Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sally, as it turned out, did not know she dyed her entire head bright neon pink two weeks ago.

Brad had assumed she did — not that it made sense to him, since she was colorblind at the time — but she had always told him that pink was her favorite color. Again, it made no sense. Sally was colorblind and had no idea what pink looked like. But she was adamant about it, so when she came back to their shared apartment with neon pink hair, he'd totally thought she did it on purpose.

He was also the only one in the entire apartment who knew her hair was pink at all. Gene was still colorblind too; he'd commented that Sally's hair was a slightly different shade of grey and left it at that.

And, in Brad's defense, he often forgot that most people were more likely colorblind than not. Meeting your soulmate — and gaining colored sight — is usually a mid-life event, just because that's when people started traveling and looking for each other. Brad didn't have that experience; he'd had colored sight since he was nine years old. Color had become so common for him that he kept forgetting other people his age were more likely than not to be colorblind.

It isn't until a random Friday night that Sally learns her hair is pink. They'd gone out to a karaoke bar to, in Sally's words, "get drunk and have fun," and in Brad's, "get the hell away from Gene". He loved the guy, but he was driving Brad insane with his thesis essay. Brad, as usual, is the designated driver — he doesn't trust cabs, sue him, this city is Crime-fucking-Central — so he's not half as tipsy as Sally is drunk. He would feel bad for the hangover she's getting in the morning if he hadn't told her at least ten times to drink water.

Sally's basically got a death grip on the karaoke mic, putting every off-key patron in the bar to shame even while drunk off her ass, when a new song comes on and a random girl in the crowd starts yelling. Brad flinches when she screams excitedly right by his ear, bouncing up with an excited squeal.

"Oh, I love this song!" She yells, and basically vaults over the sofa to get to the mic. She's very obviously also drunk, and here with friends, if the other laughing girls and boys at her table are anything to go by. Sally gets excited, too, and starts belting out the lyrics. Brad snickers, pulling out his phone to record. Blackmail.

Both girls are hysterically laughing by the end, spinning around each other. Brad isn't very surprised when Sally surges up and kisses the other woman square on the mouth. Everyone watches erupts into excited screams and wolf-whistles, the other woman's friends making most of the noise, and Brad cackles behind the camera. He can't wait to embarrass Sally with this in the morning.

Except, when they separate, Sally doesn't go spinning down the stage like he expects. Instead, her eyes blink open, and she freezes. A large smile is frozen on her face, not in a 'oh shit' kind of way, but in an awestruck kind of way. The stranger she'd just kissed also freezes in place, mouth hanging open and pale green eyes wide.

Brad hesitates. Is… something wrong? He stands up, ready to go help Sally just in case, when his best friend starts pawing at the other's arms.

"Holy shit," Sally breathes, eyes flicking back and forth like she's seeing the woman for the first time and can't believe she's real. "H-holy shit, holy- you- your eyes are green!"

"Your hair is pink!" The other woman blurts out before her face screws up in incredulity. "Why the hell is your hair so pink?!"

Sally blinks, confused, and grabs a strand of her hair. Her eyes go wide, and she spins around to face Brad and points at him accusingly. "Brad! My hair is pink! Why did nobody tell me my hair is pink?!"

Now, barely twenty minutes later, Sally and her soulmate are excitedly dancing around one another, feeding off each other's energy and only growing louder and more excited. Brad watches from his seat at the bar as Sally's soulmate — a tall, brown-skinned woman named Jasmine — introduces her to her friends.

And he's…. happy for her. Obviously, he's happy for her. Like, what are the chances? Sally just met her soulmate, totally out of nowhere, and he's so happy for her. She's seeing and experiencing color for the first time in her life, and she's got a gorgeous soulmate, and he couldn't be more happy for her.

Yup. Definitely the only emotion he's feeling. Because Brad is best friend material, and best friends don't get irrationally jealous when their best friends find their universe-approved soulmate on a random Friday.

Except. You know. Maybe he just wants the universe to hurry up with his soulmate.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when Sally and Jasmine plop down next to him, Sally hanging on her soulmate's arm. "Brad!" Sally yells way too loudly, a huge grin on her face. "Look at my soulmate! She's so pretty!"

He sits up straight, trying to smile in a way that doesn't scream 'I'm so absurdly jealous of you I want to eat my own foot'."Hey, Jasmine, right?" He says, holding out his hand. "I'm Sal's roommate."

Jasmine happily takes his hand, shaking it vigorously. "Sally's been talkin' about you!" She yells just as loudly as her soulmate. "I'm so excited to meet you, and Sally, and did you know your hair is black?! It's kind of freaking me out actually!"

Brad laughs it off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah, get used to that. It's a mind fuck, for sure… how's color treating you two?"

Sally bounces up and down, vibrating with energy. "It's amazing," she says. "Everything is so- so bright! And I told you my favorite color was pink and you didn't believe me!"

"In my defense, you were colorblind up until twenty minutes ago," he says dryly. "You didn't even know what pink looked like. And how do you know which color is which?"

Jasmine's eyes go wide. "It's so weird," she says. "It's like, when I remember stuff, it's like everything's been colored in! I'm remembering stuff in color, like I've always had it, and I remember learning which one is which! It's so weird, like my brain will explode if I think about it too hard!"

Brad slowly nods along. "…uh-huh. Makes sense."

Jasmine laughs sheepishly. "I guess it makes more sense with colored sight…"

Brad swallows, fingers tapping on the counter of the bar. "I, uh… I have colored sight," he says awkwardly, averting his eyes. "Met my soulmate when we were young. …guess I'm just used to it by now."

Jasmine smiles wide, leaning in. "Oooh, you're so lucky! What are they like, are they here?" She glances around expectantly, like Brad's soulmate would just pop out of the woodwork. Man, he wished they would.

Sally gives him a scrutinizing look, which he staunchly ignores. "They stayed home," he mutters. "Not a fan of bars."

"Awww, that's too bad," Jasmine pouts. "It could've been like a double date!"

He imagines it, for a second. Hanging out at the bar with his soulmate, joining Sally on double dates with hers — all the typical fantasy stuff. It'd be nice, he thought. He wasn't really one for bars, but it'd be nice to go anywhere with his soulmate.

"Ha, yeah," he mutters, swishing around the straw in his drink. "Would've been fun…"

Jasmine suddenly claps her hands, which had at least six rings on each, and bounces on her feet. "I have to tell my mom!" She shouts. "Wait, I'll be right back, don't go anywhere!" She runs out the door, fumbling with her phone and shouting at her friends.

Sally watches her leave with a droopy smile before collapsing into the seat beside Brad with a long sigh. "God, she's pretty," she mumbles, leaning her cheek on her hand. "I can't believe I met my soulmate by kissing her! You got that on video, right?"

Brad waves his phone lazily, trying for a grin. "Got it," he says. "Every embarrassing second. I'll be playing it at your wedding, FYI."

"Har har," Sally mocks, though her smile never leaves her face. "It's definitely a romantic bond, though, I can tell. …hey, um, why did you-?"

Brad interjects before she finishes the sentence. "So, are you going to keep your hair pink?" He asks, going for casual and probably failing because he's an embarrassment of a human being.

Sally touches the neon pink strands absentmindedly. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I'll probably tone it down a little, though, it's sort of an eyesore… but, why did you lie to Jasmine?"

Well, he wasn't getting out of that one.

He sighs, pushing his fist into his cheek grumpily. "Well, what else was I supposed to say? I didn't want her to give me that… look."

Sally tilts her head. "What look?"

He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh, I dunno, the 'oh you poor thing, you lost your soulmate ten years ago and now you have no concrete method of knowing who they are anymore because you can already see color!'" He pitches his voice, faking an overly-dramatic expression before he droops back down again. "Y'know. That look."

Sally pops her lips, drumming her hands on her knees. "…I was just gonna call it pity…"

He sighs. "Yeah, that sums it up."

She winces guiltily. "Look, I- I'm sorry if this all upset you-"

Brad stares at her like she'd grown two extra heads. "Sal, what? I'm not upset, seriously, I'm happy for you!" He tries for a smile — like, really puts in some serious effort. "You met your soulmate, that's amazing! I'm not upset, I promise."

She gives him a skeptical look. "Seriously? It's just, every time people talk about soulmates, you get that look."

He leans away, subconsciously straightening up defensively. "What look?"

"You know," she winces, vaguely gesturing at him. "The 'I lost my soulmate ten years ago and now every time somebody brings up the topic I get super jealous and then I feel guilty for being jealous because I have a pathological need to never display a single negative emotion ever' look. That look."

He slumps, grumpily sucking on the last dregs of his drink. "You could've just called it pathetic," he mutters. He shakes his head, banishing all thoughts of self-pity or jealousy. This was Sally's anniversary basically, and he wasn't going to ruin it. "Sal, go have fun with your soulmate. I'll be fine here."

She got that wide-eyed worried look, the anxious sort that told him she really wanted to go run off with her soulmate. "Are you sure? I don't want to leave you at a bar—"

"I'm an adult, Sal, now go," he grins, pushing her to stand up. "Go see colors or something. There's a botanical garden nearby—"

"Are plants all you think about?"

"—or an art museum," he finishes with a playful glare. "Go have fun, I'll pick you both up when you're done."

