Chapter Text
The side of his closed fist collided with the door, shaking the flimsy door, carrying the vibrations of the force through the slab of wood through the walls and up to the ceiling. He screamed out in pure frustration, letting all that internalized spill out of his throat and into his strained voice.
Life was perfect for him, finally.
It was so difficult at first, the house they lived in was a mess, Shadow had quickly found out about the truth of his situation, and they both were broke from traveling. The truth was obvious, so obvious in fact he considered it a miracle Shadow hadn’t found out earlier. Sonic wasn’t a famous actor, he was just a guy who enjoyed public theater.
His passion was something undeniable. He put every fiber into acting when he was on stage. He didn’t get paid for it, it was all thankless. And yet he persisted in the face of the odds stacked against him. His glory came from within, it came from a job well done and a genuine enjoyment and wanting for what he did. And in the end karma and faith had his back and he had his talents recognized.
It started with smaller roles in smaller films. He was never given much of a chance to stand out, and yet he always managed to charm directors and coworkers alike. He made a name for himself, wriggling his way into the fold, making his way into high-profile events in the background, and carrying himself as if he was meant to be there.
The esoteric passion projects made by film students soon were replaced with bigger, better productions for the big screen. He had never had a main role in any of his films but by god, he could feel himself getting closer and closer to actual stardom.
Everything was falling into place for him it seemed, the same could be said for Shadow as well. Between them, things were tense in the beginning. Shadow’s resentment had become rather apparent, he lost the warmness that he once extended to Sonic so freely.
Even with nowhere to go in one small house Shadow still pulled the cold shoulder. But his patience wore thin, not communicating wasn’t a viable option, so his indifference evolved to back handed pettiness. Tensions were high between them, but it wasn’t as if the pianist could simply return home. He didn’t have the money or the resources, he would get lost in the wild west, he’d run out of gas or food, he was stuck.
Shadow was the prisoner in Plato’s cave allegory. He was stuck to his own false perception of reality, interpreting the vague penumbras of what was real to match what was of his own understanding. He was yet to break free and climb from the cave, he was only starting to be enlightened.
But one fateful night, during a dreadful storm that had them both trapped in their glorified shack, it all came to a head. In a small act of defiance, Shadow had used one of Sonic’s scripts as a coaster. Sonic broke, he yelled at his roommate, and in retaliation, his roommate screamed back.
Shadow wailed about how he had been tricked, how he was lied to, how he left everything he knew and loved behind for nothing. Sonic brazenly reminded him that he agreed to come here and that he could’ve stayed in New York. The accusations escalated to the point that they were inches from each other’s faces, screaming at the top of their lungs.
Sonic was the first to swing, the truth of the accusations enraged him. But Shadow was just as strong as he was, and in an act of impulse tackled the actor to the floor. They began wrestling, clawing and grabbing at each other as an imprecise expression of their anger.
The fight wasn’t clean, their movements were clearly visceral. They weren’t thinking, they just wanted to hurt the other. By the end, their clothes were in tatters.
Sonic made the mistake of taking a moment to catch his breath, a second was all it took for Shadow to leap up and pin him against the wall with his forearm keeping the other stuck.
Sonic looked at his face, his angled eyes engulfed in rage, his lips plump and swollen from where he had been punched, his sharp teeth in a dangerous scowl. None of this deterred him; Sonic leaned in and crashed his lips into his, kissing him deeply right where he was bruised.
Though this was quite obviously unanticipated by how his entire body seemed to tense, he never backed away. In fact, once he let the shock wash over him, he dove right in, violently reciprocating the affection.
The kissing in and of itself was violent, a continued expression of their anger. But as Shadow brought his body to press the hedgehog flesh with the wall instead of his arm, it was obvious their objective had shifted from harming to something else, something akin to pleasing.
All the months of silently watching and waiting had come to a head that evening. All the pent-up feelings, all the yearning, all the resentment, every intense, overbearing emotion that had been weighing and festering for much too long had finally been released into a wild and ferocious cacophony of violence and awaited desire. Almost as if it never faltered, Shadow was back under his spell. Only no longer by his silver tongue, but by his body.
The night passed, and their relationship changed for the better. Never had they been so honest and so frank with each other before. The loss of their false veneers made it much easier for the two of them to connect in the idyllic, genuine, effortless way Shadow had convinced himself they had before.
And though the nature of their interactions largely changed Sonic continued to go out and party. It was part of the job and part of his reputation to surround himself with gorgeous women with short hair and even shorter dresses. But, despite his jealousy, Shadow still maintained the physical and even sentimental aspect of their relationship.
