Chapter Text
Thomas Inman was four when he chirped.
It startled him, seeing as he'd just been playing in his room when it happened. His parents weren't arguing for once, which was nice. They were talking quietly in the other room, and the house was quiet. It was always a bit too quiet, but his mother didn't like the sounds of the disks they had so he could rarely play them. But that didn't matter, because it was nice and quiet and he was playing with a stuffed cow and nibbling on a cookie.
The sound was weird, it felt so different than parroting back 'hello' and 'goodbye.' It felt more personal somehow, though he didn't know how to express that.
Thomas let out another one of the sounds curiously, reveling in the feeling of rightness and contentment that came with the sound. It warmed his chest like he’d never felt before. He let the sounds fall from his lips quietly but continuously, trying to ignore how he felt he shouldn’t chirp too loudly.
Because that's what the noise was- chirping. And he’d never seen anyone else chirp before.
"Thomas, was that you?"
Thomas nodded, looking to his father for answers. He hadn't ever heard that sound before, and he was curious. It sounded nice.
His father frowned, crouching down to Thomas's level. "Don't make those sounds, son."
Thomas pouted in return but didn't do it again. They weren't that loud, so why was it a problem? But father was scary when he was mad, and he liked it better when he wasn't so he nodded. His father dropped a hand to ruffle Thomas's curls for a second before leaving, quiet conversation picking up in the other room. But it felt different this time, tenser.
He frowned to himself as he squeezed the hoof of the plush toy. He didn't want to make his parents upset, he'd have to try and not make the sound.
He ignored how right it had felt, he had his parents- he didn't need anything else.
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Thomas was five when his father left.
It hadn't been fast really- though it felt like it. He'd been packing clothes and the like onto a llama for an hour or so that morning, arguing with his mother just quiet enough that he couldn't make out what they said. He didn't try to listen- he was sure he'd heard it all already anyway. The bits and pieces he overheard weren't especially important or nice either, more like thorns pressing into his hands than anything.
"-your son-"
He pulled the blanket over his head again, fat tears soaking into the covers. He already knew he wasn't normal by that point, every once in a while a bright red feather would grow out of his arm or cheek and his parents would have to pull it out. He didn't see any other kids with feathers, though maybe it was just because they were less lazy about pulling theirs out. He didn't like doing so, but he knew it was important- he didn't know why.
"-keep him."
He heard the slam of a door, and the arguing stopped. Thomas scratched at his arm, opening pinprick scabs once again. He jumped out of the bed near-soundlessly, he was supposed to be quiet in the mornings. He crept down the hall, wondering if his father would return tonight or the next day. He liked it better when he came back the same day, if he didn't then his breath smelled and he would bump into things. Which was funny unless he broke something.
"Mom?"
"Go back to bed," She whispered at him without turning from the door. "Sleep a little longer."
The blankets weren't as warm now that he'd gotten up, but he pulled them over his shoulders anyways. It was always just a little too cold, even when it was sunny here. Something about his blood pressure? It wasn't normal, but it was better than the feathers.
His mother didn't seem surprised when he didn't come back the next morning. But Thomas watched the door all day, playing mindlessly with his toys and staring incomprehensibly at the colorful little book he'd been given. He knew it was about a chicken, but he didn't understand the letters yet.
That night, when he sat at the table he tried asking about his father but his mother didn't reply.
But it was okay, because sometimes he got sad too, and he knew he just needed to cheer her up! He was good at that, the girl he saw sometimes at the park had said so. He babbled on about his cow (Henry) and the book he'd been trying to read. He didn't like how quiet it was, and a rumbling in his chest seemed to snap.
Chirp!
His mother's head shot up straight, eyes narrowing in on him. He hadn't meant to, he hadn't chirped much since his father had told him not to. Not loud enough for them to hear at least, sometimes he'd chirp to himself at night to make it a bit less scary in the quiet.
"Thomas, you're not allowed to make those noises. Please be quiet."
"Sorry."
The table went quiet, much more than before he'd made that stupid sound. His mother's shoulders shook for a moment before she sighed, reaching over to pat his head before rinsing off her plate. "You can play for another hour and then I'll put you to bed. Don't be loud."
Her door shut with a click, and he wondered how he was supposed to take off the latch on the booster seat.
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Thomas was six when he started going to school.
School in his village wasn't very extensive of course, but he wasn't complaining. He was ahead in all his classes, and he liked it that way. He didn't know what he wanted to do, but he dreamed of going on adventures, battling mobs, saving people, and flying. His mother made sure he knew how to farm and smelt iron of course, but she also gave him a little wooden sword and let him attack trees in the backyard. He liked it a lot, he knew he was lucky to still have her. But Thomas still dreamed about flying a lot.
It was on one of those days when he accidentally chirped again, loud enough for her to hear.
