Chapter Text
Water splashes beneath Blue’s feet as he walks down the street, busy traffic lights and neon wireframes reflected back and forth between stagnant puddles and a humid night sky. The air bites cold against his skin, and Blue squares his shoulders against the wind that rushes past him. It’s not too late, he figures, and perhaps some time to himself would be a good way to end the day. His feet lead him down a well-trodden path, the lights exploding around him in gaudy reds and greens, creating their own separate city mirrored in what the rain left behind.
He can hear the sounds before he reaches his destination; the bass pulses behind his chest, and Blue takes in a breath before rounding the corner. Unfortunate, that his favorite place to drink was part of some nightclub. Highrise. He never did think much of Highrise. He wasn’t one for dancing, or partying in general, but this was the only place where the barman could get his drinks mixed right. At the very least, he never ran into any of his rivals there, and the people who did frequent already knew to leave him alone.
With a heavy sigh, Blue pushes open the door. He grimaces as the music he heard outside suddenly becomes unbearably loud, each beat concussing in time with the flashing lights. They work in synchrony, the edges sharp and caustic, thundering against his eyelids and piercing against his eardrums. He flits his way past the crowds and to the bar, staring daggers at anyone who keeps their eyes on him for a moment too long. Eventually, he makes it to his destination, taking an empty stool and resting his back and elbows against the bar, crossing his legs in front of him as he frowns at the crowd he left behind.
“Blue, what have I told you about flopping yourself over the bar like that?”
Blue turns, meeting eyes with the barman with a grin on his face. “I’ll stop when you get your own place, Artura.”
Artura rolls his eyes, punching Blue’s arm goodnaturedly. “I like it here. Maybe I’ll think about it once you stop participating in your boxing matches. I don’t want you ruining that pretty face of yours.”
“Oh please,” Blue waves him off. “That would mean I’d be losing. I haven’t lost a match in a long time. Besides, you’d be losing income otherwise.”
“Sure, sure. Maybe it’s time to start looking into getting a real job,” Artura says. “If you’re going to be frequenting here might as well have a steady income. Not just waiting for whatever the underground wants next.”
Blue shrugs. “Keeps me on my toes. Going professional would be boring. Too many rules making things stuffy. Might as well become an accountant or something.”
Artura replies by knocking Blue’s elbow from beneath him, making him lose his balance. He swivels around, meeting Artura with a suffering look.
“There’s no need to be rude about it, Artura,” he grouses, leaning forward on folded arms. “You’re making me think twice about coming. You know you’ll be bored without me here.”
“Ah, unfortunate. I had a new drink for you, too.”
“Oh?” Blue leans forward, the bass in the background fading as he focuses in on Artura. “It better not be another fruity drink. That shrub of yours was absolutely awful.”
“My other patrons would say otherwise,” Artura sniffs, “But don’t worry. This one should appease your taste.”
Blue hums. “Sure hope so. It’s been a long day.” He watches subdued as Artura mixes his drink, frowning at the constant pounding in his ears and the lights strobing behind him. Though, they do drown out his thoughts and perhaps he should be thankful for that. He’s been thinking far too much recently, thoughts tied around vivid images and dreams that make no sense but instill such a deep feeling of loneliness in him that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. He doesn’t have many friends—Artura and a few people he talks to on the regular in the circuit come to mind—and he doesn’t feel like he can bring it up with them. He writes down how he feels sometimes, either in the banged-up notebook by his nightstand or hastily in his phone, but it never feels quite right, venting only to himself. There’s an emptiness there, like there should be some person beside him that can understand how he feels and not make him feel stupid when he talks about what he sees.
The thrill of his fights distract him from his feelings, drowning them out for the few days he spends losing himself in preparation, clearing completely as he focuses in on his opponent, but they all end far too quickly and suddenly he is spiraling out of control with nothing to moor himself to. That loneliness hits and grasps him tight, whispering that there should be someone out there, someone that fills in the cracks of what he’s missing.