Sally bites her lip, practically vibrating as she glances back and forth at her soulmate through the bar windows. "Mmmmmmmokay!" She quickly throws her arms around him, squeezing him tight. "Love you so much, I'll be back soon!"

He barely gets to wave his hand in goodbye before Sally runs off. He watches through the windows as Sally grabs her soulmate's arm, as they hug tightly and excitedly yell at each other with unbound energy, and comes to the conclusion that he is a ginormous liar. Because Brad is, in fact, extremely upset.

He groans, thunking his forehead on the counter. He shouldn't be upset. Sally has been his best friend since high school (and only friend until college) and she'd literally never done anything but take care of him. She was the only person who ever saw past his horrifically violent exterior, the only one who looked over his history of small-tier crimes and stints with the law, and the only person who didn't run for the hills when he lashed out. He owed a lot to her, so being supportive was literally the least he could do.

And yet.

He couldn't stop replaying the scene. Of Sally drawing back from the kiss, and staring wide-eyed at her newly realized soulmate, of them laughing and hugging and crying. He couldn't help but want that for himself.

What would his soulmate be like? It was a boy, that much he remembered — obviously, since they'd met at Darkley's Boarding School for Boys — but was his hair long or short? Curly or straight? He remembers that his eyes were red, and if he focused, really tried, he had… blonde eyelashes? But brown eyebrows…

And a smile that could make him bend over backward to keep it on his face, a laugh that could have him melting in place, smaller hands than his but a huge sweater because all they got were hand-me-downs…

A sudden noise shakes Brad out of his daze. He startles, shooting to his feet. It sounded like an explosion. Several other people start yelling, and someone by the windows points out into the street and yells, "It's the Ninja!"

Ah. That didn't sound good.

Not that Brad dislikes the Ninja — it was just that, usually when they were around, something huge and evil was following and trying to destroy their city for the fifth time in as many months.

Brad, and a few other people, run to the doors, filling out onto the sidewalk. All six Ninja are there, either driving high-tech mech cars or on sleek bikes, in the middle of a huge brawl with some kind of gang in an armored van. The Blue Ninja was holding a comically large smoking gun.

"Jay!" The Green Ninja — holy shit the Green Ninja — yells from his equally green motorcycle. "You can't test bazookas in the middle of the street!"

The Blue Ninja waves him off, lining up his gun at the van again, in the middle of some kind of game of chicken with the Red Ninja. "Bah, where else am I supposed to test this bad boy?!"

"Oh, I dunno," the Black Ninja, swinging his hammer at some goon, yells, "the huge lab under the monastery for exactly that purpose?"

"Bo-oring!" Before anybody could halfheartedly attempt to stop him, the Blue Ninja fires his gun again, hitting the van head-on and narrowly missing the Red Ninja, who squawked at his teammate indignantly. The van was toppled, crashing down the street.

"You know, Pixal is gonna kill us if her dad's tech got ruined!" The Water Ninja yells.

The Green Ninja parked his bike, removing his helmet and brushing out his shoulder-length hair. "Borg tech is sturdy," he says as he surveys his team's chaos, wincing at a few new potholes. "We'll get it back to the tower after the cops get here."

"Ooooor we could check out the bar!" The Red Ninja says, appearing behind the Green Ninja just to poke at his cheek. "We deserve it!"

The Green Ninja sighs, his gaze sliding over in the direction of the lit bar. And, somehow, despite the crowd that's gathered to watch and record the famous Ninja, his eyes meet Brad's.

They're green.

The only true memory he really has is the garden, though calling it a garden would be generous. It's more like a bunch of weeds and dirt and overgrown bushes behind the building where nobody goes. Nobody except Brad.

He trips over roots and skins his bare knees on thorns to get there, but it's well worth the privacy and relative peace. Behind the dark, oppressive building is his tiny patch of solitude. He takes comfort in the varying shades of grey grasses and black flowers, of smokey leaves and ashy weeds. No teachers with their sharpened rulers and teeth, no older students with knives pilfered from the kitchens or made from strong sticks, and nobody his age around to tattle on him.

He's not technically supposed to be back here, but the teachers only care if you break the rules if you're caught, and Brad has never been caught.

It's in Darkley's shadow that he finds him; the boy with red eyes. He's hiding in a bush, sniffling into his bare, bruised knees, his uniform absolutely swamping him. Brad knows him, vaguely. They're in the same grade, and this year, they're roommates, not that the other boy is ever in the dormitory. He can't remember his name, but he does remember some four or five years ago, Brad snuck into the other boy's dorm room his first night and dumped a jar full of fire ants in his bedsheets. He'd been jealous — everyone had been giving the shorter boy so much attention, whispering about the Dark Lord, and Brad hated the idea that the little shrimp could be so special. It was the only time they ever interacted, especially since in the following weeks, it became very clear that the new boy was nothing special. A crybaby, really, and that's the worst thing to be.

The crybaby looks up at him with watery eyes and curls up tighter, like he can make himself invisible. He sniffles. "D-don't tell," he mumbles, pleading. "Don't tattle on me."

Brad mulls it over. He could tattle — it's highly encouraged. And maybe other students would think he was funny, and want to include him in bullying the people they didn't think were funny. He'd much rather be the bully than the victim in this school. But he also knows that if he tattles, even on someone like a crybaby, other students might call him a snitch and hate him. It's a toss-up.

But, most of all, he doesn't want anyone to find out about his garden.

So he shrugs and steps into the bush. "I won't," he says quietly, like he does everything. Gene calls him a wallflower. "But you better not trample my flowers."

The boy sniffles, but slowly uncurls from his protective ball. There are bruises on his knuckles, too, but Brad knows that he's not hitting anybody — they're from the teachers' rulers, the games of chicken where the older boys hold your hand down flat and make you sit still while they stab their knives in-between soft fingers, not trying especially hard to avoid hitting skin.

"The dandelions?" He asks, and holds up the tiny plant. The soft white spindles trickle down, too weak to hold on.

"Those are weeds," Brad says, batting it away.

"Oh."

Brad side-eyes him for a few seconds. Now that he's looking at the other boy, he feels guilty about the fire ants. It's not right to feel guilty, because guilt makes you weak, but he does anyway. It wasn't especially funny if he did it in secret, or if the other boy was so small and couldn't even punch back.

He sighs and glares to the side. He hates feeling guilty, or shameful. They're not very helpful emotions. Finally, he plucks a real flower from among the leaves of the bush. "Gene told me the scientific name is hydrangea paniculata," he says imperiously, showing the flower to the other boy. "They're supposed to be green." But the flower is, to the both of them, a pale grey like the lead of a pencil.

The boy leans in, tears finally gone as he takes in the plant. "It's pretty," he mumbles quietly, then looks up at Brad. "Can I have it? Please?"

You're not supposed to say please in Darkley's. You're not supposed to ask for something at all. The correct thing for the boy to do would be to push him to the ground, punch him in the eye, and steal the flower for himself.

Brad is happy he doesn't.

He thinks it over for a second. He likes his flowers, but more will grow. And maybe it would be nice to get along with his roommate for once. His last roommate was always taking a knife to his pillow and breaking the springs in his mattress. So he holds out the flower for the boy to have. "Sure," he says, "But you can't tell anybody where you got it."

The boy smiles. Brad thinks, in that tiny second, that his smile could make him do anything the boy wanted. He reaches for the flower, and their knuckles bump up against each other, bare skin touching bare skin.

The flower is green, and Brad's soulmate's eyes are red. ,

Two years later, his soulmate will disappear. He will be there one day, and gone the next, and the teachers will never tell him where the boy with red eyes went. And he won't remember his soulmate's name, or what he looked like, or even if he made it out of Darkley's alive or in a body bag. All he will ever remember is that he had red eyes.

Lloyd, reluctant and loudly complaining, is eventually jostled into the karaoke bar by the rest of his team. He's not old enough to enter, technically, but people tend to not care about your age when you've saved realm some ten-odd times. Still, he doesn't get anything alcoholic. The idea of playing the 'Green Ninja' card to break the law leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Kai says he has a stick up his ass. At times like this, Lloyd is inclined to agree.

Instead, Jay orders him a sweet drink and leaves him sitting at the counter to go perform the most dramatic and embarrassing rendition of 'Sweet Caroline' with Nya, which Lloyd immediately starts recording. He'll have blackmail material for weeks.

Thankfully, he's left in peace. Despite being arguably the most famous Ninja — a fact he abhors — he tends to melt into the background around his friends. They're so loud that everyone is drawn to them, instead, and Lloyd is left in relative peace.

Relative, because when he looks up from his third sugary drink, there's a guy standing awkwardly beside him.

Lloyd surveys him for a second. He's got tousled black hair, healthy brown skin, and eyes the color of coffee. He's holding his phone — it's got a Starfarer key-chain — in his hand, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Hey," he says, raising a hand in greeting. "Uh, you- you're the Green Ninja."

Lloyd flashes a smile, sitting up straight. He doesn't mind signing the occasional autograph. "Yep," he says, going for casual. People tend to get worked up around him. "Did you want me to sign something?"

The taller boy — by at least a few inches, unfair — nods with a nervous smile. "For my friends," he says, pointing at his phone. If Lloyd pricks his ears, he can hear shrieking. "They're fans? And also soulmates, they just met tonight and they're so jealous right now—"

Lloyd's smile strains.

