aperturcs

my sweet boy,

i tell myself i did it because i loved you. because i was alone and drowning, and thought that if i gave you away, it meant you would get someone better than me. a mother who could love you, without grief lurking in the shadows, ready to consume her whole.

i was afraid to fail you. i was afraid that i wasn’t strong enough to give you what you needed. i was already stretched thin between your brothers, doing my best to survive and give them what i need without my partner, your father, at my side.

so i gave you to strangers and prayed they would love you and give you what you deserved.

not a day goes by where i don’t think about you. i wonder things like what your laugh sounds like, if you got any of your father’s stubbornness like the others did, what brings you joy, and if you hate me. i wouldn’t blame you if you did.

i am sorry i wasn’t brave enough to keep you. i am sorry that love wasn’t enough to make me stay. i am sorry that these apologies won’t do you any good. i wish i had more to offer than an explanation.

you deserve a mother who chose you. i wish i had been her.

love, mom

tate,

you are fast asleep in the bassinet the nurse had placed beside my bed.

i haven’t picked you up since you were born.

at delivery, they had placed you on my chest. skin to skin is essential, they say and at the time, i had wondered if it were possible. if i could raise you alongside chase and jasper and remain afloat. your fingers curled around my own and for a moment, i considered it. i wanted to be selfish. how could i give up such a precious babe?

but i couldn’t do it. i told myself that if i did, i would fail you.

you are wrapped tightly in the blue and pink striped blanket. content, like someone is holding you.

your father died before you were born. your brothers are at home, no doubt wondering where i am. it was painful, leaving them behind, when they had just lost their dad only a few months ago. i didn’t want them thinking i wasn’t going to return. i need to be strong when i get back home. for them.

i don’t know how to be that woman and keep you, too.

if i take you home, you will grow up in a house that is haunted by grief. you deserve more than that.

i’m sorry i cannot be the mother you need or deserve.

your breathing is bringing me comfort, and breaking my heart, all at the same time. the next time you leave this room, i will not see you again. i will go home and struggle to answer any questions your brothers have. i will smile and pretend like i hadn’t done the hardest thing in my life hours ago.

i love you. i hope you hear that every day of your life from someone who cherishes you, my sweet boy.

mom

tate,

there’s an ache that still comes from writing your name, even 22 years later. i often find myself wondering what kind of man you became.

i hope you are strong and steady. you most likely are, if you are anything like your father. he always held us together when i couldn’t. i wish i could have been more like him.

i carry you in my heart every day, and can only wish you are living the life you deserve. i miss you.

i love you.

jasper,

you were only four when your father had passed. you asked about him for weeks after he had died, and i didn’t know what to tell you.

i was pregnant when he was buried. you had asked me if the baby missed him like you and chase did. i didn’t know what to say.

he was born two months later. we had decided on the name tate. i told the nurse before he was taken away. i don’t know if he still goes by it.

my three boys. i was bound to fail someone, with how fast i was falling apart. i didn’t think i could do it alone. i didn’t think i was strong enough to raise another child without your father, so i decided not to.

i regret it every day.

i didn’t give him away because i didn’t love him. i gave him away because i didn’t think love was enough to keep us all afloat.

you were already being strong for me, at such a young age. barely understanding what was going on, yet comforting your brother, who was crying for someone who wasn’t coming back. you were sad, but rarely shed your own tears. you made sure to be there for the both of us, and continued to do so as you grew.

i let you see grief. i made you grow up before you were ready. if i had done that to you, then who knows what i would have done to another innocent life. another innocent child.

you shouldn’t have been strong for me. you should have never held chase and i together like you did. you were supposed to live a life like every child should. you were supposed to grow up with a dad.

i don’t expect forgiveness. i just needed you to know.

love, mom

jasper,

i’ve been thinking a lot about the day your father died and just how much i had leaned on you afterwards. for years, you watched me fall apart and held me together. it should have been the other way around.

i never meant for you to carry it. but, you were so brave and did it anyway, no questions asked. even all of these years later you still do. i see how you are with chase. you parent him better than i ever have. the patience you have with him is something i should, but don’t.

he’s your brother, but you were never meant to raise him. i’m sorry i let you do it while my grief consumed me. i’m sorry i forced you into a role you never should have had. i’m sorry you weren’t able to just be a kid.

i hope that you know that i have loved you every single day of your life. i am so proud of you. you are one of my greatest gifts, and i am forever grateful i was blessed with such a wonderful son.

i love you, always.

mom

(you always stood taller than me. you were always stronger than i was, carrying your own weight. you didn’t have to carry mine, yet you did. i am sorry.)

jasper,

i’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. about the man that you have become, all on your own. carrying so much weight and never showing it.

i should have never let you carry my fears, grief, or mistakes. you deserved a childhood that i robbed you of. i hope you can forgive me.

you’ve grown into someone i am so proud of. strong, steady, and most importantly, kind. all on your own.

