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"Shadow? Shadow, are you okay?"
He opens his eyes. Maria looks fuzzy at the edges, worry tinting her features.
"Oh, you're awake! Thank goodness," she continues, almost conversational. Shadow doesn't see her mouth move. He blinks and she's sitting on his bed. Wait, no, this is her bed. Isn't it?
"He shouldn't have done that. I should've-" Maria bites her lip. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Wait, he remembers this day. He remembers the fire in his stomach and throat. A test. Poison. Shadow knows that in a few hours, he will be throwing up bile until it turns to blood. He can already taste it, cloying against his teeth.
But that hasn't happened yet, so Shadow can't know that yet, and therefore he doesn't. He still remembers, of course, but it does not matter. It can't matter.
"I'm tired," Shadow tells her. His mouth isn't moving right, tar dripping from his lips.
His hands hurt, ache spreading up from his fingers into his shoulders. Is he dying? He must be.
He's not breathing, after all.
Maria frowns, traces his face with gentle fingers. "It's not normal to sleep this much," she murmurs, to herself, rather than him. It's not the right script. Why won't she meet his eyes? He's right here. "I wish grandpa would listen, I can't-"
The image freezes. Maria's face is contorted in concern, in fear; a warped facsimile of a dead girl, but Shadow can't ask her what's wrong. He can't move. Shadow's gaze catches on a photo across the room. The one of him and Sonic at the beach-
Wait.
Shadow blinks awake to an empty room.
The glow of the city lights against his ceiling feels intentionally mocking, glow-in-the-dark star stickers a shoddy imitation of Maria's wall-length window.
Wind and pounding rain roar against the walls, threatening to shake the apartment to its core.
Shadow's yet to grow used to this whole… 'weather' concept, but at least it's something, anything, compared to the void of space or the haunting silence of dreams.
He breathes. In, out. Steady and still, the way Omega taught him to.
It works. For a moment, anyway. Until Shadow realizes he's still shaking and his claws are digging into his palm, and there's blood prickling up in dots across his flesh.
Fuck it. May as well go all the way.
His claws are sharp- particularly for a hedgehog- but knives are sharper. He keeps his weapons in a box in his dresser for this precise reason, creating a false distance between himself and the urge to bleed.
But the distance is just that: false. All it truly does is prevent Shadow from claiming this was instinct. Clouded perception or no, he's still in control. Standing up was a choice. Sinking a blade into his wrist was a choice. Watching the blood trickle through his fur is a choice.
But Shadow's never had a strong moral compass, now has he?
(If he did, he wouldn't see nightmares every time he closes his eyes.)
It takes a few cuts, each one successively deeper as muscle memory rears its ugly head, but soon everything goes still. Goes quiet. The city is still alive, of course, car engines revving far below, and someone is clanking dishes together in the kitchen, but for the first time in months, his mind is blessedly silent.
Shadow breathes in again, about as steady as a collapsing bridge.
The flow of oxygen reaches his lungs, this time.
He's too slow to quench the blood-flow (a lot, too much, not enough, it's fine you'll heal you fucking idiot), and a bit drips across his fingers and onto the carpet before he thinks to grab an old black t-shirt and apply pressure.
Shadow's head is still quiet, but he does manage to have the single thought of, oh, and you were doing so well before this, followed closely by, Rouge is going to kill me.
Well. Not kill so much as worry. But she won't do either if he doesn't tell her.
Shadow dons a hoodie (dark fabric to disguise bloodstains, embroidered flowers across the back) and limps into the kitchen. He should've tried to find his skates, or his cane, but clearly today's not a day where he can be bothered with self-care.
Rouge is the one he heard earlier- busy boiling water on the stove. Omega must still be powered down for the night.
It suddenly strikes Shadow that he has no idea what time it is. It's at least midnight, probably later. The lightning storm knocked out their power earlier; all their clocks are no longer reliable.
"Hi," he says from the doorway.
Rouge shrieks, jumping almost a foot in the air. She spins to face him, wings fluttering uncertainly against her back as she contemplates fight or literal flight.
Shadow smirks, shoots her a tiny wave. It earns him a middle finger and a sharp downturn of her wings.
"Dick," Rouge huffs, turning back to her tea-making process. Water is boiling on the stove. "I could've dropped my mug."
"You didn't, though," Shadow replies. He enters the kitchen and hops up to sit on the counter opposite hers. Unlike him, Rouge doesn't perpetually exist in hoodies- preferring tank tops or no shirt at all- but she's wearing one now, a few shades lighter blue than his own.
Their apartment's heating has never worked particularly well, certainly not enough to combat colder nights like these. Bundling up is something of a necessity.
