Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tavish Finnegan DeGroot's world was, on the surface, simple. But its simplicity was not that of peace, but rather that of a deliberately narrow horizon, like that of a bird that only knows the cage it was born in. At eleven years old, freshly arrived from the misty lands of Scotland to a small, forgotten American town in 1950, Tavish navigated his existence with the peculiar logic of one who has not yet deciphered the rules of the game in which he is a pawn. His skin, the color of damp earth after the rain, and his hair, a crown of rebellious jet-black ringlets peeking out from under his inseparable woolen cap, set him apart in a place where homogeneity was the unwritten law.

The DeGroot house was a large, weary-looking structure, planted in the very heart of the town like a monument to otherness. From its rickety porch, Tavish contemplated the main street, a stage with barely two acts: the slow coming and going of old cars and the occasional flutter of dry leaves swept by the wind. Beyond, the town blurred into a sea of wilted grasslands and a thick forest that seemed to be holding its breath, a perpetual backdrop for a boring play. Life there was a long sigh, an endless "it will come" that never arrived.

The sustenance of this marginal existence fell upon the shoulders, and more specifically, upon the absent eyes, of his father. Mr. DeGroot was a Demoman, a demolition specialist. In the family's precarious economy, every job was a bone to pick, and his father, with the stubbornness of a bulldog, had accumulated not one, but twenty-seven different jobs, all orbiting around the controlled art of explosion. Twenty-seven ways to tame chaos with gunpowder and calculation. His mother, a woman whose blindness had not dulled the firmness of her character in the least, was the overseer of this small fiefdom. Her white cane, more than a mobility aid, was a scepter of authority and a constant warning. She was already pressuring Tavish, at his tender age, to start looking for his first job. "A DeGroot is not a burden," she would repeat to him, while her bony fingers stroked the polished handle of the cane. "At your age, your father had already blown up his first shed."

Tavish's routine was a metronomic cycle. The town's elementary school was a red-brick building so dull it was almost offensive to describe it. Its hallways smelled of worn-out bleach and chalk, and the classrooms were cubicles where time seemed to have stalled a decade ago. Tavish studied with the diligence born of fear. Every homework assignment, every test, was a shield against the sharp, stinging blow of his mother's cane. His academic performance was not an ambition, but a survival strategy.

Amidst that grayness, there was a flash of glory, a sacred ritual that colored his days: lunchtime. Every morning, his mother, with millimeter precision, would slide a crumpled, warm dollar into his hand. That dollar was more than currency; it was a talisman, the key to a moment of autonomy and pure pleasure. With it, Tavish could acquire a ham and cheese sandwich so generous it almost burst from the bread, a candy that left his fingers sticky and his palate sweet, and a fizzy soda that tingled in his nose. And the best part of all, what crowned that transaction with a halo of magic, was the change. The leftover pennies, which Tavish kept with a jeweler's care in an old metal box hidden under his bed, were the seeds of a vague but bright future. In them, he saw the possibility of a comic book, a movie, or simply the security of a treasure of his own.

The days slipped by with a temporal paradox only children understand: slow as honey in winter, but fast as lightning when looking back. In the silence of his home, broken only by the exploratory touch of his parents' canes on the wooden floor, Tavish nurtured a peculiar dream, almost a self-imposed prophecy. His parents' blindness was not a tragedy, but a badge of honor, a rite of passage. He dreamed of the day when he, following the family legacy, would become a true Demoman. In his imagination, it wasn't a failed explosion, but a ceremony: a great deflagration, a blinding flash, and then, the dark, familiar peace he saw on his progenitors' faces. Losing his eyes would be the final test, the confirmation that he was a true-blue DeGroot, a master of din destined to work with bombs and to walk the world guided by hearing and memory.

His walks to school were small odysseys of discovery and confusion. With his backpack hanging from his shoulders like a shell, he traversed the cobblestone streets. And on that journey, he encountered the town's inhabitants. Some adults, women with impeccable aprons and men in overalls, would stare at him with an intensity that went beyond mere curiosity. Their eyes rested on him as if examining an exotic and slightly dangerous specimen. Tavish, far from being intimidated, responded with a childish grimace: he would stick his tongue out at them, an act of defiance that was also a gesture of incomprehension. He didn't understand that constant scrutiny. Was being Scottish so strange? Some gossip he had picked up here and there had led him to believe that Americans didn't like Europeans. That, at least, was an explanation his eleven-year-old mind could grasp.

There were other clues, larger and more organized signs of his difference. There were special seats on the school bus, marked with signs he couldn't quite read, where the driver, a man with a perpetually furrowed brow, would brusquely gesture for him and his parents to sit on the few occasions they used it. There were also shops with signs that read "For...", Tavish never managed to finish reading, his parents had dragged him out of that shop, the boy thought it must say Europeans, right...? A designation that Tavish found profoundly strange. If they were the only Europeans in the whole town, how did such a small place already have everything prepared for their arrival? He mentioned it once to his father, who, after a long pause, responded with a grunt: "It's the accent, son. They pick us out by the accent."

It was precisely because of those special seats that his parents, in a rare unanimous agreement, forbade him from riding the bus. "Stretching his legs never hurt an eleven-year-old," his mother declared firmly, her cane tapping the floor to seal the sentence. So Tavish walked. And on his walks, whispers followed him like a swarm of distant bees. He saw other children, with skin as white as milk, being pulled by their parents to cross the street when he approached, or hiding behind skirts while pointing at him in hushed tones.

But the truth, the great and painful truth, was a wall that Tavish Finnegan DeGroot could not yet see. His innocence was a veil as thick as his parents' blindness. In the mirror of his home, he only saw his family. He did not register the tone of his skin as a mark of difference, but as a simple fact, as inherent to his being as his curly hair or his Scottish accent. The whispers and icy stares were from "white people," yes, but in his mind, that was the town's default color, not a deliberate contrast to his own. He was the outsider because of his origin, his way of speaking, his explosive heritage. The idea that the reason for his segregation, for those special seats and shops, was the color of his skin, was an equation too complex and bitter for his child's heart to solve.

...

The life of Tavish Finnegan DeGroot was a map of routines drawn with invisible ink on the gray parchment of that forgotten town. Every morning, the same path, the same glances that slid like insects over his skin, the same crumpled dollar that became his daily balm. But it was on one of those mornings, precisely on the threshold between the dusty street and the school's concrete yards, that the fragile simplicity of his world almost shattered. It was at that moment, with his heart still light from the promise of lunch, that Tavish almost made his worst mistake, or perhaps, in the intricate design of fate, his best.

Classes were about to begin. A hive of pale-skinned children swarmed around, their laughter and shouts forming a sound barrier that Tavish always felt as a wall of glass: he could see it, but not pass through. Absorbed in his thoughts, in the mental image of the ham sandwich and the fizzy soda, he committed a capital oversight. His treasure, the one-dollar bill his mother had given him with her ritual of blind precision, was still in his hand, exposed to the air and to greedy eyes, instead of being guarded in the deepest secret pocket of his backpack. That small rectangle of green paper was a beacon of temptation in his sweaty palm.

And it was there, in that instant of vulnerability, that someone whose senses were always sharpened for conflict and opportunity, noticed. Like a vulture that scents carrion from a mile away, Jane saw it.

Jane was an entity, a meteorological phenomenon in the shape of a child... or maybe a girl. The question of Jane's gender was a minefield no student dared to cross twice. She proclaimed with fierce conviction that she was a boy, and backed up that declaration with fists that were living legends in the elementary school hallways. Earning a "correction" from Jane was a painful rite of passage, and several students carried the memory of her effectiveness in their bones. The rumors, whispered with reverential fear, said that once, an adult had tried to drag her by force to the far part of the playground and had ended up staggering, with a black eye and his dignity in tatters, behind the gardening shed.

Her appearance was that of a chronic stray. Hair so blonde it was almost colorless, matted and tangled like an abandoned bird's nest, always adorned with dry leaves, small twigs, and, on one memorable occasion, a live beetle that paraded through her lock during the entirety of science class. She always wore the same blue dress, so sun-bleached and harshly washed that it more closely resembled a large floor rag, a perpetual battle uniform stained with mud, bicycle chain grease, or the remains of some stolen snack. Her skin, white as cheap porcelain, was a map of bruises in various stages of healing: green, yellow, purple, as if her body were a diary of her own falls and fights. Her eyes, a stormy gray, were always narrowed in a gesture of perpetual defiance, and her mouth was a fountain of shouts, insults, and challenges.

To Tavish, Jane was the embodiment of everything chaotic and incomprehensible about his new home. She reminded him irresistibly of those furtive, hissing raccoons that prowled the garbage bins behind his house at night. Beautiful creatures from afar, with their dark masks and thick fur, but dangerous and full of rage if you got close. Jane, like them, hissed before she attacked.

Physically and morally, they were polar opposites. Jane was shorter, but compact and stocky, with a build that spoke of a resilience forged in blows. Her ankles were thick, her fists, round protuberances always ready. Tavish, on the other hand, was thin and lanky, with arms like willow twigs and elbows so sharp they seemed capable of cutting the air. He was the reed facing the oak, and until now, his strategy had been that of the reed: to bend, to avoid, to dodge. He watched from the safe distance of the playground's edge as Jane shoved a girl into a mud puddle for the crime of calling her an "ugly girl." Tavish, in his childish logic, was sure that the greater insult to Jane wasn't the "ugly" part, but the imposition of a gender she rejected with her entire being.

And then, the raccoon came out of the woods and planted itself in front of him. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of them; the bustle of the school entrance became a distant buzz. Jane approached with a determination that admitted no detour and, without a single word, planted her chubby hand, crisscrossed with cuts and dirt scabs, right in front of Tavish's chest. It was a physical demand, a blockade in his path.

"What, is something wrong?" asked Tavish, his voice higher than he would have liked. His confusion was genuine. His gaze went from Jane's furious gray eyes to her outstretched hand, not understanding the mute language of extortion.

