, but deep down, Wallace felt his anxiety simmering close to a boil.

“Fine,” Nicole said.

-

The dining room was warm with the aroma of food and the love of family.

It was nice to be with people who cared for him, even if eating was scary. Part of him wished that Winona was with them, too, but she had her own family…

…family that didn’t see her as a fucked-up freak who had cursed herself and her progeny for eternity.

The fettuccine Alfredo smelled wonderful. He had to give Lisia and Nicole most of the credit; if it wasn’t for them, he wouldn’t have even been able to touch the ingredients, let alone finish making the food. He wished he was hungry, but… he was fucked up. He was fucked up for the rest of his miserable life.

“Wallace?” Nicole whispered, “is everything okay?”

“It’s a nice day,” Wallace said calmly, dodging the question. “A very pretty day. And the sky’s so pretty. I don’t think I’ve seen a prettier sky in—”

“Wallace, you haven’t eaten yet,” Nicole whispered. “Is everything okay?”

She looked at him with a tinge of worry, and even Lisia and Ali seemed a bit concerned.

Wallace's voice lowered a bit when he spoke again, so only Nicole could hear him: “To be completely frank, I’m not feeling hungry… I’m not feeling that well at all.”

Surprisingly, Nicole nodded. Wallace expected her to insist that he eat. After all, he had a habit of… well, not eating.

“Do you want to have something else for—”

“No, no, that’s fine. I should… really eat the food I make. I’d be a hypocritical cook if I didn’t. Besides, we deserve a normal dinner for once.”

Nicole put her hand on his, gently squeezing it. “Just focus on the food. Focus on the taste and texture of the food, the smells, the feelings the food brings you.”

She gently pulled her hand away and smiled reassuringly.

“And just remember: it’s okay,” she insisted. “You’re safe. It’s okay to let yourself eat.”

Wallace nodded and slowly spun some of the noodles on his fork. He took a small, slow bite, smiling as he chewed and swallowed. It tasted… nostalgic, if food could even taste like a feeling. He hadn’t felt such good feelings from food in… years.

“It’s like how mother used to make it, around the time when you were off on your Gym Challenge,” he said. “Whenever I was sad, she would make fettuccine Alfredo for me.”

Nicole exhaled, smiling back.

“She’d always tell me stories about her and father and how they met,” Wallace continued. “My favorite was always the story when she saw him for the first time: She was performing the harp on stage, and he was out in the crowd. Their gazes met… and it was love at first sight.”

It was then that Wallace realized he didn’t remember many other stories his parents told him… or maybe that was the only one he remembered.

Wallace’s smile fell. “The only reason why I remember any of that was because I remember her making it for me after I was sick with pneumonia. I don’t remember any of the other foods she would make.”

He remembered his mother making food, and he remembered it tasting good, but he didn’t remember what it was. People made such a big deal out of all of the different meals that different cultures made, so why couldn’t Wallace remember any of his own culture’s meals?

“Well, we can always go through her things and see if she wrote anything down,” Nicole suggested.

“And what if she didn’t?” Wallace’s whisper struck harder than a scream. “What if the last memories of our mother died out because I stuck my fingers down my throat and purged them along with my food?”

“Wallace, that’s a long stretch to be mak—”

“And what would she think if she saw me now?!” he cried. “Surely the souls in heaven know what’s good and bad, assuming she didn’t already know what was good and bad before she went up there.”

The whole table went quiet, and everyone stared at Wallace with horror.

“Wallace,” Nicole whispered, voice growing angrier, “I knew our parents longer than you did, and I know for a fact that our mother would still love you!”

“Oh really? ” Wallace’s voice was growing into a louder growl. “You really think she could love a bipolar freak?! Do you really think she could love a drug addict?! D-Do you really think she could love someone so fucked up—“

He couldn’t speak anymore; sobs clawed at his throat, and he choked on them as he buried his face in his lap.

“Wallace?” Nicole whispered.

Wallace shook his head, even though she didn’t ask a question. Even that soft whisper was too much. He needed things to be dark and quiet and safe. He needed things to be okay again.

Someone was hugging him. He could feel small hands and small arms.

“Uncle Wall,” Lisia whimpered, “Why are you sad?”

“I’m not sad.”

“Yes you are.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Sometimes people cry!” Wallace snapped as he looked up at Lisia.

She was crying too.

“W-Why are you lying?! Lying is bad!”

“THAT’S BECAUSE I’M BAD! I’M A BAD PERSON AND I’M A BAD UNCLE AND I’M FUCKED IN THE HEAD!”

Duncan bumped against Wallace’s leg and gently patted it. That was the deep breath signal, but how the fuck was Wallace supposed to deep breathe???

How was he supposed to keep living?

If he ran outside, he could run into the street and get hit by a car. He could jump in the ocean and let the waters put him out of his misery. He could get out of this nightmare, get out get out GET OUT—

He barely made it outside before Raphael and Nicole caught up to him.

He tried desperately to escape their grip, screaming and shouting and biting and doing anything to get them to let go so he could put himself out of his misery.