He's. Fine. With soulmates. Obviously, because what kind of sociopathic jerk isn't? It's just that… he's not a big fan. Why would he be? Destiny's been telling him what to do since he was ten years old, been ruling his life for even longer. He hasn't got very nice things to say about it.

At least, that's a better excuse than the alternative.

He shakes his head. "No problem!" He says brightly. "Do they want a picture, too?"

The phone starts shrieking even louder. The taller boy panics and shushes them none-too-subtly. "Uh, that'd- I mean, I don't want to bother you on your night out—"

Huh. That's nice. Lloyd smiles and shakes his head, gesturing for the phone. "I don't mind," he says. "It's a special occasion, right?"

He takes the phone and smiles at the two girls Face-timing. One of them has the most obnoxiously pink hair he's ever seen in his entire life, like it's made of cotton candy or something. They both start excitedly yelling at the same time, tripping over themselves and also very clearly tipsy.

Yeah, they're soulmates alright.

Well, just because he's bitter doesn't mean he has to ruin anyone's night. He puts on his best 'publicity' smile, the same one he uses for charity ads and conferences about the latest D-list villain of the week, and tries his best to sound enthusiastic as he greets the two women.

It's not very hard. They're both practically incoherent, and their overexcited yells — mixed in with the neon pink hair — end up making him genuinely smile, laughing a few times. He promises them both an autograph — which, embarrassingly, the darker-haired girl swears up and down to frame at their wedding and put in a guest seat — and hands the phone back to its owner.

"Sorry," he apologizes again, stuffing the phone in his pocket. It seems to leave at a loss for something to do with his hands, so those ends up in his pockets too. "I know Sally is… enthusiastic."

"I had a great time," Lloyd answers diplomatically. In truth, he is still a bit… disgruntled. Yeah, that. He's been expanding his vocabulary, as of late, and he thinks that's the right, morally correct word for the nasty taste in his mouth. It's not jealousy, for sure. It doesn't matter either way, though, because he's an adult and should have gotten over this years ago.

Soulmates just… had a way of pulling threads on what he'd tried so hard to bury. In the same way he can't stand to even look at the game cartridge of Oni Samurai for too long, or drink jasmine tea anymore, even the sight of a pair of soulmates — a perfect, complementary pair — sets his teeth on edge.

But he doesn't need to make that anyone else's problem.

He tries to keep his smile light. He's gotten better at this part, too. The smiling. The 'faking it', though he never does 'make it'. At least, he doesn't feel like it. But he fakes it for charity, and conferences, and museum openings telling tales of his own famous exploits. He's good at faking it, by now.

"Well, you'd probably want to get back to your own group…" he trails off, expecting the other to take the hint. He's not entirely used to interacting with people one-on-one, not unless they're a reporter or interviewer.

Zane says he's socially stunted and isolated. Lloyd says that he can't be isolated, because the rest of the team never leaves him alone. He never mentions the 'socially stunted' part.

The other boy stiffens, like he's suddenly become self-aware of the situation. "Oh! Right, yeah, of course. Uh, can I buy you a drink? Just to say thanks, for the autograph and picture and also that villain van…"

Well, that's a new one. Lloyd flushes, embarrassed. "I, uh… I can't drink," he admits. "Not old enough yet." Again, he could probably wave around the Green Ninja card and get drinks for free, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He hates doing it.

The other boy appears surprised, then laughs. "Don't you have to be of age just to get in?"

He shrugs. "Ninja. I get around most rules just by wearing this gi." He smirks, leaning his cheek on his hand. "Y'know, when people don't think I'm just a cosplayer."

The taller guy laughs, dropping down on the bar stool next to him. "Then, can I get you something non-alcoholic?" He squints at the menu. "Jeez, a lot of these are sugary."

Lloyd's pointed ear flicks. "I don't mind sugary," he mutters, which is a total understatement. He's the entire reason every brand of cereal in the monastery is a disgusting marshmallow death trap.

The other grins knowingly and orders two 'virgin' drinks. Apparently that means it doesn't have alcohol. Another word for his vocab. Not, like, the word itself — he knows what that means.

The other boy introduces himself as Brad Tudabone. He says he's the 'designated driver', which Lloyd sincerely doubts because his friend isn't even here anymore, but kindly doesn't comment on.

Brad is studying at the city college, he learns. He's going to be a botanist, going to work in the botanical gardens. There's already an internship coming up. He gets coffee at the same place every single Monday, and gets the exact same order every single time. It sounds nice. It sounds normal.

He tries not to look too jealous. Being a ninja is fulfilling, too. Genuinely, it is. It's just also complicated.

Eventually, Brad asks the dreaded question. "What's your favorite color?" Lloyd tries not to let the smile fall off his face. It's a normal question. It's a common one. Maybe not for an icebreaker, but it's a completely normal question, and he doesn't have any baggage whatsoever.

He goes for the appropriate, sanitized response. "Well, I'd better hope it's green," he laughs, averting his eyes. "I've been wearing it my whole life, at this point."

Brad immediately looks guilty. "Oh! Jeez, I— sorry, I keep forgetting not everyone can—" He cuts himself off with a groan, embarrassed. "If it helps, green does suit you."

Lloyd, for some reason, feels immediately and violently disappointed. "Oh," he mumbles. "You see color? That's… amazing. Congrats."

Well. At least one of them has a soulmate. He's not bitter, or anything.

Brad's smile strains. "Yeah… lucky me, right?"

Silence falls over the conversation. Lloyd feels bad about lying, but it's easier than saying, "Oh, I can see color, but it doesn't matter because I don't even have a soulmate to begin with!"

That's… well, that's what he tells himself. Pretending he never had a soulmate in the first place — pretending he was bornwith colored sight — is so much easier than whatever the real truth is.

Not that he'd know. And not that he cares.

Thankfully for him, and unfortunately for the owner of the bar, Jay accidentally electrocutes the karaoke machine. Lloyd clears his throat, shooting to his feet with a nervous laugh. "Well, I've— I gotta go! Ninja business, saving the city— thanks for the drink!"

He runs off and very stoutly ignores the sudden, aching pit opening up in his chest.

It's just because of the stupid soulmate thing. Nothing more.

One of his earliest memories, after the chaos of his childish 'alliances' with the Serpentine tribes, is aboard the Bounty. He can readily admit that he was a nightmare. And not in the 'pulling pranks, throwing tantrums over eating vegetables, not picking up his trash' way, although those were all things he did do.

No, Lloyd was a nightmare in the, 'scream at the top of his lungs every time someone tried to touch him' way. He was a nightmare in the 'break every glass in the cabinets for no reason' way. He pulled a knife on Jay several times. If someone tried to make him eat — usually Zane, citing how thin he was — he would kick, scream, bite and claw. He once threw such a big fit, he blacked out and came to with bandages all over his arms. Apparently, he'd clawed at his own skin until he collapsed. He once tried to put rat poison in Kai's food. He once poured bleach into Cole's shampoo, hoping it would get into his eyes. Thankfully, the Master of Earth had sniffed out the strange smell before ever using it.

His uncle was really the only reason Lloyd wasn't thrown off the Bounty. He certainly tried his best to get booted out. To this day, he still can't remember why, exactly. He couldn't have still been mad at the ninja for the stupid pole thing, not after Pythor's betrayal. And he'd really tried to take Uncle's words to heart. To be kind.

But it wasn't about stupid stinky Pythor. It was about- about that place. He'd gone, and he hadn't been there. Lloyd had looked so hard, so desperately, screamed his name through the halls and barged into every little hiding spot. He wasn't there.

He can't stand it. Every time he thinks about it, that violent itch rises under his skin. Crying doesn't cut it. Clawing his skin off doesn't cut it. He feels broken, like there's an empty pit in his soul and it'll never be filled again. He can't even seem to breathe through the pain of it. It makes him dizzy, lungs tight and eyes on fire.

It's another nightmare that causes it. All alone, in dark and empty halls that never seem to end, listening to the sharp and angry yells of adult voices behind the doors. He can hear the rapping of their sharpened rulers against skin, the yelps of students who made the wrong move. His own bloody knuckles sting in sympathy.

He's only looking for someplace safe. Somewhere with the boy. With his boy. The one with soft brown eyes like warm coffee they steal from the teachers' lounge. With his soft sweater, and his soft hands, and his soft voice. His knuckles are bruised, too, but Lloyd knows they won't raise against him.

He sees a tan brown hand open from behind a door, reaching out for him. Lloyd runs toward it, slamming into the warm body. No matter how mean the teachers and the other boys are, they're safe with each other.

But when he pulls back, the face of the boy doesn't exist, and Lloyd can't remember his name. He disappears like a ghost, leaving Lloyd completely alone in the dark.

He wakes up with a start, a strangled sob on his tongue and tears already rolling freely down his face. His chest stutters with shaky inhales, and already it feels too tight, too empty, too on-fire. It's unbearable. His vision swims, his head pounds, and his hands itch to make something break.

So he creeps out of his room, still heaving for breath. He barely feels conscious. All he can think is that something, anything, needs to break. He needs to break anything he can, smash it into pieces and scream loud and long enough to fill the void in his stomach. He needs to puke up this nasty feeling. He needs to claw his skin off until it stops buzzing with fire ants. He needs to jam something into his stomach to stop the bleeding.

