Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spyro's hands curl against the bedsheets, and he blinks his eyes open, trying to escape the plunges of sleep. His haze is cut with the smell of freshly cooked toast and egg, and he forces himself to look up to see the source.

Cast by sunlight, Leonidas stands, holding a plate with the source of the homely scent.

“Afternoon.” Leonidas says, pressing the plate into Spyro’s hands, who blinks in confusion. The warmth of the plate almost burns his hands, but he grips it tightly, as though it were a lifeline.

“..Good afternoon.” Spyro says, watching as Leonidas moves to sit on the end of the bed. “What is this? I mean, why?”

Leonidas pauses, and Spyro thinks he sees a flicker of pity, if only for a moment. It solidifies the cold in his chest, and he only wants to shove his head back into a pillow, back into the depths of sleep.

“Ya overslept, missed breakfast, lunch too. I figured there was no harm in bringin' ya the leftovers.” Leonidas says, almost terrifyingly gentle. Spyro braces for something scolding – something far more fitting for everything he's done. It never comes, but Leonidas's kindness hurts him all the same.

The kindness of the tone is almost sickening. For a moment, Spyro almost wants to yell a series of curses at the other man, break the plate, and make it all stop. Then he remembers what position he's in, the kind of person he wants to be, and swallows the feeling down.

“Oh, well, thanks.” Spyro says, forcefully soft. He can't tell whether it's a good or a bad thing, and so he shovels a piece of toast in his mouth before he can even think to figure it out.

Leonidas nods, and the bed creaks as he shifts, face turning away, looking at nothing more than a blank wall. Spyro only takes another bite of toast, ignoring how it's almost sickening.

“Stan wants to talk to ya, I think.” Leonidas murmurs under the bottom of his breath, and Spyro expects – wants – the words to be louder. He's almost desperate for Leonidas's usually jolly and booming voice to fill the emptiness of the room. “He's got plans for ya.”

“I'm sure great things will come from that.” Spyro bites sarcastically, shoving a spoonful of boiled egg into his painfully dry throat. He looks up, finding Leonidas's stare to be unreadable, and Spyro almost feels bad.

It's been less than two days since he blew up the castle, and yet guilt is only becoming a more regular feeling. It's like he's a robot, and the new update involves emotions he'd much rather not have.

“Oh, c'mon. It's Stan. The guy has a heart of gold.” Leonidas says, as if the words are supposed to be reassuring. “Well, most of the time, at least.”

And Spyro wants to bite back, to say that he's an irredeemable monster and Stan has no business trying to try and be kind to him. And yet the words die at the tip of his tongue, and Spyro finds himself discarding the plate aside.

“When does he want to speak to me, then?” Spyro inquires, as if he isn't a rat stuck in a cage, as if he hadn't stabbed Leonidas in the chest, as if everything's perfectly fine and dandy.

“Today. Whenever you're ready.” Leonidas says, kindly, and Spyro glares back with something as tough as steel. Spyro wonders if he's truly anything better than cruel, if he's actually done anything to deserve the kind tone.

“Ah, okay, I'll do that.” Spyro says, voice calm, but his body jolts upwards, and the motion betrays him. He shoves the plate back into Leonidas's hands, seriously hoping he won't ask him to eat the toast that's left over.

Spyro might puke if he does.

“I'll go get ready, and then I'll go head to his office, wherever the fuck that is.” Spyro muses aloud, standing up, and shoving the crumpled up duvet aside. “You can go do.. whatever the fuck you do in your spare time, I guess.”

Leonidas grins, as if Spyro has told a joke – which wasn't intentional on Spyro's part.

“I'll leave ya to it.” Leonidas says, and Spyro's eyes follow the man like a hawk as he leaves the room, footsteps fading into silence.

Spyro stands aimlessly in the middle of the room, and he wonders the last time when he had nothing to do. The past day or so has been spent drifting in and out of sleep, the day before he–

No. Spyro refuses to think of it. Guilt may just carve its way into its gut and make its home if he does.

The room in itself is rather unfurnished, only a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. For something that came from the castle’s wealth, it's quite frankly underwhelming.

Bright light – almost fluorescent – shines from a large window behind the bed, and Spyro almost misses the dimly lit lamps and dying lanterns that were the only source of light back in Nocturia. Somehow, the darkness was comforting, or perhaps it was just easier on his eyes.

Spyro steps into the adjacent bathroom, empty as the room that hosts it. Compared to somewhere like Nocturia, forcefully cramped, it almost feels hollow. It's almost clinical – white tiles, pale floors, and nothing personal to break the monotonous emptiness of it all. Spyro catches a hint of chemicals up his nose, likely used to scrub the room raw.

It does have a shower, though. Spyro doesn't remember the last time he had one of those. Even as a general, he didn't have the luxury – after all, it was nothing a lake and a bar of soap couldn't fix.

The idea of having fresh running water is almost overjoying, and so Spyro decides he will have a shower, right here, right now. He has nowhere to be. Well, he does, but he's sure the shining president of the golden city can wait.

He reeks of death, anyways. It wouldn't hurt.

He pulls his jumper over his head, something with a striped pattern, that Charlie had lent to him, a size too small, but Spyro was hardly in the position to complain regardless. Perhaps he'll go shopping for more fitting clothes at some point.

Maybe. If he can stand the idea of going out in public, after everything he's done. Not that anyone could possibly know of the atrocities he almost committed – trying to blow up the castle – but Spyro still feels wary.

Spyro strips the rest of his borrowed clothes hastily, keeping his eyes far away from his scars, before stepping into the shower, cold tiles biting at his bare feet. He stares at the array of dials and switches, wondering how the hell one works them.

Tentatively, he turns one, and water cascades from the faucet above. It hits him with something that's dangerously warm, pounding against his shoulders, and soaking his hair. Spyro practically freezes, because it's so.. strange.

The water is warm. Spyro thinks it's fucking ridiculous.

He's not meant for such comforts. A cold shower would do just fine. Yet, he can't quite bring himself to turn the dial to make the water colder. The warmth seeps into his skin, loosening tension he didn't realise was there.

It's so very different from Nocturia. Spyro can't tell if that's a good thing, nowadays.

Spyro lets the water run over himself, till it goes from red from dried blood to a clear running stream. He refuses to think about how filthy he must have been before this. He must've smelt like a rotting corpse, or perhaps even something worse than death.

Minutes pass, the steady rush of water and the clouds of steam blurring time. Eventually, Spyro has to force himself to shy away from the running water, and turn the shower off with the flick of a switch. It's an instant regret, skin instantly running cold, and he almost falls over as he runs to grab a towel.

It's almost like a punishment. A harsh reminder that no matter how long you indulge under the warm run of water, you'll always be met with the biting cold.

Warmth is fleeting, especially for someone like Spyro.

He wraps the towel around himself, and it's almost comforting in its warm embrace. Yet, a voice gnaws at him, telling him he doesn't deserve this. Not in this era, not in this reality – never. Who does Spyro think he is? Wasting the council’s money on his own selfish needs, after he almost killed them all. What right does he have?

Despite how a towel is wrapped tightly around him, Spyro's bones burn with a deathly cold. It demands him to ditch the towel, even when he'd much rather do anything but.

Spyro takes a breath, forcing himself to stay in the moment. The shower in itself was nice, Spyro decides, and it was enough. But the comfort wasn't meant for him. Not now, perhaps not ever.

Sometimes it's better to be cold.

Spyro throws the towel on the rack, grabbing the pile of clothes, wasting no time in shoving them on him. He gives the room one last look, before slamming the door behind him. He can't afford to dwell on it. He has a meeting with Stan, and he needs it to go well.

His eyes catch the trenchcoat, hanging on the door. It's old and torn – after all, it had survived wars, missions, everything. Spyro's fingers tentatively reach out towards it, softly pressing against the fabric. Even so, he can't quite bring it in himself to take it.

It's cold, layered with grime, and reeks of the man he once was.

He still is that man, Spyro reminds himself, yanking the coat of the hanger, wincing as he pulls it around himself. It's filthy, but it's fitting for the vile man who wears it, Spyro thinks. The day Spyro's a good person is the day he'll stop wearing the coat, which will never happen. So he may as well get used to it.

He swiftly leaves his room.

Spyro's boots pound against the newly cleaned floors as he walks against them. The sound reverberates off the walls, straight back into his own eardrums, like a deathly cycle. Cold bites daggers into his skin, and he wonders if the castle is just cold, or if it comes from somewhere within.

As Spyro walks down the halls, shadows dance about, and for a moment, he's almost convinced someone's behind him. He paranoidly looks behind his shoulder to check, but when nobody is in sight, it becomes apparent his eyes are merely playing tricks on him.

He's safe within the castle walls, and yet he can't bring himself to believe it. Trust is one of the things that takes more than a week to learn, it seems, and Spyro wonders when he'll truly ever relax.

It made sense to be paranoid back when he was a general. After all, he had his trust broken once, so it made complete sense to think that if a coworker was late to a mission, or went missing for a moment, they simply followed the same path of betrayal. That was a normal thought, back then, and Spyro can convince himself that he was not being drastic at all.

Here, however, he's surrounded by people, who after everything he did, trust him enough to let him walk free around the castle’s walls. It only makes him feel like the bad guy for not being able to reciprocate the feeling.

Spyro halts, noticing that he's directly in front of Stan's office. He goes to turn the handle on the door, only to find the movement impossible. His hand hovers against the brass, paralyzed. Feelings – guilt, fear, and perhaps something far worse – find their way up his throat, something almost intoxicatingly sickly. It creates a knot in his throat, thick and cloying, and it almost chokes him.

For a moment, he has to remind himself that Stan is different from Tenebris. More merciful, more friendly.

Spyro doesn't really know why he thinks Stan is going to hurt him, but the idea gnaws at him anyways. After everything he's done, he thinks he deserves the pain. Stan's mercy will only come back to bite him when Spyro inevitably fucks up again.

Spyro tries to let the thought go, but once he realises it never will, he grabs the handle.

The door creaks open, and Spyro tentatively steps in, as though he doesn't belong in such a place.

The office looms over Spyro, grandeur almost suffocating. Spyro's sure, a millennium ago, it belonged to the king. Now, however, the scrolls of the old constitution are burnt, and the bookshelves are replaced with more appropriate materials. The cold presence still lingers, though. Spyro doesn't know how Stan tolerates it.

Stan is already sitting at his desk, papers skewed around with little care. As Spyro shuffles himself into the seat opposite, Stan jolts his head upwards, before shoving the papers aside, and leaning forward.

“Hey, Spyro.” Stan says, voice soft, and undeniably kind. Even so, Spyro feels iron chains coil around his chest.

“Hey.” Spyro says simply, throat too tight for anything more. He taps his foot against the oak wood floor anxiously, waiting for Stan to continue.

“Look, I don't know how to say this, but I think we need to talk, yeah?” Stan says, and Spyro almost feels mocked by the awfully kind tone. Something within him wants to bite and snap and rid himself from the cage Stan has so successfully trapped him within.

“Yeah.” Spyro parrots back, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the desk. It's almost like the old days, where he'd much rather keep his eyes on the ground than look Tenebris in the eyes.

“I don't bite, you know.” Stan says reassuringly, and yet Spyro doesn't feel reassured in the slightest. Regardless, he forces himself to look up, if nothing more than out of politeness.

Spyro swallows the lump in his throat, nodding softly. He doesn't trust himself to spit anything but vile. His hand tightens against the arm of the chair, nails digging into the soft cushion. His eyes keep themselves firmly to the ground, and his ears pick up on the soft sound of Stan clearing his throat.

“I am mad, y'know.” Stan starts, after realising Spyro's not going to comment. “I mean, you almost killed me and all my friends, hadn't Leonidas stopped you.”

Spyro lowers his head in shame, biting his lip to keep it from shaking. He doesn't need Stan to remind him what a disgusting creature he is.

“However, I do think people deserve second chances, or uh, perhaps third, in your case.” Stan states, trying hopelessly to meet Spyro's eyes, who's doing a good job of keeping them far, dad away.

Spyro pulls his hands to his lap, hands tightening into fists, nails biting in his palms. How can Stan just.. forgive him? Spyro sure as hell doesn't deserve it! Stan should be doing anything but.

“Spyro?” Stan says, polite in all his cadence. The other man stretches his hands across the table, as though he can reach out to Spyro, who only recoils against his chair, sinking into the plush cushions.

Spyro looks up to meet Stan’s eyes – gentle and caring and something Spyro definitely doesn't deserve – and he feels the last string within him snap.

“Yeah, Stan, I get it. I'm a monster, and you're a saint for not sending me to Brimstone. There's no need to remind me.” Spyro says sharply, mouth tight with a barely strung scowl.

Stan's expression darkens, seemingly stunned by the sudden bluntness of the statement.

“Spyro.” Stan says, and when he does, it's more neutral than Spyro expects. In fact, a small part of him was almost hoping for the harshness that always came with Tenebris. “You have done many terrible things. You have hurt my friends, and you tried to hurt them again.”

Spyro nods silently, because it's nothing short of the truth. In fact, he deserves something far, far worse than a stern talking to.

“But, I don't believe you're a bad person. From everything Leonidas has told me about you, I know that much. You're not a monster, that's for sure.” Stan continues, wringing his hands.

“Forgive me, Stan. I didn't realise redemption came with a free lecture.” Spyro mutters sarcastically, not willing to acknowledge the truth of the words. Stan pauses, grinding his jaw in that agitated way that Spyro only knows all too well.

Stan opens and closes his mouth multiple times, seemingly trying to figure what he's supposed to say to that.

“What do you actually want, Spyro?” Stan asks, and suddenly the silence of the room is too loud, because how the hell is Spyro supposed to answer a question such as that?

“I– uhm– I– well…” Spyro says, throat burning with ash, and there's nothing he can say to cool it. “I'm unsure.”

Stan's brow furrows in confusion, as if he can't understand the feeling. After all, Stan's life has been set in stone from the moment he shot the king, what would he know about not knowing what to do with his life?

“Let me put this another way. Why did you join the Alliance, for starters?” Stan asks, voice far too calm for the weight of the question, seemingly enough to suffocate Spyro.

Spyro doesn't quite know what to say to that. Memories of his time in the Noctem Alliance feel nothing more than a haze. There's no real tangible feeling for Spyro to grab a hold off, except for emptiness, emptiness–

“I was wandering about the Tundra.” Spyro says, very quietly, voice strained. “Leonidas found me. Told me if I didn't join I would get killed for knowing too much. And I mean, I didn't really want to die, haha.” The laugh comes out choked and painfully pathetic, and Spyro cringes at the sound. “I didn't really have anything better to do either. I kind of liked the routines and dangerous missions.”

Spyro is met with silence.

“That was not the answer I was expecting.” Stan muses aloud, fingers curling against his desk. Spyro's face tugs into a tight scowl.

“You seem shocked, president Stan.” Spyro says, name biting like mockery. “I wasn't always out for your blood, y'know.”

Stan blinks a couple of times, as though the fact is shocking. Spyro doesn't blame him. It's been a very long time since he's been the weak, naive Spyro, the guy who was so willing to see the good in everyone.

“I– uhm. Okay.” Stan says, calm in a way that only infuriates Spyro. Surely there must be more than a one word response to say! And yet Stan says nothing.

There's a beat of silence, and it's enough to eat Spyro alive. He drags his hand away from the armrest, which is now tarnished with an array of scratch marks, and brings his hands to his lap, tightening them in an unyielding grip.

“Sorry for asking so many questions, Spyro, I'm just trying to get a clearer picture of..” He gestures his hands to Spyro's frame. “This.”

“Go ahead then.” Spyro says, perhaps a little too sharply. “I have nowhere better to be.”

Stan cuts off Spyro's train of thought with one single question.

“Do you want to be a better person?”

The question burns Spyro's chest and solidifies into ice. His eyes are hot with emotions, and Spyro briefly wonders if Stan is the cruelest man on earth. Because Spyro truthfully doesn't know the answer to that question. His head hurts trying to think of an answer. The walls press against him, and he's sure his ribs are breaking against his chest, suffocating him.

Be better? Better than what? A vile monster? That's all Spyro's ever known how to be.

He doesn't want to hurt people anymore. There's a selfish part of him that wants friends, that wants to be cared about. There’s a terrible creature within him that just wants to make meaningful connections. Maybe that answers the question.

