Ryan hissed as he pressed the ice pack to his face. The cold stung and seeped into his skin.

“What happened?”

His dad hovered. He had been ever since Ryan had come home, and his dad had tip-toed down the stairs to peek around the corner—as if he couldn’t hear him.

When he had seen his swollen face, he had rushed downstairs.

Both of them still smelled like beer. Ryan had sobered up quickly, he could taste acid reflux, his nose felt bent, and his head was pounding. He felt nauseous.

“I got into a fight,“ he mumbled.

They had to be quiet. His mom and sister slept, and the only noises in the kitchen aside from the creaking of the wood were their breaths.

“I can see that,” his dad said and finally took a seat at the tiny table. “Why?”

Yeah, why? The crinkling of the ice inside the cloth bundle sounded so loud against his ear. Ryan had been trying to think of an excuse his entire staggered trip home. Even when his head wasn’t pounding, his brain hummed back at him. White noise. He couldn’t think.

“Ryan?”

“I— There was this … guy.” He choked up. He didn’t want to have to explain this to him. How was he supposed to say it? Ryan didn’t know so he shut up. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Maybe his dad would say something to distract himself? Leave him alone, go away? Maybe his sister would wake up and he would have to check on her. Or maybe …

Nothing. Whatever he hoped for, it never came to save him, and his dad waited.

Ryan scowled. “He— He was interested. In me, dad.”

His eyebrows went up. After a long moment when he didn’t elaborate, they furrowed in concern.

Ryan hated seeing that expression on his face. He looked away and forced the rest of it out, “So I punched him. His friends didn’t like that so we got into a fight.”

“You punched him?”

He shrugged.

“Did he— Did he try something? Touch you or—”

“No. Nothing happened,” Ryan lied, and he wasn’t even sure if it was a lie. He had no idea how to feel right now. Ashamed? Guilty? Wronged?

All of the above?

A guy had squeezed his knee and invited him back to his place, and Ryan had gone straight to trying to break his nose.

He wanted to wash himself of the memory, both the hand on his knee and the pain of his fist against Daniel’s face, but it was as fresh in his mind as his wounds, and every time he tried, the memory played again and he felt all the emotions at once.

Even now, he wanted to scream. What was he supposed to have done? What was he supposed to do?

“You punched him. You’re clearly upset, Ryan. Something must have happened. You know you can talk—”

“No,” he repeated and looked at him. “A guy flirted with me, dad, so I punched him in the face.”

He said it in an almost casual tone, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and glared as if he defied his dad to contradict him.

All the while he hoped. Say the right words. Please!

He couldn’t do this anymore.

His dad stared and finally, his words seemed to sink in. His eyes changed. He looked … so disappointed.

Ryan choked back a smile and almost teared up. Because if he actually thought what he had done was wrong, then maybe …?

He sighed and leaned back. “Ryan. I know you might think guys like that seem … weird,” he said, “I think they’re weird, too! But that doesn’t mean you can just—”

Ryan stood up.

“—punch them. Where are you going?”

“To sleep,” he mumbled. “I’m tired. Everything hurts.”

“Ryan? Stop— Ryan, your mother and I are worried about you.”

He spoke up for the first time, and he immediately went still and looked up, worried his mom or sister would hear. He couldn’t hear a sound upstairs except for a ringing in his ear.

Only then did he process the words his dad had said, and he almost laughed. What?! Now, they were worried about him? It was nice to know all it took was to get his face beaten in.

“We didn’t want to say anything because we didn’t want to put that on you. But we do worry. All the time. About what you’re doing, how you’re doing, if you’re healthy, if you’re safe, if you got hurt. You risk your life every day in the Tower and for what? We wonder if we should have taken you with us to Cairn, even if you didn’t want us to.

“Now you want to sell the raincoat, you’ve been writing fewer and fewer letters, you wrote to us they failed your final exam but not why, you’ve been acting off … This?”

Just when he thought he couldn’t feel anything anymore, every word drove a knife into his chest. It made him wish Daniel’s friends had hit him just a little harder so he could have blacked out and not have to deal with any of this.

He still didn’t know how to feel. Ashamed, guilty, wronged, hurt, afraid, angry. All of it at once?

“Ryan, we didn’t raise you like this.”

This time, he turned on him and voiced his thoughts, “What? I have been … getting into brawls with guys from other districts … forever.” He had to work his jaw to speak right. “You never said anything about that. I’m a climber, a fighter. We’re taught to survive first and ask questions later—you signed me up for that!”

