Work Text:
Feelings are complicated.
At thirteen years old, August still doesn't quite know how he feels about a lot of things. Whether a book he's read was actually that good, or whether he really liked the last meal he ate, or whether the last person he held a gun to deserved to die.
His indecision always seems to weigh him down, no matter who he brings it up to. The people at the Organisation who rely on him always tell him that his prospects are bright, that he's so smart and that if he just was a little more certain, he could excel even better than he already does. July, whenever the two train together, always seems to be so much quicker to act without constantly second-guessing himself.
August isn't sure he knows how to be sure of himself. Aside from perhaps one time in his life, he's always preferred to play it safe and leave room for changes.
"Shh, hey, now. Put that down, hm?"
The ten year old's head shakes slowly, clutching the weapon tighter. It feels too dangerous to speak.
"It's okay. I won't hurt you, I promise. Did you do this…?"
The only response the stranger receives is a faster, more violent shake of the head.
"It's okay if you did. Can I have that?" They tap the weapon carefully. "I won't tell. It's okay, that was a bad person anyways, right?"
A slow, hesitant nod.
"Come with me, okay? We'll get you cleaned up and somewhere where people like that can't hurt you, hm?"
Another nod.
"There we go. You're a good girl."
At that, the child balks for a moment, then responds with another head shake, ignoring the stomach pit that forms at the words. "I'm… not."
"Oh, is that so? Sorry about assuming, then. Won't you come with us?"
"…Okay."
Back then, they hadn't asked for August's name, or anything else. They hadn't checked anything about him before giving him a codename and a clean room, and had let him decide whatever else he had to. No questions asked, just… freedom. Maybe more than August really knew what to do with.
He sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest. It's getting harder to do now, but he tries not to think about that, instead flicking halfheartedly through the titration notes he'd jotted down for another little project the Organisation had him working on.
"August."
He looks up, seeing a familiar head of purple hair peek into his room. July lets himself in, ineloquently dumping the plastic bag in his hand onto August's desk.
"Here. You know, you can just ask one of the seniors or something to help you deal with this kinda stuff. I'm not your errand boy."
August can't help but laugh a little at that. "Come onnnn. I thought you liked helping me."
July just huffs, looking away enough that August can't quite see his expression. "Just don't get sick. I think we're going further west soon but it'll still be cold, so don't, like… die."
"I won't! Come on, have more faith in me than that."
July rolls his eyes before leaving the room, leaving August to get up and put away the bag's contents.
August sighs. As much as he wants to just curl up and read right now, he figures he should get some movement in, and decides to head out to see if he can find the strange boy he'd met at that wall a few weeks prior.
At fifteen, August wonders if two kids around him is almost more than he can handle. April and December are younger than he was when he first came to the Organisation, but they don't receive any of the same special treatment August had. He doesn't know why.
Instead, he finds himself leaving a gentle kiss on their foreheads as they fall asleep, promising that even if the Organisation won't go out of their way to keep the two of them safe, he will. It's a strangely relieving promise to make to himself, he thinks, but it's perhaps the second thing in his life he's ever been so sure of.
"Goodnight," he tells the two of them, before stepping out of the room. This, he thinks, must be what it would be like to have siblings. A family. Or, even if it's not, he thinks maybe this is what he wants it to be.
He's halfway through closing the door when he hears the light tread of April's footsteps. "August," he mumbles quietly, not quite looking at him.
August bends down a little toward his level. April's not that much younger, but he's still short enough that it feels that way. "What's wrong, April?" August wonders how long until both April and December end up taller than him. It's only natural, after all, some bitter voice from within whispers.
"…Can't sleep," April mutters, looking away.
August rests a hand on April's head, ruffling his hair slightly despite the way April pouts at the gesture. "That's okay," he just says. "Me neither. Do you want to talk for a bit?"
April shrugs, then nods. Still, he doesn't say anything.
August presses his lips together slightly, then says, "Why don't we go outside for a little bit? You can tell me more about the stars."
With the way April's eyes light up at the suggestion, August finds himself smiling fondly again. Even if he can't quite absorb it all, it's nice to be a part of this little world of wonder that April has; to be so sure that April can come to and rely on him.
He hopes that even when April is older, when he's taller than August, that he'll still do so.
Maybe… that could be a time where August opens up a little more about his world, too.
"Your singing is beautiful, December."
August watches as December turns around towards him, then quickly turns back away. "…Mm."
"What's wrong?"
December shuffles away a little bit, huffing a little as August gets closer. "…It's weird," he says after a moment. "I can't… always hit the same notes."
Ah, of course. April's voice had already dropped a while ago, and August had always figured December would be a late bloomer. "That's just what happens," August says, patting December's shoulder sympathetically.
December wrinkles his nose. "Like with April?"
"Mhmm." Though, April had never really come to August about it before. For better or for worse, he seemed to already be aware enough about that kind of thing, and had insisted he could learn whatever he didn't know on his own.