Jane snorted, impatient. Her brow furrowed even more, making her small eyes almost disappear. "Don't play dumb. Give me your dollar." The order was blunt, loaded with an impatience that suggested Tavish was wasting precious time. She looked at him as if he were the dumbest creature on the planet for not having already handed over his possession.

A wave of indignation, pure and hot, washed over Tavish's initial fear. That dollar wasn't just currency; it was his sandwich, his candy, his soda, the pennies that would add to his secret treasure. It was the only fragment of control and pleasure in his day.

"Of course not, it's mine," he exclaimed, his voice trembling but full of deep offense. He wasn't going to give anything to that violent creature. Not without a fight.

Jane's face transformed. Impatience turned into pure rage. She clenched her teeth so hard Tavish could hear a dull grinding sound. "You're not going to give it to me?" she hissed, and the sound was identical to the one the raccoons made just before launching their attack: a low, guttural sound, full of promises of pain.

There were no more warnings. Time compressed into an instant. Tavish saw Jane's fist, a compact meteor of dirty knuckles, clench and accelerate towards him. There was no time to dodge, to scream, to think. The impact crashed against his nose with a wet, bony crack. A white, blinding pain exploded in his brain. Tears sprang from his eyes instantly and uncontrollably, blurring his vision. The world spun, he lost his balance and fell backwards onto the cement ground, the blow cushioned only by the bulk of his backpack. He gasped, trying to recover the breath the punch had knocked from his chest.

Through a watery veil, he saw Jane's figure crouch down with quick, efficient movements. This wasn't her first time. The chubby fingers closed around the bill that Tavish, dazed, had dropped. Jane held it aloft, like a trophy, and a triumphant smile devoid of any trace of guilt or joy—only triumph—spread across her face.

At that very moment, as if the universe were conspiring with the bully, the school bell rang, a metallic, authoritative clang that cut the scene short. Jane, with her loot firmly in hand, turned on her heel and dissolved into the crowd of children hurrying inside, without a backward glance.

Tavish lay on the ground, his back aching, his nose throbbing with a dull beat that promised to become a spectacular bruise, and his face stained with tears and shame. But deeper than the physical pain, sharper than the humiliation, there was a new and terrifying emptiness in the hollow of his hand. The dollar bill was gone. His day, his comfort, his small ritual of happiness, had been stolen. And as he lay there, feeling the cold of the cement through his clothes, something inside him, something as simple as his routine, shattered forever. The mistake had been letting his guard down. The consequence, however, was yet to be written. Perhaps, just perhaps, in the cruel economy of fate, losing his dollar would be the price he had to pay to gain something far more valuable. But at that moment, he only felt the pain and a cold emptiness in the palm of his hand.

...

The trail of humiliation Tavish had dragged from the school entrance to the arithmetic classroom had solidified into a slab of silent, seething anger in his chest. He arrived late, his nose still throbbing with a dull ache and his clothes stained with dust, interrupting the monotonous cadence of the class. His teacher, Mr. Abernathy, a thin man whose mustache seemed to perpetuate a look of disapproval, didn't miss the opportunity. There was a spark of strange satisfaction in his eyes as he scolded Tavish in front of everyone, emphasizing punctuality as a civic virtue. It was Tavish's first, and only, tardiness all year, but Mr. Abernathy treated it with the severity reserved for a repeat offender. The punishment: losing recess to write, over and over again, one hundred times: "I must not be late for class. Punctuality is the courtesy of kings."

Every stroke of the pen on the rough paper was a reminder of the injustice. Anger, a new and voracious feeling in the quiet pond of his resignation, bubbled up inside him. From his desk, with a furrowed brow and a sore nose, his gaze fixed on the back of Jane's neck, seated a few rows ahead. That dirty, unkempt hair, a nest of dull blonde adorned with the remnants of the forest and the morning's battle, was the epicenter of all his distress. Jane, the true transgressor, the one who had stolen, hit, and disrupted the order, always got away with it. The adults, the same ones who were now punishing him so harshly, only gave Jane tired sermons, scoldings that deflated like old balloons in the face of the child's impassive gaze. "It's just an attitude problem, Jane. Behave." And Jane went on her way, unpunished. His first mistake, his only mistake, and all the adults seemed to have pounced on him. This, Tavish swore to himself with a determination that tightened his jaw, would not stand.

He watched Jane with a contempt that refined itself over a slow fire. No, he wouldn't call her a "girl." In his childish world, categorized with a simple and brutal logic, girls were quiet beings, with clean dresses and soft laughter, like the ones he saw playing hopscotch. Jane was the complete opposite: ugly, unpleasant, violent. "He's definitely a boy," he thought, granting her, reluctantly, the identity she herself demanded with her fists.

The recess bell rang, releasing a stampede of feet and laughter that echoed in the hallway like a torrent of life from which Tavish was excluded. While the others fled towards the freedom of the playground, he remained glued to his seat, the pen scratching the paper, repeating the useless phrase. Through the classroom's dusty window, his temporary cage, he saw her. There was Jane, moving with the arrogant confidence of a predator in its territory. And then, what hurt the most: in her hands, Jane held the ham and cheese sandwich, the very one that should have been in Tavish's hands. She nibbled on it carelessly, and beside her, on the bench, rested the candy and the soda, the fruits of the robbery. Tavish didn't just see Jane; he saw his own lunch, his small daily comfort, being devoured by the monster who had snatched it from him. The anger, which until then had been a hot coal, exploded into a white flame of pure hatred. He gripped the pen so hard the nib broke, staining his index finger and the punishment sheet with ink.

...

The school day ended with the slowness of a funeral. Classes finished, and the building emptied of its student bustle. Tavish, with his backpack slung over one shoulder, stepped out into the afternoon sun, but he didn't head home. His mind was a whirlwind of revenge plans. He watched as some children were picked up by their mothers, with hugs and questions about their day. Others formed groups and walked away laughing. And then, he located his target.

Jane was sitting alone on a wooden bench, at the edge of the sidewalk, far from everyone. It was no surprise. Jane was so unbearable that her company was the most effective punishment, even more than solitude. She was there, motionless, watching the dust kicked up by passing cars, an island of intransigence in a sea of normality. The scene fueled Tavish's courage. There would be no witnesses to defend her, no friends to interfere.

With his heart hammering in his chest like a war drum, Tavish approached. His steps were deliberately silent, treading on the dry grass beside the sidewalk to avoid the crunch of gravel. The air smelled of hot earth and gasoline. He positioned himself behind Jane, whose chubby back and faded blue dress were a perfect target. Tavish's breath hitched. It was now or never.

"This is for robbing me!" he exclaimed, and his voice, loaded with all his pent-up rage, sounded shrill in the afternoon stillness. He lunged like a released spring, capitalizing on the element of surprise.

His small fist, more bone and tendon than muscle, smashed into Jane's cheek with a dry thud. It was a good, clean hit that snapped Jane's head to the side. Before the shock could dissipate, Tavish pressed his advantage in those few seconds and sank his fingers into that tangled mess of blonde hair, pulling with all his might. A hoarse cry, more of surprise than pain, escaped Jane's lips.

But Jane was no ordinary child. She was a factory of fights, a veteran in the art of counterattack. The surprise in her gray eyes cleared, replaced by an instant, familiar fury. With a sharp movement, she broke free from Tavish's grip and, without even standing up, headbutted him directly in the sternum. The air fled Tavish's lungs with a painful, hissing sound. His vision blurred for an instant, but rage was a fuel more potent than pain. He wouldn't give up.

What followed was a brutal, primitive ballet. They rolled in the dusty ground, a tangle of flailing limbs, choked shouts, and tearing clothes. Jane's blows were blunt, professional; one found his left eye, and Tavish felt an explosion of pain that promised a spectacular bruise for the next day. But Tavish, driven by a righteous fury, didn't yield. He clung to Jane's hair like an anchor in the storm, pulling at it with a fierce desperation until several coarse, dirty strands were tangled in his fingers, ripped from the root.

The shouts attracted attention. Adult voices, first distant, then close, rose above the fray. "Stop it! Break it up!" But they were so entangled, so fused in their mutual hatred, that it was hard to see where one ended and the other began.

It was then that Jane, cornered by the arrival of the adults and Tavish's unexpected tenacity, resorted to her ultimate weapon, the lowest and most animalistic one. With a guttural snarl, she sank her teeth into Tavish's shoulder, right through the fabric of his shirt.

The pain was unbearable, sharp and penetrating. It wasn't the blunt pain of a punch, but an intimate, savage assault. Tavish screamed, a long, wrenching shriek that came from the depths of his being. He tried to pull away, to twist free, but Jane's jaws were like a steel trap. A warm, wet stain began to spread across the fabric of his shirt: it was his blood.

The teachers were upon them now, anxious hands trying to separate the bodies, pulling Jane by the waist and Tavish by the arms. But Jane wouldn't let go. On the contrary, every time they pulled at her, she applied more force to the bite, like a rabid dog. Tavish was crying openly now, without shame, drowning in a sea of physical pain and even greater humiliation. The world shrank to the unbearable pressure on his shoulder, to Jane's voice, a muffled growl against his flesh, and the impotent shouts of the adults struggling to end the battle he had started with such fervor and which now threatened to literally consume him.

...

Tavish's world was a chamber of painful echoes. He had no clear memory of how they had managed to separate them; everything was a blurry whirlwind of shrill shouts, adult hands pulling at his body, and the sharp, tearing pain in his shoulder when, finally, Jane's jaws opened. The memory was tinged with his own crying, a wet, desperate sound that didn't seem to come from him, and the warm, dark stain that kept spreading across his shirt, a map of his defeat painted in his own blood. Now, sitting on the uncomfortable wooden chair in the principal's office, the present was a stinging, humiliating reality.