It had been a good day, another kid had shared his apple with him which was nice because a lot of kids didn't like him very much. His birthday was in two days, and he was excited to be bigger. One day he'd be old enough to go on adventures, and big enough to lift an iron sword like the one he saw on the blacksmith's wall. And when he was playing with the little sword he felt strong, especially when his mother was watching. She was sitting on the porch with a bottle of lemonade, obviously tired from work. It was nice when she watched him fight, he felt safe.
Until he chirped again.
He dropped his sword as soon as he did so, all too aware of his slip-up. "Thomas, come here please."
He shuffled up quickly as if it would make the conversation go faster. He was careful with the chirping, he knew he had to chirp sometimes otherwise it would be too hard to not chirp loudly. But today had been exciting and he'd forgotten to pay attention. She grabbed his arm when he got close, and he stared at the mud that clung to his shoes.
There were nails digging into the skin on his arm but he knew it wasn't on purpose. He hadn't been hurt by her, his father was rough sometimes when he'd been around- but he hadn't really hurt him either. He was lucky, he had a family and a home and a little wooden sword and a cow stuffie to play with. “Remember what I said about those noises?”
Thomas nodded, pushing down on the instinctual sounds that threatened to spill from his throat. He really was trying to remember, he'd been working so hard on it. “They’re ugly,” He recalled. “I’m sorry, it was an accident.”
The pressure on his arm lessened, and he made sure to not pull his arm away this time. He was learning, he was proving to her that he could learn- he could be normal. If he could be normal, then his mother wouldn't leave like father, he could do this for her. “Don’t do it again, sweetie.”
She pushed a slice of a melon into his hands and nodded towards the house. "Why don't you go read some? I think you just got a little excited, I know you don't mean to make the sounds."
"Yeah," Thomas agreed readily. "They're annoyin', sorry."
He took off the blue long-sleeved uniform shirt when he got to his room, it was thoroughly dirtied. He made sure his door was locked, of course, he may not chirp but he wasn't a good son by any means. There were feathers on his chest, starting below his collarbone- not many, but they were there. He'd been told to pick all of them, and he had before, but they were so pretty and he didn't like doing it. So he only picked the ones that could be seen, the ones on his arms that were red at the top, and changed to yellow near his elbow and blue near his hands.
There were two feathers on his arm, just below his elbow on either side. He didn't know why they kept growing back, but there wasn't anything he could really do about it. His mother called him a hybrid or a half-blood. He remembered his father calling him a hybrid freak as well.
Thomas hated this.
He let his fingers curl over the feather on his right side as much as possible, wincing preemptively for the pain. Yanking out his feathers was always the worst, they hurt a lot more than not making the ugly sounds or not making little blanket piles to sleep in. They were weird though, and they had hurt his parents so he took them out anyway. He had thought they were pretty when he’d first seen them, like the parrot he’d seen at the treeline one day- but his parents had reminded him that no other kid had them. They were weird.
“C’mon,” He muttered to himself. He didn’t know why it still hurt, he wished he didn’t have to.
He yanked the feather out, clenching his teeth at the pinprick of blood on his skin. He put the feather in the little box on his bed, already having planned to bring a few in to school for show and tell. He was excited for that, some of the other kids had such cool things to bring in. One time a zombie's head had been brought in, another time a box of cookies. He didn't think his feathers were as cool, but they were pretty.
"Thomas! You left your shoes in the hall!"
He yanked his shirt back on as he rushed to grab the shoes, giggling at his mother's fond expression. "Sorry!"
She ruffled his hair, and he grinned at her happily. He hadn't known how that night would be the last in the house, how that night would change his whole world.
Show and tell had been fine, the other kids weren't as excited as he was about the feathers but they had smiled and his teacher had looked proud of him so it was alright. He was just, confused why he couldn't have them on him. No one seemed to mind the feathers, some of them liked them. So why couldn't he show them off?
He rolled up his sleeve, letting the one feather he'd forgotten to pluck the other day be visible to the kids around him. their eyes bugged out for a moment, one of them whispering a little 'wow' under their breath. He felt special, he felt proud of his feathers for a bit. He made them, the feathers were a part of him.
But then the kids seemed to notice that the feather was growing out of him, and everything was wrong.
“It’s ugly,” A kid declared, leaning forward even more. “I’m telling my dad you’re weird.”
Dread pooled in his gut, threatening to boil over. He didn’t want to keep pulling them out, and he didn’t want anyone else telling him how ugly he was. He already knew, he didn’t need someone else finding out.
“You can’t tell them.”
“Oh yeah? And who's gonna stop me, freak?”
He didn’t flinch at the sudden hatred in the kid’s voice, but it was a near thing. “I will, bitch!”
Another kid laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. "No you won't, I'll stop you from stopping him!"
