Work Text:
The nights in which Ezreal allows himself a sliver of truth are rare. He dips his toes in the hurt and leans in, instead of pulling away. Goes towards it the same way a laboratory animal explores something new in its enclosure. Hesitant, at first, reluctant to get hurt again. He approaches it slowly, teasing the edges in his mind to see how close can he get before the uncomfortable dullness turns sharp. He imagines it as this spherical thing, tucked neatly at the back of his mind and shoved deep within the deepest closet he has, like an old pair of shoes he no longer cares for. Black and small, its blurry edges deform as the ever-changing matter inside it bubbles beneath the surface, pulling reality along with it. In nights like those, Ezreal tiredly shades his layers upon layers of lies and sets them on his chair like the well-worn suit they are. He sits face to face with the mirror at the foot of his bed, braving the tired, lost and sad look that stares back. Hardly ever does he look past his own reflection, but it helps now. It’s like having a conversation, except no one gets to know your deepest secrets, your worst fears, there’s no vulnerability when it’s the mirror you are talking to. People always said ‘talking about it’ helps. Well, this is just him doing it his own way, as he was always keen to do. First, frustration. At the world, for being too big and full of caves and oceans people could fall into and disappear forever, at the Adventurer’s Guild, for rejecting his acceptance letter once again despite how he’s done far more than any of the others getting welcomed in. At himself, for not being good enough, not being big enough, not understanding what piece of the puzzle he is missing, even when he feels its absence like a hole in his chest. Lastly, he dares direct some of this anger at the unblemished picture of his parents, for disappearing and leaving him at age ten, for being explorers first and parents second. He lashed out at the fact that they were human, that his parents lived a whole life before he was there, that they existed before he did. They were people, with dreams and ambitions of their own. The realization leads to hurt. They were human: fierce, led by their desires, and oh so terribly fragile. Ezreal can’t imagine them giving up their dream to uncover the world for a child, even if it’s their own, because he wouldn’t either. But, tentatively, Ezreal thinks that maybe if he was shown that sacrifice by his parents, it would be easier to imagine it for himself. It would be easier to love a hypothetical child enough to abandon the grandeur of dangerous exploration for a bit, had he been loved that way too. Was what he was given called love too? The imaginary sphere on the palm of his hand begins to dig in and hurt, but Ezreal lets it, presses on. Sure that the only way to stop a bleed is to put enough pressure to cut it out. Would it be too much to ask to be loved again? He can not remember when he last was. Maybe when he was held and cradled, sitting on someone’s hip or their lap. His memories of the times his parents were home are his most precious ones, but he finds himself missing more and more details as time goes on. Too much time has come and passed him by, the warmth of his mother’s hugs dissipating bit by bit until he’s cold and shivering. The wonder of his father’s tales has lost its shine when he compares it to the reality of his own travels. Where before it was warm and technicolor, everything now seems gray. Please love him again. Has he not done enough to claim to be their son? Is he lacking something to take up their mantle? Will they come back when he’s good enough, when he’s big enough to make them proud? It’s not fair. Ezreal can’t remember when he last was loved (if he was loved at all!), but he yearns for it like missing limb. The image in the mirror has changed. He no longer looks calm and sad, not with the tears streaming down his face and how red his cheeks and nose have gotten. But his reflection doesn’t speak, doesn’t judge. Ezreal takes a deep breath and puts away the sphere back in the vault he took it out of, locks it and throws the key as far as he can, calling it coping. He’ll go looking for it next time he feels like picking at the scab again, hoping once again that this time, this time it’ll heal right.