“Yeah.” Spyro chokes out, after a beat of uncomfortable silence. “I do. I really do.”

Spyro glances upward, and somehow, Stan is smiling. Perhaps it's just out of pity. Because Spyro's never going to be a better person, no matter how much he tries.

“Well, if that's the case, I think I probably owe you some… information about Lord Tenebris. Something I found out a while back.” Stan says, and the amount of caution in his voice is almost alarming. “I get it if you find it shocking, or don't believe me – but I'm telling the truth.”

Spyro doesn’t think there's anything more to Tenebris that Spyro doesn't already know. But he's supposed to be becoming a better person, and he presumes that comes with developing listening skills, so he decides to take Stan's word for it.

“Lord Tenebris was actually King Kev all along.” Stan says, like it's obvious. Spyro tries helplessly to process the words.

“What?” Spyro breathes, and if Stan hears his voice crack, then Spyro will blame it on the wind. Even though the window is firmly shut.

“I mean, it's a long story. He changed the game mode,
and when he died, he came back to life, and pretended to be herobrine in order to scare people into following him, or at least, that's what I think he was trying to do.”

Oh. Oh.

Suddenly, his chest feels tight, and his brain is screaming ‘Liar, liar, liar’, and yet there's no reason for Stan to lie. And Spyro's logic is flawed, and he feels so terribly ill that he has to withhold the urge to vomit.

Spyro tries to stand, but his legs feel numb. Nothing more than a block of lead. The world is muffling around him, and he's sure there's a voice telling him to breathe, and that he's safe and all the typical bullshit someone says when you're having a breakdown. Spyro is above it all. He's not pathetic.

The room tilts, and Spyro's hands curl around the armrest for support, nails scraping against the soft cushion.

Lord Tenebris is Kev? Lord Tenebris is Kev.

Spyro spent so long fearing the demon, white eyes haunting his nightmares, only that it was no demon at all. Just a tyrannical ruler, back for the last laugh. The idea alone is almost enough to make Spyro want to flip over Stan's precious little desk.

Spyro was a pawn all along, and so he tells himself to move one space forward, but his legs are like jelly. Eventually, he uses the desk to push himself up, and he sees Stan look at him with concern, and his brain is so foggy he can't quite bring himself to care.

“Hey, don't leave yet.” Stan says urgently. “I have some other matters to discuss with you.”

Spyro wants to scream. He wants to rip the room to shreds. He wants Tenebris – Kev – to vanish from his mind.

“Sorry.” Spyro says without really thinking, panting in an attempt to get air into his lungs. He might pass out, fall to the floor, crack his head against the carpet, and stain Stan's floor with his tarnished blood. At least it'd be better than letting Stan see him like this, like some sort of pitiful wreck who can't even keep it together when–

“Do you need a glass of water or something?” Stan asks, very softly, like Spyro's some sort of wounded animal, pathetic and helpless. Spyro shakes his head, lowering himself back into the chair.

“Gee, like a glass of water is going to solve my problems, isn't it, Stan?” Spyro bites sarcastically, taking another sharp inhale of air. Static fills his ears, if only for a brief moment.

“No, I just meant– you know what, nevermind.” Stan says in dismissal, but Spyro's sure if he looked up he would meet Stan's eyes, most surely glossed with concern.

“I'm fine.” Spyro says, breathing more steady. He slumps against the chair, as if the brief ordeal had been tiring.

“You look pale.” Stan states, and when Spyro looks up, he can see the look of pity.

“I always look pale.” Spyro counters, and perhaps that statement only makes him sound more pathetic, and doesn't have the bite he intended it to have.

“I know.” Stan says, perhaps a little harshly. “But right now you look, uh, what's the word? You look like the ‘I’m about to faint’ kind of pale.”

“Ah.” Spyro makes a sound of acknowledgement, but doesn't let himself process the weight of the words. “..Perhaps that glass of water would be useful, heh.”

Spyro barely acknowledges the sound of a screeching chair, and Stan puttering around the room. Through his own blurry vision, he sees a glass being held towards his hands. He gratefully takes it, glass shaking slightly in his grip.

Spyro takes a small sip, and his vision becomes clearer, and his dry throat is instantly soothed. Suddenly, his brain can process actual thoughts, and Spyro finally acknowledges Stan's look of concern.

Spyro's brain screams ‘pity, pity, pity–’

“There's no need to look at me like that, Stan.” Spyro says, and perhaps the words are harsher than he intends, but the effect is desirable. “Your words won't fucking break me! I'm fine.”

“Spyro.” Stan says, voice still neutral, and Spyro wonders how Stan can stop himself from lashing out. Perhaps he's simply more mature than Spyro can ever hope to be.

“I'm fine.” Spyro parrots, like a song on loop. He looks down at his glass of water, hoping it will reflect something other than the mess of a man he sees. “It's just.. a lot.”

Stan nods slowly, and Spyro places the glass back on the desk, not trusting himself not to shatter it.

“I understand how it feels.” Stan mutters aloud, and Spyro blinks a couple of times, trying to process what the other man has said, before his brain finally catches up. Without warning, his expression twists into something of frustration.

“No you fucking don't.” Spyro snaps without really thinking. At this point, he may as well throw all attempts to be cordial out the window. “Don't even try to pretend you know what it's like to be a Noctem, President Stan.”

Spyro has half a mind to grab the glass of water from the desk, and smash it within his own fist. Perhaps the shards of glass and his own blood would be enough to stain the purity that Stan preserves so well.

“I didn't mean it like that, and you know it.” Stan says, eyebrow twitching. “I get you're going through a lot, but don't try to antagonise me, Spyro.”

Spyro recoils into his seat, expecting something more deadly, something to make him regret his own poor choice of words. It never comes, because why would it?

“Damn, alright, sorry.” Spyro mumbles, suddenly feeling far too small for his own liking. The bookshelves loom over him, and it's suffocating.

“See? It's not that hard to be nice.” Stan says with a smile, wavering from trying to maintain a balance of patience and hiding his frustration. “Which is good, because I have a proposition for you.”

Spyro stiffens, dread clawing up his throat. The bleak prison of brimstone is most surely awaiting him. “What kind of proposition?”

“Nothing bad.” Stan clarifies, seemingly noticing Spyro's uncertainty. “Our head chef recently quit, and I was thinking, maybe, you'd like the job.”

Spyro's ears must be failing him, he thinks. Spyro should be rotting in a high security cell, reeking of death, not working in the castle. What– why? Why does Stan think he deserves this?

“Uhhhh..” Spyro starts, the word stuck on his tongue like acid. “What?”

“You'd just have to cook a few meals a day for us all – and sometimes we go out for lunch or dinner anyways.” Stan continues with a smile, as if he isn't shattering Spyro into broken shards. “You’d get paid well, free residence here, and if you need time off, we can make it work.”

Spyro's thoughts tangle like a knot of barbed wire, deadly to the touch. He can't accept this – can he?

“Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?” Spyro suggests, because Stan must either be lying to Spyro or himself to think that Spyro deserves the role.

“It's perfectly fine if you don't want the job–” Stan starts, but Spyro harshly cuts him off.

“No, I do– but– but– you're deluded, Stan! You've completely lost your mind!” Spyro says shakily, and he just wants to take his hair and rip it out. The urge to break something is suddenly replaced with an impulse to self sabotage. Maybe he can break himself before Stan tries to do so himself.

“I think the only deluded person around here is you.” Stan states rather bluntly, and for the perfect president, it's unexpected, too. “If you truly want to be a better person, the best place to learn is here. Besides, I dread imagining you interacting with the general public–”

“You act like I'm a bomb about to go off!” Spyro growls in irritation, and it's a poor choice of words. “I don't need to be babysat!”

“Do you want the job or not?” Stan asks, voice raised, commanding respect. Suddenly, Spyro feels like nothing more than a pathetic pawn – his life in the hands of someone else. He gulps.

Spyro bites his lip, before speaking more placidly. “Yeah, I would.” Stan claps his hands together upon hearing the words, suddenly smiling – like there's anything to smile about, Spyro thinks with a scowl.

“Well, it's settled then. You'll start tomorrow.” Stan says, handing a piece of paper with a nonsensical amount of writing on it, along with a pen. “You just have to sign here.”

For a moment, Spyro stares blankly at the paper. He wonders what he's done to deserve such an opportunity, but perhaps some questions don't need answers.

“Well, this better not be a contract to sell my soul to you, because I'm definitely not reading all of that.” Spyro says, before grabbing the pen and wobbly writing his signature. He totally did not make it up on the spot. Stan gives a small laugh, before taking the paper back from Spyro.

Stan stands up, chair making a soft sound as the wood grates against the carpet. “Well, I better show you around the castle then.”

Spyro nods, and Stan ushers him out of the room.

––

Stan shows Spyro down the halls, pointing out various rooms as they do. Spyro makes a mental note of the ones that matter, such as Leonidas's room, but the others are swiftly forgotten.

“So,” Stan starts, hands held loosely in his pockets, shoes clicking against the hallway floors in an almost soothing manner. “I've already announced that you'll be staying at the castle to the public.”

Spyro blinks a couple of times, only imagining how terribly that could've gone. Spyro knows if the roles were reversed, the people of his old nation would rather have died than accept a traitor into their walls.

“How bad did it go?” Spyro asks. Stan gives him a look.

“Well, most of the citizens are trying to keep an open mind.” Stan says, and Spyro thinks Stan is painting far too kind of a picture. “Some people aren't.. thrilled, though, I think.”

Spyro doesn't really expect anything different. He's just glad no one's turned up to the castle with burning torches and stakes with an intention of using them.

“To be expected.” Spyro grumbles in a low tone. “Did you tell them about, y'know.” He mimics the sound of an explosion, and flicks his wrist sharply to mimic the effect.

Stan's eyes widen as he stares at Spyro. “Definitely not. If I had, someone definitely would have tried to assassinate you by now.”

Spyro chuckles, not willing to acknowledge the harsh truth of the statement. Abruptly, silence befalls the pair, and Spyro can't quite find the words to fill the void.

Eventually, after far too long with no words, Stan comes to a halt in front of a grand door. He grins, and Spyro looks back at him with nothing short of confusion. Within a moment, Stan pulls a key from his pocket, before shoving it into the lock, the metal clinking against the oak wood.

“Well, this is the main kitchen.” Stan says, pushing the door open with a quiet creak.

Spyro doesn't have time to question the fact that the castle has another kitchen, before he steps inside, and finds he can't bring it in himself to take another step, instead marveling in awe.

He instantly feels a gush of warmth as he enters the room, faintly hearing the low hum of unseen stoves. His gaze turns to every corner of the kitchen, gaping as he realises it's an abundance of everything.

The kitchen is most certainly equipped to serve a banquet of hundreds of people. Against the walls are an array of counters, all finished with shining marble, copper pans hanging up against the walls like prizes. There are more furnaces than Spyro can count, all adorned with a brass lining.

A chandelier hangs heavy above, gleaming with a vibrant light, whilst sunlight floods through the arched windows. Spyro feels the faint scent of herbs curl in the air, and it's all too comforting.

“Damn.” Spyro says, unable to stop himself from gushing over the beyond grand architecture.

Stan laughs lightly at Spyro's reaction, the sound echoing against the wooden beams that crisscross the ceiling. “Yeah, it's pretty cool.” He gestures around the room. “We have some other cooks, too, but most of them work part time. We usually just call them in when we have banquets and stuff.”

“Cool.” Spyro says, and the idea that it could all be his tomorrow is enough to make him giddy.

Perhaps Stan has well and truly lost it, giving Spyro something he most surely doesn't deserve. If Stan was in his right mind, Spyro would be well and truly dead.

Stan tosses the key to Spyro, who fumbles with it for a moment before grasping it. “Well, it's all yours now. I trust you not to set it on fire.”

“I would never.” Spyro says, pressing a hand to his heart – mocking innocence. “And if I set a fire, then it's completely intentional.”

“I hope you're joking.” Stan says, whilst Spyro paces around the room, hands tracing the marble counters, eyes latching on all the pots and pans, and cabinets filled with every single ingredient Spyro can fathom.

“Don't fret, I won't try to destroy your perfect little castle again.” Spyro says, returning back to the doorway. “I wouldn't want to destroy this kitchen with it. The only thing I'll be burning is toast, if Leonidas happens to distract me.”

Stan makes a short-lived laugh, and once Spyro's sure he's seen everything of importance, steps out of the room with Stan, and uses his new key to lock the door. The metal feels like a triumph within his fingers.

Stan looks at his watch which is adorned in gold metal, and glistens in the soft light. “I better show you to your new room.”

Spyro has to do a double take.

“New room?” Spyro's voice cracks – louder than he intended it to. The words manage to claw their way out of his throat anyways, each syllable scraping painfully against his tongue.

“Oh, did I not mention it earlier?” Stan asks, blue eyes meeting Spyro's, gaze softening. His voice is so soft, and yet Spyro thinks it's still enough to break him.

“Not at all.” Spyro says, confusion and guilt and every emotion in between clogging his voice. The air in the halls almost feels suffocating, like he's in a fantasy, and nothing he ever believed is true.

“Oh, well whilst you were healing up, Charlie and Leonidas set up one of the main bedrooms for you.”

Spyro blinks once. Then twice. And no, he's not living in some alternate dimension. This is real.

For a second, he thinks that his legs may buckle with the shock of it all. What has Spyro done to deserve to stay in the most luxurious place in all of Elementia? Absolutely nothing.

He had no room in the past. Not when you shift from Nocturia to the Mushroom islands and to any outpost you've been assigned to. He's slept in tents, curled up against dirt walls, or against the solid oak of trees. Any room he did have was bleak and empty, or shared with Drake – which was honestly twice as bad.

Spyro doesn't really know if he's had anywhere to call his own. He wouldn't say the Ironside kingdom was his own, even if he ran the show.

“I– what?” Spyro asks incredulously. He refuses to believe this. He should be sleeping in a trash can, or brimstone, or anything but. “Are you sure you've got the right guy? I'm supposed to be sleeping under a bridge, y'know, like the troll I am.”

Stan laughs, but shakes his head.

“Well, they've set up a room for you anyways. The pair of them were both quite excited at the idea, honestly.” Stan says, shoes clicking against the floor as they walk. “You might not want to tell Charlie I told you that, though. He's still pretending to be mad at you.”

Spyro feels something crawl up his throat, and for a moment he feels like he might vomit or cry or simply get down on his knees and thank Stan until his voice breaks.

The hallways are suffocating with their grandeur, walls lined with gold, and it's all so perfect that Spyro knows he doesn't even deserve a fraction of it all. Perhaps his legs may finally give out.

“Wow.” Spyro chokes out, unable to say anything more. “You guys have got to stop being so kind to your mortal enemies. Really, I don't deserve this.”

“Well, you know what they say: kill them with kindness.” Stan says, grinning. The pair turn down one of the main halls, and Stan stops abruptly beside a dark oak door.

“Well, here it is.” Stan says, smiling softly. He pushes the door open, and Spyro tentatively follows, like a lost dog.

Spyro blinks once, then twice.

The walls are painted a soft cream, and Spyro can see a mix of olive greens, warm browns, and other muted tones, like someone stole autumn and shoved it in his room. Warm, golden light spills from a table lamp, soft shadows cast on the surroundings.

Tucked in the corner, is a bookshelf – Spyro imagines that was Charlie's idea – and beside it, lies an armchair. It's plush, and a knitted throw has been draped across it like an invitation.

Spyro's eyes turn to the bed – it's the main centerpiece, after all. It's made of a thick, muted olive duvet, and an array of cushions are scattered haphazardly across the bed.

And those are only the best parts. There's a rusted oak dresser, an old clock ticking beside it. Spyro can feel the soft fibres of the rug against his boots.

Oh god. Spyro can't breathe, can he?

“Fuck.” Spyro mumbles under his breath, and he feels suffocated by the smell of warm pumpkin pie. He notices Stan cast him an expectant look, like he expects Spyro to say more.

“I hate you.” Spyro barks, like a curse. He thinks his eyes might water if he doesn't. “I hate you all so much.”

Stan blinks in confusion, like he's forgotten the war criminal he's talking to, before his eyes narrow. “You know, there's a more polite way of saying you don't like the room.” He grumbles.

