[Can’t Opt Out]

Porsq could feel Mikhail worrying, concern rising within both his mind and his body. There was a tension to him—an urgent energy crashing through the hands and arms that were wrapped around him as they moved, and Porsq didn’t think it took a genius to know that Xavier had been passed off to Prex.

Had he been able to reach his abilities further—been able to target a man he had never met by feeling out Xavier’s mind—Porsq would have done it. He had been older than Xavier when a man had forced his way inside him, and Porsq didn’t know if Xavier being younger would make it better or worse, if the circumstances would change anything about the horror that little boy would feel when Prex—

“Shh…” Mikhail sighed, dragging his fingers through Porsq’s hair when a whimper escaped him, a memory that was both ancient and far too close to the surface every moment of his life surging through him. Someone had given the Baalphorian man a skill, which he’d been using to slowly unknot Porsq’s hair. It was still a mess—Porsq could feel it in the strange pull of knots and mats on sections of his scalp—but it felt so much better now, and in some sections, Mikhail could glide his fingers all the way through his curls.

This… wasn’t exactly how his hair was meant to exist; rather, his natural hair was a ball of curls, and attempts to comb it—with an actual comb or fingers—would leave it weird, like the curls had been deflated. A lot of people in the city had hair like that, although not all of them. When he’d been on the street, a lot of people had kept their hair shorn as close to their scalp as possible, all so they could avoid the deflated curls or the mats.

It would have made sense for Fräthk and their guards to let them keep their hair short; hence, they weren’t allowed to keep their hair too short. Fräthk would never show them kindness, and shorn-down hair would have been impossibly kind—the lack of mats, the lack of stink from mould and sweat would have been kind.

So, no short hair for them.

Once, another captive had found bugs living in their hair, after they’d tried to control it by letting it clump in long, uneven mats, leaving it to look like long ropes of hair. They had freaked—obviously—and begged to be allowed to but their hair. Of course, they weren’t allowed. A few weeks later, their effort had paid off and they’d been allowed to ascend a floor, and then another, another; then, somewhere along the line, they’d been allowed to shower, cut their hair off, be clean and bug free and stuffed full with food that wasn’t unsuitable for even wild animals.

Porsq still thought Fräthk would be better off treating them with kindness as they attempted to pull loyalty from their captives, but he couldn’t deny that their living situation was often so dire that it bred a hateful, desperate sort of loyalty. Those of them who had remained in those bottom few floors so long… Porsq liked them more. There was a power there, in that denial to ever break. Cordk was so old, but even when he’d been given Renton to care for, the man hadn’t bent. He had always been loyal enough to not be killed or threatened with his son’s safety in order to make him behave, but neither had he ever become such a sycophant to Fräthk that he was raised through the ranks.

“There are times to bend, but I would never want my child to believe that violence should be used as a means to an end,” the old man had once told him, soon after Porsq had arrived in the holding cells after his escape attempt.

Sometimes, Porsq wondered why he’d been put into that holding cell of all places. Maybe they were all the same: filled with people who were either new enough captives that they might yet break, or those who would never break more than they already had. Certainly, Porsq thought that being surrounded by people as solid in their refusal to break as Izurial and Cordk and Cravena had made it impossible for him to ever break… although, he had to admit, the hair thing had come close to breaking him at the beginning.

Even right now, with freedom so close—hopefully—short hair would be nice, manageable. When Porsq told Mikhail he could just cut all his hair off, though, the man had laughed.

“Halen might kill me,” he had said, before explaining that Halen was horrified that the drop group had cut off all the hair of someone they’d picked up in the city. “I guess he doesn’t want you guys to feel like you have to cut your hair because it's a lost cause, or anything? Once we’re out of the city, Halen will create some skills to get it cleaned up for you, then you can decide what you want to do with it.”

It had been a long time since Porsq had truly been able to make a decision for himself. There were small things, like being able to choose to send those women they had originally escaped the holding cells with away, but even that… it wasn’t some stupid and silly, and in the end, entirely meaningless thing that he would be able to choose for himself and himself alone.

When they were out of there… Porsq thought he wanted to try all the hairstyles. Izurial was one of the few captives on those lowest levels given regular access to showers and personal hygiene items. One of the things the silverstrain did was change his hair up. It had been dosed in chemicals, once, relaxing the man’s natural curls until they held only the smallest of waves. Another time, he had put a different sort of chemical in his hair and the curls had tightened until they reminded him of Xavier’s natural curls—those were rarely seen, but sometimes Izurial had sat with both him and Xavier and meticulously picked out each knot for hours and hours.

It would never last, but it was nice while it did.

“Prex has Xavier, right?” Porsq asked, soft and heartbroken and horrified because there was a twitch in Mikhail’s arms, tugging him so close that Porsq was reminded of the way Olivier had held him: like he wanted to curl his ribs around him and keep him safe inside his body itself. “Prex already had Xavier,” he corrected, his own hands forming into fists against Mikhail’s chest, “and you think that now—”

“We don’t know,” Mikhail cut in, something within his mind seeming to suggest that he put at least a little stock into the idea that giving voice to thoughts was just asking for the aether to bring those thoughts to life. “They stopped moving, though, and that…”

The man trailed off, and no, Porsq didn’t think that any of them needed the thought finished. Tilting his head, he met the dark eyes of Gëon’s little shadow, who had introduced themself as someone without a name. It hadn’t seemed like a bad thing when they’d said it, just reality. They were Gëon’s little shadow, and it was a weird thing to think of them by a name that was more a description than a solid name, but names were important. If they asked for advice on choosing a different name, Porsq could give them advice, but he wouldn’t try to force a name on them.