The beats thunder in fours and the lights flash red, and Blue supposes he’s the misstep of the performance, the dissonant note that battles with agitation against the rest. He’s different enough that he can’t quite blend in like everyone else can, not with the way his steps show only grace in a fight, a type of stance atypical to the rest. It’s the only one that feels right, even if it goes against all convention. In dreams he flows through stances and wards, a sword in hand rather than just his fists, each movement feeling far more natural than the fights he lives on day by day. He’s good at pretending that the life he lives when he’s awake is what he looks forward to, but deep down he knows that’s a lie. The times he drifts and sees blurry images of companions beside him, sharing his face and a bond he can’t seem to replicate in real life—those invigorate him far more than they should. It’s something he doesn’t like to admit to himself. After all, they’re just dreams, right? Nothing there is real. Here exists. There does not.
Blue jumps as Artura sets a glass in front of him, startled out of his thoughts. He winces as bass stabs sharp corners into his ears, tossing and scrambling in his head.
Artura quirks an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t ask after him. He knows better than to prod Blue when he gets into one of his moods. “Give it a try. Should be right up your alley.”
Blue takes the glass, studying it. All he can smell is champagne, but as he takes a swig more flavors come into light. The crispness of the champagne bleeds into a tart lemon and ends in an oaky finish, lifted by the cucumber garnish that shouldn’t work with all these flavors, but does. Before he knows it, he’s drained the entire glass.
“Good?” Artura says, grinning.
“Yeah. Wow,” Blue says. “What’d you put in this?”
“Just a special mead cocktail of mine,” Artura replies. “Mixed it with some gin and lemon, topped it off with the champagne. Needed some color, I figured, so I gave it the garnish. Gave it a shot earlier this morning and I figured you might like it.”
“If this doesn’t make it into your regular rotations I’m rioting,” Blue says, pushing the glass away from him. “And just to make sure I tasted it right you should make me another one.”
Blue can see the shine in Artura’s eye as he turns away from him. He’s more pleased to himself than he’d admit—Blue can see that much. He’s made it something of a game to try to nail down his very specific tastes, or see how much he can make Blue hate a new drink. But, the ones he does make correctly are the only reasons why he hasn’t left to find somewhere else yet, and he grudgingly admits to himself that he does enjoy the banter they share.
Soon, one drink turns to another turns to another turns to another and now the pounding in his ears have gone from stabbing corners to blunt, rounded edges. The lights blur together, colors mixing through hue after hue, rotating and throwing to centers and edges, glinting off of his glass, smearing across the bar, shimmering along the dust and sweat in the air. Each beat takes Blue’s pulse and rams it through his blood, gripping his heart and making it pound in time with its fast-paced rhythm. He lets himself be swayed by it, closing his eyes and seeing color turn to starbursts behind his eyelids.
People talk next to him, but their voices are carried away, drowned out by the ever-present buzz of the club’s music. He can hear distant laughter, twisted and changed into something else among the notes and other voices, all fuzzy to his ears, nothing distinct. He’s part of the stream of sound, the sound lifting him out of those thoughts that keep him awake at night, the sound reminding him that there is no need to keep thinking, the sound whispering to him that the increasing amount of alcohol is fine because it wipes away those terrible, terrible feelings that he would do much better without. It rips away at him, tearing his feelings from surroundings, thoughts from dreams, purpose from life. He hasn’t ever really had a purpose. He just exists, lost in reality, lost to time, and he’s never been able to bring himself out of that pit he’s stuck residing in. All he seeks are distractions, things loud enough to drown out that ever-present ache, things to fill the void, but the void continues to eat up anything he throws at it. He’s still missing something, something that would make him into a whole person again, be able to exist in harmony with the universe he resides in. He’s lonely, depressed, detached, tired, and...
Blue flashes his eyes open, a growl escaping his throat. No, now is not the time to think. He’s here to forget and pretend he’s living his life much better than he actually is. Keep this up, and you’ll end up flaying yourself open to Artura. You don’t want that, Blue reminds himself. He clenches the glass tighter in his hands, looking down at his reflection in the amber liquid. This is not the place to think about the things that keep him up at night. This is not the place to pick out the darkened circles underneath his eyes, the slump in his shoulders, the defeated look that he locks up in his face...
