Disclaimer: Characters are copyright to Square Enix.

Warning: Rated a high T for language, violence, sex and disturbing themes, which I'll specifically mention for the relevant chapters. An M-rated version of this fic is available on my Ao3 account.

A/N: Heavily inspired by Jodi Picoult. The head hopping POV has the potential to be very confusing but it is effectively two fics told at once, one in 'Somebody' time and the other 'Nobody' time, where the Somebodies' last and the Nobodies' first will hopefully connect the stories. Thanks for clicking and choosing to read! Enjoy.

BONE OF CONTENTION

ISA, THE BOY WHO'D SHATTER

- eleven years before death -

The first occasion that suggested I might be a psychic of sorts was on the eve of my twelfth birthday, when I wound down the kitchen blinds and knew my mother had just died. I sat at our table for two (since we never had visitors), cut a slice of birthday cake and waited up all night for the local policeman to knock on the door.

I didn't tell PC Reimer that I knew the news long before he did. I didn't tell him I knew my mother had fallen down the stairs that curved round the florist's; that she had died from shock before the pain of snapping her neck could hit her; that the glass scattered at her lifeless form was not previously a fish bowl as PC Reimer thought, but a wish jar – a present intended for me.

After her funeral, I was carted off to my aunt's family. It wasn't as if I had any other place in mind, but the new environment did not cater to people like me. Their home was disorderly and squashed enough without an extra member. Book towers on the landing, dirty laundry piled into a corner, my cousin's toys and gadgets with wires trailing out of them – these were only a few items items that could present my new family with a colossal bill.

"It's all right, we'll clear up so you won't trip over," my aunt had said, too harassed in her catering job to see to this. "In the meantime, please be careful."

In three months, however, it was established that being careful was not a cure for osteogenesis imperfecta. While I quickly became accustomed to the change, used to my aunt's pestering, uncle's temper and cousin's vindictive taunts, they couldn't get used to me, and I understood that. After all, how could someone break a rib just by sneezing? Or fracture three bones in his foot simply by stumbling?

But that was the curse of osteogenesis imperfecta, an incurable genetic disease that made the sufferer's bones unbearably brittle. I only had Type I – the mildest form of OI – so while I was one of the lucky ones, I also carried the psychological burden of being an in-between, looking too normal to be disabled, looking too disabled to be normal.

People with OI didn't react to rejection in a common way. Some tried their hardest to fit in; others gave up midway and fulfilled their social needs by settling for their family; there were those who were charismatic and likeable enough for their disease to be overlooked. And then there was me. I didn't have the interesting personality to save me, nor did I have the bravery to try and fit in, the understanding family to encourage me.

That was how you found me, buried in my passive fury with OI, at our school's Sports Day – in my opinion, the worst day of the year. You stared at me as if you had never seen anyone so talented in making himself miserable; you stood at a distance, perhaps aware of my anger.

Since I was exempt from Sports Day, I had decided to spend my afternoon writing out wishes for my nonexistent wish jar. Traditionally, a wish jar was an ongoing activity of faith, of stretching hope over a lifetime; my idea of a wish jar, however, was finite and less likely to disappoint. I imagined mine as a black hole, an ending rather than a beginning, where every scrap of paper prescribing a wish wasn't written in anticipation of being fulfilled, but sealed away with my intent to never dwell on it again.

"Which sport are you doing?" you asked. "You haven't even changed, and the relay starts in five minutes."

You didn't seem to understand that I sat away from the sports field for a reason. "What class are you in?" you asked next. "Oh! Are you writing out wishes?"

You picked up a scrap of paper before I could stop you, slumping onto the bench to join me. Of course, I was excited that someone was actually paying attention to me, but this feeling, combined with the natural rise in my hopes, was what typically hurt me. Broken bones were painful, but being openly rejected for who you couldn't help being – that tear across the heart was infinitely worse and harder to forget.

The paper was mercifully blank. You gave it back to me and knocked your knees together, quite idle. I studied as much of you as I could without meeting your gaze. You barely filled out your sports kit with your skinny arms and legs, and such a build made me wonder what sport you did.