"Ew. He sounds stupider now," December huffs, then clears his throat. "What about you?"
August bites the inside of his cheek, pensive. "Something like that," he says, not quite meeting December's gaze.
December hesitates for a moment, before sighing and looking back at the floor. "I don't know if I like it."
Ah…
August hums in acknowledgement, nodding to himself before moving December's hair away from his eyes. "The good thing about voices is that you can control them, you know?" At December's lack of response, August relents. He clears his throat a little, then lets go of the practiced, slightly lower voice that he's more used to now. "Like this, see?"
August tries not to wince at the higher register. He's come to terms with it a little, now that he's nineteen, but it still doesn't quite feel like him when he speaks in it.
December, however, looks almost awestruck. "Can you show me how to do that…?"
And, if it's for his precious family, August knows it's worth it. "Alright, then. Let's get started with some voice training."
"They're going to stop sending you on field missions if you keep that up, you know."
August's eyebrows crease as July walks into his lab without knocking. "Keep what up?"
July huffs. "Don't play dumb. You're going to get everyone killed like this. Even those brats you seem to love spending all your time with now."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," August just says smoothly, ignoring the way his heart sinks at that. He knows exactly what July means—not only had he made some personal adjustments to his uniform, but it had just so happened that he'd been hit with an awful wave of cramps during the last mission he'd been leading. Something that had led to December almost getting hurt trying to cover for him, April nearly freaking out over the communications system, and another agent getting hit by a bullet they all should have noticed.
Something indignant flares up in July's eyes, glittering with controlled anger. "Fine. You know what?" He tosses a plastic bag on the workbench, ignoring the way its contents spill onto the table. "This is the last time I'm doing this for you. Any of this. Just get those two to do it since you don't even want to listen to me anymore. Since you clearly don't want me to be a part of your idyllic, perfect little life with them."
"July—"
"Have you told them, August?"
For once, August finds himself speechless.
"No. Of course you haven't. Because as always, you're too busy thinking about yourself to accept that at some point you're going to need help with something and get someone else killed because you don't want to accept that. Are you even taking any of this seriously?"
"You know how much I do here—"
"Yes, yes, your memory research. You know that's not what I'm talking about. If you're going to keep jeopardising the Organisation's mission—"
"Shut up," August hisses, hand hitting the desk a little too hard as he stands, repositioning his feet to stave off the lightheadedness. "You have no idea what it's like for me."
"Because you don't say anything," July retorts with equal venom. "Because you can't stop being so damn selfish. I'm done. We're done here, August."
July doesn't give August so much as a chance to respond before the door slams behind him.
August sighs, dropping back into his chair as he reaches for the hot water bottle that had fallen off his lap. He hates that July was right—that July usually is. August doesn't want things to change. Now, he just wants April and December to be able to take care of themselves, preferably somewhere safer. He's the one who brought them into this world of danger, after all. He's told himself all this time that as long as they can rely on him; as long as he can protect them, it'll work out. But if he's failing them now…
Maybe now, there's a third thing he's sure of. He needs to get both of them out of this place.
And perhaps then, he'll let himself come out.
Live.
It's the only thing August can tell December, in this moment.
It's a promise he needs December to make, because he knows that December is far more prone to break without it.
The bleeding heart of the Organisation.
The first time he tries, the words can't leave his throat. He can't quite bring himself to summon the voice that has always been his as August, the one that he's spent the last two decades with.
As December's hands open the vial around his neck, August's heart aches in a way that even the gunshot wound pales in comparison to.
He'll forget, August reminds himself, thoughts sluggish as he feels himself grow weaker.
Between pathetic gasps for air, August lets his pharynx relax, breathing more deeply. "December," he manages in a voice that he hasn't used in front of him in years.
December stills enough to look at him, just as August musters the strength to tumble forward, pushing December off the cliff, away from certain death.
December has always been the best at surviving.
"Live," he breathes, loud enough that he's sure December has to have heard.
August closes his eyes as he waits for the sound of a splash, hands finally moving to clutch at his own wound. The cold metal of the ring on his thumb quickly warms despite the winter chill, his blood coating it as he tries to keep futile pressure on his wound.
When his body is retrieved, his ring will go to April. August had ensured that would happen no matter what, as much as April had hated the idea for what it meant. But now, August can only wonder if maybe, as April puts on the ring that was far too loose for any finger other than August's thumb, he'll understand this final moment of vulnerability.
April will choose to live. August knows that, just as well as he knows that December would not. But hopefully, he'll understand and learn what August couldn't: to trust and love openly.
As footsteps approach, August tries to blink the blurriness from his eyes, despite the way he can feel his consciousness fading.
As August lays dying, he realises that there's one thing he's never been more sure of in his life: that when December's memory one day comes back, and April learns to move forward, that they would still always see him as the same person who's loved them so dearly for all of his life that's mattered.
Maybe feelings aren't so complicated, after all.