A rough gauze covered the wound, but the pressure of the bandage couldn't smother the dull, burning throb that reminded him of each one of Jane's teeth. The tears had cleaned pale tracks through the dust and stains on his face, and his sobs, now weak, were only occasional spasms that shook his body. From his corner in the waiting room, with his back literally against the wall, he watched the door, waiting for the inevitable sound of his mother's footsteps and cane.

In the diametrically opposite corner, as if an invisible force field kept them apart, was Jane. She too bore the marks of the battle: a huge purple bruise, so dark it looked like a rotten plum, spread around her left eye, swelling the eyelid until it was almost shut. For a fleeting instant, upon seeing the mark of his fist on his enemy's face, a spark of savage, primitive satisfaction crossed Tavish's heart. *He deserved it*, he thought. But that flash of vengeance was immediately drowned in the tide of pain coursing through his shoulder, a too-vivid reminder that, in this war, he had been the one who sank lower, the one who had been marked in the most animalistic way.

Muffled murmurs from the principal and teachers came from the inner office, a hum of adult voices, grave and full of consequences. Tavish tried to catch individual words—"unacceptable violence," "gravity," "protocol"—but his mind, clouded by exhaustion and pain, couldn't string them together. He only understood that they were waiting for his mother, and that he was awaiting the most severe punishment of his life. He imagined the dry sound of the white cane against his skin, not once or twice, but a dozen times, and the icy fury on his mother's blind face. And all of it, *all of it*, was Jane's fault. The injustice of the situation burned inside him, even more than the bite.

Finally, the sound he so dreaded echoed in the hallway: the methodical, firm *clack-clack-clack* of his mother's cane, a rhythm he knew as well as his own heartbeat. The door opened and there she was. Mrs. DeGroot did not look like a woman who had rushed over; she looked like a figure carved from ice and determination. Her posture was straight, impeccable, her face a serene marble mask beneath the dark glasses that hid her blindness. Her simple dress was ironed with military precision, and her gloved hands gripped the cane with a strength that promised reprimand. A palpable coldness emanated from her, a chill that made Tavish tremble more than any shout could have.

She did not say a word. She did not turn her head towards the corner where her son was sobbing. She crossed the waiting room with a dignity that defied her lack of sight and sat down precisely in the chair in front of the principal's large desk, as if an internal radar had indicated its exact location.

"Mom...", Tavish managed to articulate in an anguished sob, a last, weak plea for a shred of compassion.

His mother's voice cut him like a blade, clear, calm, and icy. "If you don't want to get into more trouble, you had best be quiet, young man." The words were not raised, but they carried a weight of absolute authority. And without turning, without a gesture of acknowledgment, she entered the inner office, the door closing behind her and leaving Tavish plunged into a silence more terrifying than any shouts.

Tavish hung his head, defeated. Tears fell onto his knees, staining his already dirty clothes. From behind the oak door, the voices became an incomprehensible murmur. He heard the principal's blunt, slightly irritated voice and the measured, cold replies of his mother. They were adult words, boring and laden with a meaning his tired, hurting child's mind couldn't decipher. He only sensed the tension, the disapproval emanating from the principal, and his mother's silent but fierce defense.

After what felt like an eternity, the door opened again. Both women emerged. The principal, a woman with a sharp face and hair pulled into a severe bun, looked at Mrs. DeGroot with a mixture of irritation and resignation.

"As the lightest punishment I can give, short of expulsion, would be a full week of suspension, with a permanent note in his school record," declared the principal, with a tone of distaste in her voice, as if the mere idea of not expelling Tavish was a bitter concession being wrung from her.

Mrs. DeGroot remained motionless. Tavish saw her jaw tighten and how her fingers, still gloved, clenched the cane with a force that whitened her knuckles. It was a minimal gesture, but to Tavish, who knew every one of her silent languages, it was a torrent of contained fury.

"You have to understand, Mrs. DeGroot," the principal continued with a calm that was uncomfortably condescending, "that while this sort of... behavior... might be normal, or even expected, for those of your... class... this is a respectable school, and we will not tolerate such lapses in manners and civility."

Tavish watched, his heart in his throat, as his mother drew herself up even straighter, if that were possible. The coldness in her voice when she spoke could have frozen fire itself.

"I can assure you, Principal," she said, articulating each word with the precision of a watchmaker, "that the class of people my family and I are is, at the very least, on par with the standards of this school, not to mention far above."

The principal sighed, a sound laden with a weariness that seemed directed solely at the existence of the DeGroots. Then, she shifted her attention to Jane, who was still in her corner, arms crossed, the bruise like a banner of her own impunity. The principal offered a mocking, condescending smile.

"I suppose you've already had your punishment, haven't you, Jane?" she said, with a lightness that felt obscene compared to the solemnity used with Tavish. "Try not to do it again."

Jane let out a low grunt, a sound not of remorse, but of annoyance. She rose from her seat with abrupt movements.

"And try not to be late," added the principal, now addressing an empty spot behind Jane, as if she didn't want to meet her gaze. "A respectable lady like Mrs. Helly shouldn't have to suffer those delays."

Jane grunted again, more forcefully this time, and a wave of anger darkened her bruised face even further. As she passed Tavish, the boy shuddered, a mix of residual fear and impotent rage. Jane stopped. Her stormy grey eyes, one of them nearly swollen shut, fixed on Tavish for a few seconds that felt eternal. She didn't say a word. Instead, with a quick, contemptuous motion, she tilted her head and spat. A thick, pinkish glob, a mixture of blood and saliva, landed with a wet, repulsive sound on the toe of Tavish's shoe.

And with that final act of disdain, Jane walked out of the principal's office. No suspension, no note in her record, not a single real reprimand. Just a "try not to do it again" and a condescending smile.

Tavish looked at the stain on his shoes, then at the door through which his tormentor had disappeared, and finally at the principal's impassive face. The anger burning inside him was no longer just about the theft, or the fight, or even the pain in his shoulder. It was a deeper, more bitter anger, fueled by the poison of injustice and the understanding—just beginning to germinate in his eleven-year-old heart—that the rules of the game had been rigged against him from the start.

Chapter Text

The walk home from the principal's office was the longest and quietest journey Tavish had ever undertaken. The *clack-clack* of his mother's cane on the pavement set a funereal rhythm, each tap a reminder of his failure and the humiliation to come. The gauze on his shoulder itched, and the memory of the spit and blood on his shoes made him nauseous. The air, which once smelled of dry grass and freedom, now smelled of defeat and consequences.

Of course, once they crossed the threshold of the DeGroot house, the storm broke. The reprimand was severe, a deluge of cutting words his mother delivered with the precision of a surgeon, dissecting his irresponsibility, his lack of judgment, and the stain his behavior had placed on the family name. Every word found its mark on Tavish's already bruised spirit. Yet, in an act of mercy the boy hadn't dared to expect, physical punishment manifested only in the sharp pain of the bite. The white cane remained leaning against the wall, a silent but threatening witness. "Nature has already scourged you, Tavish," his mother declared coldly as she prepared the first-aid kit. "Adding more pain to this stupidity would be redundant."

That afternoon, his father came home. The smell of dust and dynamite preceded him, a familiar fragrance that usually filled Tavish with a secret pride. As his mother, with hands surprisingly gentle despite her harshness, cleaned the wound with an antiseptic that burned like fire and applied fresh bandages, she explained the situation to her husband. Tavish expected an explosion, a shout, the fury of a Demoman whose son had been defiled. But his father didn't yell. He didn't show surprise. He simply took off his work jacket, sniffed the air thick with the scent of alcohol and blood, and delivered a slow, grave lecture on the importance of not hitting girls.

"A man, a true Demoman, controls his strength, Tavish," his father said, his blind eyes fixed on a point just past his son's bandaged shoulder. "Girls are... fragile. You don't hit them. It's not proper."

Tavish had to bite his tongue so hard he tasted the metallic tang of blood. A burning protest churned in his chest. Jane wasn't a girl. Not like the others. Jane was a force of nature, a whirlwind with fists who declared himself a boy. If Jane wanted to be treated like a boy, then Tavish would respond to him as a boy, and that, in his childish logic, included the right to defend himself with his fists without being scolded for hitting a "girl." But the words didn't come out. They drowned in the fear and respect his father, even in his blindness, inspired in him.

The week of suspension passed with the slowness of a clogged hourglass. Tavish was a prisoner in his own home. The bandages on his shoulder became a second skin, a constant reminder of his downfall. His world shrank to the four walls of the house and an endless list of boring, punitive chores. He had to scrub floors until his knees ached, clean windows that were already clean, and write lines until his hand cramped. "Idleness is the devil's playground," his mother repeated, her cane tapping the floor to emphasize each word. Every penny he had so painstakingly saved was confiscated, not as punishment, according to her, but to "cover the cost of the bandages and antiseptic."

But the worst part, the final humiliation, arrived the day before he was due to return to school. His mother, with that relentless calm that was more terrifying than any shout, informed him that he had to apologize to Jane. Tavish was dumbfounded, his mouth agape in a silent gesture of disbelief. *Apologize?* To *Jane*? Why? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't Jane, the thief, the aggressor, the biter, be dragged before him to beg for forgiveness? But his mother left no room for argument. "You will take a box of chocolates. A peace offering. I want no more trouble, Tavish. That's final."

...

So, on the morning of his return to school, Tavish's backpack carried not only his books but the weight of a bitter injustice. The box of chocolates, rectangular and covered with a ridiculous bow, seemed to weigh as much as a tombstone. The cruelest part was the origin of this forced tribute: it had been bought with his own lunch money. Now, in his trouser pocket, instead of the crumpled, promise-filled dollar, he had only a solitary fifty-cent coin. With it, he could only afford a wilted, tasteless salad and a simple bottle of water. The contrast with his generous sandwich, his sugary candy, and his fizzy soda was a mental torture that stoked his resentment.