He seemed to think himself higher than these concubines. And admittedly, he was. These women were only passing entertainment, charming and wooing them was only to advance his status. It was all only for him to gain a reputation in such a vast, loud city. But Shadow, he could confide in Shadow, he was different. The pianist was always an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on.
Despite his unique predicament, he started to thrive just as Sonic did. Shadow eventually was able to find work, this time playing the score for silent films on the piano. He even found himself a beard to pal around with naked Blaze. His back story, being fresh off the presses from New York working in accredited clubs, was elusive, it unintentionally intrigued the masses.
Their careers were adjacent, they benefited from each other. They had an obvious pre-existing relationship in the way they interacted with each other. They were understood to be best friends, they were obviously close. And this connection between the newcomers, especially with their conflicting personalities, was as intriguing as them themselves.
He worked so hard for what he wanted and he finally got it. Sonic’s life is perfect; that’s why he has to do this.
He finished attacking the door, he exerted enough strength that he needed on stupid endeavors. They were supposed to sell this house soon, they could afford much better in their current circumstance. He was procrastinating.
Shadow was under the impression that Sonic had gone off to bed. He vocalized it and turned off all the lights, removed his day clothes, Somehow, even in the dark, Shadow could play the piano. Sheet music was no object to him, he was so in tune with his instrument, melodies flew through his fingers so effortlessly with effortless, learned grace and poise. Some had said he only had to hear a song twice before he could play it perfectly on the piano.
He was busy with down-hearted blues, mumbling the lyrics to himself. He seemed to know the music much better than he had ever known the lyrics, even adding his own distinct interpretation to to how it should be played. The living room hadn’t become his stage, the shadows of the furniture cloaked in the darkness of night hadn’t become his audience like when Sonic credited his lines. He only played for his own amusement.
So Sonic stood and waited. His mind was made up but yet he stood still, leaning against the wall for many greatly exaggerated seconds. A clock’s minute hand might move quicker than Sonic’s own and he hesitated. Death stood over him, looming, but the man was none the wiser. To him, Sonic was just watching him play piano and he was more than happy to put on a performance.
He hit the wrong key. It had a jarring, unwelcome, and uncalled for interruption to the otherwise flawless tune and Shadow simply carried on without a hitch; it didn’t even happen to him.
In one quick motion, Sonic leaped onto Shadow, trapping him between Sonic’s body and the piano. His fingers closed over the other’s throat, using all that was in him to forcibly close Shadow's trachea.
He didn’t seem to protest much, he only flailed about in a confused attempt to stop the sudden pain. His eyes were blown wide, looking as if they were going to pop right out of the sockets. He choked and sputtered, desperately seeking air. Despite how badly he needed oxygen, how deep his gasps, and how his throat began to twitch with his fingers, Sonic's grip never faltered. He was intentional, he was calculated.
Shadow finally started to lose some strength. His arms no longer reached for an exit, they gave up and atrophied, sticking their languid selves to his side. His ruby eyes lost their luster, he no longer gasped for air yet his mouth remained open. He didn’t look sorrowful or as if he was in intense pain, he looked shocked, stricken by his own surprise and yet so old and worn as he slowly started to succumb to death's sullied hands.
He was still alive, Sonic could feel the panicked beating of his heart through his hold over his neck. A thought crossed his mind, it was interesting to ponder, would Shadow forgive him if he let go now? He was sure his throat was irreversibly damaged by this point, he wouldn’t ever be able to speak like he once could and there was no doubt in his mind he’d be covered in nasty, discolored, yellowing bruises from the base of his neck all the way to right below his head. Such a shame, his beautiful singing voice would only be a memory from now on.
Sonic faltered for a moment, losing some vigor in his fingers. That second of incision gave Shadow the opportunity to take a breath. Sonic could feel his throat expanding and contracting under his hands, that was all it took for him to tighten his grip. He had to finally put an end to things.
He could feel Shadow’s life slowly slipping away from him underneath his palms. He grew heavier and heavier, he gave up. Within moments, Shadow went limp. His eyes closed for the last time, his body slipped having all his weight left in the very same two hands that were responsible for his demise. Sonic could no longer feel his heartbeat, his body was still, his mouth was frozen slightly ajar. He was dead, all he had to do was look at him to know he killed him.
There was no time to waste, he quickly removed the floorboards with a screwdriver he preemptively hid behind a painting set beside the piano. But upon looking in, he realized the hole wasn’t nearly big enough.