i wish i could have been brave. i wish i could have let you be a kid and handle myself on my own. but you never questioned it, never said you didn’t want to. you just sat with me, until i was better. or at least, better enough to carry on.

i love you.

just actually finish the job.

those words ring through his ears. he's heard it so many times. not from supernatural beings, but from his parents and other hunters. that was his problem, wasn't it? finishing the job. he was always able to catch them, but when it came to killing - he always hesitated. just like this, as he remained on top of tate, knife pressed to his throat - but unmoving. the wolf underneath him could very well escape, especially since he still hasn't made his move.

he presses the blade down, cutting through skin. barely anything to do any sort of damage. it's as far as he can go. letting out a frustrated sigh, he climbs off of tate, putting away his weapon. "just - don't come around here anymore, okay? or else i'll be forced to kill you." he really should have now. those were his orders, but of course he couldn't do it. he never could. there was something seriously wrong with elias. "consider it your lucky day, dog."

tate's chest is rising too quickly, nerves getting the best of him. he's ready. he's tired. but all of his instincts are telling him to fight back against the blade pressed to his throat. he could get out so easily; he wasn't even sure if the other man realized what he had tackled. tate barely knew what he was. only enough to know that he had to be scared of his own kind. scared of hunters. scared of anything that looked at him too long.

he didn't belong anywhere.

the knife pressed harder and tate went still. the sting was sharp, thin, almost insulting to what it should have been. warmth slipped down the side of his throat and his breath caught before he could stop it. there it is echoed somewhere distantly in his head.

the blade stopped and tate's eyes flicked up to elias' face. searching. waiting for the rest of it. elias climbed off of him and for a second, tate didn't move at all. he stayed flat on his back, staring up at elias with his eyebrows shoved together in confusion. the cut at his throat burned, already trying to close too fast beneath the smear of blood.

Devon had never figured out how to occupy a room like this without feeling as though he had wandered into somebody else's life by mistake. The tailored black tuxedo fit him well enough, altered to perfection by someone who knew his measurements better than he ever would, but it still felt borrowed in the same way the ballroom did. Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light over marble floors, conversations drifted past in practiced murmurs, and every person seemed to possess this effortless certainty that they belonged among the wealth. Devon understood locker rooms, charter flights, early morning practices that smelled like sharpened skate blades and stale coffee. He understood bruises blooming beneath equipment and the quiet camaraderie that came from earning every inch of the ice. This, however, felt a lot like performing a version of himself he had never auditioned for.

His invitation had arrived because hockey had made him recognizable enough. He had dipped his toes into starting a charity foundation for kids much like himself, caught in the tangled webs of a system built against them and their sanity. It put him on the map for these things, and yet he still grapples with the cold bite of his imposter syndrome. His agent reminded him to smile for the photographers, to answer a few questions, shake the right hands, and somehow find the time to enjoy himself. The first three had proven difficult. The last one had never stood a fucking shot.

He retreated to a quiet edge of the ballroom where the music dulled into something distant, nursing a glass of sparkling water he'd been pretending was more interesting than it actually was. Every so often, someone recognized him. He would thank them for their congratulations on a tough season, and maybe pry about his foundation. He answered politely, smiled because it was expected, and watched them drift back toward people who were far better at existing in places like this.

When the young woman approached him, he looked up with the faint surprise of someone who had genuinely begun to believe he had become part of the wallpaper. Her opening question caught him completely off guard. For a heartbeat, he simply blinked at her, dark eyes searching her face as though there had to be a punchline he was missing. Then, despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't a polished smile fit for red carpets or magazine spreads. It was small, uncertain, and entirely genuine. "Honestly? I wish I knew. I've been wondering the same thing all night." There was no false humility in it. If anything, it sounded like a confession. "I'm just a hockey player. Hardly find that glamorized enough to warrant becoming editorial material."

mona's smile curled slowly, not polished enough to belong to the room and not soft enough to be mistaken for harmless. she liked that his first answer wasn't rehearsed. everyone else here had a script tucked under their tongue, practiced answers that didn't get anyone anywhere. more quotes saying i think its a great cause, i'm proud to be able to support it. more people ready with statistics they had memorized three hours prior when the camera turned their way.

that was much more interesting than whatever answer she had been expecting. "i bet i can figure it out before the night is over." a challenge that she was more than willing to accept after that. this was the sort of person who became interesting by accident, which was always better than someone who was trying too hard. "mona." she returned, slipping her phone into her handbag without taking her eyes off him. "and for the record, i don't think i drew the short straw."

her gaze flicked over him once, quick but assessing, cataloging the shape of his discomfort instead. "i think the people who know exactly how to be interesting are usually the least interesting people." even herself. she had an image so practiced for so long that she didn't always remember the shape of who she used to be. creating a shell that was what people wanted was easier than letting them see the broken child she had once been.