“No, no.” Spyro corrects, and guilt makes its way into his gut, and he thinks he may lose his mind. “I don't hate the room – I love it.”

Stan looks even more confused. Spyro thinks the other man will never understand him.

“I don't see what the problem could possibly be then.” Stan says, frowning. Spyro rolls his eyes, before biting out a response.

“I don't deserve this, and you know it.” Spyro says, voice ragged. “I have done nothing but terrible things to you, and you hate me.” He takes a sharp inhale of air. “How could any of you do all this for me, when you know I'd never do the same?”

Stan sighs, like he's talking to a petulant child, before speaking.

“You're right, you don't deserve it.” Stan says bluntly.

“What?”

“You don't deserve it, not after everything you've done. Quite frankly, I have no clue what Leonidas sees in you.” Stan says, brow furrowing. “But I once believed the same thing about Leonidas himself, and I mean, wouldn't you consider him a good person?”

“One of the best.” Spyro mutters, voice soft – fight gone.

“Then I expect nothing less from you.” Stan says firmly, and Spyro nods.

He still doesn't understand, but maybe he's not supposed to.

Silence falls over the pair, and for once, it's comforting. Eventually, Spyro hears the sound of Stan's shoes shifting against the carpet, backing out of the room.

“I better get going.” Stan says, looking at his watch. Night must have come quicker than Spyro anticipated. “You can settle in– oh yeah, there's also a letter for you on the bed. It came in the post this morning. Whatever that's for.”

Spyro can make a few guesses.

“Good night.” Spyro says, and Stan parrots the words, before leaving the room.

Spyro slams the door behind him, and he doesn't have time to appreciate the beauty of the room, because his eyes are drawn to nothing but the letter.

He picks up the letter from the bed, squinting at it. With a jolt, he realises that he recognises the handwriting.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Spyro doesn't want to touch the letter.

He doesn't need to open it to know it's from Zingster. The rather scruffy marks in the handwriting are unmistakable – just like it appeared on every plan to blow up Element castle. After all, Spyro handed every blueprint, and every other piece of dirty work to Zingster.

He's probably the ruler, now. Spyro wonders if he's gotten another lesser being to do his own dirty work.

Spyro sits on the bed, its weight compressing under him. He grabs the letter, his stare unyielding until the anticipation breaks him.

He skims the words: ‘betrayal’ and ‘coward’ and at least a thousand other synonyms. The words crawl into his skin, as sharp as glass, even when Spyro pretends it doesn't hurt at all. Eventually, Spyro makes it to the bottom of the page, and he almost has to do a double take.

‘If you don't give our Lord's sword back by midday tomorrow, then we'll be forced to take.. drastic measures.’

Spyro blinks once, then twice, and reads the letter twice over. He sets the letter down with a crumple, only then realising that he's holding his breath. Like a coward.

His breath shakes, and he looks down at his trembling, scarred hands. It's a weakness, and it makes Spyro sick to the bone.

Slowly, he shuffles off the bed, approaching the door, and sliding the chain to lock it with a quiet click. Spyro doesn't need prying eyes accidentally seeing this. No one has to know.

He returns back to his bed, and stares at the inventory only he himself can see. For the first time in however long, he notices Tenebris's – Kev's, he tries to correct – sword, tucked away neatly and far from where anyone would ever think to look.

He almost forgot he even had it. Almost. And by almost, Spyro means not at all, because the sword is always there, at the back of his mind, trying to creep its way into his thoughts. It glows unnaturally, veins of enchantments shimmering through the steel. Spyro wonders if it's as real as the demon that lied to him.

Sure, it should be a simple task to give it away. His old city is only a monorail ride and a short walk through the tundra and swamp away. If he left now, he could arrive before dawn.

However, there's a filthy, desperate part of him that refuses to be separated from the sword.

Spyro pulls the sword out of his inventory, gripping it with desperate hands.. Through the shine of various enchantments, Spyro can see his own reflection, distorted with various hues and dents in the blade.

For a moment, he thinks he sees a shadow behind him in the reflection. Something from an old fuzzy memory, and his breath hitches. But when he glances behind him, there's nothing.

It doesn't reassure him.

Spyro's running theory is that if Tenebris – Kev – were to come back, it'd be through the wretched sword.

He doesn't trust Zingster's greedy claws to hold something so dangerous, and Spyro tells him that's the reason he won't give the sword to Zingster, and not any form of paranoia at all.

He could just burn the sword, or break it in half, and reassure his worries – but Spyro's grip doesn't ease. His fingers scratch into the steel like it's a lifeline.

It needs to remain with him, and it's not up for debate. Whether it be for safety, or to grimly remind him of all he's done wrong, Spyro can't tell. Something hums at the back of his mind, and Spyro chooses to ignore it.

Zingster's full of empty threats – Spyro should know, because he made plenty when he was in Zingster's shoes. So he doubts anything bad could come from not following his orders. There's physically nothing Zingster could do to him – within the castle walls, he's entirely safe. He thinks. Maybe. Probably not.

It's still better than giving up the sword.

He considers burning the letter with a candle, but he doesn't trust himself with fire.

So using his sullied hands, he tears the letter in half, and then over and over again. Once it's in unreadable pieces, he throws it in the trash, and he tells himself he won't dwell on it any longer, even if it's nothing more than a desperate, hopeless lie.

He takes a deep breath, and lets it exhale as nothing more than a puff of air. Spyro removes his trenchcoat, putting on some more suitable sleepwear, and flopping onto the bed. The lamp is turned off with a firm flick of the switch, and Spyro is left alone in the darkness.

It takes him a while, at first, to actually fall asleep. He tosses and turns in his bed like a madman, with futile attempts to distract his thoughts from going back to the letter, Tenebris, the sword–

Eventually, his tired eyes can't stand to put up with it any longer, and sleep plunges him deep under.

––

With a few blinks of the eye, he's awake. And he feels awfully fuzzy when he does. Time that should've been hours feels like seconds, and Spyro is almost sure that he hasn't slept at all.

Everything feels.. strange. Unreal. A soft noise rumbles in his ears. It's something familiar, and it's akin to the sound Spyro used to hear whenever Tenebris was in close proximity. White noise, static, whatever you want to call it.

He guesses that's what happens when your life form is built on wires and code and energy. It would only result in weird sounds.

But Tenebris has been dead for months, so Spyro can't quite wrap his brain around what could be causing it.

In a blink of an eye, he's at his dresser, and Spyro feels like he's moving against his will. The fuzzy feeling that comes with leaving sleep hasn't yet left him, and Spyro feels like it's all wrong.

He checks his inventory – Tenebris's sword is gone. Bile rises up his throat, his brain screams Zingster, Zingster, Zingster, but no words come out.

An unseen force yanks him forward, neck locked by invisible hands. He falls face first into the halls, and shadows press against his back, and Spyro blinks, and he thinks liquid is pooling at the corner of his eyes, and he can't tell if it's pain or desperation or confusion.

He looks up, and a figure stands at the end of the hallways. The static distorts, an eerie melody, and Spyro wonders who in the council would be playing music at this time. He presses his hand forwards, and leers towards the wall. He uses the cracks in it to pull himself up, black ink bleeding out of them like a faulty pen.

His foot moves without thought, and Spyro stumbles forward. His head swims, and he thinks water is pooling in his ears.

He approaches the mystery person, and Spyro does a double take. His eyes refuse to focus, but even throughout the blurriness of it all, through the static, he thinks he can make out who it is.

The person whips around, and Spyro recognises the snake-like smile – deranged and twisted and forced. Always putting on the perfect act, and Spyro knows it's no one but Drake.

Drake is alive, somehow, someway. Spyro thinks he's finally here to take him away, whisk him off to a better life, like idealists always dream off.

“Spyro.” The voice says, and it almost sounds pleased. Content. And while feelings swarm Spyro's gut, the other man remains composed.

“Drake?” Is forced through Spyro's tongue, and the bitter flavour almost chokes a gag out of him. “Wh- what are you doing here?”

Drake's face drops, and he tilts his head enough for Spyro to see a scar on his neck. A burn, Spyro knows, because he's seen them over and over to the point where he can identify them like second nature. Spyro doesn't know why, but his brain says lava, and he thinks something is on the tip of the tongue, but he can't quite tell what.

“Why, you don't see me for months, and that's the first thing you can say to me?” Drake says, and even though his eyes look empty, Spyro can see a smile tug at his face. “Oh, Spyro. You always had quite the tongue.”

And Spyro doesn't know what Drake means, because static rings in his ears, and prevents any normal thought. He'd thought he said the right thing, done the right thing. How else are you supposed to greet someone you haven't seen for a lifetime and a half?

“How are you?” Spyro chokes out, and he knows the words aren't his own. His vision blurs and he's convinced he's gone back in time. That he's somewhere different, somewhere better.

“I'm doing alright, dear Spyro.” Drake says, and Spyro doesn't know why, but it almost sounds mocking. He gestures to the scar on his neck, something that surely goes down his spine and spiders along his back. So Spyro is almost glad that Drake's jumper and trousers keep him firmly covered. “We match, now.”

Static grows louder, and Spyro feels like if he was any more aware of his surroundings, he'd vomit.

“I guess we do.” Spyro says, and a bitter laugh gasps its way out of him anyways.

Drake takes a step towards Spyro, who remains firmly in place, because some unspeakable force is keeping him rooted in place, like vines of ash crawling up his legs.

Drake's hands cup Spyro's face, and for a moment, he feels safe, almost untouchable. The feeling rushes through him within a moment, and is then replaced with a stabbing pain in his chest.

No weapon is engraved in him, but he feels blood choke him anyways.

“You're a fool, Spyro.” Drake says, more harshly, and his hands scrub at one of the scars on Spyro's face. “I died for you, and this is how you repay me? With betrayal?”

“I–” Spyro chokes, bile clawing up his throat.

“You're a coward, Spyro.” Drake states, voice soothing in a sickly way, and he kicks Spyro in the chest. Spyro skids across the hallway floor, which suddenly feels like ice, and he barely registers Drake walking away into the shadows.

Spyro presses a hand against his chest, and the dull pain becomes submerged under water. Empty noise drains his ears, and he thinks he's drowning – sinking.

He becomes vaguely aware of how dark it really is, and his eyes struggle to adjust.

Spyro reaches out, hoping to find something – anything – but he's alone, and he's determined he'll be alone for good.

Chains drag him forward, and he's forced to sharply turn through the halls, and suddenly he isn't in the castle at all.

It's an empty room, darkness everywhere, black slime crawling up the walls. Spyro tries to call out, tries to choke out the names of ‘Leonidas’, or ‘Charlie’, and lists everyone he's ever known, because suddenly he'll take anything over this.

He makes the mistake of desperately calling out Lord Tenebris's name. It's barely a whisper, because static drowns his throat and suffocates him, but he manages to strangle out the words regardless.

Suddenly, everything feels far too bright, and he's met with piercing white eyes.

“Spyro.” The demon says coldly, and aside from the white eyes, it's merely a shadow, and even unmoving, the particles from glitching between universes still remain.

“My lord, I–” Spyro tries to say, and the words aren't his own. It's like he's an actor, reading a prepared script, and failing at the role. He makes a useless understudy, not quite able to grasp the motions of how he's supposed to behave.

He glances down at his clenched fists, nails biting into his palms, and he feels nothing.

“‘My Lord?’” Lord Tenebris parrots, and its voice is low, nothing more than a dangerous whisper. It echoes in the chamber, and Spyro tries to stumble backwards, but a force keeps him firmly put.

it's time for Spyro's curtain call, and yet he's somehow not been dragged off the stage just yet. In fact, the demon only gets closer, and Spyro can feel its breath. It's cold and lifeless, and it promises a long and painful death – or something worse.

“You have the audacity to call me your Lord?” The creature asks, and its voice is harsher than before.

Spyro just wants it all to end. He thinks he's dying – or perhaps he's been long dead, and this is his own hell. Grim and cold and Spyro would list more adjectives but his brain feels like nothing more than fog.

“I–” Spyro tries to say, and he can't bring himself to continue. His throat burns, and he's sure his heart is lodged firmly up his throat.

He presses a finger against his wrist, and becomes all the more aware his heart isn't beating, and he's empty, empty, empty–

“You failed, Spyro.” The demon taunts, circling him. And Spyro tries to keep his eyes on it, but it burns. “And you failed again. And even when you were made in charge of my men, you failed.”

“I'm sorry!” Spyro shrieks, and his voice sounds more ragged and broken than he expects. It'd be shocking, but Spyro thinks it only suits his dangerous wreck of a character.

“Don't lie to me, General.” The demon hisses, and it's somehow worse than if he was screaming. “You'd much rather play pretend with some weaklings than accept your responsibilities.”

Spyro wants to object, but he feels hollow, and there's nothing that'll ever make him feel alive again.

“I'm in quite the creative mood.” The demon says, as if it were talking about something as trivial about the weather. It whips out its sword – bright and blue with a mix of hues emitting from it – and it makes Spyro's eyes burn.

“I–I promise,” Spyro starts, through a burning throat, words suffocated by the same empty noise. “I promise I'll be better– I swear–”

The sword is struck against his chest, and suddenly Spyro is only aware of pain, and it burns more than before.

He collapses against the wall, shrivelled and small like a pathetic, filthy creature, and only then does his eyes snap open.

––

The first thing Spyro feels when he wakes is pain.

The second thing he feels is cold metal lodged between his ribs.

Mainly because a sword – Tenebris's sword – is engraved in his chest.

Oh god.

Heaving, Spyro takes a glance at the sword grasped tightly in his hands, the very tip of the sword making its way through his chest.

He thinks blood is pooling all around his torso. It's thick and sweet and Spyro has to choke down the urge to gag. His hands shake as they hold the sword, fingers slick with blood.

‘Shit.’ Spyro thinks. ‘Shit shit shit shit shit.’

Spyro takes the plunge, hands gripping tighter around the hilt of the sword, before pulling the weapon from his chest, feeling the way his lungs struggle for air the moment he does. With a pain stricken motion, he presses a hand against the wound, still not daring to look at his chest. It's a temporary solution until he can find a healing potion.

Something feels different. Something strange. Briefly, his hands tingle with static, like energy is coursing through them. Spyro can't even fathom what that means.

He shakes the feeling away, rummaging through his drawers desperately. Finally, after much search, his hand locks onto a healing potion, and he wastes no time in pulling the cork off with nothing but his teeth.

Spyro pours the potion on the wound, feeling his skin contort to fill the wound. Even so, Spyro can't shake the feeling that something is different. His fingers twitch with a newfound power.

The wound doesn't feel entirely healed like it should. Spyro pushes his hand against the now sealed wound, and he feels a burst of energy.

He's fine. He's fine. He's–

–not great. Fucking terrible, he wants to say. And yet his brain ignores the truth, and tells him that he's not going to think about it.

It's easier to ignore the truth when the low hum of static drains his thoughts.

Spyro knows he can't sleep – certainly not now, not after that. If he goes back, then he's simply opening up his arms to another one of… those dreams.

So Spyro scurries through the halls, and he pretends it doesn't bother him in the slightest. The Noctem alliance made a good opportunity for building up a mask, and Spyro won’t let it drop. His fingers curl against his jumper, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could knock on someone's door, and beg them to save him from this hell. But the idea is instantly scrapped – there's no way Spyro could ever do that, not now.

He'll settle for the kitchen as a distraction – not the one Stan showed him earlier, because it's so large it's almost daunting, but the other, smaller kitchen. The one where a group of people can sit and talk. If he can stomach it, perhaps he'll make himself a warm drink.

He's dripping with sweat, and yet he feels beyond cold.

He paws the kitchen door open, and he doesn't dare turn the light on, because he thinks the sheer brightness would be enough to kill him there and then, or send him into a lifeless coma. Or perhaps it'd simply reopen his already raw wounds.

Spyro opens the fridge door, even when he has no intention of eating anything.

“Spyro?” A voice says, and the voice is as sudden as a gunshot. The apple instantly falls to the floor, and Spyro instantly flinches backwards. He turns his neck, veins burning with whiplash.

He looks up to see Charlie, sitting at a small table tucked neatly at the side of the kitchen, glass of water in his hand, and the glare of stars shining through the window beside him.