And then you told me to lie about it whenever the neighbors asked.

“To help you figure out your Path! And we still don’t know what it is, son.”

He croaked past a frog in his throat, “Pictomancy.”

“What?”

“Just … if I say ‘bird,’ what do you think of? If I say ‘summer,’ what do you imagine? It’s … capturing small slices of life … in a weird way. One piece that throws the shadows of a hundred different birds …”

“That’s … What?”

It was a childish daydream that had gone too far. Nothing else. If Micah or Lisa had a say in the matter, they would probably call it ‘weaving concept essences’ or something. He didn’t care.

“So you’re a [Mage]— No, an [Artist]? Not even a [Fighter]?”

“No. I am.” He was one now, whether he liked it or not, and his Path did help.

Ryan thought of it as trying to condense an idea into a single true form. Or attempt to, at least, and create an example of it. That he got Skills from those failed attempts was a side-effect of their essences infusing his spirit.

It was a lot like creating his own Classes, that he got to design himself, when he was sure the Classes he saw on the Argent Path hadn’t been made by him.

[Bird] level one.

[Tower Salamander] level … whatever. About four Skills so level six?

[Tower Honey Ant] level whatever.

[Pack Beast] level who the fuck cared?

None of it mattered anymore, because he’d abandoned his very first attempt: [Friend] level none.

“But you don’t have to climb at all!” his dad was saying with more enthusiasm. “If you wanted to draw, you could have said som—”

“I don’t, dad,” Ryan snapped. How was he not getting this? “I wouldn’t know how—”

“You can learn. It’s not too late.”

“I don’t want to learn, dad. I— It’s not like we had many coloring books at home, but that was a good thing. The type of images I imagine, they’re not something you can really make.”

He would have to be a level thirty [Artist] to do the stuff he did in his head. He’d taken the easy route out, like always.

“You only say that because you haven’t tried—“

“I don’t want to try anymore!”

“It’s an option! You could do that and you could come home to us, son.” His dad sounded frustrated himself now, but his voice almost cracked as he went on, “Ryan, we’re worried that one day, something will happen and you won’t come home at all.”

Home?

Home was a shitty apartment in a shared family house on the outskirts of Westhill. In every meaning of the word. A garden they squabbled over with four other families. An old swing, a grill, the neighbor’s tree full of a hundred birds.

Home was his parents, whom he saw at the end of the day, even if he had to stay up late.

Home was a bridge over a river, a nearby park, a dozen guys he played alleyball with and whom he could love without feeling ashamed of himself.

Home hadn’t existed for four years now. It definitely wasn’t here. There was no place for him here.

Ryan stumbled out of the kitchen and mumbled, “Maybe that would be better for everyone.”

The chair scraped on the floor. His father grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him around. Ryan hit the wall and an arm pressed against his throat.

“Don’t you say that. Don’t you fucking say that. That’s the type of shit my parents said to me, it’s not the type of shit you get to say about yourself, do you understand me?”

The thud traveled up the wall, but Ryan stared at his dad as his numb mind tried to catch up.

He’d almost punched him, on reflex, but his dad casually pushed into his arm, and he held the ice pack.

When his brain finally forced out a thought, the growing guilt and horror must have been obvious on his face.

His father’s eyes widened and he stumbled back.

Wasn’t this what he’d wanted, for them to get angry? He’d never once considered what it might mean to them.

“I’m sorry,” his dad said, and Ryan didn’t get it. Why was he the one apologizing? “I— Look, Ryan. I don’t matter here. Just, whatever you do … don’t disappoint your mother.”

He nodded.

His dad grimaced. “No. No, I mean, you can say that— Not that, but if you’re having those sorts of thoughts, Ryan, please, just talk to us?”

He wanted to. He did. As if his brain had been shaken awake, he thought of all the things he had wanted to say to his parents over the years, the imaginary conversations.

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I never wanted you to move. I know you did it to find a better life. You say you want me here, but I can’t help but feel like you moved away because you don’t want me at all.

I know I’m the reason you cut ties with your families, why you always fight when we visit mom’s family, why you never mention yours. Grandma and grandpa were right. I ruined your lives by being born.

I feel like I need to be perfect to distract you from the fact that you regret having me, to make up for ruining your dreams, but I know I can never live up to your expectations.