He moved faster than his mind could, simply refusing to accept what had just happened. He didn’t cry, he didn’t feel relieved, he let the fact of what he had done just simply become fact in his brain. He took out his freshly sharpened cutlery knife that he had also hidden behind the piano as a precaution if things went awry, and started on the base on the limbs.
Cutting flesh is a much more difficult process than it appears. The cutlery knife was only able to make insignificant scratches, he had to get a serrated knife from the kitchen. He sawed into the innocent skin until he finally saw it stained red.
He tore apart each tendon as it broke away from muscle and bone. He wanted the throw up, the process was agonizingly slow making the horror that was taking place by his own hands that much more unbearable. He was able to fit his body into the hole.
For the first time in his life he had done something with prudence. Blaze, the woman pretending to be Shadow’s lover, was off on vacation. Shadow was a natural born introvert, he hadn't bothered to go out much the previous day. And Sonic, all he had to do was hunker down for a couple of days. He’d say Shadow had gone mad missing his girl. He had too much to drink one night and went looking for her. Sonic would claim he had gone on a search as well, but never found him.
His story wasn’t perfect, but he was sure he could improvise for whatever changing circumstances he might need to accommodate to. People trust him here, and no one was looking for him back in New York. The only one who might’ve cared was Rouge, but she’d get the message once he stopped writing back. And what was most important was that no one would be looking around the house before he could sell it.
He took out a pail of dirt he had waiting in the shed to fill it and carefully covered the evidence. He then screwed the boards back into place. He had already removed every article of clothing before disassembling the corpse Shadow’s father’s prayer book had tumbled out of one of the pockets and onto the floor, Sonic tossed it back into the crate.
Clothing wouldn’t dissolve into the earth the way a body did, those who knew him might be able to make conclusions based on the outfit. . He kept it in a crate, and he then stripped himself of his own clothes and added them into the crate. It was this or he cauterized his fingers so he would no longer have fingerprints.
He got out a large wash tub, filled it with water from an outdoor spigot, and scrubbed himself clean. After he was done, he put on his robe he had purchased with his new riches and got to building an impromptu fire pit.
He took pails of sand, another thing he thought to hide in his shed, and dumped it all over the ground. He made a crude circle and dumped the crate in the middle. He covered it in gasoline, struck a match, and watched it burst into flames.
The clothing went up in a great, lively fire. It coughed and cackled, the flames reached up to the heavens. It burned so bright he had a difficult time continuing to look at it, he wanted to look away, his eyes started to water from the sheer intensity of the flames, and yet his eyes remained fixated.
Sonic went to bed. Shadow was at fault for believing in a world where love was a reality.
Was he here because he was in love or because he sought greener pastures? Had Shadow fallen in love with his passion or the person he owed that passion to? Sonic concluded the former, it was easier to see him as a fool rather than someone who truly cared for him.
Shadows' hyper-idealistic perception of romance had been his downfall in the end. Had he been taken home, god woefully accepted pretty Ophelia from the river into the kingdom of heaven. Can we blame a lover who only wishes for a break in his sorrow? A man who wishes to be relieved of his resentment of fate who had scorned him? Can wishing for a better existence for yourself be such a crime?
Maybe it was all so hard to see behind his dreary curtain of grey. He could never notice the issue in the rose tint of his glasses when he had been so accustomed to the world without hue. How could a man as miserable as he recognize a red flag when he didn’t know what red looked like in the first place?
None of that mattered anymore. Sonic shoved and swallowed what he had done to the accursed corners of his mind.
If the sound of a passing police siren so graces his ears, he would forever be condemned to believe they were looking for him. And at night he could no longer rest his head without the claustrophobic swarming of vicious thoughts and images. The world chastised him, this was what he paid in penance, this was how he would repent for his sins.
Sonic was already well aware that attention and power were addictive. There is evidence to prove this fact as far back as history is accounted for. Renaissance men selling their souls to churches to fun their projects, lords exploited their serfs for their own benefit, kings and queens went mad in their attempts to save their kingdom from a coup.
His career waited for him. He had put in so many hours, sacrificed so many potential adventures, experiences, dates in the name of his acting career. And through his Machiavellian approach, He effectively saved himself from ex-communication, possibly even death. The ends always justify the mean. He wasn’t going to sacrifice all his hard work for some dalliance with a stranger.
His mental back and forth never ceased. He was at the mercy of his mind’s pendulum, swinging between guilty and innocent, worth it or not.
He assumed himself a lover of people. Someone so affable and willing to the eye but he had to ask himself just one question. If he was willing to commit an act so heinous, was it ever love at all?
And still, he couldn’t decide.