“Charlie?” Spyro croaks, and almost cringes at how unnatural his voice sounds. “I– uh. Hey.”

Spyro struggles with the correct wording, and there's so much he'd want to say, but his jaw remains locked. Slowly, he walks over to the table, sitting opposite Charlie, and trying hard to keep himself from shattering.

Charlie takes a drink from the glass of water, before clearing his throat. Words hang on the tip of his tongue, Spyro can tell, and yet nothing more than a subdued exhale of air comes out.

Awkward tension. It's been hanging heavy for days, since Spyro's little incident, and Spyro just wants to fix it, somehow.

“You look terrible.” Charlie's tone is flat. Spyro swallows hard, thinking it's fair enough. “Bad night?”

“I guess you could say that.” Spyro says hoarsely, and he almost craves the glass of water that's held firmly in Charlie's grip. The idea of standing up to get it feels a lot less appealing, though. Spyro thinks his legs may snap in two if he does.

Charlie looks down, breath hitching before returning to its usual rhythm.

“..Me too.” Charlie murmurs, like he almost doesn't want Spyro to hear. His hands tighten around the glass, and Spyro practically jolts at the way the table creaks as he does.

Nothing feels like too much, somehow, and Spyro's sure something's wrong with him. His bones itch.

“What happened?” Spyro asks, and then realises he's in no fit position to ask. “Only if you want to talk about it, I mean.”

Charlie looks at him, somewhere between harsh and soft, like both daggers and a warm blanket. It makes Spyro's heart ache.

“Bad dream.” Charlie admits, and Spyro's face crumbles with empathy – something he hasn't felt in a long time. Scum like himself should be the ones dealing with shitty dreams, not good people like Charlie.

Perhaps, if Spyro proves himself empathetic to Charlie's situation, it may just make up for everything he's ever done. Too bad he’s not good at helping people.

“..That sucks.” It's a mediocre response, but Spyro's words are failing him. Instead, Spyro casts an expectant look, like Charlie might elaborate if he just stares enough.

Silence begins to stretch, pulling into something heavy and brittle – ready to snap. He keeps his eyes firmly on the table – eyeing up Charlie's glass of water – before opening his mouth to speak.

“I had a shitty dream too.” Spyro mumbles under his breath, shame cooking in his gut. Is he really that pathetic?

“Guess it's just going around.” Charlie says, with an incredibly miniscule smile between his furrowed brows. “If you want to talk about it, I'm all ears.”

Spyro's so confused. The man hates him, and yet he's asking if Spyro wants to talk? There's nothing left to say! Not after he almost killed the other man!

“I, uh…” And Spyro struggles with the words, because if Charlie won't talk about his own dream, how does he think Spyro will talk about his? “I'm not sure if that's a good idea, right now. Not tonight.”

His chest stabs with pain, and his throat burns with the lack of a liquid to soothe it.

For a brief moment, he feels static coursing through his chest. It's like a sudden jolt of energy. It leaves as fast as it came, and Spyro remains tense, blinking.

Suddenly, Spyro craves a drink, something warm and something comforting, and suddenly hot chocolate is the only thing he can think of. He knows the castle has a good stock of cocoa beans, and sugar, and milk, and Spyro thinks it'd make a good drink.

Maybe if it warms him up, he'll feel less dead.

“Would you fancy hot chocolate?” Spyro asks, trying hard to muster up a gentle voice. Charlie looks at him for a moment, before slowly nodding.

“I guess that would be nice.” Charlie mumbles, and Spyro takes it as a win, and hurries over to the fridge, grabbing a handful of ingredients as he does.

He lays the ingredients on the counter, sets a pot on the stove, and pours a bucket of milk. Crushing the cocoa beans into a fine powder, he mixes them with sugar and adds the mixture to the pot, letting it brew.

Spyro almost doesn't notice how long the pair have been silent for, and has close to no objections about it anyways. Talking only ruins things, Spyro has learnt.

Eventually, the hot chocolate comes to a boil, and Spyro takes that as a reason to switch off the oven, and dump the pot full of hot chocolate evenly into two mugs.

Spyro sets them both on the table, and they make an almost sad ‘thud’ as they hit the oak wood. Spyro resumes his seat opposite Charlie. He vaguely notices an oak cane propped up against the table.

Charlie graciously takes the mug, wrapping his hands around it, and Spyro almost wonders how it doesn't burn, how it doesn't make his skin feel like it's quite literally, on fire.

Spyro knows the feeling all too well.

“Thank you.” Charlie says absentmindedly, like his mind is far, far away, and Spyro grabs his own mug, firmly by the handle, and sets it down closer to himself.

Spyro wonders what would happen if the liquid spilled on himself. Spyro wonders if it would hurt. He wonders–

“No problem.” Spyro says, trying to mask his frown with a small, fragile smile.

Silence threatens to stretch over and over, and Spyro wonders what he should say. He truly wonders if there is anything left to say.

“Sorry.” Spyro mumbles under his breath, and curses Charlie's hawk-like hearing, because he instantly picks up on it.

“What are you sorry for?” Charlie asks, and the question alone is enough to shock him out of his thoughts. Surely Charlie is kidding, surely he's just messing with him, because Spyro has everything to be sorry for.

“Like.. everything?” Spyro says, earnestly for once. “For almost killing you. For bothering you now, when you probably want to be alone.”

Spyro moves to leave, discarding his hot chocolate, but Charlie grabs his hand anyways, and it's clammy against Spyro's death cold palm.

“No, I'm glad you're here.” Charlie says, and follows with a not so subtle sniffle. “I don't know what I would've done if I had to have been alone tonight.”

Spyro doesn't understand how Charlie can look at him with such warmth, especially after everything he's done and said. He didn't deserve it.

“Oh.” Spyro says, and he sinks back into his seat, and wraps his fingers around Charlie's hand. “I uh– I didn't realise. I thought you hated me, after everything.”

Charlie pauses for a moment, and looks Spyro dead in the eyes. The bright hazel glows in the moonlight, and perhaps Spyro never realised how welcoming they were.

“Surprising, I don't.” Charlie says, and he cracks a smile. He takes a sip of the hot chocolate, and his grin only widens. “Seriously though, you need to cook for me more often. This is great.”

“Thanks. I added far more sugar than necessary.” Spyro explains, and blows on his own mug, because he's always preferred his drinks to be more lukewarm than actually hot.

His knuckles press against Charlie's fingers, and it's almost enough to make him feel content.

“You're always so damn cold. I don't know how you live like this.” Charlie mutters, and it sounds like concern. His grip tightens a little, and Spyro would complain, but it seems like the other man needs it.

Perhaps there is something grounding about a below normal body temperature. Perhaps it helps when the one feeling it is beyond sweaty. Charlie looks all the happier by the motion of hand holding, and it's almost enough for Spyro to mistake it as relaxation.

Spyro knows better, though. If he could guess, he'd say Charlie is most certainly biting his own cheek, much like Spyro himself.

Abruptly, Spyro realises the glossiness of Charlie's eyes, and Spyro finally realises how hard he's trying to seem okay, even when he's anything but. Spyro knows the feeling too well, the act of pretending to be fine almost comes naturally to him, nowadays. He knows the signs to spot for.

“Are you alright?” Spyro says, and he squeezes Charlie's hand a little anyways, and swallows his own emotions down to where they came from, much like he's been doing the entire conversation.

Charlie shakes his head ever so slightly, and Spyro waits patiently for him to follow with an explanation.

“My dream,” Charlie starts, eyes kept firmly down, his spare hand gripping the mug so tight that Spyro almost fears that'll it'll shatter in his hand, and the remaining drink will spill and burn and–

“I just, I saw things I didn't really want to see. Things I thought I was over – people, and I–” Charlie cuts himself off, breath hitching. Spyro doesn't know what to say.

“I just miss people.” Charlie says plaintively, and Spyro knows the feeling all too well, but maybe in his own case, he shouldn't miss them at all. Charlie's hand shakes minutely in Spyro's own grip, and he racks his brain for something to say or do or–

“Who do you miss?” Spyro asks quietly, and then realises it's a mistake. Charlie looks up, and for a moment, Spyro can almost see the memories, happy and thrilling and so, so alive – and they shatter almost a second after.

“My friends. Kat, and DZ, and–” Charlie starts, and can't find it in himself to continue. He brings his knees to his chest, and presses his head firmly against them. Spyro thinks he hears the sound of a choked sniffle, and doesn't dare comment on it.

He thinks Leonidas once said something about grief, perhaps when he was drifting in and out of sleep after his failed bombing attempt, and Spyro wishes he could remember what, exactly.

Spyro manoeuvres his fingers around Charlie's wrist, and they find Charlie's pulse. It's probably faster than usual, but at least it doesn't sound like he's about to flatline.

Spyro briefly wonders if he should get Leonidas, or Stan, or anyone more equipped to deal with emotions. They've never been his strong suit, and with history like his, he's only likely to make things worse.

He takes a gamble anyways, and opens his mouth to speak.

“It's okay to be sad, I think.” Spyro says, because he thinks Leonidas once gave him a speech on how it was good to let out your emotions, even though Spyro doubts that Leonidas ever follows that advice himself. “Just uh.. let it out?”

Spyro looks up to see tears rolling down Charlie's cheek, and he doesn't dare comment on it. In fact, he looks away, because there's only so many messy emotions Spyro can deal with.

Somehow, it's almost nostalgic, in a sickening way. It only reminds Spyro of comforting his old Noctem colleagues.

Charlie scrubs a hand through his hair, finally looking upward after a good few minutes of silence. His eyes are shining, Spyro notices, and even though the pool of tears has stopped, it looks like it'll hardly be long before they resume.

“Sometimes, I just think–” Charlie starts, and he almost chokes on the words. “I would've traded my life for them, every single one. I'd rather it have been me.”

The words scare Spyro a little, and he feels rage stir in his chest – because how dare he even suggest that! How dare Charlie suggest things would've been better without him, because Spyro knows sure as hell they wouldn't.

“That's ridiculous.” Spyro says bluntly, without really thinking, and it comes out slightly wrong. He can only wish to bite back the words, but he can't bring himself to try.

“What?” Charlie says brokenly, and Spyro can see the twisted expression of guilt and grief and he feels it all too much.

“I– I didn't mean it like that. I mean, I get it.” Spyro continues, trying to correct his poor choice of words. “Sometimes I think it should've been Drake, or Tenebris, or anyone instead of me. But that's an awful thought, is it not?”

“That's different, though!” Charlie says, almost frantically, and his frame shakes ever so slightly. “Drake and Tenebris were– were fucking terrible, and you know it.”

“It's not different, though. If I don't feel guilty for surviving–” which is a massive, massive lie. “–then neither should you. Maybe there's something good about how things turned out.”

“I– but..” Charlie tries hoarsely, and Spyro instantly shuts him down.

“Let's say you did die instead of one of your other friends. Maybe it would've changed things, but it wouldn't have fixed things. People would still be grieving, things would still be a mess.” Spyro says, and once he's determined he's made his point, he loosens his grip on Charlie's hand, because only now does he notice how tight he's holding it.

Charlie wipes away tears, and Spyro thinks he may just be okay.

Charlie downs what remains of the hot chocolate, mug clinking against the table, because his voice is most surely sore from the crying. Spyro knows the feeling all too well – from when he cried more than once a millennium.

He takes a sip of his own drink, and what should taste sweet only leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. Spyro exhales, and chooses to ignore it. Now's not the time to break, he reminds himself.

“Thank you.” Charlie says, softly, and he squeezes Spyro's hand, which has warmed up considerably. “I think I needed that.”

“No problem.” He says quietly, and maybe this night won't be so bad. Maybe he might be able to slip back into bed and sleep and rest easily. He knows it's not true, but it's easier to convince himself now.

Now that Spyro's mind is quiet, he can faintly hear the static. It hums low, and Spyro can only really hear it if he focuses hard enough, but it's still there.

Maybe he focuses a little too much, because the rest of the world muffles with the sound, and perhaps Charlie is talking to him, and Spyro doesn't hear, because time is going so very slow.

Spyro's hand is shook, only gentle, but startling regardless, and suddenly, time flashes forward, and it goes far too quickly, and Spyro's hand is instantly retracted from Charlie's grip.

Spyro takes a deep breath, and swears he won't cry. Even when every time he blinks he only sees an image from his dream, far too vivid for his liking. His hand makes its way to his side, where Spyro deems it safe, and looks up at Charlie.

“Dude, you've been like, zoned out for five minutes.” Charlie mutters, and he sounds.. disappointed, upset, concerned? It's always hard to tell when it's Charlie, Spyro thinks. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine.” Spyro lies, because the words are programmed into his head like code. He knows nothing better. So he tells himself he's okay, and bites his cheek, and pretends it's all fine.

“Spyro, you don't need to lie to me of all people.” Charlie says, and his eyebrows furrow with concern. “I know it's rich coming from the guy who was just crying, but I assure you, you can talk to me. You can trust me.”

Spyro's jaw tightens. “What makes you think I don't?”

“Because you're lying to my face.” Charlie says, eyes narrowing.

“You don't know me.” Spyro says, voice sharp, the world too loud.

Charlie sighs, trying to meet Spyro's eyes. “I'm trying to, if you'd just let me.”

Spyro blinks once. Then twice.

“We're good?” Spyro asks, because he refuses to believe that Charlie of all people has put what Spyro's done behind him. Spyro would much rather have him still hold that grudge.

Spyro wonders if he's always been this pathetic, clinging to people desperately without any good reason.

“Spyro, we're good, if that's the thing you're concerned about.” Charlie says, and his voice sounds stronger, now. Maybe the hot chocolate was useful for one of them. “I don't think you're a bad person. I trust you. So you can trust me too.”

Spyro almost wants to object, to say that he doesn't trust anyone, and never will, because it's a habit from the Noctem alliance that he'll never unlearn. The act of being wary, no matter the circumstances, is forever a part of him.

“I– I…” Spyro starts, and then refuses to elaborate. A lump blocks his throat, and it feels hard to get a single word out.

“–I'm okay, I swear I’m okay.” Spyro reassures, but he's honestly having a hard time reassuring himself. He grabs the mugs and heads over to the counter, trying to end the conversation.

“Spyro.” Charlie says, and his voice is solid, and firm, and Spyro would've never guessed that no more than fifteen minutes ago, the man was a sobbing wreck.

Spyro, reluctantly, returns to the table. Even as he sits, his leg bounces, and his bones ache with restlessness.

“I don't particularly want to talk, Charlie.” Spyro says, and it's a half truth. “It's just– uhm..”

He struggles to say the right thing – to articulate Tenebris and Drake and static in a way that doesn't make him sound like he's going insane.

“It's hard to talk.” Spyro settles on, because he refuses to get emotional. Here and now is simply not the right place.

“You can give it a go. I have nowhere to be.” Charlie says softly, and god dammit, Spyro hates him so, so much. He has no right to be so kind, especially when the other man has far too much on his plate already.

Charlie just cares too much, and he shouldn't. If there's anything the alliance taught him, it's that sentimentality killed the cat.

Spyro takes a deep breath, and tries to keep himself from shaking.

“I just uhm.. had a bad dream about Tenebris. Drake too.” Spyro says, voice tight, swallowing the urge to sob.

“That sounds awful.” Charlie says, outstretching his hand across the table, but Spyro's hand stays firmly at his side. Suddenly, he feels cold and warm and the idea of feeling any warmer may make him vomit. “Do you uh, dream about them often?”

Spyro, without really thinking, sniffles, and then masks the sound with a sharp cough, that hopefully Charlie won't guess as fake.

Spyro taps his fingers against the table, searching for a steady rhythm. “I guess I do.”

“I'll be fine, though.” Spyro quickly adds, noticing Charlie's concerned look, something Spyro would class as unnecessary pity. The lie grits itself through his own teeth, but Charlie's stare doesn't particularly ease up.

“You’re lying again.” Charlie says, a little blunt, but caring too. In fact, Spyro can feel how much Charlie genuinely cares, and it hurts.

“Can we just drop it?” Spyro says, a little sharper and more cruel than he intends, but at least the message is said. “I'd rather not think about this right now.”

“Spyro–” Charlie starts, and Spyro tries to leave, mood sour. However, his legs go numb like jelly, and he almost instantly falls back into his seat with a jarring motion.