He bares his teeth back at his reflection and kicks back the glass. The liquid burns hot against his throat, shocking the music out of his system, the lights returning and blinding him. It’s all too much all at once and Blue pitches forward with his now-empty glass in his hands. The air around him grows too hot, freezing him in place. He’s looking down at his clenched fist in his lap, the glass sticking to his fingers where he’s squeezing it tight. Pressure bears down on him, heavy, oppressive. His breaths run quick, his lungs burning from the lack of air. What enters leaves too fast, not enough to sustain him. He can see his arms shaking, but everything is growing increasingly far away. The music is muted, distant. All he can hear is his own heartbeat pumping rapid behind his throat. His fingernails carve crescents into his palm, the tiny pinpricks of pain keeping him tethered to his body. Sweat beads down the back of his neck as he squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to take deep breaths.
Not now, he pleads. Not now. Later. Not now. When I’m alone in bed, sure. Please, not now. Not with so many people around. He forces another deep breath, lets his nails bury themselves deeper into his palm. Sound starts to return with each inhale, the incoming panic leaving with each exhale. Beats resonate with concern behind his throat. Blue takes hold of them and counts in fours along with it under his breath.
One, two, three, four.
He shouldn’t be here alone.
Two, two, three, four.
He’s missing something. Something really important.
Three, two, three, four.
Someone really important.
Four, two, three, four.
His name isn’t Blue, but he made it his. He moved away from all the people that knew his old name, cut off ties with those who didn’t want Blue. It haunts him, why he’s so adamant about being named after a color.
Five, two, three, four.
That’s what they call him, in his dreams. Blue likes the way it leaves their lips, how it drops his shoulders and makes him feel like he belongs.
Six, two, three, four.
No one there scrunches their noses whenever he tells them his name. No one looks at him like he’s crazy, no one jokes that his mom must have named him after the first thing she saw.
Seven, two, three, four.
No, there he is a hero and he is wanted and loved. He has friends that listen, a purpose that fulfills, a life worth living.
Eight, two, three—
Someone collides into his back, making him fling forward and nearly smash his head into the bar. Anger boils in his blood as he turns around, teeth bared and ready to snap. “Hey! Watch where you’re... going...” Blue trails off as he gets a good look at the offender.
Golden hair bounces in front of deep blue eyes, framing a rounded face that looks too eerily similar to be a coincidence. He’s wearing a thin red jacket that bounces around with him as he turns to apologize. “Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry!” he says, his voice a high tenor that reflects Blue’s bass. “I got pushed around, I’m sorry!” He smiles nervously at Blue, anxiety coloring his face.
Blue blinks, opening and closing his mouth trying to find words. “I... uh. I-It’s fine. Really. It’s fine,” he stutters. “Sorry. I got—you startled me. That’s all.” He weakly smiles back as his blood runs cold.
The boy beams back at him and waves as he disappears back into the throng of bodies. Blue stares, following his head as he weaves his way through the people, dumbfounded. That... no. It couldn’t be... could it?
“He’s cute,” Artura says next to him.
Blue jumps, adrenaline rushing though him. “Huh?”
Artura points towards the crowd. “The kid that ran into you. He’s cute, isn’t he? You didn’t snap out at him. Right?” He elbows Blue, waggling an eyebrow. “You should talk to him!”
Blue turns back to the throng of pulsing bodies. He can still pick out golden hair out of the mess of heads. “I know him,” he breathes, dazed.
“Oh? From where?”
Blue sets down his glass, standing on weak knees. The sound fades around him, a singular light following the bob of golden hair. “A dream I had. A lot of dreams I’ve had,” he says. He pushes himself away from the bar, Artura’s protests falling on deaf ears as he starts to weave his way through the crowd, anxiety clutching at his throat. It can’t be. It can’t. I drank too much. I must be seeing things. It’s impossible. It can’t be.
But Artura saw him too. He’s not just a figment of his imagination.
Blue redoubles his efforts, shoving his way around until he breaks out of the crowd, panic setting in when he looks around and doesn’t spot him. He sees the doors starting to swing close, and trips his way outside, cool air shocking his senses. He whips his head down the streets, chest heaving. Where is he. Where is he? I can’t lose him. No. No. Where is he, where is he, where is he?!
Across the street, Blue sees a red jacket turn down a corner. A strangled cry escapes his throat as he runs towards him on unsteady feet, the ground rippling beneath him. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision further. Damn it all, I shouldn’t have drank so much!