It's with shaking hands that Lloyd steals the carton of eggs from the fridge. He opens the box and starts taking out the eggs, kneeling on the floor. He raises one over his head and slams it into the floor, listening to the harsh crack, feeling the shell break until his fists. It just barely loosens the ache in his chest, so he keeps going.

Eventually, he runs out of eggs. Lloyd steals a knife from the block that Zane still hasn't learned to keep out his reach, and drags the blade into the milk carton. Milk spills over his hands, freezing cold. It makes his skin numb, and somehow that's even worse than the biting fire ants.

A strangled whine wells up in his throat. Every sensation is too much, not enough, overwhelming and barely felt.

He wants the flower boy back. His hands always felt perfect and safe. They were always just right. His voice was the right sound, not too loud or too quiet and never never mean.

A mix between a snarl and a sob leaves his mouth. With reckless abandon, Lloyd begins grabbing every glass bottle in the fridge. He smashes them on the floor, a strangled shriek in his throat every time he hears the awful sound of breaking glass. He takes a knife to one bottle, a little jar of minced garlic, and sharp shards of glass stick into his fingers and wrists. He tears each shard of glass out violently, resisting the urge to do so with his teeth.

He can't seem to decide if glass in his skin is good or bad. It's a sensation, though, and it's breaking things, so he grabs a glass bottle and throws it against the wall. Glass flies into his skin, his bare feet and his tear-streaked red face, cutting into his arms. He grabs a fat shard from the ground and clenches it in his fist, tighter and tighter, forcing the pain to rise until it's bad enough to start scream-crying—

He blacks out. Not fainting, or anything like that, he simply loses awareness. He'll find out, later on, that Nya was woken up by the sound of broken glass, then spurred out of bed by the sound of Lloyd's screaming. She found him kneeling on the ground, covered in glass and streaked in blood, and yelled for Uncle Wu. Lloyd tried to bite his uncle, to cut him with glass too, to use the knife he took on the man. He didn't do it on purpose. He doesn't think he even knew who he was trying to cut.

He wakes up in Uncle's bedroom. His arms ache under the bandages. His entire hand in covered up, and smells like antiseptic. He's exhausted.

He's so exhausted, that when Uncle Wu sits down next to him and holds his unbandaged hand, gently asking what's wrong, he breaks down sobbing.

Half of his soul is missing. There's nothing else he can do. 

Sally moves out after a month. It's… fine. He's fine with that. Rent isn't that high anyways, so it's not like it's some big financial burden. And he's happy for her! She's got a nice little apartment with Jasmine, and they're decorating together, and they both love music and art. He's so happy for her.

But. But, but, but. Sally was just… she was always his friend. His best friend. The only person who stuck around for him. The only one who stuck it out for him.

He hadn't realized just how dependent he was until she left.

Brad is… a bad communicator. He doesn't like talking about the mushy stuff. His therapist said it was because "Darkley's punished vulnerability with physical violence and psychological abuse" and Brad is "emotionally stunted" and he's "still codependent on his soulmate". One, he isn't codependent on his soulmate. His soulmate isn't around. That's the problem.

Two, well, jokes on his therapist. Brad is such a bad communicator, he stops going to therapy. Who's codependent now,huh?

In his defense, he doesn't need therapy. He's better, now! He's in college, he has a job, he's just soooo independent now! And he's been in therapy for a decade. What else is there to be done for him? He can't keep listening to someone tell him that it's all "a treatment, not a cure". He can't keep having someone tell him to take deep breaths and journal.

Gene, thankfully, sees through the bullshit. "If you won't go to your damn appointment," he drawls on the third day of Brad's self-pity bed rotting spree, "at least leave the house. You're getting gross."

So Brad takes a shower, brushes his teeth, and drags himself to the local park. There's a nice garden, there. Even if he can't bring himself to help dig up the weeds, or plant anything, he can at least sit in the sun and try to ignore his own thoughts of crushing loneliness.

To his surprise, the Green Ninja is there.

It's a total shock. He just looks… so out of place. He's wearing his classic green gi, yes, but the mask is off, and besides that, since when is the Green Ninja just out and about in public?

And, look. It's not that Brad dislikes the Green Ninja. Who could? He'd saved the world, like, ten separate times. It's just that… well, he doesn't get it either. Just the sight of the Green Ninja, ever since his debut, had tugged on what felt like Brad's very soul so painfully it felt like he'd die. So he tries not to pay much attention to what the guy does, aside from the typical world-saving stuff.

That night at the bar had been a very strange exception. Somehow, being in the ninja's presence was more bearable than seeing him from afar.

He's about to turn around, or at least mind his own business, because the Green Ninja — or, uh, Lloyd. Are they familiar enough for first names? — deserves to have an off day without being bothered more than he probably already has. But then the ninja spots him, looks surprised for half a second, and then eagerly waves him on over.

Oh. Okay. Well… sure.

Brad wanders over, closing the gap between them. "Hey," he mutters, suddenly incredibly glad he took that shower and changed his clothes. "Uh… what's up?" How is one supposed to interact with the literal Chosen One? Does he, like, shake hands? Re-introduce himself? Bow????

"Brad!" Lloyd grins, and oh, he does remember Brad. That's… cool. That's pretty cool. "You study botany, right? Wanna help out?"

"Help… out?" Brad glances down, and suddenly notices the absolute sea of children rushing around with bags of soil and watering cans. There's a big row of new seed beds, ready to be filled with soil and seeds.

"Mm-hm!" Lloyd nods eagerly. "It's a thing for the local elementary school. Apparently, kids get really excited about stuff whenever there's a ninja involved. Cole was going to do it, but something came up in Shintaro and I like to stay busy anyways — and look! You know all about plants!"

He leans in, lowering his voice a little bit. "It's an, uh, corrective school? For kids who… have a lot of trouble. Gardening is supposed to help, like a therapy sort of thing? And I thought, well— I mean, I saw you, and you talked so much about plants so you must really love them, and maybe you could show the kids better than me anyways, because I really have no clue how to grow tomatoes—"

Corrective school, huh? Brad takes a closer look. They look… happy. Their eyes aren't sunken, their lips are pulled into smiles. Their clothes fit them, and their knuckles aren't bruised. A pair plays tag without any sign that one is running away from a punch, and several kids run around with gardening tools without trying to stab each other. He's impressed. Back in Darkley's, someone would've lost a finger by now.

He swallows back the tense, poisonous fear in his throat and looks back at Lloyd. He looks so enthusiastic that Brad literally can't bring himself to say no. So he smiles, stoops down for a bag of soil and a trowel, and says, "Text me a schedule. I'll make time."

Lloyd lights up, and the bone-deep ache that Brad's learned to ignore over the last decade loosens up. Just a little bit.

One of his earliest memories, after Darkley's, where he can actually remember things and it isn't blurry and broken and dark, is standing outside of his aunt's room at night.

He's supposed to trust his aunt. That's what the 'therapist' says. Says his aunt is 'nice' and 'just wants to help' and 'loves him so much'. He doesn't trust her. She's an adult. All adults are the exact same. She's waiting for him to mess up, to break an unspoken rule, and then she's going to hit him with a ruler or lock him in a closet or make him eat something nasty and then throw it up.

He doesn't trust the therapist, either. Her smile is fake, and she writes down everything he says and she didn't look happy at all when he said his teacher put him in a room with rats once. So he lies, and she starts writing down things that aren't true. Once, she asked if he had any friends. He lied and said he hated everyone forever. It hurt to say that, but the red-eyed boy would understand. Brad is sure he's lying, too.

You're not supposed to have friends in Darkley's. It's against the rules, big time. They lied a lot. Brad is good at it. His friend wasn't very good at it, but Brad knows he tried very hard. He couldn't be mad at his friend anyways.

Brad also lies to the 'therapist' because she isn't a therapist at all. She's a spy. She listens to what he says, and she writes it down and pretends he can trust her, and then she sneaks behind his back and tells it all to his aunt. She's a snitch. Brad is going to cut her for it, but not yet. Mostly because there's nothing sharp in the spy's room.

He hears his aunt crying in her bedroom, on a speaker-phone with somebody. "I don't know what to do," she says, distraught. Brad peaks very carefully around the doorframe, and sees her holding her head in her hands, hair a mess and eyes red.

He doesn't feel bad. But in case he does, he starts reciting. Her name is Minty. Mint, as in mentha, from the word mintha, in the family Lamiaceae. 13 to 24 species.

Reciting makes things less tight. He doesn't do it for anybody else, though. Just because the boy with red eyes doesn't like loud people, and Brad is loud when he's angry, and being angry also makes his friend scared. He gets frozen and big-eyed like a deer, and he won't move even when someone starts hitting him.

Brad hates to make him upset. He never forgave himself for the fire ants. He didn't mean it. He only did it because he didn't know the boy had red eyes, and he didn't know how much he liked red eyes and soft hands and voices that don't yell. If he'd come back, Brad swears he won't ever yell or be mad or do fire ants again. He swears. He'll pinky promise, he'll shake on it, he swears. Just come back, just come back already—

He snaps out of his thoughts when Aunt Minty starts talking again. "He just doesn't trust me," she says, sniffling, to the person on the speaker-phone. Is it her spy? "No matter what I do. I- I give him all the space he wants, and I try to make all the food he likes, and I've tried taking him shopping or- or to a movie, and he just— he hates me! My nephew hates my guts!" She covers her face, shoulders shaking. She looks sad, but her voice comes out angry. "I'm going to murder my brother, I swear to the First Master I'll kill that bastard—"

A soft voice he recognizes as the spy's — he knew it — comes out of the speaker-phone. "It's not helpful to result to anger," the spy says with her fake-er-ness. She's a fake. And a liar and a cheat and a double-crosser. He hates her. "And these things take time. He's never been able to trust an adult before — right now, in his mind, you're just another authority figure who wants to punish him. It'll take time to show him otherwise."