Spyro glances down, and his legs are shaking terribly. He curses his body for failing him, and tells himself he needs to get up and storm out the room because he physically refuses to talk about this.

He's met with silence. One of Charlie's calculated pauses, something that Spyro is beginning to recognize more and more often. Spyro keeps his gaze firmly on the floor, and presses a hand against his knee, because the way it shakes is unnerving him, truthly, and he demands it to stop with force.

Charlie, slowly, gets up from his seat, hands gripped against his cane for support. He manoeuvres around the table, eventually standing in front of Spyro.

Whilst leaning on what Spyro assumes to be his good leg, Charlie stretches his arms out, and Spyro can only guess the gesture to signal a hug.

He stares at the open arms.“Huh– what?” Spyro asks, voice cracking. “You’re wasting your time on me. I don't need a hug.”

“You sure?” Charlie says, fingers curling around the table as a means of support. Spyro ignores the disappointment in his tone, if only to make himself feel better.

“I'm sure.” Spyro bites, but Charlie presses a hand on his shoulder and he crumples under the warmth of it all. He jerks his head upwards to meet Charlie's eyes, a pleading look in his eyes.

“Don't–” Spyro starts, but Charlie doesn't listen, wrapping Spyro in the tightest hug he's ever felt.

Spyro flinches from the sudden contact, but makes no effort to move. It's only when his muscles start to loosen that he makes the attempt to get away, lightly shoving Charlie away from him.

“Are you o–” Charlie starts.

“I'm fine.” Spyro hisses, guilt hitting like a train wreck as Charlie's face falls. “It’ll take more than a nightmare to break me. I'm not weak.”

Charlie bites his lip, eyes lowering subduedly. “Perhaps you're just stronger than me.”

Spyro's eyes widen, suddenly realising the implications of what he just said. He instantly attempts to bark out a response.

“Wait– I didn't mean–”

“I know you didn't. You're just tired. We both are.” Charlie says, oddly calm.

There's nothing for Spyro left to say.

“I'm gonna head off to bed.” Charlie says, soft voice cutting through all of Spyro's thoughts. “Please just try to get some sleep, yeah?”

“I will.” Spyro says, jaw tight, and perhaps the lie hurts, but it'll spare Charlie, at the very least.

Charlie nods, turning away, the soft click of wood against ground fading. Spyro remains seated at the table, his head a cacophony of thoughts, and accepting that he won't get a blink of sleep tonight.

Chapter Text

Dawn comes sooner than Spyro expects, dragging Spyro from a never ending night.

It's about half six in the morning when Spyro finally decides to get up from the table, but when he pushes himself up, his legs practically buckle. His fingers curl around the edge of the wood table, attempting to steady himself.

That's what happens when you spend five or so hours sitting still, hoping for time to pass, with nothing more than a low hum of static to comfort you.

At least it's time to actually get some work done, Spyro thinks, scrubbing a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the dirt, because despite his shower yesterday, he still feels like nothing more than filth.

Maybe that's all he is, really. Spyro doesn't know how Stan could ever want Spyro's hands to touch the food he'll eat, knowing what a disgusting creature Spyro really is.

Spyro pulls himself away from the table, shoulders hunched, before swiftly exiting the room, door slamming behind him. He may as well begin cooking breakfast.

He silently creeps through the halls, careful to not wake anyone up. The halls are too quiet, every step feeling like a shudder of thunder. He curls his toes, as if he can make himself invisible.

If Charlie knew that Spyro hadn't gone back to bed last night, he'd probably kill him. Luckily, Spyro's days in the Noctem alliance have made him stealthy, and Charlie can't be upset about something he has no proof of.

After a few sharp turns down the halls, and perhaps getting lost on a detour, he makes it to the grand door, and he pulls the keys out of his pocket.

They jingle quietly on a chain, accompanied by a small keyring in the shape of a diamond. Spyro shoves the key into the lock, and turns it, faintly hearing a soft click.

He instantly pushes the door open, and suddenly he remembers all the stoves, all the food – the abundance of anything he could ever need. His stomach twists, and he has to remind himself that it's not for him, it's for the council. There's no need to feel guilty.

For a moment, Spyro looks down at his hands, calloused and scarred from every atrocity he's ever committed. Someone like him belongs on the battlefield – not in a kitchen, like a housemaid.

Breakfast, Spyro thinks, opening a cabinet, discovering a range of vegetables he didn't know were there. After much trial and effort, he eventually finds bread, some eggs, and some pork.

Spyro lays out the ingredients on the counter, lining them up like chess pieces. He starts with the bread, methodically placing each slice in the toaster. The sunlight bounces off the metal, straight into Spyro's eyes, and so he moves his gaze from the bread.

Next, are the eggs. Spyro holds them lightly within his hands, almost fearing the idea of cracking them and ruining the floor. He uses a spoon to lower them into the pot of hot water, set to a low temperature. Eggs are always better with a runny yolk, Spyro thinks, and anyone who disagrees is a fool with no taste.

The pork chop is last on Spyro's agenda. He grabs the meat, slamming it against the chopping board, and tentatively grabs a sword, repurposed into a knife. The wooden handle feels strange in his hands, like a criminal such as himself doesn't deserve it. Does Stan not fear all the possible things Spyro could do with a weapon such as this?

Regardless, Spyro begins grinding the pork – deliberately slow. Not only for precision, but because Spyro fears the idea of finishing up the breakfast too early, and having nothing else to distract him from his thoughts. The blade eventually grounds the pork to Spyro's suitability, and he wipes the blade clean.

He begins working it with hands, texture cold and sticky. Eventually, he presses the meat into clumsy cylinder-like shapes, and he takes a step back to look at his creation. They sort of look like sausages, he guesses.

He dumps the array of sausages into the smoker, which sizzles as they cook, and once he realises his work is done for the time being, he pushes himself up on the counter, perching upon it.

Spyro leans over the stove – it's a dangerous act, and with how painful he knows burns to be, he should be deterred from doing so. But it doesn't stop him, and he grabs a spoon, lightly prodding the eggs absentmindedly.

Eventually, all the food finishes cooking, and Spyro serves up an array of sausages, toast, and eggs on each plate. He saves a bit of slightly burnt toast for his own plate, because the idea of stomahing anything more makes him feel a tad nauseous.

Spyro looks back at the clock on the wall, reading the time to be half seven, and Spyro thinks it's perfect timing. Now he just has to carry the plates. Seven plates.

Sure, Spyro could just take half and then come back for the other half, but two trips is unnecessary. He can carry seven plates! Definitely. Maybe. So he attempts to stack as many plates as he can on his arms, until the plates tilt in his hands.

He tries to steady himself, but his foot gets caught in the counter. He almost falls, but manages to save himself – and the plates – last minute.

“Shit!” Spyro shrieks without really thinking, loud enough to shatter a window.

There's a light knock against the oak of the door. ‘What now?’ Spyro thinks bitterly.

“Are ya good in there?” Comes the sound of Leonidas's foolish sounding voice, muffled by the door, and carrying a sense of genuine curiosity. Spyro claims to hate the sound, but rolls his eyes at the sentiment regardless.

“I'm fine, cretin!” Spyro shouts back, sharper than he intends, setting the plates back onto the table between pants for breath.

The door cracks open anyways, and there Leonidas stands, much to Spyro's dismay. His grin is as damnable as always, and Spyro wonders how he does it.

How can he smile at Spyro, knowing everything he's done?

“What's goin’ on in here?” Leonidas asks softly, stepping into the kitchen.

Spyro growls, kicking a cabinet in frustration – which is definitely not an over dramatic response – “Plates, Leonidas. Plates.”

“What about plates?” Leonidas asks in confusion, shuffling over to Spyro.

Spyro exhales, betraying his exhaustion from his lack of sleep the previous night. “Help me carry some to where everyone eats, will you?”

Leonidas looks even more confused, but doesn't question it. He grabs four of the plates, face still laced with that grin Spyro hates. Spyro grabs the remaining three plates, looking down with shame.

“Smells good.” Leonidas comments, and Spyro wishes he'd just shut up and quit being so kind because Spyro himself knows it's far from the truth.

Spyro smells like a rotting corpse, and anything he touches is rotten to the core. He doesn't tell Leonidas this, however. He'll only be met with lies about how Spyro is good.

Leonidas helps him carry the plates to the smaller kitchen, centered with that table the council always seems to eat at. And once the table is set, Leonidas sits in his respective seat.

Spyro, however, stands awkwardly. Perhaps he should eat somewhere else. Because this is where the council sits, and Spyro sure as hell isn't welcome.

“Spyro!” Leonidas exclaims, his voice warm, like he almost wants Spyro to be there. He stabs a piece of toast with his fork. “Sit down already.”

Leonidas's words, on the other hand, read like an invite, and Spyro thinks it'd be cruel to decline. The chair scratches painfully against the floor – like a warning – but Spyro shuffles into the seat anyways.

“This looks great.” Jayden points out. “You're spoiling us.”

Spyro manages a thin grin, face going slightly red from the embarrassment of a compliment. “Ah, it's nothing.”

After that, the room becomes filled with the scraping of metal against plates, and light chatter. Spyro manages to ignore it, fork battering his piece of toast backwards and forth, before Stan cuts off his train of thought.

“Well, they taste good.” Stan says after taking a biteful of sausage. “We should have hired you sooner.”

Spyro forces a grin, but it feels thin and forced. He thinks they're all lying, probably trying to spare Spyro's pathetic feelings. Spyro doesn't believe he does anything well, and his food most definitely tastes like shit.

He pokes at his toast, burnt edge crumbling against the pressure of his fork. The black parts spread like ash – like fire, and suddenly Spyro is reminded of a not so pleasant experience.

He feels sick, even when he should be long over this. It's been months, and yet Spyro is stuck in the same place. Why isn't he over this?

Spyro forces himself to shove down the cloying lump in his throat, grabbing the slice of bland toast, and stomaching a small bite.

Beside him, Leonidas eats like a pig, and Spyro rolls his eyes. Something knots in his chest, and it feels beyond cold. Like envy.

Does he envy Leonidas? Is that what the feeling is?

The other man, like the bastard Spyro thinks he is, always seems so damn untouchable. Despite everything that's happened, he can still smile. He can still look at Spyro like he's more than a monster.

Spyro thinks Leonidas is lying to himself.

Spyro forces himself to shovel his food down anyways, and ignores the feeling. He's sure it'll go away. Eventually. Maybe. Probably not.

Spyro exhales as he cleans up the empty plates, taking them back to the kitchen without a word.

––

He makes lunch with the same monotone. He starts with a salad, chopping up beetroots, carrots, and potatoes with the dull scrape of the knife. He adds ghast tears for seasoning, before moving onto the slices of bread.

He spreads a slab of cold, refrigerated meat onto each slice. The kitchen hums with silence, and the repetitive cadence is reminiscent of when he had to help build Nocturia.

Grab a piece of stone, place it, repeat.

It's the exact same pattern, just with slices of bread.

They smile and thank him when he serves it, as to be expected. They call it perfect, and Spyro grits his teeth and nods, before retreating back to his kitchen.

Before he knows it, it's time to cook dinner, and he's just about to rummage through the cabinets when he abruptly hears a faint knock at the door.

“Come in!” Spyro bellows, voice like gravel. He twists the stove dial off, flame sputtering for a mere moment before dying out.

He's met with the frame of Jayden, hauling a sack of beetroots over his back. He drops the heavy sack on the ground with a ragged gasp, the earthy scent of beers filling the kitchen. Spyro looks on with slight amusement at the sight of a panting Jayden.

“Oh, uh, hey Spyro.” Jayden starts, likely out of courtesy, with a grin. Spyro wants to scoff, but forces himself to swallow the reaction, lips twitching into the mockery of a smile.

“Are those for the kitchen?” Spyro asks, tilting his head with confusion. Jayden's boots scrape against the floor as he slumps against the counter, nodding.

“Yeah, I was just checking on the castle's farm – harvest time and all that – and they were fully grown, so.” He gestures to the bag of beetroots.

“Damn. How do you have time for all that, along with working on the council?” Spyro asks curiously. He wonders why Stan won't just pay for someone else to do the dirty work, like himself.

“Oh, it's more of a hobby, really.” Jayden says with a smile, eyes lighting up. “I grew up on a farm, y’know. Some habits just stick.”

Spyro shakes his head in disbelief, wondering if the entire council must not be doing much work in order to have time for hobbies, before taking a step forward. His hands clap around the sack, and he effortlessly hauls it into a cupboard.

Jayden raises an eyebrow, mouth agape as he stares at Spyro. “Okay, how are you that strong? I spent half my life on a farm, and even I could never.”

Spyro shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, slamming the cupboard door shut with a forceful clatter. “Are you seriously asking me that question? I worked for the Noctem alliance – I had to help build Nocturia, work on grueling missions, all without breaks.” He returns to the counter, leaning against it. “Some habits just stick.”

Jayden blinks, expression somewhere between disbelief and concern. “Damn. Tenebris didn't really care for ethics, did he?” He tries lightheartedly, but Spyro's eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

“Yep.” Spyro says through his tight jaw, popping the ‘p’. However, the mention of Tenebris hangs heavy in the air, and Spyro can't help but clench his jaw, preventing any more words from escaping. He glares daggers into the floor, clutching at the counter as if it may make him forget everything.

“Uhm, anyways.” Jayden says, and Spyro senses the shoddy attempt at backpedaling from a mile away. “We were planning on going to the lower level district of the city tonight. Y'know, get some street food, give some money to the area. Stan was wondering if you wanted to come?”

Spyro blinks, unable to comprehend the statement.

Why is Stan inviting him of all people? Is this going to be a regular occurrence, now that he works there? Is Stan insane? His mind races through all the possibilities, and he wonders what a war criminal like him has done to deserve all this.

Spyro clears his throat, trying to not fumble with the words. “Yeah, I'd like that.” He says, voice like gravel, and trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Jayden smiles, somehow, like Spyro isn't a war criminal. “Okay, I'll tell Stan.” He turns on his heel, slowly walking out of the room. “Meet us at the entrance in half an hour!”

Spyro double checks that the stove is off, before heading to his room to get ready.

––

Spyro's boots click against the polished floors as he pounds down the main hall. With a glance at his pocket watch, he realises he's late, and so picks up the speed.

Whilst he speed walks, he rummages a hand through his messenger bag, making sure he has everything – keys, a flask of water, and the coordinates of the castle, should he get lost.

Eventually, he makes it to the main door, and slams it open, panting. There, stands all the council members, along with Stan, all adorned in coats. All eyes turn to Spyro.

“Spyro, buddy!” Leonidas exclaims, stepping over to Spyro. He smiles. Spyro does not. “We were wonderin’ if ya were gonna show.”

“I always keep to my word.” Spyro says seriously, as Leonidas swings an arm around his shoulder in a carefree motion. It's almost as if they've been friends for years, and Spyro didn't attempt to murder him the other day. Spyro feels his shoulders tense, almost startled by Leonidas’s sense of camaraderie, but otherwise doesn't object. It's warm, and almost pleasant.

“Well, we better get going.” Stan says, his soft but firm voice cutting through the noise. The man watches the cacophony of people chatting, and he rolls his eyes with endearment, like the chaos is something he's used to.

Spyro doesn't think he'll get used to any of this. Certainly not being all these people. Certainly not all the unconditional friendliness, or the forgiveness, or anything else Spyro doesn't deserve.

“Lead the way!” Jayden exclaims, and Spyro briefly wonders how walking around a city can be so exciting. It's just shops and crowds to Spyro, and he wouldn't say he likes either of those things. Despite the fact, he feels a warmth burn in his chest, and perhaps their anticipation is contagious.

––

After a short walk, they make it to the lower level district of the city.

Spyro listens intently to Charlie and Leonidas's conversation, Even though bickering would probably be a better word to describe it. From what Spyro hears, they're arguing about who ate the leftover cake last week, which is as ridiculous as it is entertaining. (it's a dumb argument, Spyro thinks, but their exaggerated tones and Charlie's angry face in particular are rather amusing). The noise of the crowd pulls him away from it, however.

Spyro looks around, and it may be the poorer part of Element City, but they certainly don't lack in atmosphere. If anything, it's too much. His jaw tightens.