The day proceeded with an offensive normality. The same hallways, the same murmurs, the same smells. But his attention was fixed, like a compass needle, on Jane's tangled, blonde hair a few seats ahead. Every time he saw it, he felt a twinge in his shoulder, a phantom echo of the bite.

Finally, the recess bell rang, releasing the students into the playground. Tavish, his heart pounding in his throat, pulled the box of chocolates from his backpack. The shiny cardboard felt cold and alien in his hands. He took a deep breath, gathering all the strength an eleven-year-old boy laden with wounded pride and pent-up rage could muster, and stepped outside.

The sunlight hit him full force, and for a moment he felt exposed, vulnerable. He scanned the area and found her. Jane was sitting alone on a wooden bench, right in the middle of the playground, under the cool, dappled shade of an ancient oak tree. She was a solitary figure, isolated on her own island of hostility. Tavish approached, his steps slow and hesitant on the gravel. With a knot in his stomach, he extended a trembling hand and lightly tapped Jane's shoulder.

The reaction was instant and violent. Jane spun around like a spring, her brow already furrowed in her habitual expression of anger, her mouth open to release a snarl or an insult. But the sound died on her lips. Her eyes, those stormy gray eyes, fixed on the box of chocolates that Tavish, almost by instinct, had thrust in front of her face, like a shield against the imminent aggression.

The effect was profound. Surprise, a genuine and unfeigned emotion, swept the anger from Jane's face. Tavish watched, fascinated and astonished. The furrowed brow, that perpetual mask of anger, faded. The blonde eyebrows, so often knitted together, relaxed and arched slightly. A warm blush, a lively pink color Tavish had never seen on her before, spread across her dirty cheeks, rising to her ears. Her mouth, primed for violence, remained slightly agape, but now in a silent "o" of astonishment. And then, the most extraordinary thing: her eyes. The layer of stormy gray dissipated as if by magic, revealing a clear, limpid blue, the color of the sky on a spring day after the rain. It was a pleasant, serene blue, and completely foreign to the fierce creature Tavish thought he knew.

In that instant, suspended in time under the shade of the oak, with the weight of the chocolates between them, Tavish's narrative about Jane cracked. The vision of the monster was replaced by that of a child, alone, surprised by an unexpected act of kindness. And for a second, a fleeting but devastatingly clear second, Tavish thought, with a conviction that took his breath away, that Jane was pretty.

But in the fragile ecosystem of the elementary school playground, every truce is temporary, and every bubble of peace is doomed to burst. The moment of stillness under the oak, charged with a new and unknown tension, was shattered in the most brutal way. A sharp laugh, like the caw of a crow, cut through the air. Then another, and another, until a cacophony of snickers and malicious murmurs erupted around them, enveloping them in a cloud of public humiliation. Tavish, who had been suspended in the strange beauty of Jane's blush and the clarity of her eyes, was violently ripped from that daydream. The entire playground seemed to have stopped to stare at them, a circle of mocking faces and accusing fingers pointing at them like the two dissonant pieces of a puzzle.

"They're boyfriend and girlfriend!" a boy screeched in a shrill voice, and the chorus rose, cruel and euphoric.

"Jane's so weird only someone like Tavish would hang out with her," added another, with the confidence of one stating an unquestionable truth for the herd.

"The two weirdos are together! Look, he gave her chocolates!"

Tavish swallowed. A cold, familiar fear, the same one he felt walking down the town's main street, seized him. But this one was different, more complex. It wasn't just the fear of being the target, but the terror of what he had unleashed. He had publicly humiliated Jane, offered him a gift, an act of supposed weakness, and now the pack smelled blood. He turned to Jane, expecting to see the homicidal fury he'd witnessed before, bracing for a new rain of blows. "I'm sorry," he stammered, unsure why he was apologizing, for the chocolates or for the mob they'd attracted.

But Jane didn't seem to hear him. He didn't seem to hear the shouts. He remained motionless, the box of chocolates clutched tightly in his chubby, dirty hands as if it were a sacred artifact fallen from the sky. His gaze was fixed on the box, on the ridiculous bow, with an expression Tavish had never seen on him: something akin to awe, mixed with a desire so pure and voracious it was almost painful to behold. He was completely absorbed, oblivious to the scorn surrounding them. Tavish wondered, vaguely, if Jane was already so accustomed to this kind of harassment that his mind simply shut down, building an invisible fortress around him.

Then, Jane looked up. And those eyes, which a moment ago were a serene blue, now held a dazzling intensity. It wasn't the gray storm of his anger, but the absolute clarity of a clear sky after a hurricane. Those sky-blue morning eyes fixed on Tavish's, and it was as if the firmament itself was gazing back at him, acknowledging him. Tavish felt his heart accelerate in a strange way, a rapid, disconcerting flutter in his chest. A warmth, different from the sun's or from shame, crept up his neck and stained his cheeks. He told himself, desperately, that it was from fear. It had to be from fear... right?

"Thank you..." The word was a rough whisper, almost inaudible, that slipped past Jane's lips. It wasn't a grunt, nor a hiss. It was a new sound, laden with a vulnerability that disarmed Tavish more than any punch. And then, before the dark-skinned boy could formulate any response, Jane turned on his heel and ran off, slipping through the mocking crowd like a ghost, taking the box of chocolates and the mystery of his gaze with him.

The bell announcing the end of recess rang with a metallic harshness, scattering the children like cockroaches under a light. Tavish stood for a moment longer in the middle of the playground, feeling exposed and ridiculous, the humiliation still hot on his face. The return to the classroom was an ordeal. Every glance, every whisper, felt like a comment on what had happened.

Classes continued with their monotonous normality, but Tavish was a castaway in a sea of words he couldn't grasp. The geography teacher talked about plateaus and plains, but he only saw Jane's blonde, disheveled hair a few seats ahead. It was as if a powerful magnet, a force field he didn't understand, had sprung up between them. His attention, against his will, hooked again and again on that golden, dirty cloud, seeking in vain for a gesture, a signal. But Jane, for the rest of the afternoon, never turned his head. He remained motionless, like a statue, giving his back to Tavish and the entire world.

...

When the final bell released the students, Tavish yearned for only one thing: the safety of his room, the familiar smell of gunpowder and old wood, and the company of his "Cherry Bombs," harmless little devices his father let him handle under strict supervision. He wanted to light a fuse and watch it burn until the bang, however small, erased the echo of the laughter and the memory of those blue eyes.

He walked with his head down, lost in thought, following the usual path home. The town stretched out before him, drowsy under the afternoon sun. And then, on a corner, where the shadow of Olson's hardware store stretched across the sidewalk, he saw him. It was Jane. He was moving with quick, furtive steps, hugging the walls like an animal avoiding open spaces. In one hand, he still carried the box of chocolates, now half-empty. With the other, he was bringing one to his mouth, nibbling on it with a hungry urgency.

Tavish stopped dead in his tracks, his escape plan instantly forgotten. A burning curiosity, a primal and inexplicable impulse, seized him. Before his reason could protest, his feet had already made the decision. He ducked behind a hedge, his heart beating hard against his ribs. He began to follow Jane, becoming a shadow, an amateur detective on an absurd mission. He hid behind the thick trunks of the elms lining the street, crouched behind empty wooden barrels outside the tavern, his gaze fixed on the back of the faded blue dress.

He wanted to know. He needed to know. Where did Jane live? Maybe he was his neighbor, maybe he lived in that decrepit house at the end of the street from which shouts always came. Suddenly, that information seemed vitally important, crucial to understanding something he couldn't name. Just one day ago, Jane's life would have mattered less to him than the dust under his shoes. Now, it was an enigma he felt an imperative need to solve.

Jane finished the last chocolate, wiped his sticky fingers on his dress, and, with a sharp motion, threw the empty box into a bush. Then, he made a sudden about-turn and veered off the main path, heading onto the dirt trail that led into the woods surrounding the town. Tavish, his breath caught in his throat, followed him. The air changed, becoming cooler, laden with the smell of moss, damp earth, and pine needles. Light filtered through the canopy in dusty, golden beams. Jane moved with an unsettling familiarity among the trunks, like a wolf cub in its territory. Tavish, clumsy and nervous, stumbled over roots and pushed branches aside with a crunch that seemed deafening to him.

They went deeper and deeper, until the light from the town was completely filtered by the thicket. Finally, Jane reached a clearing. And there, planted like a scar on the landscape, was a building. It was a large structure, made of gray stone with narrow, dirty windows, some boarded up. A wrought-iron sign, rusted and crooked, hung over a huge, neglected gate. With effort, Tavish managed to decipher the words: Helly Orphanage.

Jane pushed the heavy gate, which screeched with a sound that made Tavish shudder, and entered the grounds of the building without looking back. The dark-skinned boy crouched behind a thick oak, watching. The orphanage looked cold and hostile, a silent prison in the middle of the woods.

Then, the silence broke. A female voice, shrill and laden with poisonous anger, cut through the walls like a knife. "You bitch disgrace! You know prayers are at three in the afternoon! Where have you been?"

The words were followed by a sharp, thudding noise, a dull blow that resonated in Tavish's heart with terrifying clarity. It wasn't the sound of a hit against a wall or furniture. It was the sound of flesh against flesh, or something worse.

Tavish didn't wait to hear more. An instinctive terror, a visceral understanding of having witnessed something he shouldn't have, propelled him into motion. He turned around and ran. He didn't follow the path, but blindly forced his way through the underbrush, branches whipping his face and his backpack thumping against his back. He ran breathlessly, his heart shriveled by a mixture of fear, guilt, and a new, overwhelming understanding. The thunder of his own footsteps drowned out everything, except the echo of that shrill scream and the sinister noise that had followed. The box of chocolates, the whispered "thank you," the blue eyes... all had been overshadowed by the dark and cruel reality hidden behind the rusted gate of the Helly Orphanage.

...

