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He’s making a move towards the gaping hole in the floor that crawls up the wall from where his legendary crashed through before your battle.
The space after the edge is dark, the sound of the rain deafens his footsteps, and half of you thinks ‘he’s leaving’ and the other half thinks ‘he’s going to jump’. Both options seem devastating to you, the idea of him going is terrible and it makes you shake.
He turns, looking as hollow as you feel and says something like a farewell. He chokes on his words and edges closer closer closer to the edge of the abyss, teetering on the ledge of the false kingdom he was leading less than an hour ago.
A vicious, primal part of your brain forces your body foreword, arm outstretched. The notion of him gone made you nauseous. The idea of this man, boy, child, who has caused so many problems, wreaked so much havoc, who holds so much pain for a lithe human body leaving to be alone, makes you sick, makes you want to cry.
The motion causes the lord of nothing to pause, eyeing you with a blank face, and for whatever reason you know he’s trying not to cry as well.
“Come home with me.”
The sudden and clipped demand makes the green-haired teen pause.
You try again, desperation leaking into your voice like gas fumes, choking and heavy.
“N, come home with me. Please.”
Exhaustion weighs you down, dragging you lower to the floor like a dying balloon. You’re kneeling on the battered carpet now, all the cuts on your knees from your travels sting, your arm is still reaching towards your rival, and you think vaguely this pose would make for a great painting.
The man doesn’t move, but his eyes betray his desires. He remains steadfast on the edge of the stone. Were he to go into the dark night, you know you’ll never see him again (the thought makes you want to scream).
A sob that you had been swallowing down finally breaks past your teeth, your eyes are hot and itchy with the tears you’re trying to restrain, and the vision of the boy you so desperately want to save is blurring.
“Come home with me, please, N!” The request feels more like an anguished beg. “Please come with me!”
You want to explain that you want to help him. Explains slowly that the world will be better tomorrow and that you wished to show him that. To tell him how wrong his father is and to personally see that he learns the truth.
But all you can utter is. “Come with me, N.”
The lord, the son of the tyrant, looks down at you the red rimmed eyes and breaths in a shuddering breath.
—-
—
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You can’t imagine what you look like to your mother when she opens your home’s front door.
It’s been weeks since you’ve seen her last. You’re bruised to hell and back, and the bill of your cap shadows your face from the flood lights above the door frame. Your clothes are filthy, your bag barely carrying your items, mud caked up to your knees, and you are fiercely gripping the hand of a green haired stranger, who’s expression looks as empty as a doll, a contrast to your wild eyes and nervously pressed mouth.
“Mom, this is N. Can he stay?”
She only looks shocked for a half second before smiling warmly and ushering the two of you into the small house.