Every time I screw up, you don’t smile or get angry. You ask me to do better, to never stop trying. It makes me think you’re always disappointed with life, and you only feel happy when I do well. What if I screw up so bad there is no next time?

I don’t know who I am or who I want to be, but I don’t think I have a choice anymore.

I like guys the way I should like girls and I’m ashamed of myself for that.

My Path wants me to include people in my examples. I think they would be disgusted if they knew.

I’m a lie and I know once you realize who I am, I’ll have to cut ties with you the same way you did with your families, but I hate being alone.

I don’t believe you when you say you love me.

He opened his mouth and … the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to say them, any or all. He just couldn’t do it.

Instead, he let himself slide down the wall to the floor and sobbed.

“Ryan?” His dad said something, but Ryan didn’t hear the words. Then, he crouched next to him and rubbed circles on his back.

He looked up into the silence and yelled, “Noelle?!”

Ryan reached up to accept the bowl his mom handed him and retreated back inside his quilt bundle on the couch. When he looked at his food, he deepened his frown, “I’m not sick.”

Noodle soup for breakfast?

His mom smiled. “You’re hurt. Soup helps when you’re hurt.”

He hesitated, lifted the spoon, and mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Are you feeling any better?” his dad asked.

Ryan shrugged. After he’d cried and slept in, he felt vaguely like a spoiled brat who had thrown a tantrum or sulked his way into getting all the love he wanted but didn’t deserve.

The sadness was muted. The guilt less so. The pain was somehow worse than it had been the night before as his bruises had ripened.

Serves me right, he thought. Silver linings and all that. He hoped Daniel was feeling better.

Part of him wanted his parents to stop doting on him so much so they could pretend none of this had ever happened …

Part of him wanted them to keep doing it because it made him happy, but he didn’t smile because what if that was enough to make them stop?

Brat, he thought and tried to move as little as possible as he shoveled soup into his mouth.

His dad winced as he watched. “How’s your face, bud?”

“Better?” he lied. If he moved too much, pain flared in his cheekbone and jaw, and his cheek stopped feeling numb and started feeling bloated instead.

“We have some balms … Not sure if they’ll do. Probably better to put some ice on it, but I’ll see if I can find an [Alchemist] who’s open later.”

“I can go—”

“You stay and rest,” his mom insisted and leaned in.

His parents sat on the sofas on either side of him like this was an interrogation, and they kept giving each other looks as if they were having an entirely different conversation with their expressions alone.

He knew they had stayed up late after he had gone to bed last night, but he had been too tired to eavesdrop. Too afraid, too. Now he had to face the fallout.

“Actually, your father and I were talking and we think it might be better if you stayed with us a while longer for this summer, Ryan. Like, if you skipped scout camp?”

“Huh? No, I—”

“We want to make sure you’re okay.”

“And trekking through the wilderness?” his dad said. “Not sure if that’ll do you any good.”

“It will! I mean, I loved camp last year. And we booked that airdrop? It cost a lot—”

“Don’t worry about that. Just take a break, okay?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I was just … homesick? I missed you, and exam season was rough, and I put so much effort in but I screwed up our final exam for everyone, and … I got hit in the head a lot last night.”

He tried to put some levity into his last words.

His parents looked concerned. “Maybe we should go to a doctor?”

His dad nodded but didn’t let up, “Y’know, you don’t have to have perfect grades, Rye? We just want you to do your best.”

“Pick one. My best is perfect.”

“No, your best is …” He trailed off and grimaced as if he couldn’t find the right words.

His mom picked it up, “Your best is what keeps you healthy and happy …?” she tried. “And if you try your best and you still find you are not happy or healthy, it’s okay if you step back sometimes, take a breather, look at the problem from a new perspective before you try again.”

What, like they did whenever things got rough? Take a step back, retreat, give each other the silent treatment until they were both ready to pretend things were good again?

“Scout camp could be that,” Ryan insisted, focusing on the objective. “Fresh air. All that.”

“Didn’t you sign up because you wanted to level?” his dad said. “Look, we just want you to not be so hard on yourself. Everybody needs a break sometimes. Everybody needs help sometimes.”

He gestured to his mom. “Maybe if you try your best and you still find you’re not healthy or happy, like your mom said, uh, you could reach out to others? Ask them for help, talk to them—or not!” he quickly added with a shrug. “But just … be with them? Maybe ask for their perspective?”

Ryan shrunk further into his quilt around his bowl of soup. They didn’t get it.