His fists clenched together, and he pulled down his sleeve again. "You can't do that."
The first kid smirked, teeth glinting. "Watch me."
And then he was running towards the school, laughing carelessly as Thomas rushed after him. He was going to tell a teacher, and then his dad and then his mother would know he hadn't listened. He panicked, letting out a sound dangerously close to a squawk as he gained ground on the kid.
He shoved him, sending the kid tumbling forward onto the hard steps of the school just as the teacher glanced out the window.
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“He has feathers in his arms,” The kid complained to his parents as Thomas rubbed the sweat from his palms onto his torn jeans. “He’s ugly and I’m not sorry.”
The confusion on the adults' faces was palpable and near-humorous for a moment before there was a strange glint in their eyes. He didn't like that look, it reminded him of the first time he'd chirped. Of how different he was. “Feathers? Are you sure, honey?”
Suddenly, Thomas wished he had just yanked out the feather, he couldn’t now. The principal was looking at him suspiciously like he knew he wasn’t normal. Like he knew he was a freak.
“Thomas, roll up your sleeves.”
“Fuck no.”
The kid’s father glared at him for the curse, the principles look hardening as well. “Thomas, do as I say or else.”
Thomas didn’t like the phrase ‘or else,’ they rarely turned out well for him. His mother had said it before he was told to start plucking his feathers, and the sting on his cheek had been much worse than the sting in his arm. His father had said so before then even, the night before he’d left and never came back. He didn’t like being called Thomas, and he didn’t like the ‘or else.’
But he didn’t get what he wanted.
The principal grabbed his arm in a tight grip, pulling up the blue uniform shirt to his elbows and exposing the one feather he’d left in. There were a few scabs on his arms, picked off again and again. But he could feel the breath disappear from his lungs when the adults zeroed in on the feather.
“I told you!”
“Yes you did,” His father answered blankly, one arm coming up to pull the kid closer to his side.
The mother spun to look at the principal with disgust, fists shaking in fury. “You let monsters go to school with the children? What kind of teachers have you hired?”
“I assure you, we did not know that someone had smuggled it into our school,” The principal placated. “We didn’t-“
“Are there zombies in your school as well? Other freaks and dangers to our children?”
“No, I assure you-“
Thomas zoned out, unable to focus on the yelling and the hatred spat from the adult’s mouths. Because of him. The kid grinned at him in victory, one front tooth missing. Thomas wished he had just broken the fucker’s nose.
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The door closed with a quiet click and his mother's expression was blank.
Thomas shifted on his feet anxiously, terrified for a reason he couldn't quite explain. His mother had to leave work early to go to the school, and when the principal had told her what happened she'd been quiet and apologetic. He'd been left in the hall for the conversation, but that didn't make him feel any better about it.
He wished he'd just pulled out the stupid feather before any of this had happened. It was already dark outside, and he could've sworn he saw a skeleton on the walk home.
"Mom?"
She walked past him, pulling a drink from the fridge and uncorking it. He shifted on his feet again, he wanted to let out a little chirp to fight the nerves in his chest- but that's part of what got him into this mess in the first place. He hadn't seen his mother with that drink since his father left, and he didn't like that she had grabbed it now.
“Why couldn’t you just do one thing for me?” She asked, not looking up from the table. “Why couldn’t you just be normal.”
He felt like he was choking like he couldn't breathe somehow. “What?”
She turned back around, building rage in her eyes. “You’re loud and pushy and annoying,” She hissed at him, standing up and walking to a cabinet. “But I took care of you anyways, because you were my son.”
He felt something lodge in his throat, his breathing quickening though his mind only latched onto one thing. “Were?”
She didn’t reply, pulling open a drawer and taking out a leather satchel. “I only ever asked you to try and be normal, to not be a freak.”
“But- no I didn’t-“
“Your father left because of you, because you could never shut up.”
His eyes stung, hands shaking despite not being able to understand. Why was she stuffing his blanket and some loaves of bread in his bag? Why did she throw his coat at him and why were his eyes still watering?
“Get out.” Her words were crystal clear, would be ingrained perfectly in Thomas's mind for the rest of his life. And despite her anger and unfairness, there was genuine hurt and fear in her eyes. Maybe that's what hurt the most. “You’ve done enough damage.”
He was holding the bag now, threadbare coat wrapped around him but open in the front. His stuffed cow was back in his room, he didn’t have any money or anywhere to go. “But-“
“GET OUT.”
He yanked the door open, throwing himself out of the house as his mother collapsed into sobs and shrieks behind him. He fell to his knees, and snow soaked the cloth. The house across the street had its lights on, a young boy looking at him strangely before pulling shut dark curtains. He wasn't crying, only staring forward at the snowbank in terror. All because of one feather?
The door slammed behind him.
Thomas Inman was seven years old, and he was homeless.