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He didn't know exactly when he became okay with Sonic touching his bangles. Somehow, he wasn't aware of the point where it tipped from distaste and revulsion—to neutrality. Sonic had been taken with them from the start. Shadow had seen the way those glittering emerald eyes tracked his wrists like they held hypnotically swaying medallions, so polished and bright he could see their reflection in Sonic's gaze if he were close enough.
At first, the scrutiny made him scrunch his muzzle in discomfort. Being watched was one thing—he was an Olympic figure skater, for crying out loud, so it was only expected that his every move and countenance would be picked apart by judging eyes, some more qualified than others. It simply came with the territory, but Sonic's gaze wasn't exactly judging.
More like wolfish. Feral. Like he wanted to devour Shadow whole—or that his entire body begged and screamed for Shadow to devour him.
And those bangles…
Drew his eyes without fail, Shadow all but feeling the way Sonic lasciviously drank in his hands beneath his gloves, traced the lines of his red fur up his arms and legs and roved tantalizingly over his backside, muscular from years of defying gravity on the ice, his dangerously sharp upturned quills. Shadow could feel it like a caress, like he could see how bad Sonic wanted his hands everywhere his eyes were strictly allowed access, and when he looked back he could read all the thoughts that were dancing on his wistful expression, hear the words calling for him from the tip of his tongue.
Oh Chaos, he could hear it.
Like a soft static ringing between the ears, like the atmospheric shift of a presence behind him—
Lighting him up, somehow. Smothering his lungs with black smoke.
So when the other Mobian's hands encircled his wrist in his innate daily excitement, catching on his regalia—
It wasn't like when Infintite had touched his bangle, hooking a finger beneath it and yanking harshly to get Shadow to look at him—
Shadow had felt a flash of fury so deep, so intense, that it engulfed all that he was. Red overcame his vision, and for a moment there was nothing.
Between one second and the next, he somehow found himself standing over the jackal who pressed his hand to his burning yellow eye. Shadow could almost hear the way he'd snarled, the short, aggressive sound curling in the air while he came back to himself—
But this was nothing like that.
In less than a split second, Shadow was so very far away, miles into his own head while the hedgehog yapped prettily to him, deep in his memories and twinging with pain.
He saw Maria again, perched daintily on her at-home hospital bed, wild brown curls brushed out and placed just as she liked, keen on her hair remaining presentable even as she weakened further day by day. He could see the soft blues of her, the rich material of her clothes, the three-quarter sleeves stopping just short enough to show off almost the full length of her painfully skinny wrists. He remembered how bony she was, how much weight she was steadily dropping—
Her condition getting worse all over again.
A woven pastel blanket had been thrown over her lap, a richly engraved cherrywood box settled over it. It was large, and seemed like in her state she would need to heave it up just to get it there. Even now, the deep coloring of the wood and the vibrant hues of her clothes made her brown skin look remarkably pale. The only thing that hadn't lost its luster, its spirit, were the black eyes that glittered with excitement as she shuffled in her seat on the edge of her bed, rubbing her socked feet together.
Shadow barely remembered that he'd pulled a chair to the edge of her bed, peeling the yin and yang carpet up beneath its leg—he only remembered being close to her, the feeling of her proximity.
It was like it was happening again, so potent and raw and alive he could reach out and touch her, run a hand through her meticulous curls.
He didn't.
Instead, he shifted attentively in his seat at her small giggle.
“Maria,” he'd said.
“I got you something good, Shadow, because I am the Master Gift Giver.” She said with conviction, swaying softly to the music trilling from her record player and drumming her fingers against the box. “I asked Grandpa to be here to watch me give them to you, a witness, you could say—but once I told him what it was—” Her eyes grew glassy and faraway before she caught herself, returning them to his gaze and snapping herself back in the present. Her expression smoothed over in a serene smile. “Here.” She said beatifically, and opened the box.
The lid swung open on its hinges, revealing the fine grain of the wood inside and the black velvet that lined the plush of the box floor, the engraving of her own script into the underside of the lid that read ‘From Maria Garcia Robotnik’—but it was what was inside that made his breath catch. Her excited laugh boomed, a semblance of the raucous laughter she once produced in spades.
Inside were four bangles, perfectly shined and gleaming away beneath the spring light that filtered in through her lace-curtained windows. They were all plain except for a line of engraving that ran through their faces, and absently, he ran a gloved finger over them. They seemed…so precious. When he slid his finger under and lifted one slightly—
It was so heavy.
Weighted to the extreme, packed tight with what was obviously real gold.
“This…” His mind raced at seeing the unwarranted gift, his thoughts rushing to fill in the reason why she would need to do this. “This is too much, Maria.”