Faker. Liar. Cheater. He grits his teeth, fingers digging deep into the doorframe until his nails chip the white paint. It curls up under his nails.

The only person who won't hurt Brad is his red-eyed boy. And that's the only person Brad won't make hurt either.

"How am I supposed to wait?" Aunt Minty asks miserably. "If he's not ignoring me, he's yelling at me. If he's not hiding, he's breaking something! He won't eat, he won't sleep, he won't even take a shower—"

"He's testing boundaries," the spy's soothing voice says. Brad bristles. Back-talker. Double-crosser. "He's trying to see how far he can push you. Instead of letting him push you with no consequences, try talking him through it. Or, if it helps, I can hold a session with both of you. It might help him to see that you need help, too."

Brad doesn't need help. He needs his friend back. That would make everything okay again. He could stand being nice if he had his friend back. If he had his friend back, the hole in his stomach would finally close, and his hands wouldn't itch so hard to make something hurt and break, and he could be good.

He wants his friend back. He'll die unless he gets his friend back. Half of himself is missing, and he'll never be okay again until it's found.

Lloyd likes to stay busy. It's not that he doesn't like relaxing or having free time, it's that he's incredibly bad at relaxing and having free time. He never knows what to do with himself. He tries playing video games, but they're never enough to keep his mind occupied. He's spent nearly a decade being a ninja, so it checks out that some dungeon puzzles would feel a bit slow.

He tries reading. Same problem. His body needs to move, his mind needs to race. He tries driving his motorbike around. His mind tends to wander after a few minutes, and he always inevitably ends up looking for crime to stop in the city. He tries baking, once or twice, but he's laughably bad at it. Mostly because he doesn't know the difference between a tablespoon and a teaspoon, or why the flour needs to be all-purpose, or how to tell the size of a baking dish. His education is, to say the least, lacking.

So he stays busy. Even without crime to fight, there's always something he can do to benefit his city. He gives speeches at the openings of museums and research facilities. He gives speeches at charity functions. Once, he did tricks on his motorbike to raise money. Sometimes he films advertisements for charities, for animal shelters, for soup kitchens and public gardens.

Right now, he's filling his time with babysitting. The city's corrective elementary school for 'wayward youth' needs a way to make the students productive. The students need a good role model. Lloyd needs something to make him feel useful. It works out. He takes the kids to the public gardens, sets up long wooden boxes, and tries his best to figure out how plants work.

It is… slow going. The kids aren't as interested in tomato seeds as they are in seeing him turn into a tornado or do six consecutive back flips. He tries to make it sound cooler by saying the monastery has a garden, too, and promising them he'll show pictures, but that devolves into wanting to know what the Red Ninja's favorite pepper is. Somehow.

Honestly, he's just happy the kids are happy. He knows they're not bad kids. He knows this is a good school. And he knows their knuckles aren't bruised, and their shins don't ache, and their heads don't pound from malnutrition and welts left by rulers. And he's definitely not making sure it stays that way by doing this in the first place.

Lloyd knows this isn't like Darkley's. These kids aren't bad. The teachers aren't cruel. He's just… making sure. That's all.

So while he'd be perfectly happy just entertaining kids in the sun, he's also happy to see Brad Tudabone. Lloyd is honestly surprised he remembers the guy's name — it's been, like, a month since they met, and Lloyd hasn't thought about him since. But it's a good thing he's here, because Lloyd distinctly remembers that he's a botanist, and he desperately needs someone who knows what you're supposed to do with zucchini.

If he had to guess, he'd say Brad needed this, too. His brown skin is pale, eyes sunken and dark with heavy circles. His clothes are all wrinkled, not in the normal 'not ironed' way, but in a 'crumpled on the floor in the closet' way. Not… that Lloyd knows anything about that. He keeps his clothes presentable.

…most of the time.

He seems to brighten up, showing the small group how to space out the seeds of the sunflowers to give their roots enough room. "They're yellow, just like the sun," he informs the kids, who look awed at the information. From their perspective, the sun is an unseeable bright white, and sunflowers are a dull grey. "And blueberries aren't actually blue. They're purple." One very opinionated girl starts yelling about the injustice of such a misleading name. Lloyd can't help his snicker.

"So. Purple berries, huh?" He asks while smoothing down the soil over another seed. One somewhat clumsy boy sticks his tongue out as he waters it, hands shaking. Brad sits across from him, dirt already caked under his nails, digging up the holes.

Brad huffs a small laugh. "I know, right? If it helps, they look blue, so the name isn't actually that misleading. It's this chemical thing to do with pigmentation."

Lloyd decides to stop messing with him. "Yeah, I know," he laughs. "I can see color, too."

Brad looks baffled. "Wh- but you told me— did you meet your soulmate?!"

Something sour stings his tongue. He doesn't have a soulmate. End of story. He tries not to grimace. "No, I, ah… I was born with colored sight. Something to do with my powers." He tries to smile. "Lucky me, right?"

Brad sits back, abandoning the soil. He looks completely crestfallen. "But then… how are you supposed to find your soulmate?"

I'm not. I don't have one. That's a depressing topic for a sunny day, though, so he shrugs and tries to smile. "They're a soulmate, aren't they? Destiny always works out."

He's Destiny's favorite punching bag, but he doesn't need to mention that.

Brad nods uncertainly, looking down at the dirt. "Yeah, I guess so… if it helps, I, ah… don't know my soulmate, either."

Lloyd stares at him. "But you can see color."

He shrugs, laughing self-consciously. "Weird, right? We met pretty young, and nobody realized we were soulmates, so… we got separated. He moved away." His voice is tinged with bone-deep sadness. He takes a deep breath, clearly practiced to hell and back, and tries for a more genuine smile. "But Destiny works out, so… I'm sure I'll find him again. It'll just be tricky."

Old legends and stories said that the reason the world was black and white until one met their soulmate was because the world could only be appreciated when one was whole. You weren't whole without your soulmate. You were a fractured half, a broken chunk, a puzzle missing most of the pieces. Without your soulmate, the world held no color — it was incomplete.

How can you ever accept an incomplete world, once you've tasted one that was whole? The world would never lose its color again, but it almost didn't seem worth it anymore. You were still incomplete. You were still fractured, and now the edges were jagged and bleeding.

Jay said that when Nya merged with the sea, he felt like he was actively dying. He said it felt like someone took a shovel and started digging out his insides until he was a walking corpse. He'd nearly gone insane from it all. Even Kai, who had a platonic soulmate in Skylor, said it was impossible to get through the month without at least a few phone calls and a bowl of noodles.

Lloyd knows the feeling. It's impossible not to feel like someone is carving your guts out with a knife. It's awful that Brad has to know it, too.

He swallows back the bitterness. "Well… I definitely know how you feel," he mutters. For a split second, Brad scowls. Then he's smiling again, and Lloyd almost thinks he imagined it.

"I'm patient," he says softly, patting the covered hole of a sunflower seed. "You gotta be, y'know? He'll come at the right time."

Lloyd's smile tightens. He hates that mindset. Just waiting around until you happen to stumble upon the perfect match. It feels entitled. It feels lazy, and ungrateful. If you're lucky enough to have a soulmate at all, you should be looking for them. You should be scouring the entire earth for their presence. You should be working your ass off to make it work, instead of trusting Destiny to do all the hard parts.

But he doesn't have a soulmate. So what does he know?

He hears the elementary school's bus come rolling through the parking lot and quickly stands up, wiping his dirtied hands on his gi. It's really a terrible way to treat the clothes, given everything they represent, but right now he's sort of fighting the urge to claw his own face off, so he doesn't really care.

"I've got to get these kids back," he says apologetically. "But here, give me your number — you can come along next time, too!"

Brad passes along his phone, and Lloyd tries not to jerk at the feeling of his skin. He's not very used to touching people with bare hands. As a kid, it made him itch. Now, it feels awkward. And it still makes him itch.

Well. Aside from now. Probably because he's been wrist-deep in dirt for an hour.

He makes a contact for himself and hands the phone back. "Text me, alright?" He says with a friendly grin. "And bring some of those fun hats you told me about!"

Brad nods silently, waving as Lloyd leads the group of kids back to their bus. He passes them off with a classic, if somewhat corny, soundbite about Green Ninja nonsense before hopping back on his bike.

He doesn't really expect Brad to text him until the next week, when he's supposed to do the garden thing all over again. So he's surprised that, when he rolls into bed with aching arms and unwashed hair, he sees a message from a new contact.

You like staying busy, right? Come as Lloyd.

And, accompanying it, a link to volunteer at a charity event at the botanical gardens.

Lloyd stares at it. Come as Lloyd. Huh.

…sure. Why not?

Come as Lloyd.

He's tired, lately. Ever since he broke all the things he could in the kitchen, and almost made his hand messed up forever, Lloyd feels tired. He thinks it's because of the tea Uncle makes him drink every night and morning. He thinks there's a sedate in it. He can't find it in himself to care.