Do your best, don’t be too hard on yourself, take a break, never give up.

Even if it weren’t self-contradictory, you had to know how to balance that perfectly, too!

Do your best, ask for help, talk to people, or don’t, but inflict yourself on them until you’re better so you can try again.

He wanted to! To be better, to talk, but he didn’t know how to do any of this and … he ended up giving them the silent treatment instead.

Oh.

“Ryan?”

He took a deep breath and spoke in a small voice, “You always say I should tell you everything—”

“You can,” his dad insisted.

His mom smiled.

“So … when was the last time you talked to grandma and grandpa? Did you ever ask them for help? Why didn’t you tell me about Hannah or the move beforehand? Why do you never mention your side of the family, dad?”

Their reaction was familiar: surprise tinged with anger, which they quickly hid. Then, they looked deeply uncomfortable as they leaned back in their seats, pulled away from him.

Ryan could have used the chance to point the finger back at them, assured them he was fine, and escaped from this conversation. They would never have to mention it again.

Instead, he pressed on, “And I know! I mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t want you to talk about it if it hurts, but you could have at least told me that. ‘It’s not something I want to talk about.’ Not … nothing. It’s always just, ‘Work gossip; did you ace your test?; our neighbors suck.’”

He smiled at the memory because he missed even those nights around the kitchen table.

His mom saw and smiled. “Our neighbors did suck … Our new ones are pretty cool, though?”

“You could hang out more often. Maybe after you get rid of that shiner?” his dad said.

Ryan said nothing.

His mom hesitated and sighed. “My parents kind of sucked, too, Ryan. Your grandparents and I, we have our issues. They’re … not overly fond of your dad and—”

“They don’t like me either,” Ryan said.

“No,” she ran her hand through his hair as she lied to him, “no, they just—”

“No, mom. They never wanted you to have me. I know.”

She dropped her hand with a small, “Oh.”

Ryan tried not to give in to the self-hatred that came from hurting his mom and pushed on, “And I’m not sure you wanted me either?”

“Huh? No,” she insisted and shifted over to sit next to him on the couch. “No, Ryan—“

“I heard you fighting with grandma and grandpa once, they said—”

“That— Don’t listen to that. You know people say stuff they don’t mean when they're angry.”

“Mom,” he stopped her. “You were as old as I am. You were still in school. You and dad weren’t married or living together or anything.”

His parents shot each other another look and he wondered if they considered lying to him.

His dad looked hurt as he said, “You’re right.”

His mom deflated. “You weren’t exactly planned, Ryan, but you were chosen. I’m not going to lie to you and say I wasn’t afraid. I was young. I was terrified. But we chose to have you and—”

“We wanted to run away from it all,” his dad joined in with a sad smile, “leave them behind, be better than they were.”

“Exactly.”

He’d known, but hearing it from them was still another punch in the gut.

“And maybe that was stupid of us—” his dad started.

“No,” Ryan tried.

“—no, it was. We weren’t perfect.”

“But we tried,” his mom said, “and they didn’t. Your grandparents never stopped seeing me as young and terrified, they never allowed themselves to love you. We do. We love you, Ryan. That’s all that matters, okay?” She ran her hand through his hair again and squeezed his shoulder, hugging him with one arm from the side.

Ryan nodded, and he actually believed her at that moment, but he knew he wouldn’t the moment he stopped telling himself to.

“Is this what has been eating at you, Ryan?” his dad asked and he still looked like he’d rather not be talking about this.

“It’s part of it, I guess? You never told me.”

“That’s not exactly something you say to a child, Ryan.”

“I know, but I figured it out on my own and … it would have been nice to talk about it.”

He had been left to make assumptions on his own.

“We didn’t know. You should have said something.”

“You keep saying that, but you never talk about the bad stuff yourselves and … you might as well be telling me to fly. I want to. I just don’t know how.”

“I’m glad you finally said something to us now?” He smiled.

His mom rubbed his shoulder and gave his dad a look.

He sighed.

“My family ‘kind of sucked,’ too, Ryan. In a different way than your mom’s does. I haven’t seen them in years, I don’t plan on ever seeing them again, and I don’t want you to meet them, either. Please, trust me when I say I left nothing good behind there.”

“I— Okay,” Ryan said. “That sucks, too, but thank you … And I’m sorry about yesterday.”

He smiled. “You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“You know, if you really want to know more about us,” his mom said, “we could make a day of it, hang out in our pajamas, tell old stories …?”