The next day at school felt like walking through a landscape painted in muted colors. The air itself seemed thinner, less charged with the conflict-ridden electricity that Jane, by his mere presence, usually generated. Tavish walked the hallways and sat at his desk with a sense of strangeness. The space that the stocky, defiant figure of Jane had occupied a few seats ahead was empty. An emptiness that, to his own bewilderment, resonated with a deafening intensity. The tangled, blonde hair, that magnet of chaos he had so obsessively followed the day before, was gone. And its absence turned the classroom into a flat, dimensionless stage.

Tavish had never imagined that a day without shouts, without snarls, without the constant spectacle of Jane defying the world, could feel so profoundly lonely. The day's normality, which he had so longed for amidst his troubles, now felt bland and painful. Every other laugh sounded false, every lesson from the teacher was a monotonous drone. His mind, free from the need to watch Jane, didn't know where to land, and fluttered uncomfortably, always returning to the memory of the Helly Orphanage, the shrill scream, and the dull noise that had made him run. He wondered, with a knot of worry in his stomach, if the bruise he had given him had worsened, or if he had been punished for being late to prayers.

The school day began as it ended: with a tranquility so absolute it was oppressive. When the final bell released the students, Tavish left the school with a mixture of relief and a dull unease. He walked down the main street, lost in thought, the echo of his own steps on the cobblestones seeming like the heartbeat of a town keeping secrets behind its impeccable facades.

It was then, as he turned a corner onto a less traveled street lined by high brick walls, that reality violently ripped him from his thoughts. A tiny, chubby, and surprisingly strong hand closed like a claw around his arm. Before he could scream or resist, a brutal force yanked him into the gloom of a narrow, dirty alleyway, where sunlight barely filtered between the building roofs. The smell of damp garbage and old urine filled his nostrils.

The confusion left him paralyzed. Only a moment later, a sharp, hard punch smashed into his cheek, making him see white stars and sending a sharp pain through his jaw. The blow, more than the pain, was a brutal message. And it was at that moment, as he blinked to clear his vision, that he recognized his attacker.

"Alright, you dirty bastard. Who did you tell?"

Jane had him pinned against the damp, peeling wall. But this wasn't the Jane with the blue eyes and the fleeting blush. This was the original Jane, the one with the perpetual storm. His eyes, which just yesterday had been a clear, surprised blue, were once again veiled by a leaden gray, charged with a fury that seemed to want to pulverize him. And in his hands, they weren't empty. He held a hand shovel, a short tool, its metal stained with dry dirt and rust. The shovel's sharp tip was pointed directly at Tavish's throat, pressing lightly against the skin, a cold, deadly reminder of the seriousness of the situation. In that moment, Tavish, whose world was accustomed to his father's controlled explosives, understood that the fear of a tool so simple and mundane could be infinitely more visceral.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tavish stammered, his voice a thin, trembling thread. His gaze was locked on the shovel's edge, which seemed to absorb all the dim light in the alley.

Jane snarled, a deep, guttural sound that didn't seem human, and brought the shovel even closer. The cold metal grazed Tavish's skin, and he held his breath. "Don't play dumb. I saw you yesterday. You were following me." Jane's hiss was that of a cornered beast who, in turn, has cornered another. Tavish could feel cold sweat gathering on the back of his neck, trickling down his back in a trail of pure panic. Fear was a metallic taste in his mouth, mixed with the dust of the alley.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." he repeated, but this time his voice sounded even weaker, more false. His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, as if he hadn't had a drop of water all day.

Jane didn't flinch. The disbelief on his face turned to contempt. He moved the shovel another centimeter, and Tavish felt panic closing his throat. "No one!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with terror. "I didn't tell anyone, I swear!"

"Are you sure?" Jane asked in the barest whisper, laden with a threat that was more frightening than any shout. His gray eyes scrutinized Tavish's face, searching for the slightest hint of a lie.

Tavish began nodding frantically, his head bobbing up and down like a doll. "Yes, I promise you..." he said, pressing his back against the rough wall as if he wanted to merge with it and disappear. He had the feeling that if he fainted, the shovel would find its final target.

Jane let out a final grunt, a sound of contained rage and deep distrust. He took a step back, and with it, he also moved the shovel away from Tavish's neck. The dark-skinned boy felt an immense weight lift from his chest and the air, stale as it was, returned to his lungs in a trembling gasp. However, the tension didn't completely dissipate. Jane was still there, planted in front of him, the shovel now hanging from his hand, but still ready. His expression wasn't one of belief, but of a cautious, temporary truce.

"You'd better," Jane said, his voice regaining some of its usual hardness. He raised his free hand, clenched and white-knuckled, and shook it in Tavish's face. "If I find out you told someone... you'll have me to deal with. And I'm telling you, I don't care if I end up in jail for it. Understood?"

Tavish nodded again, this time with the energy of someone clinging to life. He didn't want to find out if that threat was a childish boast or a sinister promise. He still wanted to see the sunrise the next day.

Jane spat on the ground, a gesture of disdain that stained the damp stone with a small glob of saliva. Then, he fixed his gaze on Tavish again, but now with something else, something that wasn't pure anger, but a rough, distrustful curiosity. He seemed to be assessing him, measuring the veracity of his words beyond the obvious fear.

"I swear," Tavish insisted, finding a last thread of conviction. He raised a hand and placed it over his chest, over the heart that was still hammering against his ribs. "I swear, I didn't see anything."

The gesture, so simple and so solemn, seemed to have an unexpected effect. It wasn't that Jane's anger vanished, but it was slightly countered by something that briefly flickered in his eyes: a spark of... consideration? The beast had received a signal of genuine submission, and that, for now at least, seemed to be enough.

Jane didn't leave. He stood there, motionless, watching Tavish with an intensity that was almost as disturbing as the shovel had been. The alley filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the dark-skinned boy's ragged breathing and the distant murmur of the town. It was an armed peace, a fragile ceasefire between two worlds that, for reasons Tavish couldn't grasp, had collided in the most violent and strange way possible. And in the center of that silence, the two boys sized each other up, one from fear and promise, the other from rage and distrust, caught in a precarious balance hanging by a thread over the rusty tip of a shovel.

The silence in the alley had become so thick it was palpable, laden with the smell of dampness, garbage, and the residual fear emanating from Tavish. The shovel no longer pointed at his throat, but its mental shadow was still there, a cold line of possible death drawn on his skin. Jane didn't move. His breathing, once agitated by fury, had calmed until it was almost imperceptible. His eyes, the same ones that had been gray pools of storm just minutes before, remained fixed on Tavish, but the quality of his gaze was changing. The anger, that constant fire that seemed to fuel him, was beginning to recede, not from weakness, but from a calculated decision.

It was then that Jane broke the stillness. With a caution that contrasted brutally with the previous aggression, he turned his head and scrutinized both ends of the alley. His gaze swept over the closed windows, the back doors with rusty locks, the piles of empty boxes. He was looking for witnesses, prying eyes, any presence other than their own in this world reduced to bricks and gloom. Finding nothing, his shoulders, which had been tense like bowstrings until then, relaxed slightly. An almost miraculous transformation then occurred on his face. The last vestiges of the storm dissipated, and his gray eyes cleared, becoming a calm, cool blue, like the sky on a Sunday morning after a night of thunder. It was the clear sky after the storm, a blue Tavish had seen once before and which produced the same pang of awe in his chest.

"Thank you very much for the chocolates the other day," Jane said, and his voice was no longer a snarl, but a low, almost shy whisper. The words sounded strange in his mouth, as if he wasn't used to pronouncing them. A small, awkward, tentative smile appeared on his chapped lips. It was an uncomfortable gesture, like a muscle that hadn't been used in years. "They were very tasty."

In that instant, under the faint light filtering from above, with that fragile smile illuminating his dirty face, Jane was pretty again. Not pretty like the girls in advertisements, but in a strange, wild, and unique way that made Tavish's heart lurch uncomfortably and race. Overwhelmed, Tavish looked down at his own dusty shoes, feeling his cheeks blush.

"Ah, yes... I'm glad you liked them," Tavish managed to stammer, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. He wanted to be kind, to reciprocate this unexpected peace, even though he was still trembling inside.

Jane's smile widened a little, losing some of its stiffness. It was just a minimal change, but for Tavish it was like seeing a crack bloom in the cement. That small gesture made the heat in his own cheeks intensify, a confusing but not entirely unpleasant sensation.

"Yeah," Jane affirmed, and then, with a naturalness that left Tavish stunned, he added: "Tomorrow I want more."

The statement was so blunt, so devoid of request and so full of expectation, that it snapped Tavish out of his stupor immediately. He blinked, bewildered, looking at Jane as if he had just spoken in an unknown language. The transition from the threat with the shovel to this capricious demand was too abrupt for his eleven-year-old mind.

"What?" asked Tavish, his voice laden with genuine bewilderment. He could still feel the ghost of the metal on his neck.

Jane frowned slightly, his nonexistent patience beginning to wear thin. "I said I want another box of chocolates tomorrow," he repeated, articulating each word with exaggerated clarity, as if Tavish were particularly slow. A flash of his old irritation crossed his blue eyes, now tinged with impatience.

Tavish shook his head, slowly, trying to find the logic. "Why would I do that?" he said, and his confusion was genuine. It wasn't a refusal, but a true inability to understand the equation. Chocolates were expensive, that box had cost nearly all of his lunch money, and money didn't grow on trees, especially in a house where every penny was counted to support a Demoman with twenty-seven jobs.

Jane's response was immediate and violent. He snorted, a sound of pure irritation, and scuffed the ground with the toe of his worn-out boots, which were at least two sizes too big for his feet, creating a dry, unpleasant noise that echoed in the alley. Tavish flinched at the sound, a reflex conditioned by recent fear. Jane stepped closer, invading his personal space once more, but this time the energy was different. It wasn't the menace of a predator, but the demand of someone accustomed to getting what he wants by force or intimidation.