He flies around the corner, breaths coming fast, wildly looking around for that speck of red. Cars drive past, bringing with them an airstream that hits his face and threatens to drag him away. It’s starting to sprinkle lightly, each fleck of rain stinging his skin, warping the city into a mess of ripples and colors. There! He skids around another block, nearly tripping over himself.
Neon lights hiss above him as he continues to run, splashing through the colors that have bled into the puddles out into discordant wild notes. He’s focused solely on that red jacket swaying in front of him, the owner pulling up the hood, walking faster, twisting through corners and speeding through alleyways. Blue can feel his body becoming unbalanced, his lungs burning for a break, his legs growing numb with the increasing pain. No, no, no, no, no! Blue grits his teeth, pushing aside the pain. He can feel it later when he’s somewhere else. Not here. Not now.
Blue trips his way around another block and hisses a breath through his teeth. This is one of the more popular areas in town, crowds starting to form as they leave their areas of choice. Blue cranes his neck over the crowd, desperately trying to see that spot of red, that bit of color that could turn his whole life around. He starts to push his way through, unheeding of how rough he’s being with other people’s shoulders, nearly all but shoving them away from him. This is important. Can’t everyone else tell?
His heart soars when he spots that red jacket, only a few yards away. A pathway seems to open itself before him, people parting around him so he can have a straight shot. Blue doesn’t hesitate, breaths puffing as he closes the distance. He reaches out, throwing his hand onto his shoulder. “Red!”
The momentum turns him around, and Blue can feel his entire body freeze as he sees his face. Long purple hair frames a scowl as he sizes up Blue. “Excuse me?” he snaps. “I don’t think I know you.”
Blue pulls his hand away. He can feel the freezing rain run down the back of his neck, making him shiver. “I-I’m sorry. I mistook you for someone else,” he stammers after a moment.
The man frowns as he smells the alcohol on Blue’s breath. “Perhaps you should lay off a couple drinks, yeah?” With that, he twists on his heel and follows the rest of the crowd, leaving Blue with his arm outstretched.
Blue bites the inside of his cheek, wincing when he tastes blood on his tongue, but it gets him to move. He wanders to the side of a building and slumps against it, tears stinging the edges of his eyes, threatening to fall. He shoves his hands into his pockets, turning away from the streetlights and crowds as he takes a shaky breath. It starts to pour heavily, drenching him within seconds. Blue relinquishes his hold on his tears, letting them mix with the rain. It’s all he can do to stop himself from screaming into the sky, to let his anguish join the distant rumbling thunder. His knees buckle beneath him, and he lets himself slide down the wall, uncaring how dirty his clothes are going to get, mixing with the rain and muck.
Some people look at him as they pass by, quickly turning their faces away when his eyes dart over to them. He’s just another wretched drunk, ready to pass out on the side of the street. On any other day, Blue would snap at them. But, on any other day, he wouldn’t have left the club, chasing after a fragment of his past. He wouldn’t have let himself get lost on the city streets, he wouldn’t have let himself show this sort of weakness in public. It was too late now, however.
Blue wraps his arms around himself, shivering. What were you expecting? he thinks bitterly. They don’t exist. You only saw what you wanted to see. They never have existed, and will never exist. And now look at you. Having a breakdown on the side of the street. Fucking pathetic. Get yourself home first at least, dumbass.
For all the poking and prodding he gives himself, he can’t force himself to get up and leave. The knot in his chest is too much, and he’s too far gone to care about how other people see him. He throws his head back, letting out an anguished howl, then another when he regains his breath. He throws his arm over his eyes, blocking out the people giving him stares. Blue grasps his hand on the ground, feeling hurt kick his chest when all that greets him is mud. Soon enough, his howls turn to silent sniffles that shake his entire frame. Neon signs buzz angrily above him, and even the nightlife starts to die down by the time he’s able to pick himself up off the ground.
Blue’s legs are as unsteady as his breaths when he begins his long walk home. He deliberately keeps his focus down at his shoes, stuffing down every jump his heart makes when he sees red out of the corner of his eye. His chance is gone.
His chance never existed in the first place.