Neon lights flicker on and off from various shop windows erratically, almost as if the glowing billboards are fighting for attention. The glare casts an uneasy lighting on the crowd and market stools.

Tarps are hung over the Market stools haphazardly, providing little shelter or warmth to the owners, who are listing the items on offer, along with prices. The surfaces are weighed down with all kinds of cheap knockoffs, iron tools, and various other trinkets. The vendors shout over the cacophony, trying to grab anyone's attention.

The air is thick with a mix of foods, and the sharp tang of metal. It clings to his skin, and leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. Spyro bites his lip, trying to tune it all out, with little success. His senses feel like they're only a moment away from frying.

Spyro tells himself he needs to grow up. This is fine, this is nothing. He's been in far harsher environments, for far longer time frames.

Spyro wouldn't say he's ever been to the poorer side of Element City, and his first opinion is that it's completely overwhelming. Not necessarily in a bad way, but he can't hear himself think through the loud hum of various conversations, nor can he walk in a straight line without crashing into another person.

His only solace is that Charlie looks just as fed up with the bustling atmosphere as he does, so at least Spyro knows he's not going entirely insane.

The one bonus is that no one recognises him within the crowd, and the lights are too dim to paint a perfect portrait of his face. The anonymity is almost comforting, and Spyro lets his shoulders loosen, knowing he won't be seen.

He almost collides into yet another person, thoughts drowning in the assault of his senses. Within the crowd, a hand – Leonidas's – yanks him by the arm, pulling him back to the group.

“Thanks.” Spyro says in an elevated voice, struggling to hear anything over the jukebox blasting music, and the metallic scrapes of tongs as chefs serve up all kinds of concoctions.

“No problem!” Leonidas shouts, doing a thumbs up sign for good measure. “We're goin’ to go down one of the side streets, I think. It's less hectic.”

Spyro nods, internally thanking whatever higher power is out there. He doesn't think he can stand this chaos any longer.

Spyro drags his arms into the pockets of his trench coat as he follows the group down one of the alleyways. The hum of the crowd lowers, and Spyro blinks, trying to take in the new surroundings.

It's quieter, for starters. Darker, too. The only light is from the string lights above, hung up in a zig-zag pattern. They cast sickly pools of yellow light upon Spyro's eyes, and he has to blink to readjust.

The various merchants are far less rowdy, too. Instead of shouting, Spyro can see them making civil small talk with customers.

Shadows bounce off the walls, and the quiet almost feels suffocating, somehow.

The negatives? The council and himself stand out like a sore thumb.

“President Stan!” One of the merchants, selling some sort of chicken pieces on sticks, exclaims.

The council walks over to the vendor, and Spyro squints in the dark, realising their username is ‘blueperriwinkle’, and he has a badge which says ‘he/they pronouns.’

Spyro looks at the badge with confusion. That's an option? People choose what pronouns they use? There's a strange feeling that rises in his brain, neurons wiring together with connections Spyro has never dared think about. Not a moment later, and he bottles whatever feeling rises to his chest, and swears he'll ask Leonidas about it at a later date.

Cassandrix (Spyro thinks that's her name) takes the lead, leaning against the counter casually. “Hey, Perry.” She pulls out her cash, grinning. “You think you can do the usual?”

“Certainly!” They say with a wry smile. “Six chicken sticks coming right up!”

Cassandrix casts a glance to Spyro, who’s standing behind Leonidas cautiously, trying not to be seen.

“Seven, actually.” She says, upper class accent prominent. “I fancy indulging tonight.” She continues, giving a subtle glance at Spyro. He doesn't know what it means, but he's thankful she hasn't signalled him out.

“Alright!” Perry says, before turning his back to the council, and stabbing various pieces of chicken with sticks, and setting them on a grill.

Suddenly, Spyro can't help but feel the starkness of the quiet creep into his bones. Faintly, he can hear static digging into his ears – the same one from earlier – and he has to clench his hands in order to feel remotely there.

Something sparks at his wrists, some sort of buzz of electricity. Spyro thinks it feels wrong.

The quiet isn't comforting anymore, and it makes Spyro feel viciously ill. It's quiet, like Nocturia, or when he had a meeting with Tenebris, and all he could hear between the shouts was radio static.

Spyro glares behind him, like he expects Tenebris to be there. When nothing is there, he turns back to Leonidas, almost desperate to hear his voice. He needs something – anything – to layer over the sound.

“Leonidas?” Spyro says, clenching his hands into his arms, as if it may help.

“Hm?”

‘I keep hearing static and my hands feel different and I'm pretty sure I'm going insane’, is what Spyro doesn't say. Instead, he opens his mouth, trying to figure out a more suitable conversation starter.

“Do you go here often?” Spyro murmurs, looking up at the sky, and the parade of string lights.

“Yeah. Stan likes puttin’ money into the place.” Leonidas explains, and his voice thankfully drowns out static or any other thought of Tenebris.

“Isn't Stan an operator?” Spyro asks, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “Can't he just give everyone all the diamonds they'll ever need?”

Leonidas blinks once, before looking away. “It’s somethin’ to do with politics, I think. Ya can't give tonnes of money to the people, or there'll be inflation, and then the upper levels will be mad for Stan destroying the economy or somethin’.”

“Damn.” Spyro says, wrapping his arms around his chest, like the action might bring warmth. It doesn't. It never will. “I'm so glad I'm not running a country.”

“Don't rub it in my face.” Leonidas says, absentmindedly looking up. Spyro turns to face him.

“Do you not like politics?”

“No, it's fine. I dunno what else I'd do with my time, y'know?” Leonidas takes a deep exhale. “It's just– it's fine.”

“It doesn't sound very fine.” Spyro points out, and Leonidas is about to make a comeback, when Cassandrix shoves a chicken skewer in Spyro's hand.

Spyro catches Stan and Jayden heading over to a nearby bench, and he lightly kicks Leonidas in the shin, ignoring his protest, and gesturing for him to follow.

Spyro glares behind himself once more, static buzzing in his ears, almost expecting the shadow of Tenebris to grab him. He tightens his grip around himself, nails digging into his arms, and they provide to be the only reminder that he's here, and not there.

Spyro slots himself into the end of the bench. Leonidas, predictably, sits next to him, and Charlie quietly sits down opposite. Spyro takes a bite out of the chicken, and it's almost enough to stir something warm in his gut.

“Man, this is sooogud.” Leonidas says between a mouthful of chicken, earning a look of disgust from Charlie.

“Leonidas, for the love of god.” Charlie says with an eye roll, after taking a more appropriately sized bite of chicken. “Don't talk with your mouth full, it’s disgusting.”

Spyro snorts, directly into his chicken. Charlie and Leonidas's conversations will never cease to entertain him.

Leonidas shrugs, swallowing down the remaining chicken with a shit-eating grin. “Says the guy who has chicken crumbs all over his face.”

Charlie growls lightheartedly, scrubbing against his face as if it may get rid of any potential crumbs, along with Leonidas's smug grin. “Oh, shut up. I don't have chicken on my face.”

“Yeah, ya do.” Leonidas says, and Spyro can vouch for him, because Charlie's face is in fact a chicken crumb graveyard. Leonidas reaches over the table, pressing a finger against Charlie's face, wiping away the remaining crumbs.

Charlie makes a sound of protest, but doesn't pull away, either. Interesting, Spyro thinks.

Leonidas sits back down, and Charlie's face goes a beet red colour, and he stammers. “You– ugh– could've just gotten me a tissue or something!” He pouts halfheartedly, refusing to meet Leonidas's gaze.

“Where's the fun in that?” Leonidas retorts with a smirk.

“God, you're insufferable.” Charlie mumbles, doing a good job of hiding his face behind his hands.

“I love ya too.” Leonidas retorts playfully, raising his eyebrows with a smirk, and Spyro's sure the redness in Charlie's face is now from anger.

“Don’t say crap like that.” Charlie groans, voice cracking. “Especially not in front of Spyro.” He gestures a hand to Spyro, who's trying his hardest not to burst into fits of laughter.

“Oh no, please go on.” Spyro says, grinning. “This is the highlight of my day.”

“See Leonidas?” Charlie grumbles, finishing off his chicken, and being careful to make sure no more ends up on his face. “You're a terrible influence.”

“How am I a bad influence?” Leonidas continues, “I cleaned that chicken off ya face. If anythin’, I'm the respectable one.”

“You–” Charlie starts, before being firmly cut off by Stan.

“Guys.” Stan says in an exasperated tone, rolling his eyes.

“What?” They reply in unison, eyes narrowing on Stan.

“There's a time and a place for–” Stan gestures his hand at the pair. “–whatever this is.”

From the back of the table, Cassandrix perks up, with a wicked grin. “Have you two ever considered, I don't know, getting a room?”

Brutal final blow, Spyro thinks, as he practically chokes on his chicken, watching as Charlie looks like he's a moment away from spontaneously combusting, while Leonidas's jaw drops to the floor.

Charlie sighs in mock exaggeration. “I hate you all so much.”

“Sorry, Charlie. That job has already been taken by me.” Spyro says, raising an eyebrow.

Charlie practically slams his head into the table after that comment, whether it be from embarrassment or rage, Spyro can't tell. Jayden pats Charlie's shoulder consolingly, and Cassandrix scoffs.

“You're all such drama queens.” Cassandrix points out with a sassy grin. Leonidas chuckles, whilst Charlie looks up from the table, looking far from amused.

This is nice, Spyro thinks for a moment, balling up his rubbish and throwing it in the nearby trash can effortlessly. He likes hanging around with Stan and Leonidas and Charlie and–

Radio static hums in his ears, and crawls up his hands. The motion is sickening.

He's really not escaping this today, is he?

His laughter dies out a little too quickly, and the static feels like an itch he can't scratch. So, with a swift motion, Spyro clicks open his messenger bag, retrieving a flask of water – because suddenly he's beyond lightheaded – and sipping it slowly.

Leonidas's eyes find their way to Spyro anyways.

“Ya good, dude? You're lookin’ pale.” Leonidas states, leaning closer, and Spyro wants to retort and say that it's his natural complexion, but he simply can't be asked to do so. Holding the flask to his lips suddenly feels like effort enough.

Charlie grabs Leonidas by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him away from Spyro with much effort. “Don't get up in his personal space, you're probably patronising the poor guy.” He exhales, analysing Spyro's face. “He probably just has an iron deficiency or something.”

“Likely.” Spyro mutters, static still rumbling at the back of his head, but he thinks he can ignore it if he just tries hard enough. “I'm just tired. Long day.”

Spyro dumps the flask back in his bag, zipping it up with a soft click.

“You're not gonna pass out or anythin’?” Leonidas confirms, looking rather worried. Spyro thinks he needs to hit the man with a stick until the care is beaten out of him. “We were thinking of going to a few other market stools before leaving.”

Spyro rolls his eyes, before clearing his throat. “I'll be fine.”

After an unspoken agreement, the group moves on to visiting various other market stools. Spyro trails a few steps behind, allowing the faint hum of the crowd to drain the static in his brain. Leonidas immediately takes the lead, dragging an exasperated Charlie with him.

They stop at one particular stool, Leonidas insisting on getting him and Charlie matching friendship bracelets that they sure as hell don't need. After much debate, Leonidas succeeds in getting Charlie's permission to let him put the bracelet on his wrist, earning a snicker from Spyro.

Stan continues trying to herd the group forward like a stressed parent, and eventually, they make it out of the alleyway, and onto one of the main streets in Element city, somewhere in between the lower and upper level districts.

By the time they do, the clamour of the market feels like nothing more than a faint memory. At least It's far less crowded here, and the air is far cooler. Spyro thinks he can finally breathe.

For a moment, Spyro thinks the street is eerily quiet, certainly for the main street of Elementia at no later than nine pm. Static buzzes in his ears once more, and he decides it's best to ignore it.

Spyro still trails two steps behind Stan and his friends, but Charlie pulls the reins of his pig, dragging back to Spyro's pace.

“Hey.” Charlie says, and a look crosses his eyes. Pity? Concern? Sympathy? It doesn't really matter, because Spyro hates it all the same, even when he shouldn't.

“Hey.” Spyro parrots back, keeping his eyes straight ahead, because he can't stand the look Charlie is giving him any longer.

“Did you not like it, back there?” Charlie inquires, through the film of soft buzzing. “The colour's coming back to your face.”

Spyro rolls his eyes. “I didn't know my complexion was so compelling.” And Charlie laughs, but his glare doesn't ease, and he realises it won't until he continues.

“I wouldn't put it in my top destinations to visit.” Spyro mutters with clenched teeth.

“Neither.” Charlie says quietly, quickly glancing at the council ahead, as if he may be heard.

“Wh–”

“It's too loud, too many people.” Charlie admits, and Spyro wishes Charlie would stop being so damn relatable all the time, or he's bound to gain a complex over it. “People are more of Stan or Leonidas's thing. I prefer the quiet, honestly.”

Spyro pauses for a beat, wondering where any of this is coming from.

“And you're telling me this because…” Spyro doesn't understand. He thinks this must be an elaborate plan, some way to get his guard down.

Charlie shrugs his shoulders, as if some questions don't need answers– but they do, they really fucking do.

“You're easy to talk to.” Charlie comments casually, like he's talking about the weather and not fucking with Spyro's feelings.

“Wha– how?” Spyro asks incredulously, and he clenches his fists with frustration, because Charlie must definitely be talking out of his ass.

“You're not afraid to speak the truth.” Charlie says, and Spyro thinks that's a lie in itself. Spyro has been nothing but a manipulating, conniving–

The static crackles louder than before, his fingers twitching from the buzz, and Spyro grits his teeth, telling him to ignore it, and Charlie, for that matter.

They make it to the borders of the castle, and suddenly, Spyro realises why the main street was so empty, because they're all gathered at the castle, shouting protests.

Banners sway from above, scrawled with words Spyro can't even hope to make out. They're so consumed with their chants that they don't even seem to notice the council's arrival.

It's all wrong. Stan established peace, did he not?

The rest of the council looks just as confused as Spyro does. Stan wastes no time in marching up to a lone protester, and he’s most certainly about to ask what's going on.

However, the protestor turns around, jabbing his finger at Spyro's face.

“There he is!” He bellows, voice sharp enough to kill a man. “It's the guy who almost blew up the castle!”

Spyro's eyes widen, and the roar of the crowd presses against his lungs. The world tilts.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Spyro barely acknowledges a hand pulling him away from the cacophony.

Initially, his bones protest, heels digging into the ground, muscles like a block of ice.

Then someone jabs a burning torch in his face.

And if his fight or flight response taught him anything, it's that now is the time to run. He escapes the clasp of the hand, darting across the bridge, barely noticing the guards warding off the protestors, or any of the council, for that matter.

The mob’s roar is a faint hum against the pounding of Spyro's heart, but it still burns his ears regardless. He needs to get away, he needs to get inside.

He pounds against the castle door, because he doesn't have a key, and he needs to get away–

That proves to be a futile attempt, because the door is made out of solid oak, and Spyro's hands are weak. Eventually, his fingers slim against the oak wood hopelessly, collapsing to his knees, and hoping no one dares shoot him in the head, or worse–

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A faint click of metal rumbles through the foggy buzz of static. Spyro snaps his head to see what it is.

When his vision finally decides to focus, he makes out the blurry form of Stan, briskly walking towards him. He holds the key in his palm, and doesn't move Spyro out the way as he goes to open the door, instead awkwardly leaning over him.

The door clicks open, and Spyro scampers into the castle like a wild animal, desperate for shelter. His hands clasp onto the wall, using it to pull himself up.

“The chiefs of police are handling the protestors.” Stan says, oddly calm. Like it's an act. At least someone knows the role they’re supposed to play.

“I.. wha– I'm confused.” Spyro says softly, sweaty hands clenching against the wall like it's the only thing keeping him up. Spyro thinks the wall is moments from collapsing, as if any protesters would be able to put a dent in the wall.

Stan raises an eyebrow. “About what, exactly?”

“How do they know?” Spyro asks, taking a ragged breath. Adrenaline drums through his veins like poison.

Stan paces around the room, trying to find a reason that doesn't really exist. “I don't know,” He says after a moment, calm facade moments from slipping. “Perhaps a leak?”

Suddenly, clarity hits Spyro like a brick wall.