"Do you have a jar to put these in?" You were relentless and persistent, still talking even though I had made it clear I wanted nothing to do with you. I gathered up my wishes, pulling my belongings close while surveying the relay teams' warm up. I could hear cheering as they prepared, from classmates and siblings to parents and teachers. There was a wall between the excitement of Sports Day and me, that only I was aware of and affected by.

"No jar?" you said again.

I shook my head. "I'll carry them home. Shouldn't you be over there?"

"Shouldn't you?" you returned smoothly. "Here, look. I have an idea."

And you finally caught my gaze, and I realised the game was up. My eyes were a sharp green, but OI caused my sclera to be a dull blue-grey, as though my irises had no boundary and the colour bled into the rest of my eyes. If someone were to miraculously not notice my triangular face and ungainly walk, my eyes would undoubtedly reveal that I wasn't 'right'.

"Do you want something from me?" I snapped. The sooner you left, the better.

"Yeah. Just your name." You shrugged and picked at your trainer.

"We call him 'flat pack'," said a voice I recognised. Sure enough, when I turned, I was met with the sneering face of my cousin and his friend. If someone were to miraculously not notice my triangular face, ungainly walk and blue sclera, then my cousin could surely clarify.

"Why?" you said.

"Well, what happens to flat pack furniture? It breaks sooner or later." My cousin pointed to me. "Don't you know about him? He's disabled. He has this bone disease that makes him fragile. His mum snuffed it a few weeks ago and now he lives with us. We have to pay out for his fractures because all he does is hurt himself."

"Aren't you meant to be in the relay?" I said to him, and my cousin nodded, giving a false wave. He did a cartwheel as he left, sniggering with his friend. You watched after them, folding your arms behind your head.

"I'm Lea. What's your name? I know it's not 'flat pack'," you added. "Oh, and it's Lea with an 'a'. So it's L-E-A."

I pursed my lips. I could tell that you were the sort of person who'd give his name and consequently his trust, to anyone. But to me, giving my name felt as if I was handing over a fragment of my heart, which I couldn't afford to do because of the risk of it returning bruised. I had heard many stories about children who were different, and how they had fallen prey to bullies. On many of these occasions, the perpetrators had pretended to be friends, playing to the child's desire to feel appreciated for that difference, and that susceptibility would have opened doors to something terrible instead.

You got to your feet, and I thought for a minute that you had given up. Instead, you delved into your schoolbag, and I saw on your name label that you were in a class two years below me. You withdrew a flask and downed all of your drink, before peeling off one of your socks and wiping the inside. Quite frankly, I had never seen anything so filthy, but then you handed the open flask to me.

"Here. Store your wishes in here for now, and then come over to the sports field. I'm sprinting after the relay."

Sprinting? Really? I stared at your thin legs, convinced that you were about as good a runner as I was. You pulled your sock back on and as you did, I slowly tipped my wish paper into the flask you gave me, screwing the lid on tight. "Thanks," I muttered, to which you replied with a grin.

I was still suspicious of you, in all honesty. Of all people who had come over to talk to me, you were the first who didn't back away after finding out about me. Did you have an ulterior motive, or were you really that altruistic?

"So this bone disease of yours," you started, and I thought to myself, here we go. "Is that why you don't play sports?"

I nodded. Granted, OI wasn't so restricting that I couldn't play anything, but it was quite hard enjoy sports when you had no friends.

"I broke my finger once," you continued. "It was really painful – how do you cope, breaking bones all the time?" And like with many of your questions, you didn't give me time to answer. "Look after these for me, won't you?"

You passed your belongings and picked a front row spot on the grass for me, right by the running track. You asked me to keep an eye out for you – oblivious to how your hair colour made this no difficult feat – and jogged to the starting line.

I wanted to ask why you had come over to me; and more importantly, why you had chosen to stay. Would you be wounded if I said I was wary of you? Or would you let your wide grin fall as you commended me for my caution? I held onto your flask tight, hoping that what I had entrusted my wishes to was an unshakeable iron cage, and not a paper basket that would surely disappoint.

Every now and then, during your warm up, you turned round to check that I was watching. You mouthed something to me, a sentence, a phrase you repeated in silence at first, and then with mime. You jogged on the spot and then pointed at me.