Gëon’s little shadow’s mouth pulled down, and that was nice. They hadn’t met Xavier, but they still felt terrible about it, their mind rippling with anger and a desire to let their power’s loose so they could go flying through the city to make sure Prex didn’t hurt him. Gëon had already told them not to, all the other grown-ups agreeing with him: as much as it was clear Gëon’s little shadow was powerful, with all the conflict going on in the city…

The last thing they needed was another part of their group being kidnapped or trapped somewhere. There were already so many of them, and a few of their groups hadn’t been seen in forever and had no way of contacting anyone and—

Porsq’s mind froze as it collided with someone, a mixture of panic and determination filling their mind and the panic was something he had never felt from the man. The determination, though? The confidence to go forward, no matter what… as long as it didn’t involve speaking about what was inside his heart?

Those things were as familiar as breathing—they were part of the energy that had always seemed to fill the holding cells, as long as that man was there. Then, softer, came the amusement and the slight tinge of pain and concern and worry—the worry of a parent, watching their child as they were about to do something stupid but proud of them for doing it all the same.

Once, his parents had layered those feelings over him and his siblings. At the end, there had been nothing—no love or worry for him as they left him on the streets. Izurial had suggested that, as terrible as the decision to leave him to the streets was, his parents might have locked their hearts and minds up tight, intent to protect themselves from the harsh reality of what they were doing. It was a nice idea, even if Porsq wasn’t quite convinced by it—wasn’t convinced that they hadn’t simply severed him from their hearts, as easy as that, because he was a threat to them and the family they were choosing to protect.

They chose which part of their family was worth protecting, and he hadn’t been included within that circle of protection.

Feeling that love now, directed at a child who was always loved, always wanted…

It broke his heart, and as he raised a hand and pointed, telling Zavriel and Mikhail that they needed to go that way, but carefully, he tucked himself further in Mikhail. The Baalphorian man wasn’t his parent—wasn’t a replacement for what he had lost. Even Olivier’s affection and love hadn’t felt quite parental—close, but not quite. It had reminded him more of some of his aunts and uncles, but who really knew.

Was love so definable thing? Could it be quantified in specific amounts of various elements until all the ingredients for a specific variety were laid out? Some of this for parental love. Remove some of that to make it a more distant relation. Add some of this to make it friendship. Sneak in a dollop of this to make it romantic.

Olivier had told him, shortly before their groups broke apart, that his friend Emilia had a bunch of black knot friends. Until today, Porsq didn’t think he’d ever met a black knot; he knew Fräthk had one in their group, but they weren’t usually around, for whatever reason. Usually, the Lüshanian government took black knots from their families when they were born, no one quite sure what happened to them after that.

“They love her a lot,” Olivier had said, “and they will protect all you kids, all because she will be sad if you are hurt. It doesn’t matter that they don’t know you. They will protect you because Emilia will not be happy if they let you get hurt.” Something in Olivier’s tone—in the layers of thought rippling out of him—had implied that Emilia would be more than sad or not happy; instead, Porsq had the sense that, if she found out her black knot friends didn’t protect them and they were hurt, she would be irate! Considering all of Levi and Mikhail’s stories about the silverstrain, Porsq didn’t think she was the sort of person anyone wanted upset with them!

Porsq also hadn’t realized until that moment that Levi was a black knot, something true and strong growing within him at Olivier’s words: a confirmation that Olivier was right in his assumptions that his friend Emilia’s black knot friends would protect all of the kids—which seemed to include those of them were around the same age as Levi and Mikhail or younger—with everything they had.

There was an obsessive and overwhelming feeling to the love Levi aimed at his friend—and another friend named Darrian, who had been mentioned in some of his and Mikhail’s stories of Emilia. Porsq would need more data points in order to determine if all black knots loved with that sort of intensity, but… he thought it was a nice, if kinda terrifying, sort of love. It felt unbreakable, and as someone who had been left to be consumed by the streets by people who were supposed to love him forever…

Yeah, Porsq thought that sort of unbreakable love might be nice—might be the sort of love he would want, one day.

A shudder raced through him as the idea of letting someone touch him sexually raced through him. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but Izurial had told him not to worry about it too much just yet: it was something that could be due to his age alone, rather than a trauma response. As time went by, though… Porsq was beginning to think it was all the trauma, his body revolted by the idea of anyone ever touching him again.

It was sad, but it hadn’t really been an issue down in the holding cells, a future with someone he would maybe grow to love to be found nowhere other than dreams. Now, with a potential freedom waiting for him…

Now, it seemed like something that might actually become something he would have to deal with—think about. It felt like something that was going to be terrible, but Izurial had always assured them that getting over trauma was for the best, even if it was terrible and took time.

Something under Porsq’s skin itched, and for someone who had spent so much of his life trapped and stuck being patient, suddenly, he felt like waiting and being patient and going slow, were terrible things. Life and happiness were waiting for him, and he wanted it now.

It really didn’t feel like some of the things he wanted would be the sort of things he would manage to get quickly. Maybe it was all in his head—his brain making up futures that were born of nothing but his fears. Porsq thought that, if decades from now, he was still struggling to figure some things out, he wouldn’t be surprised.