‘If you don't give our Lord's sword back by midday tomorrow, then we'll be forced to take.. drastic measures.’

Oh, fuck.

When Spyro gets his hands on Zingster, he swears to god–

“Yeah, it's probably a leak.” Spyro says after a beat of awkward silence, trying to hide the fear that attempts to crawl its way up his throat. There’s no way in hell he’d ever tell Stan his suspicions. He doesn’t need the perfect president to fight his own war.

He’s probably just imagining things. Anyone could have leaked the information.

Spyro considers that the perfect president may be a coward, considering he’s hiding within the walls of the castle, instead of facing the raging crowd like a good leader would do.

Spyro’s sure Zingster’s revenge would be more than leaking some personal information anyways. Spyro expects nothing less than blood and tears to be shed by the other man. His lungs burn, and Spyro pretends it’s asthma.

Stan clenches his hands together. “Look, I don't know how this has happened, but I'll fix it.” He says, but the words lack conviction. Spyro highly doubts Stan can fix anything that he’s ever done, and he’s a fool for trying.

“Really now?” Spyro asks, and his tone comes out too mocking to sound like a question. More so like a threat. Stans eyes narrow.

“I’ll give a speech. Explain things better, maybe, I don’t know–” Stan is most likely about to continue rambling, but he’s cut off by a metallic click.

The council floods in through the door, and for a moment, the roar of the crowd is enough to pierce Spyro’s ears. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to bite back saliva, until the door is locked shut. It’s okay, it’s fine–

“Ben and Bob have it under control.” Charlie states, voice low, before running his hands through his hair.

Stan has yet to stop his pacing. “Emergency meeting?”

There is a low murmur of various opinions, but nobody objects. Stan wastes no time in ushering everyone into that council room.

By the time they do, Spyro’s stomach churns, his mouth sour with acid. This is the room where he was–

Nope. Not thinking about it.

Everyone takes their seats, and Spyro drags a chair from the side, sandwiching himself between Charlie and Leonidas. He shrinks into the oak wood, like a child that's about to receive a stern telling off.

Spyro deserves worse.

Stan takes his golden ceremonial axe, its polished blade gleaming against the dim light of dusk. He pounds it against the table to signal the start of the meeting, the echo bouncing off the walls and straight into Spyro’s eardrums. It feels like a cruel snap into the harshness of reality.

Spyro thinks he should be anywhere but here. He’s no councilman. There’s no way in hell he deserves to be here.

To be fair, he is the subject matter, regrettably.

The weight of their stares press against him, and he feels as though he’s been bound to the chair with chains. The council probably just want to sleep, and because of Spyro, they instead have to talk politics. This is all his fault. Maybe he should just–

“I don’t think there’s any need for formalities,” Stan says, placing the axe aside, the motion rigid to an almost unnerving degree. “No need for a roll call, you’re all obviously here.”

Spyro briefly wonders how Stan is so put together. If Spyro was in Stan’s position, the strings that hold him together would have long been frayed. He would have simply unravelled under the weight of it all. Hence why he spent most of his leadership hiding in an office, claiming that he could fix anything, when he simply got his underclassmen to do the dirty work.

But perhaps there’s something calming about being the most powerful person on the server. Stan, truthly, is an untouchable god.

Spyro is a pathetic excuse for the devil. At least the devil posed a threat. Spyro is still clawing for a place in the world.

Charlie wastes no time in speaking, hands clasped together. “The castle is secure. The chiefs of police are trying to calm everyone down,” He leans over the table, before continuing. “It kind of makes sense why they're angry.”

“Yeah.” Jayden says in agreement, looking at Charlie with an expression Spyro can’t hope to read. “I mean, no offense Spyro, but you’re kind of known for being–”

“A war criminal?” Spyro cuts in, tone blunter than he means, but the words are nothing but the truth. The council doesn't try to disagree.

“Well, we should focus on keeping the people happy,” The Mechanist suggests, voice gruff, aged by years of doing god knows what. “It’s like that leak all over again – they’re probably more mad at us for not telling them than they are mad about Spyro almost blowing us all up.”

Spyro doesn’t think he’d appreciate being lied to, but then again, Tenebris did that over and over again. Spyro couldn’t help but come crawling back after all. So what’s another lie in the mix? No one ever said they were playing fair. The population should quit giving a shit.

“Oh, please,” Cassandrix says, accompanied with an eye roll. “What do they seriously think will come from this? Stan is an operator – if Spyro tried anything, Stan could easily put an end to it. They have no reason to be afraid.”

Spyro shrinks into the oak chair, not minding how a chipped piece of wood bites into his back. He tells himself he’ll choke down the urge to vomit, because he’s already caused enough trouble–

Charlie sighs, placing a hand on his temples. “Yeah, well, we know that. Maybe the general population needs to be reminded of that fact.”

Maybe Spyro does too, because he once had a large enough hubris to think he could've even put a dent in the castle, that he could be more memorable than a footnote.

That was exactly… four days ago.

People change. Maybe. Probably not.

The chandelier from above flickers – probably old and rusted and in need of a new bulb. It's not the end of the world, more like a disease you just can't get rid of. It burns into his retinas. But it seems only Spyro notices, because the conversation continues without a hitch.

“So, what should we do?” Stan asks urgently, grinding his jaw.

“Maybe a speech of some sort?” Charlie suggests, voice firm.

“Or,” Cassandrix starts, standing up and looming over the table. “We could get rid of the source of the problem. Who said sending him to brimstone would kill him? I think it would do him some good.”

Spyro’s mouth hangs agape, and he thinks he needs to get out– needs to run– needs to evade arrest. Yet his legs take him nowhere, and his mouth refuses to even open in rejection. Luckily, Leonidas speaks for him.

“No way!” Leonidas shouts, glaring at Cassandrix. “There’s no need to be so drastic, Cass. He’s a good guy now!”

Spyro appreciates the sentiment, but being referred to like he’s not even there is grating on him. He clenches his fists.

“Besides, he wouldn’t last a day in brimstone.” Charlie adds, and Spyro can’t help but scowl.

“What are you trying to say?” Spyro growls, voice low. He tries to puff out his chest, but he just winds up looking fucking ridiculous.

“That you should be grateful I’m even sticking up for–” Charlie starts, but Spyro cuts him off.

“Throw me in Brimstone for all I care!” Spyro bites, voice like ash. “I’ve survived much worse than that! And maybe I deserve it anyways!” He pounds his fist into the table for dramatic effect, but it hurts more than it actually startles the council. “OW!”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Hence my point,” He turns to face Spyro, taking his hand, and rubbing it softly. “If everyone could just see that you’re not as threatening as you appear, they’ll calm down.”

“Exactly!” Leonidas says with a grin, as if it were a compliment. “I mean, you’re practically harmless.”

Nice to know that he never posed a threat. He couldn’t even do that right. Static rings in his ears, even though he should be happy.

“All in favour of me giving a speech to explain the situation?” Stan asks, and he’s followed by a room of raised hands. Cassandrix’s agreement comes last, after a theatrical sigh. “Alright, it’s settled. Meeting over.”

Charlie lets go of Spyro’s hand, warmth leaving just as quickly. The other man stretches his arms over his head. “I better head off to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“Me too.” Leonidas nods in agreement, following behind Charlie like a golden retriever, and one by one, people leave the room.

Spyro doesn’t feel like moving. Or sleeping, for that matter. Someone would probably just try to throw a brick through his window if he tried.

Eventually, Spyro looks up from the table, hands clawing into the wood like a lifeline, only to notice that Stan never left. Static rings through the silence, and Spyro pretends he can ignore it.

“You’re still here?” Spyro mutters, voice hoarse, and Stan startles upright, like he too believed that he was alone.

The other man shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I need to figure out what I’m going to say in this speech.”

“But if there’s still work to do, then why would you end the meeting?” Spyro asks in confusion, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “The Mechanist seems smart, Charlie’s good at writing, Leonidas–”

Stan snaps his wrist upright, reading his watch. “Because what kind of president makes his friends work at one o’clock in the morning?”

Spyro snorts. “You have clearly never stepped foot in the Noctem Alliance.”

Something flickers across Stan's face. Disgust? Empathy? It's all the same to Spyro, who was far too busy destroying the lives of many to figure out how facial expressions work.

“Well, I for one, think my friends are entitled to breaks.” Stan says, wringing his hands. Spyro is beginning to notice a pattern in the rhythm, he thinks.

“Oh please, I worked night and day–” Spyro starts, and Stan’s eyes narrow, before he cuts Spyro off entirely.

“Are you seriously suggesting I follow the Noctem Alliance's ways?” Stan asks, eyes narrowing.

“No.” Spyro breathes, because he knows technically it's the right answer. Maybe he still doesn't get why.

Stan looks at Spyro for a moment more, like he's debating to say something, before huffing softly, and waking off.

Spyro twists in his chair, losing his balance and almost falling over. “Where are you going?”

Stan pauses, turning back to meet Spyro's eyes. “My office,” There's a beat. “Wanna come?”

Spyro nods, too hastily – too desperately. He pretends that it's not because the idea of being left in the suffocating silence of the council room is unnerving, or because he dreads the idea of being left with his thoughts. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet and ignores the feelings.

Stan gestures for Spyro to follow him, and the trip through the various halls is cut with awkward silence. Because it's not like Spyro and Stan have much in common, anyways. The lights flicker softly, tingling against his skin like static, but it seems to be something only Spyro notices.

Finally, Stan clicks open the door to his office, and Spyro's eyes are flooded with a rather welcoming orange light. Spyro tilts his head to the side, realising that it's coming from a redstone lamp he had failed to notice beforehand.

Stan sits himself at his desk, wasting no time in pulling out a book and quill from the drawer. Opposite, Spyro pushes himself into the chair, and wastes time by staring at the patterned carpet below.

Right. Stan is writing that dumb speech thing. And Spyro's sitting opposite, twiddling his thumbs, like he expects something to happen for him.

Hot chocolate worked on Charlie. Would Stan appreciate the same sentiment? Maybe. So Spyro stands up, glaring awkwardly at Stan, before clearing his throat.

“Would you like hot chocolate?” Spyro says, voice squeaking. Internally, he's cringing.

Stan briefly looks up, smiling softly. “Yeah, why not?”

Spyro can think of a million reasons why not, but he somehow gets the impression that Stan's question is not to be answered. Instead, Spyro turns on his heel, quietly heading his way to the nearest kitchen.

Despite the fact that Spyro has barely slept in the past forty eight hours, he can't help but feel hyper. He almost feels feverish, but in a giddy way, and he can't help but step through the halls with a hasty pace.

For a moment, Spyro feels like the surge of energy is almost overwhelming. He's almost sure that for a split second, he feels something spark out of his hands. Then he blinks, and whatever he thought he saw is long gone.

That's not weird at all.

Spyro nudges the door open with his foot. From what his map says, there should be a kitchen here (the castle has like ten, even though Spyro thinks it to be overkill). This one is a lot smaller than the rest, no more than a small kitchenette with a stove and mini fridge. It is positioned conveniently close to Stan's office though, so who is he to complain?

Spyro goes to rummage through the cupboards, set on finding a mug. However, he feels something crawl its way up his throat, like the buzz of electricity, and with a flash of light, two mugs are in his hand.

What.

Suddenly, Spyro's throat is blocked with something more solid, electricity burning off like a dead light bulb. His thoughts are gone, replaced with a feeling of motion sickness, like everything is tumbling out of control.

He's crazy, right? He didn't just make two mugs appear from thin air! He's imagining it, most certainly, or perhaps his short term memory has simply failed–

Something has felt off since that dream he had last night. Perhaps Spyro was too concerned with finding distractions to truly acknowledge it. But this? This is wrong! He can't make things appear! He's not a god! There are only two gods in this world, and one of them is–

A shockwave, something artificial, makes its way through Spyro's veins. It fizzles off at his wrist, like a diffused bomb, and Spyro stares down at his hand, dumbfounded. With a brisk motion, he sets the mugs aside, and forces himself to breathe, hoping he might finally think logically.

The only person who made electricity burrow in Spyro's veins was Tenebris, and Tenebris is dead. Is he– did Tenebris– no, no, no. He's losing his mind. That's the only logical explanation.

Instead, Spyro's sets cocoa to simmer on a pan, and concludes the whole ordeal was a mere hallucination of sorts.

He returns to Stan's office promptly with one hot chocolate in hand, because after long decisions, he decided that drinking something so sweet right now would only be sickening. So gripped in his other hand is a glass of ice cold water, hoping it may send him out of his daze.

Spyro gently pads the door to Stan's office open with a gentle kick of the foot, setting Stan's mug on the desk. Stan raises an eyebrow, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow, before the mug begins floating in the air, on route to Stan's mouth.

Fuck. Spyro forgets Stan can do that.

He slowly sips the drink. “Tastes good,” Stan comments softly. “Just like all your cooking.”

Electricity threatens to cackle its way through Spyro's veins again, like something's ready to snap. “Don't flatter me, Stan.” He snaps, and he's sure somewhere, something has been set alight.

Stan tries to respond, but Spyro cuts him off.

“I– I meant– I didn't mean that.” Spyro continues clumsily, taking a large gulp of water and practically chucking the remains on his face.

Stan turns back to his mess of papers. “It's fine.”

And another silence ensues, this time from Spyro's own accord. His mind spins with ideas, what if all means, and has yet to find an answer.

He's simply going crazy. So why can't he accept that that's the cause?

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Spyro asks, trying to sound as considerate as possible. What he needs is a distraction, so why not just ask for one?

Stan writes another sentence or two before responding. “I don't think so.”

Spyro considers leaving there and then. He has nothing to contribute to this situation, and all he's doing is posing a distraction for the guy trying to fix his messes. He scrubs a hand against the back of his neck, urging himself to move, but all he feels is a dull pang of static and blocks of lead in his legs.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Spyro's voice is nothing more than confusion. “Shouldn't you hold me accountable for what I've done?”

Cassandrix is right. Spyro should be in Brimstone. He's done nothing to deserve such things. It's not even self loathing, it's just the truth. Static sparks at his palm, and he clenches his fists and pretends he feels nothing.

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. “You remind me of Leonidas sometimes.” Stan mutters under his breath, and Spyro raises an eyebrow in confusion.

“What does that–” Spyro barks out in defense, but Stan cuts him off.

“Look, Spyro. It's clear you've changed,” Stan says, taking another drink of the hot chocolate. “And maybe you are causing me a lot of trouble,” Stan gestures to the pile of papers in front of him. “But the only guy who seems to think you're bad is you, Spyro.”

“Huh.” Spyro exhales. For a brief second, he considers Stan's words, before he clenches his fists and heaves a frustrated breath.

“I don't understand.” Spyro murmurs under his breath, before his voice becomes much sharper. “Don't you remember the mushroom purge? What I did to the villagers? All the attempted murders–”

“Leonidas did a lot worse,” Stan tries to counteract, looking fed up with the same loop of conversation. “I still forgave him. And I'm glad I did.”

Rationality doesn't work on the irrational, Spyro thinks bitterly. He digs his nails into his palms, and pretends he doesn't feel a shockwave of energy as he does.

“Oh, come on, Stan!” Spyro's vocal chords feel like they're about to tear apart. “Leonidas fought alongside you in the war! He helped you! It’s far too late for me–”

Stan snaps his fingers in front of Spyro's face. “You have honestly got to stop talking like that, man.”

Spyro tenses up, looking down at the carpet.

“You've got to stop doing that, too.” Stan says bluntly, and so Spyro tries to loosen his muscles, but he can't even muster up control of his own body, it seems.

“But–” Spyro tries, but Stan cuts him off.

“You've got to stop wallowing in self pity, lashing out at others, tensing every time someone calls you out for it.” Stan says, harsh but soft. There's no real sort of bite to the words.

Spyro doesn't respond, because what is there to say to that? It's the truth. He goes to grip the armrest of the chair but realises it's best to not destroy Stan's property right now.

Stan takes a deep breath, placing a hand against his temples. “You're clearly very highly strung,” Stan muses out loud. “Have you ever thought about talking to a thera–”

“I’m fine!” Spyro growls, even though both him and Stan know it's far from the truth. Spyro feels a surge of energy threaten to burst out of his hands, hungry and restless, but it is muffled with a clenched fist.