"For this," Jane growled, and his voice was low but charged with an intensity that paralyzed Tavish.

The dark-skinned boy had no time to process what was happening. It was all too fast. Jane's chubby, dirty hands closed around the collar of his shirt, not with strangling force, but with enough to pull him down to his level. Tavish, completely taken by surprise, offered no resistance. And then, it happened.

The kiss must have lasted less than a second. It was a collision more than a contact, an awkward, uncoordinated meeting. Their noses bumped with a small, painful thud, and their small, uneven baby teeth clacked with a subtle crunch. Jane's lips weren't soft; they were rough and chapped, and Tavish could feel tiny cuts and scabs under his own lips. His mouth tasted of cheap bologna and something indescribably unique, of *Jane*.

But for Tavish, in the midst of the clumsiness and surprise, it was like witnessing the most magnificent explosion his father could ever have designed. It wasn't a detonation that expanded the world, but an implosion that collapsed his entire reality into a single point of contact. A wave of heat, intense and overwhelming, rushed from his head to his toes, making the alley air, once cold, suddenly feel suffocating. It was a heat born of shame, confusion, and a new, electrifying emotion he couldn't name. It was a kiss. Jane was kissing him. And in the center of that whirlwind of sensations, Tavish, to his own astonishment, realized he was enjoying it.

Jane pulled away as abruptly as he had approached, releasing his shirt. Tavish stood there panting, his face burning as if a torch had been held to it. For the first time since he'd known him, Jane also seemed affected. A shadow of embarrassment crossed his face, and his cheeks, beneath the dirt, flushed a beautiful, deep red. That blush, that sudden vulnerability in the fiercest creature he had ever known, seemed to Tavish more revealing than any words. He wanted to see more of that color, he wanted to understand it, he wanted it to last.

Without another word, Jane turned on his heel and strode quickly away in the opposite direction Tavish needed to go, his figure disappearing at the mouth of the alley, leaving only the echo of his oversized boots on the pavement.

Tavish was left alone, leaning against the cold wall, unable to move. His mind, which had been clouded by fear, then by confusion, was now a field of debris after the implosion. He processed the data in fragments: the shovel, the blue eyes, the timid smile, the demand, the taste of bologna, the heat, Jane's blush. And from all that wreckage, a single thought emerged, clear, sharp, and absolute, sweeping all other considerations away: Jane was the most beautiful person in the world.

With that new, burning truth seared into his mind, energy returned to his body. Pushing himself off the wall, Tavish ran out of the alley. He raced through the town streets without seeing anything or anyone, his heart pumping not from fear, but from a new and glorious urgency. He reached his house, pushed the door open, and without even the obligatory ritual of greeting his mother, who called out to him from the kitchen with a reproachful tone, he took the stairs two at a time and locked himself in his room.

On his knees, he pulled the old biscuit tin from under his bed, his most prized treasure. He opened it with trembling hands. Inside, the modest pile of coins and crumpled bills, the leftover pennies from a thousand lunches, forgotten birthday gifts, all the savings of his short life, gleamed under the dim light of the bulb. They were no longer just coins. They were the key. They were the possibility.

Jane wanted another box of chocolates, after all. And Tavish Finnegan DeGroot, with the taste of bologna and freedom still on his lips, was willing to empty his entire fortune, penny by penny, to fulfill that wish.

Chapter Text

The night had been a long, turbulent stream of insomnia for Tavish. His mattress felt like it was made of stones, and every time he closed his eyes, he relived the implosion of the kiss: the bump of noses, the rough texture of Jane's lips, the taste of bologna, and the scorching heat that had rushed through his body. His treasure, the tin of pennies, was significantly lighter, a sacrifice that now seemed not just necessary, but glorious. The new box of chocolates, identical to the last, was carefully stored in his backpack, wrapped in a clean t-shirt for protection. It was a talisman, a symbol of this new, strange connection that made him feel both terrified and more alive than ever.

The next day, the walk to school wasn't the usual transit of loneliness and furtive glances. Every step brought him closer to an electrifying destination. The morning air, fresh and laden with the smell of dew on the grass, seemed intoxicating. And then, turning the final corner, he saw him. Jane was there, sequestered in his usual territory, leaning against the school's red brick wall near the garbage bins. His posture was the same as always: arms crossed, brow furrowed in an expression that seemed carved from stone, and those gray eyes scanning the playground with disdain. To anyone else, he was the same intimidating, hostile figure. But to Tavish, he was a magnet.

A wave of emotion, pure and unthinking, flooded him. Without a second thought, his body reacted before his mind. A wide smile spread across his face and he broke into a run, closing the distance between them with quick, anticipatory steps. His hand was already digging into his backpack, fumbling for the smooth cardboard surface of the box, eager to see that magical transformation again, to return the blue to Jane's sky-like eyes.

But the reception wasn't what he expected. Before he could pull out the box or utter a word, Jane's gaze locked onto him. It wasn't the look of shy surprise from the day before, nor the homicidal fury from the alley encounter. It was a cold, flat look, a wall of ice. His gray eyes showed no flicker of happy recognition. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, Jane said no. Then, with a quick, discreet gesture of his hand, he gave a clear signal: *Wait*. His lips moved silently, forming the words "After school." The message was unmistakable: not here, not now.

Disappointment was a bucket of cold water for Tavish. He stopped dead in his tracks, the smile fading from his face. The hand holding the box inside his backpack went slack. He nodded, once, awkwardly, and moved away, suddenly feeling ridiculous and exposed. The bell rang, a salvation, and the torrent of students entering the building swept him along, separating him from Jane.

Classes that day were a surreal experience. Tavish was physically at his desk, but his consciousness floated in another dimension. The history teacher's words about the Napoleonic wars became a meaningless drone, a background buzz against the whirlwind of his thoughts. His world had shrunk to a single focal point: the long, messy blonde hair a few seats ahead. He watched how the morning light streamed through the window and tangled in those coarse locks, illuminating tiny specks of dust and, perhaps, a small, persistent dry leaf from the day before. Every time his gaze landed on Jane, even in profile, he felt a familiar warmth creep up his neck and stain his cheeks. It was an involuntary reaction, a blush born of confusion, admiration, and the persistent echo of a kiss that had tasted of bologna and freedom.

The school day ended in a blink, a succession of periods he couldn't remember. When the final bell echoed through the halls, it was like a starting pistol. Tavish, his heart already racing, scanned the crowd for Jane. He found him immediately, and their eyes met for the briefest instant. Jane, with an almost imperceptible nod, signaled for him to follow, then turned and merged with the stream of exiting students.

The chase began. Jane moved with the agility of a wild thing that knew every crack of its territory. He didn't run openly, but slipped between groups of kids, turning corners sharply, cutting through neglected backyards and alleys Tavish didn't even know existed. Tavish followed as best he could, his backpack thumping against his back, sprinting to keep the flash of the faded blue dress in sight. He dodged a woman coming out of the grocery store, apologized after bumping into a man sweeping his doorstep, and felt a delicious, dangerous adrenaline coursing through his veins. This wasn't a hostile pursuit; it was a secret rendezvous, a clandestine mission.

Finally, Jane veered into a familiar place: the same narrow, dirty alley from the day before. That place which smelled of dampness and secrets, the stage for his threat and his kiss. Jane leaned back against the same peeling brick wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at Tavish with an expectant, almost challenging expression.

Without needing further instruction, Tavish, panting but beaming, dove into his backpack. This time, there was no hesitation. He pulled out the box of chocolates and offered it to Jane with both hands, like a devotee making an offering.

And then, the magic happened for the second time. Jane's eyes, which had maintained a cautious gray until then, transformed. The storm dissipated, revealing that beautiful, clear, luminous cyan. An awkward but genuine smile curved his lips, smoothing the angry wrinkles from his forehead. In that instant, under the dim light filtering between the buildings, Jane was pretty again. It wasn't a conventional beauty, but one born from strangeness, intensity, and those fleeting moments of peace.

"Anyway, have this," Jane said, his voice a bit softer than usual. He dug a hand into one of the deep, misshapen pockets of his dress and pulled out a small, crude lump, hastily wrapped in newspaper stained with grease.

Curious and somewhat confused, Tavish accepted the package. It was heavier than it looked. With careful fingers, he unfolded the newspaper, revealing the contents. His breath caught. Inside were a couple of firecrackers. Not the colorful, harmless fireworks from town festivals. These were larger, a sinister dark red, with short, twisted fuses that promised a serious bang. They looked dangerous. They looked incredibly cool. They were, definitely, something no kid his age should have.

"What are these for?" asked Tavish, his voice a whisper of awe. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the artifacts, lying in his palm like dormant dragon eggs.

Jane snorted, a sound that was becoming familiar to Tavish. But this time, it wasn't accompanied by a gray glare. On the contrary, his cheeks flushed visibly, and he frowned, though he didn't seem truly angry. It was an expression of pure frustration, as if he struggled to express what he felt. "It's for you," he grunted, crossing his arms over his chest more tightly. "It's not fair that you're the only one giving me things."

Tavish blinked, the initial disbelief giving way to a wave of warmth that flooded his chest. It wasn't the heat of fear, or even of a blush. It was something different, deeper. It was the warmth of reciprocity. Jane, the solitary wild thing, was giving him something in return. A forbidden object, dangerous, something that spoke of his world, of the world of explosives and resistance.

"But..." Tavish stammered, not knowing what else to say. His mind couldn't fully process the gesture.

Jane had already opened the box of chocolates and was nibbling on one, getting his fingers sticky with caramel and chocolate. He looked at Tavish with impatience, but behind it there was something else, a vulnerability seeping through the mask of toughness. He almost seemed... shy?

"Do you want them or not?" he grunted again, hiding his discomfort behind brusqueness.

Tavish snapped out of his stupor. He shook his head, not in denial, but to clear his thoughts. A huge, wide, carefree smile spread across his face, the first genuinely happy smile he'd had in a long time.