Rouge yawns. Shadow wonders how long she's been awake.
She dumps the water into her mug (it's taller than most, more of a ceramic thermos) and waltzes over to join him atop the table. The tea is loose-leaf, scented with flowers.
Rouge takes a sip, then holds out the cup. "Want some?"
Not really. He's not a tea person. But it's radiating warmth, and sharing food is a luxury he's yet to grow sick of.
"It's tasteless," is what Shadow tells her.
"Well, duh, it hasn't fully steeped yet."
Shadow wordlessly hands the mug back. Cautiously, he leans against Rouge's shoulder. She doesn't tell him to fuck off.
His mouth still tastes of ash and gunshots echo in his ears; the sensation of a trigger being pulled replays endlessly across his fingertips.
"You eat anything lately?" Rouge asks, out of the blue.
Shadow shakes his head. The mere thought of chewing makes him want to gag. Just the idea of food weighing heavy in his stomach, of acid and the salty tang of blood, just eat it, it's just a test, what's wrong with you, it's just a test-
"-ey, hey, hold on there, kiddo," Rouge snaps her fingers in front of his face. When did she move her hand? "I'm never gonna make you do anything you don't want to."
He swallows. It tastes like metal. "Okay. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"Sorry."
Rouge snorts. Shadow cracks a tiny smile.
It's a nice moment. There's fresh wounds on his wrists and a pit in his stomach, but he has Rouge, and that counts for quite a lot more than any mental anguish.
He's not sure what it is, then, that makes him start crying.
Possibly the endorphin rush from cutting. It's happened before; this is considerably less weird than the time he broke down in Sonic's arms halfway through a sparring session.
"Oh chaos, oh shit, um," Rouge is saying, or something like that. Shadow's not totally listening. He scrubs at the tears without much heart. The fingers of his left hand are still sticky with blood; he's lucky his fur is dark enough to hide it.
"Fuck," Shadow mutters, more to himself than her. "I'm not trying to- god. Sorry."
"You're fine, dear," Rouge says. Her hand hovers anxiously by his shoulder, afraid to touch him.
"I don't know why I'm-" Shadow cuts himself off with a hiccup, clutching at his arms to keep from shaking. He should be fine, no one's tried to kill him or his family in literal months-
Rouge finally sets her hand on his arm, light enough that Shadow could shove her away if he wanted to. When he doesn't, she relaxes, letting her touch weigh into a grounding pressure.
She clearly doesn't know what to say, that usual gift for bullshit deserting her in the face of- well, him.
"Listen," she says, awkward. Shadow rarely hears her sound so uncertain. It's not funny, to the point that it loops back around into being hysterical. "You've… been through a lot. Too much for anyone to cope with at once, let alone a kid."
"'m not a kid anymore," Shadow manages. His voice is monotone and thick with tears, but it gets the point across.
Rouge frowns. Starts rubbing circles into his shoulder. "Everyone younger than me is a kid. Deal with it."
"Dealing."
"Regardless, my point is- it's okay to cry, honey. No matter the reason. I don't mind."
Huh. Funny. He almost believes her.
Not enough to feel okay about having a breakdown on the kitchen counter, but, enough that he nods and manages to swallow back his next set of tears.
"Thanks," Shadow says, for lack of anything better. "Sorry."
"Stop apologizing," Rouge orders. Her wings twitch restlessly against her sweatshirt. One swoops dangerously close to his back, as if she's fighting the urge to bundle him up into a wing cocoon. He kinda wishes she would. Almost joking, Rouge adds, "if you can't cry your heart out at two am without feeling guilty, when can you?"
Shadow sniffs. He can't meet her gaze, but he finds himself smiling at the tiled floor. "You're such a hypocrite."
"Ah, my bad. I'll try much harder to be an emotional wreck in the future."
"I'm not a wreck," Shadow tries, but it's a lie and they both know it. "I'm just… eccentric."
"Whatever you say, doll." She nudges him. "You wanna go beat me at Mario Kart?"
"You mean you want to beat me at Mario Kart," Shadow answers, but slides off the table anyway. His sleeve catches and he's pretty sure Rouge sees the dried blood, but she doesn't ask, so neither does he.
"Hah. Who knows, keep up the tears and maybe I'll let you win one."
"How generous of you."
"I'm an extremely generous person, Shadow, and I'm offended that you ever thought I wasn't." Rouge hops off the counter, throwing her arm around his shoulders to drag him into the living room. She doesn't remove it until they're settled on the couch, squished together at the hip.
"I'm stealing Toad," Shadow tells her.
"You should've been aborted," Rouge replies.
And if she lets him get first place for the rest of the night, well. Neither of them ever has to admit it.