“Shadow, listen to me.” She said, the pitch of her voice dropping in her seriousness. Shadow's eyes snapped up to hers. “I don't have much time at all. We all know that.”
“Maria—”
“I don't have any use for my Olympic Gold anymore. It would have been useless to keep them when they would have just been shoved into storage.” She said bitterly, looking at the place on her wall where all her Olympic gold medals had hung proudly—she had stripped them a long time ago, tearing them down in her grief that she would never skate competitively again. Her hand stroked the side of the box, an instrument of Shadow's stomach simultaneously dropping and lurching to his throat. “So I had these made. I know you'll make it to the world's stage, Shadow, I just…don't think I'll be able to see it.”
His throat felt tight.
“But…this way,” She said, holding up the box with a grunt and brightening considerably. “I'll be with you when you get your own gold. Sweet, sweet Olympic Gold.” She seemed like she was relishing in the memories of all her won tournaments, representing her country while her best friend and grandfather watched in support. “With these, it will literally be impossible for you to fail! Not that you know the meaning of the word.” She said, reaching forward to boop Shadow on the nose.
Shadow felt numb, like the world had been dropping away beneath his feet. That time, the prospect of losing Maria forever seemed so close, like Death was grazing its cold hands over her sweet, tired face. He'd had no idea what it would truly mean to lose her, but so caught up in the whirlwind of emotions her gift brought—he'd thought he did.
In reality, he'd had no idea.
Maria picked one up, spearing her spread fingers through the loop while motioning for his hand. He obeyed, silent and stoic except for the way his face was pinched as if in pain.
“I believe in you, Shadow. With all my heart.” She'd breathed, and Shadow felt his eyes pricking with the rising of tears. “You've got what it takes to go for the Gold. You're already an Olympian.”
She'd unhooked the bangle so that it unclasped like a claw from hinges he hadn't even seen beneath the smooth mirage of its continuous face, clasping it back on his wrist over the thick material of his glove. Reverently, she slid her thumb over the smooth gold. Her eyes said it all, twinkling with happiness—and a twinge of something else, something sobering.
Beautiful.
On his limbs they were just as heavy, ringing like a responsibility sealed. With her Olympic Gold in circlets around his wrists and ankles, he had promised her. By Chaos, Maria, I will bring home gold for you.
For her memory.
It was the last thing she'd ever asked of him.
And he'd done everything in his power to lessen the gap between himself and that objective reality. Hitting the ice fast, training hard, breaking and snapping and pushing himself past his limits—
But then a voice snagged his attention—soft, playful, curious, growing closer and closer as if he were resurfacing from underwater.
“Shads,” it called. “Shadow?”
“What.” He ground out, his unimpressed flat look masking how he was grappling with reality, shaking those painfully bittersweet memories from his head, brushing away those feelings from his tightening chest.
A hand came and brushed his cheek for less than a second, a thumb brushing the underside of his eye—Shadow noticing belatedly that his eyes were wet with unshed tears.
“Are you alright?” Sonic asked, his glimmering eyes tinged with concern beneath that affable mask coming back into focus.
“Yes,” Shadow huffed, wrangling himself back to presentability. “I'm alright.”
For once there was no bite, no swipe of feigned aggression that would have Sonic ducking and doubling back with his own spears of flirtation. Maybe that's why Sonic looked deeper—and had Shadow slipping to his feet from the bench he'd sat on, sliding the strap of his Bauer bag over his shoulder and moving swiftly away on sore legs.
“Wh—Shadow,” Sonic said with a hint of concern, hand slipping around his wrist again, the press of his palm catching the gold circlet that sat as a heavy reminder of a promise sealed. “Hey, what's the matter? You looked like you were having fun on the ice and now…” he trailed off, leaving his statement open ended for an explanation.
For once, there was no rise of heat, of hot anger that flashed with a vengeance. His vision wasn't overcome with red like blood seas, nor did he black out. In fact, the errant thought of standing over Sonic the way he had stood over Infinite when he had touched what wasn't his…
…It made distaste curl in his mouth—a similar distaste that accompanied other people's prying hands on his regalia, usually.
So instead, he shocked himself a bit—
Shaking Sonic's hand off, he quickly snatched at the hedgehog's fingers, giving them a reassuring pulse before letting go and returning his own hand to his side before any of the other practicing athletes could so much as glimpse. At the very least, Sonic's eyes shone with recognition.
“Nothing is wrong, Faker.” He said, before tipping his head towards the exit hall of the training arenas, a sign for him to follow. “If we don't hurry, we won't beat the lunch rush.”
Sonic's usual grin resumed it's perch on his handsome face as he jogged to catch up—the face Shadow would see thoroughly disheveled and covered in viscous fluid later that day, if he had any say in the matter. But for now—food court.