"Yes, I want them," he said, his voice firm and full of genuine enthusiasm. "They're so cool!"

Jane snorted again, looking away towards the opposite wall. He seemed annoyed, irritated by Tavish's effusiveness. But it was a facade. His eyes, as they darted away, shone with an even more intense, deeper blue, as if Tavish's words had pumped color directly into them. And his cheeks, already flushed, burned with a darker, deeper red, the color of the wild poppies that grew in the abandoned fields. It was the most honest reaction Tavish had seen from him, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that behind all those snarls and furrowed brows, there was someone who was just learning how to receive a gift, and how to give one back.

The silence that fell between them after the exchange of gifts wasn't empty, but dense, charged with unspoken meanings and the sweet scent of chocolate melting in the air. Tavish still felt the weight of the firecrackers in his pocket, a dangerous and exciting presence that completely contradicted the ordered sterility of his life. Jane, for his part, remained absorbed in the box, devouring the chocolates with a concentration bordering on religious, as if each bite were a fragment of a better world granted to him for a limited time.

It was in the middle of this charged calm that Jane broke the silence, his voice somewhat distorted by his full mouth. "By the way, you should stop staring at me in class."

The statement hit Tavish like a bucket of cold water. He blushed immediately, a heat rising from his neck to the tips of his ears. He had believed, with the naive arrogance of someone discovering a new feeling, that his gaze was a well-kept secret, a furtive act of adoration that went unnoticed. "You noticed?" he asked, his voice a thread of embarrassment.

Jane finished chewing and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a small brown smear on his already dirty skin. He snorted, a sound that was becoming the usual punctuation for his sentences. "The whole class noticed," he said with brutal frankness, though his gaze drifted to the opposite wall of the alley, avoiding Tavish's eyes. And then, Tavish saw it: a faint blush, almost imperceptible under the layer of grime and small scars, was spreading across Jane's cheeks. It wasn't the furious red of anger, but a softer, warmer color. A rare and powerful feeling of pride washed over Tavish. *He* had caused that. He, with his dumb, persistent staring, had managed to paint that beautiful color on the cheeks of the fiercest creature in the school.

"What's wrong with that?" Tavish said, genuinely confused. In his mind, silently admiring someone wasn't a crime. He wasn't doing anything wrong or weird, at least not by his own code of conduct, which was being rewritten minute by minute.

Jane's response didn't come with a snarl or a snort. His voice dropped several tones, losing its edge, transforming into something much more fragile. "Because they'll say things," he murmured, "and I don't want them to." The rage and violence that usually armored him seemed to have deflated, revealing a timid whisper, laden with something Tavish had never associated with Jane: fear. It was a dull fear, the fear of someone who knows the weight of words and the cruelty of the herd.

"Oh... Right," Tavish murmured, looking down at his own shoes. Reality, with its usual harshness, was seeping into their bubble. He remembered the laughter, the pointing, the "they're boyfriend and girlfriend" that had echoed across the playground. He understood that for Jane, whose existence was already a battlefield, that unwanted attention was just another threat.

Jane shook his head with a sharp motion, as if trying to shake off both the fear and the vulnerability. The mask of toughness returned, though a little less convincing. "So, yeah. I'm warning you, starting tomorrow, if you keep staring at me, I'll have to hit you," he snorted, fixing Tavish with a challenging, expectant look, daring him to question his decree.

Tavish nodded immediately. There was no doubt in his mind. He didn't want to be hit by Jane again; the sharp pain in his shoulder, where the bite mark was still a purple, sensitive line under the bandage, was a silent testament to the seriousness of his promises. "Okay," he murmured, with a nervous laugh that escaped him, an awkward sound lost among the bricks.

The next few minutes passed in a new kind of silence. This one wasn't awkward or tense like the one before the threat, but something more comfortable, almost pleasant. It was the silence of two accomplices who have established the rules of their secret game. Tavish allowed himself to simply exist in the same atmosphere as Jane, watching out of the corner of his eye as the latter examined the empty chocolate box with an almost melancholic curiosity. It was a brief respite, a moment stolen from the chaos where he could enjoy the presence of a Jane that only he seemed to know: the one with sky-blue eyes who blushed.

It was then that Jane, without looking up from the empty cardboard, dropped the next bombshell. "We have to go out, this Saturday."

Tavish looked at him, bewildered. The request was so sudden, so outside any social protocol he knew, that it took him a moment to process it. "Where would we go?" he asked, tilting his head like a curious bird.

Jane, finally, put the box aside and shrugged with a feigned indifference. "I don't know, and I don't care," he snorted, meticulously wiping his caramel-stained fingers on the already worn fabric of his dress, adding new stains to the collection.

"I'll see if I can go," Tavish said, his mind starting to spin around the logistical problem. What excuse would he give his parents? A group project? A solitary walk, something that would raise suspicions on its own? His mother, with her infallible radar for disaster, wouldn't make it easy.

Jane's response wasn't an acceptance of his terms. It was an order. "No, you *will* come," he demanded, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. His gaze locked onto Tavish, and there was something new in it, a spark of intense possessiveness, a "you're mine and you'll do what I say" that should have been alarming. And yet, for some reason he couldn't—or didn't want to—understand, Tavish liked it. He liked that wild certainty, that demand that brooked no argument. It was the same confusing, warm feeling the kiss had given him.

"But..." Tavish murmured, his voice an embarrassed whisper. He was torn between loyalty to his parents, to the ordered, predictable world of his home, and this new, tumultuous pull calling him toward the unknown, toward Jane.

"You'll do it, and that's final," Jane repeated, his demand even more pronounced. "Make something up, I don't know." There was no room for negotiation. It was an ultimatum.

Tavish felt the ground of his convictions give way. The idea of disappointing Jane, of seeing those blue eyes turn gray with disappointment, was more terrifying to him than the prospect of lying to his parents. "Well, alright," he conceded, and his words held a mixture of resignation and a secret, vibrant excitement.

And then, before his mind could fully grasp the magnitude of his promise, it happened. Tavish felt the familiar, brusque tug on his shirt collar. Jane pulled him close, and for the second time in his life, the world shrank to the contact of rough, chapped lips against his own. This kiss was just as clumsy, just as quick, a clash of teeth and a brush of noses. But it lasted an instant that, for Tavish, seemed to compete with eternity itself. It was a seal, an explosive and sweet confirmation that erased any residual doubt. Another kiss that drove him crazier, that made him melt inside with the same ease the chocolates melted in Jane's mouth.

And as quickly as it started, it ended. Jane pulled away, his own lips slightly parted, his cheeks flushed with that glorious red Tavish had already come to love. Without another word, he raised a hand in a farewell gesture that was both shy and final, turned on his heel, and ran out of the alley, disappearing from sight as quickly as a ghost, leaving Tavish alone, panting, with the taste of chocolate and pure, unquestionable happiness imprinted on his lips.

...

The rest of the week unfolded for Tavish inside a bubble of altered reality, a translucent sphere where the normal rules of social interaction had shattered and reassembled into a secret code only he and Jane understood. It was a bubble filled with the sharp uncertainty of a forbidden adventure, but also with the constant warmth of cheeks that blushed with a new and delicious ease. Tavish made a conscious, titanic effort for an eleven-year-old, to obey Jane's order: not to stare at him in class. But his obedience was full of cracks. His gaze, like a demagnetized compass that only found its north in chaos, strayed again and again towards that tangled, blonde hair. Could he be blamed? In Jane, Tavish found a hypnotic combination: the unpredictable ferocity of a cornered raccoon and the cataclysmic, glorious beauty of a controlled explosion. He was, in his boiling mind, the best of both worlds: tangible danger and the beauty born from the destruction of boredom.

Jane, for his part, kept his word with brutal precision. Every time Tavish's gaze lingered on him for too long or with too much obvious intensity, the consequences were immediate and public. During recess, amid the laughter of the other children, Jane would approach and deliver a sharp punch to his shoulder, right next to the still-sensitive bite mark. Or he'd kick him in the shin, making him see stars. Or, with surprisingly strong fingers, he'd pinch his arm until a red, painful mark was left. Sometimes, the punishment was blatant theft: he'd snatch a new pencil from Tavish's hand, or take his cap and throw it into the nearest puddle. It was a theater of cruelty for the herd's consumption, a smokescreen to hide his true self.

And the strategy worked. The other children saw the dynamic and nodded with the playground's perverse logic: Tavish, the weirdo, was the natural target for Jane, the bully. What they couldn't see, what only Tavish knew, was the secret trade that happened afterward. Because Tavish couldn't have cared less about the public humiliation. It was the price of admission, the ticket for the private show that happened at the end of the day. He endured the blows with an internal smile, knowing that in the alley, away from prying eyes, he would witness the miracle: the awakening of that beautiful blue in Jane's gaze, the dissolution of the gray storm into a clear sky. And sometimes, if he was lucky, he might feel again, even for a fleeting second, the rough, electrifying contact of those lips against his, a seal of fire worth more than all the bruises in the world.

After school, in the damp gloom of their hideout, Jane always made amends. With a gesture meant to seem offhand but that Tavish learned to recognize as awkward and careful, Jane would return what was stolen: the pencil, the now-dry cap, sometimes even with an extra piece of candy he'd pilfered from who-knows-where. And then came the real gifts. From the deep pockets of his dress, Jane would produce more treasures from his underground world: larger firecrackers with shorter fuses and a sharper smell of gunpowder; boxes of matches with vibrant, dangerous red heads; once, even a small manual detonator that made Tavish's heart pound with excitement and terror. Tavish accepted each object with silent reverence. They weren't just toys; they were fragments of Jane's soul, offerings from a world of risk and resistance that he was only just beginning to glimpse.