“Wallace, please!” Nicole begged, sobbing. “Please, it’s going to be okay!”

"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"

He was on the floor. He didn’t feel real anymore. Not even time was real. There was no future. There was nothing beyond this. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“I’M FUCKED IN THE HEAD! I’M A RETARDED ADDICT THAT’S GOING TO DIE IN A YEAR! I’M A DISGRACE TO THE FAMILY THAT DESERVES TO GET SHOT IN THE FUCKING HEAD! I’M FUCKED! I’M FUCKED! I’M FUCKED!!!”

He was too exhausted to get up from the floor, too weak and cowardly to even try to kill himself, too fucked-up to scream coherent words. He just screamed nonsense not even he could comprehend, as Raphael and Nicole hugged him.

Someone else wrapped her arms around Wallace: Lisia.

“No!” she sobbed. “You're not! You’re my uncle!”

Wallace wanted to retort back, but his throat ached. It felt like his very soul ached.

“I-I don’t like it when you’re sad, Uncle Wall. It makes me sad,” she sniffled. “And now-now you’re always sad. And that makes me sad. And it makes all of us sad!”

“Lisia,” Nicole whispered, “why don’t we go up your your room and—”

“Nicole.”

Raphael looked up, face serious.

"We said we weren't going to lie to each other anymore, and... that includes Lisia. Let me—"

"No," Wallace choked out. "Let me... Let me tell her."

-

Miku has a lot of brain illnesses, like how some people get sick with other illnesses. Lots of people hurt Miku and did bad things to them, and that made the brain illnesses worse.

A small person was drawn below those words, surrounded by mean-looking hands.

One of the brain illnesses is bipolar disorder. Sometimes Miku sees things that aren’t there, or Miku is more restless or angry. This is hypomania.

There was a drawing of the person surrounded by squiggly, frantic lines and disorienting stars.

But sometimes Miku feels sad and tired. They may be angry at themselves or family. This is depression.

The person was on the ground now, surrounded by dark, gloomy blocks of graphite.

But Miku is taking medicine to get better. Miku is talking to doctors to learn how to live with their illnesses. And most importantly, Miku has family to help them.

The person was surrounded by said family: a sister, a brother-in-law, a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a father, and…

“Is that me?” Lisia asked as she looked up from the pages of Wallace’s therapy journal.

Wallace smiled. “That’s you.”

Lisia hugged Wallace. “I want to be the best helper niece ever!”

Wallace brushed his hand over Lisia’s head. “Well, you just have to be my neice. That's all I need.”

There was more than bipolar disorder to talk about—anxiety, PTSD, OCD, possible OCPD. There were things beyond his diagnoses he would have to explain—hospitalization, abuse, the whole family situation. But those things would take time, and Wallace wanted to do it right. There would probably be a tomorrow, but Wallace and Lisia would have to take tomorrow day by day, together.

-

“Uncle Wall! Are you ready yet?”

“I just need a minute, Lisia.”

Wallace turned back to the bathroom mirror. For once in his life, he didn’t let his thoughts overtake him—the ones that told him he was ugly or too feminine or looked like a starving drug addict. He… he had to smile. His pearl white and blue eyeshadow looked very lovely, and the subtle shade of nude lipstick added an elegant flair.

But most of all, he was… still here. Most of all, today he turned twenty. And Winona, Steven, and Lisia were going to make sure they celebrated in the best way possible; the four of them were going to the Lilycove Museum, featuring a special exhibition on Sootipolitan art. Wallace wanted to raise Lisia knowing about her ancestors’ rich culture, raise her without the lessons his grandparents had taught him, raise her to… not make the same mistakes that he did.

Two decades of… surviving. Living. Pushing through despite everything. Despite everything, he was still here, still alive. Sure, he had so many people to thank for that…

…but he had to give himself credit. He had to thank himself for having the strength to survive, to live, to push through despite everything.

But there was still something missing.

-

Wallace looked through the boxes in the living room, through the boxes of his drawings, through the medical documents, until he found it: his beret.

He remembered his father giving it to him when he was seven. Unlike most of his memories, he remembered this one distinctly: it was night time, and his father had come home from a long day of work. A brown package had been in his hand.

“I heard that your studies have been coming along well,” his father had said, a smile on his face. “I have a present for you.”

That beret had been the greatest gift Wallace had ever received. In fairness, his family hadn’t been able to buy many gifts, and perhaps the beret was too big for him, but still! A beret, just like an artist’s beret. Wallace wore it everywhere, showing it off like a crown.

He… began wearing it less and less once he began tutoring (suffering?) under Megalos. But now…

As he walked back into the bathroom, Wallace put on the beret. It finally fit him. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted it, until it—no, he was beautiful.

Spoiler: Glossary of Greek

parakaló - "please"

Oméga tis Gis - Omega of the Land

Álfa tis Thálassas - Alpha of the Sea

Mesolavitís ton Ouranón - Mediator of the Sky

prinkípissa mou - my princess

Well, this is... finished. Feeling a lot from this. I might write an afterword about this fic because... wow, what a journey we've been on.