Teachers at Darkley's used to use sedates. When they fought too hard for check-ups. Or when they got detention. Or sometimes the sedates were the punishment, and they'd let spiders and bugs crawl over your skin when you couldn't move.

Thankfully, he can still move when he drinks the tea-sedate, so… it's okay. Mostly.

Nya is babysitting him. He feels a bit better that it's Nya, and not one of the boys. The boys are on a mission to fight Serpentine, and he's secretly glad they aren't here. He hates the feeling. He feels like a dumb dog. 'Spot doesn't do well with men' or something stupid like that. But he can't help it either. Most boys are mean and ugly and use their fists.

Except for the one boy. He was nice, like cotton candy. But he's gone now, and Lloyd can't remember how to find him anymore. He wasn't there when he went back, and he can't possibly think of where else he'd be. He hopes his friend is okay. He hopes his friend is waiting for him, somewhere. He'd better not have a new friend, or Lloyd is gonna lose it. He'll punch that stupid 'new friend' to death.

Nya doesn't like babysitting, he thinks. She's always grumpy when she has to do it. He can't tell if she dislikes Lloyd, or if she's mad she's not allowed to go with the boys. Maybe it's both. It's probably both. Lloyd hasn't been very nice lately.

It's not that he doesn't want to be nice. Well, he's not supposed to be, 'cause being nice gets you locked in closets and you don't get to have anything to eat, but now he's being punished for not being nice. So it's backwards rules. And he likes these rules better. He always had trouble being mean on purpose, not like his friend who seemed like he was mean by default, like he just couldn't help but bite when he spoke. And Lloyd can't help but cower and let people bite him instead. So he's usually nice — or, like the older boys used to call him, a sissy. It's usually easy to tell Lloyd what to do.

But he can't be nice anymore. Not when his entire chest is on fire and his lungs are combusting inside of him. Not when his head pounds, even though he's eating a little more now, 'cause he has to, 'cause that's the rule. Eat your dinner or you're grounded. And he's been eating his dinner, and he's still dizzy. He's been sleeping, like Uncle says to, and he's still tired and teary. He's trying so, so hard not to be mean, and nothing will work. He wants to hurt people. He wants to make everything hurt.

It's not that he likes making things hurt. It just makes him hurt a little bit less, and a little bit less is a lot when he feels so awful the rest of the time.

But he's trying very hard. He hasn't thrown a single fit today, even though he hates blueberry pancakes, 'cause his friend says that blueberries aren't even blue, and so now blueberries remind him of his friend. And he misses his friend, and it hurts to think about him, and now he hates blueberry pancakes, and Zane still made them for breakfast and it's a rule that you have to eat breakfast, and Lloyd doesn't want to be grounded. So he still ate the stupid blueberries, even though he hates them. And he hasn't made mean faces or said mean words or even stuck his tongue out at Kai, who's a jerk-face like all of the time. He's been good, today.

The tea still makes him tired, though. He wonders why Uncle makes him have it. Just to make him easier? Or so he can't break anything else? Lloyd thinks, briefly, that he'll break all of Uncle's favorite teacups and then see him make Lloyd drink tea. But on second thought, it doesn't taste very bad, and he got to put sweet honey in it this morning, which tastes better, so he's okay with the tea.

He thinks all of this while idly coloring on the floor, legs kicking behind him. A cartoon that he doesn't care about very much is on the TV. He never got cartoons in Darkley's. He thinks his friend would like them.

A sudden scowl replaces his expression, at the same time the tight pit in his chest flares up and makes it hard to breathe or even think. He turns off the TV and continues coloring in silence.

"Wow," a voice says from above him, sounding genuinely surprised. "That's pretty good, Lloyd."

He looks up, startled. Nya is standing above him, holding a glass of water from the kitchen and looking at his paper. He covers it protectively, flushing. But she bends down with a smile.

He knows she doesn't like him. Is she going to spill her water on his picture to ruin it? If she does, he swears he'll break her hairbrush and stab her pillow. He doesn't cower anymore.

But she doesn't do that. She just points to the green grass he drew. "And you got all the colors right, too. That's impressive."

He blinks, looking down at his picture. "Huh?" He asks, confused. Does she think he doesn't know what color the grass is? Or the sky and the sun? He isn't stupid.

Nya nods, looking very sincere. "Oh, right! I can see color, can you believe it? Jay's my soulmate."

Lloyd tilts his head. "Soul…mate?"

Nya stares at him. She sits down fully, cross-legged. "Oh, well, yeah. Nobody's… told you before?" He shakes his head, and she looks sad. "Well, uh, a soulmate is how you see color. When you meet them, you stop seeing everything in black and white. They're important."

Lloyd stares down at his paper, then back at her, now very confused. "I can already see color," he says, like she's being a dummy. "Nothing is black and white." Nya stares at him in disbelief, looking like she thinks he's pranking. To prove his point, he points at her nails. "Those are blue." And he goes back to coloring.

But Nya keeps on staring. Very softly, like she's about to poke a very angry animal, she asks, "How can you see color?"

He frowns, irritated. "Because I can."

"Lloyd," Nya says very seriously, and she grabs his hand even though he doesn't like touching. Lloyd goes very still, because he's trying very hard not to bite. But to do that, he has to keep his mouth shut, so he can't tell her no touching either. And she doesn't notice. "You can't see color unless you've touched your soulmate. Do- do you have a soulmate?"

After a silent few seconds, Lloyd unfreezes, and he realizes he can pull his hand back instead of asking for it. So he does, snatching it away and holding it close to his chest where he can feel his heart getting loud. His mouth feels dry. He feels nauseous.

"No," he whispers, because she makes it sound like soulmates are important. And only one person is important. And he's a secret. Nobody can know he has an important person, because then they'll take him, and he won't be allowed to be nice to Lloyd anymore. And because he's Lloyd's important person, and nobody else can have him, and Lloyd doesn't care that it's not nice to not share.

Nya frowns. "Then- then how can you see color?"

Lloyd clenches his jaw, grabbing a black crayon and coloring in the hair on his picture. "Because I can," he repeats. He's never not been able to see color, not that he can remember. Even though it's starting to get really hard to remember things. Like what his dorm room in Darkley's looked like, or the faces of mean teachers, or how many hours he hid from the mean dogs they used to make sure nobody ran away…

He can't remember much. He doesn't usually want to. Lloyd just likes to color.

Nya huffs, seemingly giving up. Then she taps the picture lightly, though rescinds the finger when Lloyd growls. "Who's that?" She asks, pointing at the person he's drawing. A person with short black hair, and brownish-tannish skin. He would have liked to draw himself, too, and they could have held hands like they used to, but he doesn't want anybody to see that he had a friend.

But… he doesn't want to lie. "My friend," he whispers softly. Nya has friends, so it's not against the rules anymore, right? And even if it is, maybe she'll keep his secret, 'cause she's not a mean boy.

"What's his name?"

Lloyd opens his mouth to answer. And then, like a wave of cold water has washed over him, he realizes he can't.

He can't remember the boy's name. Lloyd stares at the picture. He- he can't remember his face. Lloyd's hand shakes, the crayon falling out of his grasp. A tear falls from his cheek and lands on the empty face, smearing the crayon and turning it into a blob.

His vision blurs, ears ringing, and he blacks out.

When he's aware again, he'll learn that he screamed at the top of his lungs, shattered two windows, put a crack in the TV, and nearly ripped the hair out of his head. Quite literally — he wakes up with bandages on his head from a torn scalp. He'll learn that he sobbed for three hours, hiding under the bed in his room with the door barricaded.

It's good that Zane was finally smart enough to lock up the knives where he can't reach.

The only reason he ever comes out of his room is because Uncle gets in somehow when Lloyd is passed out for real. Uncle gives him more tea that makes him even more tired, and he reads Lloyd a picture book even though he's not a baby. And Uncle's voice isn't the voice he wants to hear. But he can't remember what the right voice sounds like.

He cries himself to sleep every night for weeks, and the only reason he stops is because everything else gets worse.

Brad is honestly surprised Lloyd actually showed up. The event wasn't anything fancy, not like what the Green Ninja was certainly used to. Just a random night of the week where entry was half off, and all the sales went toward research. Brad only really came because it was cheaper.

But lo and behold, the Green Ninja. Not that anyone would recognize him as such — he wore a basic green hoodie, surprisingly faded jeans, and converse. He looked extremely normal, and extremely out of place.

Lloyd approaches him, hands stuffed in his pockets awkwardly. "You said 'come as Lloyd', so… y'know, prep yourself for disappointment." He winces. "This- this is what you meant, right?"

Brad snorts, gesturing down at himself. "What, like I'm the pinnacle of elegance right now?" He's wearing a faded band t-shirt and jeans with more holes than intact seams. Lloyd looks vaguely distracted, silently mouthing what looks like the word 'pinnacle' like he's trying to figure out how it's supposed to fit in his mouth. Brad leads him inside. "I just didn't want to show up here alone and look like a loser. And, I mean…" His face grows hot from embarrassment. "I mean, you said 'text me', so I thought… and you said you like staying busy anyways, and maybe you'd want some actual free time even though we're technically volunteers, but honestly everyone ignores the volunteers anyways—"

The botanical gardens are, true to word, busy. There are droves of people taking advantage of the lower entry prices, and booths along all the paths for different research facilities and projects. Brad would usually get overwhelmed in such a crowd, but the sheer density of his favorite subject silences everything else.

He breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of wet soil and pollen. He likes gardens.

To his credit, Lloyd looks interested as well. He eyes Brad from the corner of his eye. "So… why invite me?"

Brad shrugs, trying not to look too bitter. "Well Sally's off with her soulmate, or whatever," he mutters, failing miserably at his 'don't look bitter' objective. "And I didn't want to come alone."

Lloyd huffs. "Oh, so I'm the replacement?"

Brad stiffens, realizing what he said. "Wait- no, that's not what I—" He cuts himself off at the sight of Lloyd poorly hiding a snicker. Oh. He's messing with me. He flushes in embarrassment, averting his eyes. "…I did like hanging out with you, last week," he mumbles. "And you mentioned you like to stay busy. And this place is only really fun if you can see color, which you can, so…" He trails off with a shrug.

Lloyd hums, somewhat distractedly. He leans over the railing of one exhibit, skimming the fat leaf of a fern with his fingertip. "…Well, thanks," he mumbles. "I don't exactly have a lot of free time. 'Least the 'raise money for research' thing gives me an excuse to do something…" He trails off and doesn't pick back up.

Brad leans against the same railing, facing the rest of the crowd instead of the little plant. "Why'd you come, anyways?" He asks, one hand self-consciously picking the back of his neck. An old habit. "I mean, you're the Green Ninja. Don't you have a museum to unveil or something?" And why on earth would the Green Ninja choose to spend his limited free time with Brad?

Lloyd's shoulders droop, a self-pitying smile on his face. "Like I said," he mutters. "I don't have a lot of free time. I… well, you said it. I like to stay busy. Keeps my mind off of things." He extends a hand to a somewhat wilted flower near the ground. To Brad's shock, it perks up the second he touches it. "I… feel guilty, I guess. Not doing ninja stuff."

"How come?"

Lloyd shrugs, gaze distant. "I was a shitty kid," he mumbles, which sounds insane because he's the Green Ninja. "So I like to help out. It helps, seeing everyone happy with me now." He pauses, then covers half of his face. "God, I sound vain."

Brad waits a moment before nodding. "I mean, it is some Lex Luthor type shit," he says thoughtfully, making Lloyd stare at him in disbelief. He puts his hands up defensively. "What? I'm right! You sound like one of those- those characters who are all nice just to boost their ego! Next thing we know, you'll be running your own villain side gang!"

Lloyd stares at him for a second before he bursts out laughing. Brad feels insane thinking it, but it sounds like wind chimes in the rain. That is a ridiculous comparison, but it's the first one his brain makes. Wind chimes, and the slightest undercurrent of a religiously practiced maniacal cackle.

He's shaken out of the weird thought by Lloyd's huff, his face still pink from laughing. "Does it count if I actually do browse myself on Chirp?"

Brad points at him accusingly. "I knew it! Who does that?!"

Lloyd snickers. "I told you, I was a shitty kid! I… like seeing people who like me." He shakes his head, dropping the thought. "Besides, if you had 900 posts about you before breakfast was over, you'd read them all too!"

"Insane," Brad mutters, shaking his head. "You ever need a henchman for that villain gang you're cooking up, let me know."

Lloyd snorts, nudging Brad's leg with the toe of his shoe. "I spilled already. Why am I somehow your date to the function?" It's said sarcastically, but Brad still goes pink.

The worst part is that this… well, he couldn't even be opposed. Lloyd looks nice. Nicer, somehow, than with his gi on. And he's having a nice time. It sort of aches. In a good way, but still.

Brad's gotten used to aches, though. He shakes it off and shrugs. "I was a shitty kid, too," he mutters. "Don't got a lot of friends to come with." He offers a sarcastic smile. "But hey, you were my first second choice."

"Who's my competition?" He asks with a tilted brow.

"Gene," Brad admits, wincing. "And he is… insufferable. He'd be living in his mom's basement if she wasn't in prison."

Lloyd gapes at him, and Brad can't stop himself from laughing. "You're not the only one with a convict parent," he jokes. "I mean, I've got two, so I think I've got you beat."

Lloyd doesn't say anything for a few seconds, long enough for Brad to think he fucked up by bringing up the demon warlord, but then he starts laughing, covering his face with his hand while his shoulders shake.

"God," Lloyd says under his breath. "Quality over quantity, alright? You might have two shitty parents, but my dad is a straight up demon, so I've got you beat."

"At least you got to punch your shitty dad," Brad grumbles, mock-jealous. Though he is also sincerely jealous. He would love to punch his own parents. "Mine vanished off the face of the planet. Poof."

"Sounds like my mother," Lloyd scoffs under his breath. He smiles, though. "You know, you're the only person who's ever joked about my dad to my face."

Brad shrugs. "The hell else am I supposed to say? Condolences? Congrats on kicking his ass?"

"Thanks," Lloyd answers sarcastically, smirking. "I tried really hard. Lots of effort went into it, y'know?"

"Bit over dramatic, in my opinion," he teases. "Starting a whole rebellion to get back at your dad. Me personally, I just snuck out to parties I wasn't invited to."

Lloyd grins, and he's suddenly very close and flicking a stray strand of Brad's hair teasingly. "And that, Tudabone Junior, is the difference between you and me. Quality over quantity."

Brad lets out a laugh, tinged with the slightest undercurrent of religiously practiced maniacal cackling.

He remembers the easy days. The days when everything wasn't so big and mean and loud. When they'd got off easy, no detention, no punishments, no getting kicked around disguised as 'training'.

Those days, they hid in their shared dorm room, in a hole in the roof, and curled up together like they were the last people alive. The red-eyed boy had stolen many blankets and towels and made a nest in that hole among the rafters. It was warmer than their cold, concrete-floor dorm room. Brad liked it.

He remembers huddling under the blankets while rain beat the grime streaked windows, three blankets covering him and trapping the heat rolling off of the red-eyed boy. He ran hotter than Brad. It felt like his own hands were perpetually cold, icy as his mean and poison tongue, but his friend was warm. Safe. Kind. With his words and his hands, and it wasn't a mean trick either.

He holds his friend, who doesn't play tricks on him, tight against his chest like a stuffed toy. His friend never minds. Brad thinks he likes being held tight, like everything else will squeeze out unless Brad squeezes him harder. He makes that rumbly-groaning sound that means he's happy, so he must like it.

Wind chimes fill the silence, swaying with the duh-dum-dum of cold raindrops. Brad's eyes are closed, listening to them and thinking of all the flowers that will bloom after the rain stops and he and his friend can run outside.

Then the rumbly-groan stops, and Brad's eyes open. He looks down, and his friend is staring up at him with sunken red eyes, rimmed the same color at the waterline.

His friend cries a lot. Usually, Brad would think it's pathetic and stupid and going to get him pushed out a window. But not when it's his friend. Brad thinks that if anybody tries to push his friend out a window, he'll find a knife and he'll stab them with it.

"I don't like it here," his friend whispers, voice shaky. "I hate it."

Brad is silent. He doesn't talk much, not unless it's with his friend, and even then he prefers not to say anything unless he thinks it matters. His friend knows he feels the same way.

"I wanna run away," his friend whispers, and his eyes water. "I hate it. I wanna run. I wanna leave. And- and I wanna find my dad. He'll make them pay. He'll make them sorry for hitting me."

Brad's hand skims over the red welt on his friend's arm. His stomach clenches, and his lungs get hot. If his friend wants, Brad will make them sorry himself. But he knows that isn't what the red-eyed boy wants. Because then Brad will get hit, too, and his friend is too scared to make anybody sorry for it.

Brad doesn't mind that his friend gets frozen like a deer in headlights, 'cause Brad is smart enough to not get caught when he makes people sorry. But they can't make teachers sorry. He's not smart enough not to get caught.

(And, three months ago, a 15-year-old tried to make a teacher sorry. They heard three loud bangs from the woods, and the dogs wouldn't stop licking their lips. Brad is scared of the dogs.)

So he stays quiet. His friend sniffles. "You can come," he whispers, as if there was ever any question. Brad thinks that if he was ever anywhere his friend wasn't, he'd die. "He'll make them sorry for us both. M-my dad will make everyone sorry. And I bet he wouldn't hit us, neither."

Brad toys with his hair. It's sorta soft. If he tries very hard, he thinks it's blonde. It must've been, because he remembers thinking it was like dandelions the first time he really saw it. But it's also matted and tangled, like Brad's.

His friend's red eyes brim with hatred. "I hate them," he hisses viciously. "I hate them so much. I wanna kill them. Then they'd be sorry."

Brad knows he's lying. His friend hates to hurt people. But he loves to say he wants to, because maybe if he says it mean enough, people will believe it, and they'll stop hitting him.

Brad has no such issues. He likes hurting people. He felt very proud of himself when he gave that fifth-grader a black eye, and he even got pudding for it. They shared, even though it's against the rules.

Eventually, Brad's croaky voice leaves his mouth. "We can run away," he rasps, tongue dry from dehydration. "We can live in a garden."

But his friend doesn't look satisfied. "I'll find my dad," he says venomously, and for the first time Brad thinks he actually really means it when he says, "And I'll make everybody sorry."