If I win, you have to tell me your name.

On the sound of the gun, you broke into a sprint. I followed you, a streak of red that dashed so fast that the other runners were left in your wake. Your matchstick legs suddenly had muscle, and your nonchalant face was now marred with a twisted look of concentration.

I was too shy to cheer you on, more inclined to just watch and not draw attention to myself. Nevertheless, a passing teacher remarked how it was rare to see me so involved in Sports Day, and I answered, too eager for my own liking, "I'm looking after some stuff for a friend."

You came third in the end. You collected your disappointment so that it escaped in a single scowl. "Ah well, I tried," you said, skulking back.

"You still did good," I complimented, and though such a forced comment sounded ridiculous coming from me, you smiled all the same.

I was so close to smiling back. So close. But it happened at that exact moment, when I lazily stretched out my legs because for the first time ever, I was enjoying Sports Day. You stumbled en route to sitting down. Your foot collided with my own and it was just a mild hit, and it was more than enough. I screamed and you leapt back, your eyes wide.

You shouted something. I couldn't see beyond the whiteness of pain to comprehend. I wanted to seize my ankle, but a teacher was already there, calling for people to stay back. I was pulled up to my good foot, lifted slowly and carefully by an adult who knew never to haul me by the armpits. Amidst the minor commotion, you finally caught my name, repeating it after the teacher.

"Isa, Isa, I'm so sorry! Sir, it's all my fault, I accidentally stood on his foot. I'll take him to the first aid room—Isa, are you okay?"

I burst into tears. The teacher slapped an ice pack to my swollen ankle, but that wasn't even close to where I was actually hurting.

SAÏX, THE LUNA DIVINER

- fourteen minutes after birth -

I wake up because I can't breathe.

I scrabble for my throat and it hurts, it's fucking killing me. My mouth is open but nothing will come, nothing is dulling this agony of being torn open at my ribs. There's snarling and shrieking and I'm very certain it's me, hollering for oxygen, but I can't control my writhing and flailing to stop and listen.

Why aren't you helping me? I'm going to die because I can't breathe, and I don't want to die…Please help me.

I throw out my arms, because you have to be next to me. This is another one of those drunk escapades, isn't it? How many times do I have to tell you that you can't hold your drink? I'm always having to lug you back to our flat and quite frankly, I'm getting tired of doing it. Where are you?

I choke when my hands grasp thin air, and from what I can see with my blurred vision, there's not a splash of red in sight. It's just dark. I panic, because when my fingernails scrape into a fist, I don't feel the softness of bed sheets but hot, reeking earth. And when I try and sit up, my legs brush against one another and I realise I'm naked. Something slithers along my back and across my shoulders. My throat burns as I choke on air that's like acid, and I try to draw your name out. I'm calling for you – why aren't you answering?

"I think we have seen enough. He's reverberating, and violently at that. Lexaeus, if you could."

Suddenly, I feel so warm. Is that you? You've never been able to lift me. It doesn't matter. Please, I'm so scared, just take me back home.

-x-

I wake up again. This time, it's too bright. Everything is so white and I hate white. There's an arm resting over my stomach, and I think it's you for a second, but it's just me. I push down on the side of my body. One…two…three broken ribs. A dull ache in my other arm. That's probably a fracture.

I sit up and draw my knees in. This isn't a hospital. I don't know where I am. I am conscious and coherent enough to know that at least. Gingerly, awaiting the usual morning greeting of my body struggling to function after sleep (and being pleasantly let down), I slide out of bed and edge to the door. Whose body am I in? It's certainly not my own. These shoulders do not feel like they have ever been dislocated at all; these hands are perfect and these fingers straight, bearing no signs of breakage. And these ears…oh, I can actually hear.

I look left at the far wall. It's panelled with floor length windows that give a view to absolutely nothing. I blink, and the pale man with amber eyes, sandwiched into those panes, neither here nor there – he blinks right back.

My eyes. I stagger forwards and touch my face. They're yellow. Not a trace of blue, not even a hint of the colour in the whites of my eyes. My skin is flawless and unblemished; it hasn't seen sickness or grief at all. My legs are toned and sinewy; my side, despite the broken ribs, is perfectly sculpted. There's nothing inelegant.

