TW: abusive language, trauma, homophobia mentioned
"You're shit at this..."
The words echoed in Will’s mind as his feet pounded the cobblestones beneath them, taking him further away from the tiny flat wedged between two larger buildings in the center of Bree. Everything else, the body he left behind, the tears, the pleading, the stammering, all fell on his ears like water, but could not wash away the initial words.
The clear sound of his father's voice morphed with the words, to his ears as a small boy.
“Everything you touch turns to shit, boy,” he growled, before his hand swung to backhand Will's cheek, sending him sprawling across the floor. The air was thick with the stench of ale.
The scene morphed and he was older, but still a boy by most measures of the word.
“You feckless cur, get out of my sight!” his father barked, looking up from where he had been sitting next to his sister's deathbed. “It's because of you that she's gone. You and that fucking queer! You're no son of mine, get out! Piece of shite!”
Will dodged the bottle that was thrown at him as it shattered against the wall. A piece of the glass had lodged into his left forearm, leaving a scar. He could feel the sting of both the words and the impact, even now.
There were dozens more events just like that one. People who didn't even know him telling him what a fuck up he was. His very name was associated with his father's misdeeds and reputation. It has taken him a long time to overcome the conditioning, and it still reared its ugly head.
Like now.
Will ran until his legs and lungs burned, then powered on to the point of exhaustion. He had sprinted up the hill by then, with thoughts chasing him the whole way. He ran until the thoughts teased their way out of his mind and went dormant again, but found his cheeks to be wet. He had been crying and had not realized, something he quickly put an end to and wiped his face on his sleeve.
When he could go no further, he leaned over with his hands on his thighs and heaved until his breathing caught at last. Now that the voices of his past had quieted, he replayed the whole scene again in his mind and tried to understand the context. He had been told things that did not make sense. Unless...Will had misunderstood. Had he?
The look on the other’s face and the way he had stammered and tripped over himself had been telling, but Will had barely realized it happened. He was too focused on himself.
"...fuck," he exclaimed, and kicked at the dirt in anger at himself.
Had he fucked everything up by not trying to stay to talk to Rhys? Would he even be welcome back? He looked back towards town and sighed, then tipped his head up to the sky. There in the crisp autumn night sky, appearing as ever as a signal of some significance during the events of his life, was the hunter. It was almost as if he was pointing in the direction he should go. He wondered at it and furrowed his brows slightly.
"....alright, alright. Don't be pushy..."
He took the trip back to town at a light jog and ended up in front of the little shop wedged between two buildings.