And then his friend was gone. Brad got detention, because he let a bug out through the window instead of killing it, and when he came back shaky and tired and head hurting and looked for his friend, the teacher said he was gone. She said he left. Ran away without him, and the dogs were gonna get him.

But he wouldn't. The boy wouldn't run away without Brad, right? They promised. And the boy didn't play tricks. But he's gone. Brad looks high and low, searches the detention rooms and the basement and the attic and even, desperately, digs in the loose soil outside for the body, but he can't find the boy.

His only solace is that the dogs still look hungry. But that doesn't mean much, because Brad's friend is skinny and small and boney.

Brad doesn't remember anything after his friend is gone. He doesn't think he's even awake, for the two months it takes for him to leave, too. The only reason he knows he was awake is because, after the school is shut down after another six months, the files get released, and they say that Brad was 'an exemplary student' for those two months. He knows what 'exemplary student' means. It means he was bad, just like the school said he was, and it means he hurt people.

His therapist likes to talk about him hurting people. It takes a while for Brad to talk to her at all, and longer to tell the truth, but he does after the school is shut down. He thinks he's supposed to be happy, but he's really scared. How is his friend meant to find him? Where are they supposed to go?

Maybe Brad should try to find his friend's dad. But he can't remember who that is, either. He feels awful that he can't remember. If he could, maybe he'd have his friend back, and the aching hole in his chest would finally close.

His therapist tries to make him talk about it. Not his friend, because Brad hasn't told anybody his friend exists. He's too special to let anyone know about. But his therapist wants to know why he hurts people, and he's said it's the aching hole that feels like a big fat bleeding cut, and she always wants to know about it. It's exhausting.

But today is easier. He's let his guard down. It's raining, and he can hear wind chimes that make him think about his friend except in a happy way and not an achy way. And his aunt is here. She's… nice, he thinks. She hasn't hit him even once, or locked him in a dark room, or not let him eat even though he keeps stealing food instead of eating what she makes. And she gives him pudding a lot. And the room is warm from the space heater, and he has nice clothes that are soft on the inside, and his head doesn't hurt very badly today. He's almost happy.

The therapist — Miss Angy — gave him a paper and told him to draw something that makes him happy. He decides to draw candy, because the red-eyed boy likes candy, but there is a problem.

"I don't want these colors," he rasps. He doesn't think they'll be mad at him for it. Aunt Minty puts her hand on his shoulder, and he very graciously doesn't shove it off despite the itchy feeling, 'cause he wants different colors.

Miss Angy leans down on her couch. "Is something wrong with the crayons?" She asks with a smile. He shakes his head.

"They're the wrong colors," he says. "I want red."

Both adults are quiet for a few seconds. Aunt Minty grabs his hand. "Honey? How do- how do you know those aren't red?" Brad looks down at the crayons. Their paper wraps with the color names have been taken off, but he can see the colors anyways. He looks at his aunt quizzically.

"That's orange and purple and black," he says slowly, in case she doesn't know the right names. They didn't teach colors in Darkley's, so maybe they didn't at her school either. "I want red." He likes red a lot. It reminds him of his friend's eyes.

But the look on Aunt Minty's face isn't understanding, or even her sad trying-to-look-reassuring face. Her eyes are wide with dawning horror, and when Brad glances at his therapist, her smile's slipped for the first time.

"Brad," Miss Angy says seriously, and Brad recoils at the tone. "How do you know what those colors are?"

Why do they care so much? Brad ducks his head, clutching the orange crayon in his fist. "'Cause I do," he mumbles. "That's what color they are." In case they don't quite understand, he points at the rug and says, "That's is blue. Like that."

Miss Angy hums, nodding like he's said something very important. Aunt Minty sounds upset, voice hitching. "Brad," Miss Angy says in her careful tone. "When was the first time you saw a color? Did you touch somebody, and they made things colorful?"

Brad gapes at her. How did she know? Is she… mad? Is he not supposed to see color? He scoots back, glaring at her warily. "How come?" He asks suspiciously. She puts her hands up in surrender.

"I'm not upset," she reassures him. "Seeing color is a very good thing. I just want to know who made it happen."

Brad slowly scoots forward again, biting his lip. "…Can I have red first?" She hands him the correct crayon, and he colors in the candy. "A boy did it," he mumbles, shading in the wrapper. "I found him in a bush, and I touched his hand, and he made stuff bright." His eyes start to water, at the same time the aching monster thing in his chest flares up and starts choking his lungs. "His eyes were red. We were friends."

Aunt Minty clutches his hand. "What happened to him, sweetheart? Where's your friend?"

Brad grits his teeth. "Gone," he snaps, and the aching thing gets worse. His head pounds, stomach curdling. "He's gone now. He went away."

"What about his name?" Aunt Minty asks urgently. "What was his name? Can you tell us, honey?"

The red crayon snaps in half. "Don't know," he wheezes past the squeezing in his lungs and the sudden dizziness behind his eyes. "I- I don't remember anymore. I don't- I don't—"

He has a lot of meltdowns in therapy. Aunt Minty says it's meant to make him feel better. He doesn't think she understands that the only thing that will make him happy is his friend, and his friend is gone.

They look for his friend. It takes a long time to get permission for the other students' files, though, and even when they do get ahold of them, Brad can't recognize a single face or name as his soulmate's. He was completely erased.

Brad doesn't think he'll ever feel better again.

Lloyd doesn't even notice how late it's gotten until the gardens close for the night. He doesn't quite feel like going home, yet, so he and Brad — who he thinks is, like, an actual-for-real friend — get coffee. Brad sneaks Lloyd a chocolate croissant, and Lloyd sneaks Brad a hot bagel sandwich. He doesn't know why, but he thought Brad would like it. He guessed right.

They walk down the dark sidewalk side by side, Lloyd munching down on his croissant and hot chocolate, Brad with his overly bitter coffee and sandwich. "So," Brad says after a while. "Rate the experience?"

Lloyd hums, licking chocolate off of his thumb. "Ten out of ten," he says. He averts his eyes, face feeling hotter than it reasonably should this late at night. "…thanks. For— I mean, I had fun. Being just… Lloyd."

They stop where Lloyd's parked his bike. Brad hesitates, as if not quite ready to say bye yet. "Don't take this the wrong way—" he says, and Lloyd laughs.

"Well now I have to."

"Don't," Brad hisses, barely hiding the grin. "But I like Lloyd a lot more than the Green Ninja anyways."

He looks down at his cup, face now very hot. "You'd be the first," he whispers. He shakes his head, forcing away the dumb thought. "This was fun. Maybe… I mean, if you ever need someone to stand in for Sally—"

He says it teasingly, and Brad immediately groans, cringing. "I swear I didn't mean it like that," he whines, flushing from the embarrassment. Lloyd snickers, and Brad gives up, sighing.

"Okay, okay, look," Brad says, and Lloyd quickly smothers his laughter. "I know you're busy, but… maybe you're free, soon?" Lloyd immediately blushes, face on fire, but Brad doesn't even notice the look on his face. "I want you to actuallymeet Sally. Y'know, when she's not drunk off her ass." He snaps his fingers. "You said your birthday's the eleventh? We'll take you out to do something."

Lloyd averts his eyes, wincing. "Well… I mean, I always spend it with my team…"

Brad snorts. "What teenager spends every birthday at home?"

"We're both adults."

"Teenagers at heart," he corrects, and Lloyd rolls his eyes. "C'mon. Use your free time for something other than fake charity."

"It wasn't fake!" Lloyd laughs. His stomach feels tight, but not in a bad way. He really, really wants to do something fun for his birthday. Not that his family doesn't make it enjoyable, but… he's also never had a friend his own age to act like a kid with. Better late than never, right?

Words from their conversation in the garden drift through his mind. Brad, telling him about his overbearing aunt. About missing out on his childhood, too. The wobbling uncertainty of how being an adult worked, and if he'd ever be capable of making it work. Lloyd is uncertain, too. Maybe having a friend would make it a little more certain.

He heaves a sigh. "Well, since you've denied me all my hard-earned public validation—" Brad bursts out laughing, and Lloyd is suddenly struck by the asinine opinion that it feels like warm summer rain and cicadas at night. Which is insane. But it feels true at the same time. It feels like something he'd fall asleep to, and possibly never wake back up from.

He stumbles over his words, but quickly recovers as the feeling fades away again. "—I guess I'll come along," he finishes softly, strangely out of breath. Brad's bright, beaming grin makes it worth it.

Lloyd hops onto his motorcycle, waving and feeling weirdly shy as he does it. "Text me," he says. Brad grins, waving back.

"Bye, Lloyd," he says. It sounds impossibly gentle, coming from him. For the first time, Lloyd thinks he actually wouldn't mind the feeling of another's hands. Something heavy and sharp in the core of his being, something he's spent nearly a decade learning to ignore, loosens up just the slightest bit. Like a cool balm spread over a persistent burn, he can suddenly breathe easier.

The feeling lasts all the way home, and for once he drives without looking for crime. It lasts through his shower, through getting dressed, through laying down for bed. For the first time in years, Lloyd doesn't obsessively scroll through everything people say about him online. For the first time in years, he doesn't stare at his ceiling for hours on end, obsessing over everything that could go wrong, reliving everything that has.

He just goes to sleep, and for once, he doesn't even have nightmares. He dreams about coffee in the summer rain and cicadas in the dirt, and he breathes easily.