Ryan hesitated. He would lose his chance to escape if they asked him about something he wasn’t ready to talk about yet.

Still, he said, “That’d be nice? I don’t know if I have any questions that jump to mind though …”

She gently brushed her thumb over his cut cheek and said, “I remember my first bar fight. I could tell you the story of how I got fired from my first job?”

That his mom had gotten into bar fights was no surprise to him at all, but he didn’t know if he had ever gotten a first-hand account from her.

He smiled. “Sure?”

“Hold on.” His dad jumped out of his seat. “I’m going to get myself some soup. And uh, ice pack. Five minutes!”

They also had to check on Hannah, but when he came back, his dad joined them on the sofa, handed a bowl to his mom, him another ice pack, and the cushions sank further in, forcing them closer.

Then, Ryan sat in his pajamas with a quilt, a lukewarm bowl of soup, and an ice pack on the couch on a summer morning, his parents on either side to him, and listened to his mom tell him about the time she’d thrown a chair at someone.

He let himself sink down and smiled.

----------------------------------------

A wind spirit punched Micah in the face. He pulled its hair to stay on his feet, threw it aside, and ran, shoes sinking into the practice mats he’d laid out on the gym floor.

Gusts of wind buffeted him, shoving him left and right. A constant headwind slowed him down.

One spirit sniped arrows of wind at his eyes and made them sting and tear up.

Another clung to his foot and untied his shoelaces.

A third clung to his hip and tried to pull his shirt out from under his pants. It got his underwear half the time and yanked it up.

He stomped on the bottom one, yanked his elbow back with the pump of his arm as he ran to smack the middle one, and deflected yet another arrow.

The first returned, smacked into his head like a kite, and pulled his hair in revenge. It ripped a few strands out before he caught it, just as an entire giggling flight of the brats swept his legs out from under him.

He did a backflip through the air and hit the edge of the mats with his chest. The rest of him hit the bare floor.

“Ooh!”

“Ha!”

The peanut gallery winced, cheered, or laughed.

Micah drew his legs up and breathed into sore lungs with a groan.

A spirit ruffled his hair as he lay there. The other finally found his shirt and yanked it over his head.

They swarmed around him in the form of long invisible ribbons or kites, impressions of something animalistic, and the occasional green zip on its way to or from the wristband, which was half-unwoven on his wrist. Glowing green tendrils snaked up and down his arm.

To others, it looked like a massive flying eel hidden beneath an invisibility cloak was circling him, and the occasional green streak was a flutter of the cloak revealing its true form.

In effect, it was like a cursed [Warding Wind], but they did have enough sentience to let up between his attempts and flew off to explore the gym. At least, they brought a cool breeze to the gym.

Micah raised his head to look at Anne. She grimaced where she sat on the bleachers with a few other students and one teacher here to observe, Ms. Jo.

“More mats?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Also, aren’t you supposed to be doing your breathing exercises during that? It didn’t look like you were breathing.”

“I was not. Thank you for the reminder,” he said sarcastically.

She smiled. “Sorry.”

He pushed himself up and shambled over to the storage room, fending off a few spirits along the way, and dragged two more mats off the supply cart at the same time.

The various spaces the school had to offer like the gym or workshops were still open over summer, but only for limited hours and most of the equipment was locked away.

You had to make a reservation for activities and sign out the keys for the equipment closets at the secretariat.

For anything more dangerous, like experiments, duels, or the obstacle courses, you had to request supervision and hope a teacher took pity on you and agreed to show up.

Otherwise, some teachers came to open up for the set hours anyway and to check that everything was still intact. It was easier to ask for help then.

Today was one of those days, which was good because he could try this out without having to make a reservation, but it also meant he had an audience.

Anne helped him add a second column to the long line of practice mates he'd laid out along the long side of the gym and then … his break was over.

He looked to Ms. Jo. “Any advice?”

“Run through it a few more times,” she told him, “I’m still taking it in.”

"Good luck. Remember your breathing!" Anne said and patted his shoulder as she left.

The spirits parted around her and gave her a wide berth. He almost thought some of them glared at her, but it could have been his imagination.

He sighed. “Thanks.”

Nothing else to do but try, try, try again, I guess. Ryan would say the same thing.

Micah hopped up and down for a moment to shake himself loose, eyed the spirits around him, took a deep breath, and ran.

Before he even finished his breath, a spirit punched him in the teeth.