That's not me.

I catch a dark spot in the reflection of the room. I walk over to a floor length black coat, draped over the back of a chair. There are boots, trousers and gloves too. And resting on the seat is a slip of paper, a thin ribbon of it, the sort I'd feel compelled to write a wish on.

Go the other way.

Your writing. I pick up another sheet of paper with a pen attached. It's underneath your note and is bigger and printed, with a frayed bottom from where you tore a sliver.

Mission: Please take a left turn to the lounge, and provide the Superior with your name. Sign this brief when the mission is complete.

I only register the word 'left'. I throw on this strange uniform to keep myself from shivering, and then stumble out the door and wheel to my right. It's an empty stretch of hallway that is also too white to be tolerable. Murmurs ring down this corridor like light bouncing across mirrors. I sneak into the room next door to mine and you pull me in, and I know it's you because only you can fit against me so seamlessly.

You push me against the shut door, beckoning with a hand for me to keep quiet. I nod my obedience and lock my arms around you. Everything's all right now. The pain subsides as you expel it; the harder I hold onto you, the quicker it leaves.

You draw back from me, and I realise I have to look up to see you. I am about to comment on this – it doesn't sit right with me, your height – and the greenness of your eyes, and the fresh markings under each one; I remember my promise, though, and bite down hard on my lip to stay silent.

"Isa, we're getting out of here. I've been pretending to sleep and I've heard them talking. They keep mentioning reverberations and instating. I don't like it; we're leaving."

You have no qualms about meeting my gaze, no concern or surprise, even though I look and feel different. I haven't always been this way. I don't know. Have I? It upsets me when I think about it.

I feel like I am shutting my eyes and letting someone talk through me, where I have no control over what I say and do and think. But when I stop, when I reopen my eyes, I know that I have merely been echoing. That I have just been a vessel, a messenger, another nameless link in the chain.

Is that reverberation? Because it hurts, and I want you to make it stop.

"Don't do that." Your hands fight mine. There are threads in my grasp, a bluish spider web of frustration. I don't have long hair; I never did. "Listen, Isa. I think we can escape. There's five of them, and they're all in that lounge at the moment. There's a city of sorts outside. We can run there and find out where we are. Will you stop that? Your hair looks fine."

Fine? What's fine about this?

This isn't me.

You seize my hand and stick your head round the door. "Let's go."

We edge down the corridor together, away from the murmurs, and I wonder to myself, how much of this actually makes sense to you? We're awake in a place we've never seen before, with appearances we've never had before, and none of it matters to you.

I…I can't think, not without being ripped apart at a place I didn't even know existed. I want to be sick, just to prove to myself that there is something inside of me. I want to claw at my own skin, just to check that I'm actually in here. It hurts, it hurts, it's unbearable—

You come to a grinding halt. My arm knocks against yours. Someone is approaching from the other end of the corridor. He's regal, and unsmiling, and knitting his eyebrows, and suddenly I know that the emptiness is not exclusive to me.

He doesn't try to restrain us. He carries on walking, putting one booted foot in front of the other until he reaches our locked hands. He comes to a stop. I try to let go; you just tighten your grip. He waits, studying each of us in turn.

You lift a defiant chin and announce, "We're leaving."

"Very well," he answers. For reasons I cannot fathom, he seems to be utterly unmoved, as if this is a situation he is commonly presented with. You stare, he stares back, and I'm the first to relent. Aren't I normally? You've always said that backing down made you look spineless and weak, but when I did it, it was a stronger act than any form of your obstinacy.

I move to one side to let him through. He carries on walking, adopting a slow pace that loosely ruffles his coat and silver hair. You make sure you're in plain view of him, before pulling me flush against you, before crashing your lips to the side of my head in a possessive gesture I'm used to. You catch his gaze in a wordless call for a challenge as we walk away, but he's not interested at all. He just tilts his head at an idle angle, surveying me. I know he can see the emptiness in us, this dull resignation that I give into, that you vehemently deny.

"No, let them go," he says, and though he's down the other end of the corridor now, his broad back turned, my ears can pick up every word. "I only need one to come back."