Because it was him and Jane. Because it was Jane and him. A simple and perfect equation in the complex, confusing arithmetic of his life. And it was, to his surprise, incredibly pleasant and fun. Being with someone like Jane was like living on the edge of a knife, always one step away from chaos, but it was a genuine thrill, a truth that was missing from the careful conversations at home and the empty lessons at school.

...

Saturday arrived, and with it, an atmosphere heavy with omens. Tavish woke up with his nerves on edge, his stomach a knot of anxious butterflies. The task of inventing a believable excuse to leave the house for hours loomed over him like a slab of stone. His mind, however, was blank, paralyzed by anxiety. A group project? His parents might want to speak with his partner's parents. Going to the library? His mother might offer to accompany him. Every idea crumbled under the slightest scrutiny.

Leaving his room, seeking breakfast and to buy some time, something unusual caught his attention. Through the kitchen window, he saw a white, rectangular sign stuck in the front garden, near the gate. His father was already there, dressed in his work overalls, tearing the sign down with brusque, energetic, almost violent movements. The tension in his shoulders was palpable even from a distance. Tavish, his heart skipping a beat, went out onto the porch and approached curiously. The sign was large, a dazzling white under the morning sun, but he couldn't read the words from where he stood; the letters blurred into an illegible puzzle.

"What's wrong, Dad?" asked Tavish, his voice a thread of genuine bewilderment. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to decipher the message.

His father, hearing him, froze for an instant. Then, with a quick motion, he folded the sign in half, hiding its contents, and held it up out of Tavish's line of sight. His face, usually serene despite his blindness, was marked by a contained anger the boy rarely saw.

"Nothing for you to worry about," his father said, his voice rougher and deeper than usual, as if the words were stuck in his throat, struggling not to explode into a shout of frustration.

Tavish looked at him, worry nesting in his chest. "Why was there a sign in our yard?" he asked again, insisting, feeling that something very important was happening.

His father stood still, his blind eyes staring into nothing, towards a horizon of problems his son couldn't see. For a moment, a hint of profound sadness, so alien to his stoic character, crossed his face. Then, he extended a calloused hand and gave Tavish a small pat on the head, a gesture meant to be reassuring but which only increased the feeling of unease.

"The real estate agency made a mistake," he explained, with a voice that sounded strangely empty, like an echo in a desolate room. "By accident, they put a 'For Sale' sign on our house."

The explanation was simple, but the energy surrounding his parents didn't match a simple error. His mother had come out now too, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and an expression as serious and grave as his father's. The air around them was heavy, laden with unspoken conversations and adult worries. Without another word, they both retreated to their room, closing the door with a definitive click. From the hallway, Tavish could hear the low, urgent murmur of their voices, a drone that lasted for what seemed like hours, talking about serious things, about problems that hung over the DeGroot house like a black cloud.

But, in an almost miraculous turn, the crisis troubling his parents became the solution to his own problem. Tavish, though unsettled by his family's evident distress, couldn't let it eclipse his date with Jane. The need to see him, to escape into his world of explosions and blue skies, was stronger. And as if the universe had heard his most fervent pleas, the door to his parents' room opened. They emerged, dressed in their best clothes, their faces composed but with the shadow of worry still in their eyes.

"Tavish," his mother said, her voice firm but with a hint of distraction. "Your father and I have to go out. We're going to the real estate agency to... to clarify this matter of the sign. You'll be alone for a few hours. Here are three dollars for your lunch, understood?"

Tavish nodded, trying to look as innocent and responsible as possible, even though his heart was dancing a wild dance of triumph in his chest. Luck, without a doubt, was on his side today. The real estate agency's "mistake," whatever its true meaning, had granted him the freedom he so craved. As the front door closed behind his parents, leaving him in the silent house, Tavish was no longer thinking about signs or whispered conversations.

The echo of the *clack-clack* of his mother's cane and his father's firm steps still resonated in the dusty silence of the street when Tavish, moving with the urgency of a fugitive, became a whirlwind inside his own house. There was no time to lose. His backpack, already furtively prepared under the bed, was snatched up in an instant. The three dollars, a treasure he would normally have handled with reverence, were stuffed into his trouser pocket with a hand trembling with excitement. The front door closed behind him with a dull thud that sealed his temporary freedom. Then, he started to run.

It wasn't a casual jog, but a frantic sprint, a visceral impulse that carried him through the cobblestone streets and back alleys he had learned to navigate like an expert cartographer of secrets. The wind whistled in his ears, drying the sweat on his brow before it could properly form. His heart, a frantic drum in his chest, beat the rhythm of his flight into the unknown. Every corner he turned brought him closer to the epicenter of his parallel universe, the place where rules were suspended and reality was painted in more vivid colors. Finally, panting, his chest burning, he stopped at the mouth of the alley. And there, bathed in a shaft of sunlight filtering between the buildings, was Jane.

But it wasn't the usual Jane, not the feral being covered in the dirt of his battles. This time, he was a vision that stole Tavish's breath and made him doubt for a second if he was in the right place. His hair, for the first time since Tavish had known him, was combed. Not with the insipid perfection of well-groomed children, but with a rebellious order, where every strand of that dull blonde had been tamed to fall in locks that now shone with a metallic glint, as if each one had been forged from old gold under the sunlight. Not a single leaf, not a single twig, profaned that golden crown. His face, clean of the usual layer of dust and sweat, revealed skin that was white and smooth, a velvety pallor Tavish had never imagined beneath the crust of street warfare.

And his clothes. Jane had abandoned the faded blue dress, that second skin of worn cloth. In its place, he wore a military jacket of a deep wine color, so large it reached almost to his knees, transforming more into a shabby cape than a coat. The fabric, though old, retained a remnant of martial dignity, with faint traces of what were once insignias. Only the first two buttons were fastened, offering a glimpse of his white shirt and pants and allowing the sleeves, far too long, to completely conceal his chubby hands. But the most dazzling thing, what sealed the enchantment, were his eyes. They were blue. Not the pale, distant blue of the firmament, but an intense, vibrant blue, charged with an oceanic depth that made Tavish know, with absolute certainty, that he could never look at the sky again without finding it faded in comparison.

Tavish thought again, with a conviction that burned in his gut, that Jane was, without a doubt, the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his life. No one beholding this vision, this creature of gold and velvet with eyes of a deep sea, could even conceive of the violent beast, the hissing hyena that lived within.

Before Tavish could articulate a word, or even catch his breath, Jane moved. With a determination that brooked no doubt, he closed the distance between them and took Tavish's hand. It wasn't a timid gesture, but a possession. His fingers, rough and full of the small scabs and cuts Tavish knew so well, interlaced with his own with a firmness that was both an anchor and an explosion. And together, without a word, they began to walk.

Where were they going? Tavish had no idea, and in that moment, he couldn't have cared less. The outside world blurred into a watercolor of muted colors and sounds. His universe shrank to the point of contact between his palm and Jane's, to the familiar, damp warmth of that hand which could deliver a punch or a kiss with equal intensity. He felt the texture of the scars under his thumb, each one a story of falls and fights that were now precious to him. As long as he could keep holding that hand, Tavish would have walked to the end of the world, or the end of time, without caring one bit. Time itself seemed to have stopped, or at least lost all relevance.

They pooled their fortunes. Tavish's three dollars, plus the two Jane pulled from the depths of his military jacket, formed a capital of five dollars. An incalculable fortune for two children whose paradise was measured in candy and freedom. Their first stop was a grocery store on the edge of town, where the shopkeeper, a man with a gray mustache, eyed them suspiciously but took their money. They bought a giant bottle of emerald-colored soda, so cold it burned their fingers, and a brown paper bag bulging with an obscene amount of candy: fruit gums, cheap chocolates, lollipops in every color of the rainbow. It was a quantity that would have made any adult frown, but for them, it was the key to a kingdom of pure delight.

Hiding their loot like the happy little thieves they were, dodging curious looks and the infallible radar of adults who could ruin everything with a "isn't that too much sugar?", they headed for their sanctuary: the woods. And it was there, among the tall pines and ancient oaks, with the ground carpeted in needles and moss, that Tavish, at eleven years old, understood for the first time the concept of paradise.

They played with unquenchable energy, freed from the chains of school and expectations. They competed to see who could climb the knotted trunk of an oak tree faster, who could throw a stone farther into the creek that snaked between the trees, who dared to climb higher into the canopy, where the world looked small and manageable. Tavish, agile and thin, was a formidable competitor, but Jane possessed a wild strength and a total lack of fear that made him unstoppable.

It was then that Tavish caught a glimpse of Jane's greatest and most surprising talent. As they rested, sharing the soda, a group of raccoons, drawn by the sweet scent of their candy, cautiously approached from the bushes. Tavish instinctively tensed up, remembering warnings about wild animals. But Jane didn't even flinch. With a calm that left Tavish gaping, Jane approached the animals. Not with the clumsiness of a human, but with the respectful stillness of an equal. He grunted softly, a sound not of threat, but of recognition. When one of the raccoons, bolder than the others, approached him, sniffing, Jane offered it a piece of a bun. The animal took it with its agile paws and, after a moment of assessment, devoured it. Jane then gestured to Tavish. His heart pounding, Tavish slowly approached and, guided by Jane, extended a trembling hand to stroke the bristly back of the raccoon. The sensation of the coarse fur and the animal's trust was a miracle that took his breath away.

Jane was a bridge between two worlds. If a raccoon grunted, Jane grunted back, not in anger, but in a conversation of grunts. If one raised a paw to scratch, Jane gave it a gentle tap on the snout, a reminder of boundaries, as another raccoon would. He didn't dominate them; he communicated with them. It was, for Tavish, the most astonishing thing he had ever witnessed.

And in that moment, watching Jane interact with the forest creatures as if he were one of them, with his wine-colored jacket like a general's cape for a wild army, Tavish knew with absolute certainty: Jane was the coolest person in the world. And, of course, also the most beautiful. Paradise wasn't a place; it was a moment, and it had Jane's clean face and the heart of a kind beast.