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Hand balled into a fist, Bad drew his arm back in preparation to throw a punch into the wall... and yet, his mighty frustration fizzled into a hiccup followed by the choking of a sob. With his palm, the one that craved violence moments before, he pressed into the structure he'd built into the surface of his new home, his fingers tracing over any rough spots. The imperfections were made ever so strikingly obvious by he fear held in his gut, the fear that the real thing would never come back to him in the way it's always been. The thought that he’d be left with a mocking blur of memories, statues built in his name. Blazing tears began to run down his now distorted expression, twisted by the desire to have his very closest companion beside him. His tail dropped first, drifting to the ground before his body went slack, the collision with the jarring stone surface beneath him creating a thud, only softened by the cloak draped over his tall form. Now, looking up at the wall he'd filled by recreating his friend's signature expression, his cries grew louder. It hurt to see him so estranged, so incredibly and inexplicably distant and adorning a colour that had never been his own. He gulped the sorrow down, and yet it continued to resurface with the ammunition of long passed memories.
Together, they'd brought up his very own son, grew close in a mansion to only their name, felt the closeness of one another in times of struggle. As frustrating as he'd been to spend time with, as much as his voice went raw from calling his name in some sort of petty childish rage, he couldn't comprehend the thought of someone else ever being as dear to him. Between the wars, the tragedy, the conflict that he could admit he spurred on, he was always the one consistency. And now he was someone else, he loved someone else, he found company in those he never was close to. He found joy in items he never enjoyed prior. And it all stung like a fresh wound.
It felt like death had stolen him away, but instead of being able to grieve this loss he was constantly confronted by the harsh reality that haunted his mind. He weakly pulled himself from the ground, a sudden unexpected presence filling the room. While afraid to spare a glance, hope bubbled in his chest and he gave his body a turn. Perhaps he was back already, not a reason to worry... and yet, there stood the face he dreaded. A bold, striking red... a soft, unfeeling voice. Like that, the hope that bloomed had once more shriveled. How he wanted to pull the form close and feel his heartbeat, or to hear that joyous, ever so recognizable snicker after he’d definitely been messing with someone or poking his nose where it didn’t quite belong. The laugh was gone, the heartbeat was slow, the room was silent. All that remained was the stare, painfully puffy eyes meeting those which showed no empathy. It felt like decades before the gaze was broken, the corrupted being letting his eyes drift to the memorial built in his honour only to utter one heart shattering question.
....
“Who is that?”
And the world disappeared.