“Yeah, I'm sure you're the perfect picture of mental stability,” Stan replies sarcastically, before sighing. “Do you have any reason for being here other than to start an argument?”

Spyro looks at the floor, veins still humming. It's beginning to feel painful. “Didn't want to sleep, heh.”

There's a beat of silence.

“Leonidas used to be the same,” Stan murmurs, and Spyro's ears prick up. “After the war, I always used to hear him prowling around the castle at night – he wasn't very good at keeping it a secret. Then we had to fight a whole swarm of phantoms. That was… fun.”

Spyro doesn't particularly think about why Stan is telling him this, instead exhaling softly, before responding.

“They weren't really a problem, back in Nocturia. We had snipers.” Spyro explains softly.

“Did you guys just not sleep?” Stan asks, looking concerned, and Spyro looks away.

“Sometimes.” Spyro murmurs, throat dry. “My sleep schedule mainly got ruined when I got promoted to general.”

“I wish I could've killed Tenebris twice,” Stan comments, downing the remaining hot chocolate. "Wait, I already did that. Make it three."

Spyro snorts, before looking away.

“If there's anything I can do–” Spyro starts, but Stan abruptly cuts him off.

“You can do yourself a favour and get some rest. I can't have my chef sleep deprived.” The tone in Stan's voice makes Spyro think it isn't a suggestion.

“And we can't have a sleep deprived president, either.” Is the response Spyro settles on.

“Spyro–” Stan starts, but it's Spyro's turn to cut him off.

“Well, you told me all the shit I've got to stop doing. How about I return the favour?” Spyro muses out loud. “And I think that you've got to stop putting other people above your own health. You can work on your fix-it speech tomorrow, Stan.”

“But–”

Spyro grabs Stan's arm, not so graciously pulling the other man out of his seat. Then he feels a current pulse through his fingers to Stan's, like an electric shock. Stan groans, pulling his hand away.

“What was that?” Stan asks in confusion, staring down at his hand. That confirms Spyro's fear that he wasn't imagining it.

“Uhh… what was what?” Spyro retorts, playing dumb. And Stan rubs his eyes and looks around in a daze, like he's going insane.

“Damn. I must be tired.” Stan thinks aloud. This time, Spyro keeps his hand firmly away from Stan's.

When the door to the office is locked and Stan has retired to his room, Spyro stays. There's no way in hell he can sleep. Not now. Not when his hands spark with energy.

Spyro sinks into one of a few lone chairs in the midst of the hallway, outstretching his hands in front of him. The possibility that he could be sleep deprived to the point of hallucinations stays forefront in his mind, but the opposing evidence of Stan's reaction only proves otherwise.

Tentatively, he pulls out Tenebris's sword of his inventory. He rests the blade dully on the palm of his hand, glaring at it as if it has the answers. And for a moment, Spyro's sure he catches a glance at Tenebris or Drake alike through the shine of the sword.

He presses a hand against his poorly healed up chest wound.

It burns.

Spyro instantly pulls his hand away, glaring at the sword resting in his lap, and wonders if there's some kind of connection.

Did stabbing himself with a sword turn him into some sort of fucked up Disney princess? Maybe.

Spyro heaves a breath, and braces for a sleepless night.

Chapter Text

Spyro takes a deep breath.

The night has long bled into the early hours of dawn, spent pondering on what the hell is wrong with him, trying to make sense of it all. Spyro still doesn't have an answer, only more questions.

All he knows is that he can make things flicker into existence, and that sparks coil around his fingers like restless energy. It's unpredictable, erratic, and Spyro has no control in the slightest. Briefly, he wonders if someone else is pulling the strings.

The thought terrifies him.

So instead, Spyro chooses not to think about it, tiredly slumping against the kitchen counter, eyes burning from a lack of sleep. Fortunately for him, people can't get concerned about something they know nothing of.

Despite it all, he should really cook breakfast. Scrambled eggs on toast sounds good enough.

Spyro grabs a pan and sets it on the stove. He twists around to go get the ingredients from the fridge, only for a flash of light to temporarily blind him. When he blinks his eyes open, a carton of eggs and a pint of milk sit comfortably in his arms.

His stomach twists, pulse rising up to his throat.

Spyro breathes. He definitely did not just do that right now. He is definitely having a very normal day and definitely can't do anything supernatural.

He’s not a monster.

He sets the ingredients on the counter, pressing his palms against the smooth marble top. If Spyro weren't feeling so lightheaded, he could claim it to be grounding. But his fingers twitch all the same, burning with static.

Spyro presses his head against the smooth, cold surface of the counter, repressing the urge to scream. He quietly yearns for normality, because despite all of Spyro's fantasies of power, being the main character in some shitty superhero movie doesn't appeal to him.

The higher you are, the harder you fall. Spyro knows it from everyone who fell before him. Tenebris, Drake, Tess – they’re all the same, really.

Spyro digs his fingernails into the surface, etching his fear into the marble like it's nothing.

Spyro briefly remembers something about counting your breaths, slowing your mind, and relaxing.

One. Two. Three.

Spyro feels no different. His chest still feels too tight to pretend it's okay. Every thought feels like the prick of a cactus, and those damn eggs and milks are still sitting there, taunting him–

Perhaps breathing techniques only work on normal struggles, and not when you're making household items appear in your hands, Spyro thinks bitterly.

Spyro kicks his foot against the lower cabinet to feel the mimicry of something, and raises his head from the surface. Perhaps he'll find the answers, or run away before someone finds them for him. His foot stings, and he bites back the urge to curse.

Spyro takes a deep breath, air scorching his lungs. It's fine, he swears. It's too early to be anything but.

Tentatively, Spyro reaches over to the eggs and milk, wasting no time in pouring them into a pan. He grabs a fork and half heartedly pokes it into the pan, watching as the mix spins around.

The toaster is broken (blame Leonidas, he thought stuffing 3 pieces of toast in one slot was a good idea) so Spyro has to make use of the furnace. He carefully places an array of bread slices in it, hoping that it doesn't break.

He really hopes it doesn't break.

Next thing Spyro knows, his ears are being deafened by an earsplitting ‘bang!’, and he's scuttling away from the source. Slowly, Spyro opens his tightly shut eyes, watching as smoke curls all around him. The furnace's door is barely keeping a hold on its hinges.

He blew up the furnace. He blew it up with his mind. Acrid smoke curls from the wreckage, and it's almost mocking.

Oh god. His chest is painfully tight.

He's a destroyer, a monster, a freak of nature–

His ears still ring from the explosion, and Spyro thinks getting Leonidas or Charlie is futile – they're most definitely asleep at this ungodly hour. Spyro is not cruel enough to ruin that for them.

And when Spyro thinks his morning can’t get any worse, the door creaks open.

He's met with a man, slightly shorter than him, with brown hair laced with soot. He peers at the furnace door, before approaching it, and going to touch the door, which instantly falls to the floor with the force.

“Damn,” The guy says casually, as Spyro mutely looks at the wreckage. “I haven't heard a furnace explode that badly since the summer of eleven.”

Spyro cranks his head to look at the man, practically bouncing on the heels of his feet. Spyro can't keep his jaw from slacking.

“I uh—I…” Spyro fumbles, eyeing up the man on the opposite end of the room. He can hardly explain that he made the furnace explode with his mind, can he?

“You should probably get that fixed, man,” the man says bluntly, tossing the useless furnace door aside. “Lucky for you, I know a great deal about fixing old appliances!”

The wires in Spyro's brain have surely overheated, because suddenly normal thought seems like a challenge. “I uh, I don't think we've met before–”

“Oh, of course!” The other guy pipes up, like he has forgotten basic societal conventions. “I'm Sirus, and you are?”

Spyro stares at the other guy blankly.

“You really don't know who I am?” Spyro asks. This man – Sirus – is obviously messing with him. Everyone knows who he is.

“Nope!” The other guy says, rather bluntly. “Have we met before?”

“I mean, I'm Spyro. The Spyro.” Spyro murmurs unsurely. The other guy looks him up and down, before a look of recognition flashes across his face.

“Ah,” Sirus’s hands twitch, and Spyro expects some kind of explosion or attack or anything. “Seriously, I couldn't recognise you. You somehow look even more beaten than before.”

“Thanks.” Spyro grumbles sarcastically. He can feel his hands threatening to spark, and forces to clench them into fists, hiding them behind his back.

“So you're a good guy now?” Sirus practically jumps up to him, looking him up and down like Spyro's some kind of children's science experiment.

Spyro subconsciously rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess. I uh, I do the cooking here.”

“Huh. War criminal turned personal chef. Couldn't say I saw that one coming.” Sirus comments, eyes absentmindedly drifting around the kitchen. It's almost like he's completely unfocused on the conversation, Spyro thinks.

“Neither.” Spyro says, hands twitching. He needs to do something, and that something is to fix the furnace. So, he brushes past Sirus, trying to take a closer look. He doesn't expect to be yanked backwards by the other man.

Spyro falls straight on his ass, wrenching himself out of Sirus’s grip like an angry cat.

“Hey!” Spyro barks, shoving himself upright. “What was that for?”

“Relax dude,” Sirus says nonchalantly. “I'm good with redstone. I can fix the furnace.”

“Oh.” Spyro can feel his shoulders sagging.

Sirus crouches by the furnace, fingers tracing the soot covered metal as if it were something delicate. Within a moment, he wrenches it from its spot, lightly grunting as if it were nothing. The other man begins inspecting the wiring, whilst Spyro simply stares, gawking like some kind of fool.

“Huh, that's strange,” Sirus murmurs aloud. “The fuse is still intact.”

Spyro can feel himself tensing. “How's it weird?”

“Well usually, when there's too much current, the wire inside the fuse will melt, to y'know, stop too much damage from happening.” Sirus explains, soot on his hands.

“Maybe the fuse is just broken or something.” Spyro retorts defensively.

“I doubt it. I'd know a faulty fuse if I saw one, man.” Sirus responds, before shoving the furnace back into place. “If I hadn't known any better, I'd think that a bomb was dropped on it or something.”

Spyro goes completely stiff, pulse hammering in his eardrums. “Well uh, your guess is as good as mine.”

Sirus looks at Spyro suspiciously. Spyro tenses up, before the other man simply bounces back on his heels, lightly punching the other man in the shoulder. He doesn’t get any less stiff.

“You've got to loosen up, man,” Sirus says, as Spyro simply glares. “You're going to ruin your back with posture like that.”

Spyro ignores the advice. Being a little tense never killed the cat… he thinks.

“What are you doing here anyways?” Spyro asks, a desperate attempt to change the subject. “It's like, five in the morning.”

“I work weird hours,” Sirus says casually. “Probably why I haven't seen you here despite you being here for…?”

“Three days, officially.” Spyro murmurs. That doesn't count the days he spent trying to assassinate them all.

“Cool,” Sirus says, before turning back to the furnace, seemingly distracted. “You probably need a new one of those.”

“You know where I can find one?” Spyro instead asks, shifting his weight slightly. He's sweating for some unknown reason, but weirdly, he feels fine.

“There are some spare ones in the storage room. I could always go get them.” Sirus says with a smile, eyes still darting to the furnace, smoke now diffused. “I still can't figure out what happened to this one, though. What exactly happened?”

Spyro swallows the bile in his throat. “It just exploded.”

“Right, right,” Sirus murmurs, eyes flicking between Spyro and the furnace. “I sense a conspiracy.”

“I– what?” Spyro asks nervously. He can't tell if it's just because he's guilty, or if there's something else making him so damn disoriented.

“I bet our furnace providers gave us a faulty furnace,” Sirus comments, leaning into Spyro like he's divulging classified information. “Perhaps they're plotting our downfall…”

Spyro snorts. “I don't think so.”

“Me neither. I just like mysteries.” Sirus says, straightening up, and stretching his arms above his head. He pushes himself away from Spyro. It's only then when a slight breeze crawls under Spyro's collarbones.

“So uh, how long until you can get a new one in?” Spyro asks, rubbing a hand against the base of his neck. “I'm kind of expected to cook breakfast.”

Sirus does an about face, squinting. “Probably not until the afternoon.”

Spyro's face unintentionally falls. He had gotten attached to the idea of cooking scrambled eggs and toast. Something normal.

Sure, he could go to the main kitchen, but it's on the other side of the castle, and Spyro is already running on nothing but adrenaline, his sleep schedule as screwed as ever.

He finds the main kitchen to be overwhelming in all its grandiosity, too, but that's not relevant.

Spyro can't, for the life of him, remember where the other kitchens in the castle are located. The one near Stan's office will forever be avoided, too.

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world,” Sirus explains, lightly punching Spyro in the shoulder once more. “I saw some leftover cake in the fridge earlier.”

“Are you suggesting I serve cake… for breakfast?” Spyro asks, voice low and deadly. He feels like he's committed a horrible sin.

“Yes!” Sirus exclaims. “Everyone likes cake! It's a win-win situation, dude.”

Spyro cracks a smile, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine. But if someone throws it back at my face, I'm blaming you.”

“Guilty as charged,” Sirus says, before turning back to the furnace. Spyro simply shrugs his shoulders, slightly amused by the man’s mannerisms. There’s something about the man that just makes Spyro unwillingly smile. It’s… nice.

Spyro yanks open the fridge door, the cool air brushing against his overheated skin. He spots his target instantly, a strawberry shortcake, and wastes no time in curling his fingers around the plate. Carefully, he sets it on the table with a dull thud. With little hesitation, he grabs a knife, and slices what appears to be something close to evenly sliced pieces.

Spyro grabs the cake, and slowly walks away from the counter, sparing another glance at Sirus. The other man is tapping a familiar pattern on his knee whilst fiddling with wires. Spyro sighs, about to leave the room, when the other man calls his name.

“Spyro, man.” Sirus calls, awkwardly shifting from his crouched position by the furnace. Spyro shifts the cake in his hand, turning to look back over his shoulder.

“Have you ever been roller skating?” Sirus asks, hands twitching.

Spyro thinks the question is random, having absolutely nothing to do with furnaces or cakes. But there’s something light in Sirus’s tone, enough for Spyro to consider the question. All it takes is a simple shake of the head to answer it.

“No wonder you’re so grumpy, dude!” Sirus instantly bounces to his feet, looking like an overexcited kid. “We have to go rollerskating! I was actually planning on going tonight, so I thought, maybe, you’d like to go?”

Spyro blinks. It’s only then when he realises how warm he is. It’s different to the heat of the summer, or the boiling heat his hands emit when he’s creating sparks and shit.

“I, uh,” Spyro begins fumbling with his words for a solid moment, before he swallows, and responds. “Yeah.”

His voice cracks on the single syllable.

Sirus doesn’t seem to notice, simply turning back to the furnace, and ripping it from its wires with little concern for his own safety. “‘I’ll see you later then.”

“Yeah.” Spyro says, before walking out the room, cake in hand.

––

Surprisingly, the cake went down well with the council. Upon bringing it, Spyro was met with various cheers, and the entire cake was gone within a matter of seconds. Spyro even allowed himself to steal half of Leonidas's slice, earning a pout from the other man.

Overall, it was a success, but not exactly a meal. That’s why they’re all going to go get lunch. Spyro is somehow invited too, oddly. After everything that’s happened, Spyro is surprised that they don’t suggest Spyro stays inside until everything blows over.

Now, Spyro is adorned in his signature trench coat, practically bolting down the halls to meet the council. For once, he has money with him, thanks to the hefty paycheck Stan gives him, and so he thankfully doesn't have to ask Leonidas to pay for his food – again.

Eventually, Spyro makes it to the castle's entrance, and little ceremony is made before they begin walking.

––

Apparently, Stan has grand plans to go to a new restaurant, a small wooden hut beside one of the few lakes in Element city. Stan practically lists all the various fish on the menu as they walk, and Spyro is almost delighted.

Spyro hasn't had fish in a while. The last time he had tried ice fishing in the tundra, he almost drowned.

Spyro keeps close to Leonidas and Charlie as they walk, not providing much conversation, but secretly listening to the pair’s bickering. Charlie is comfortably perched atop a pig, looking rather unimpressed in Leonidas's music taste.

“I'm tellin’ ya, Chirp is the best one!” Leonidas exclaims, hand on his hip, the other hand gesturing as if it's a life-or-death argument. Spyro snorts in amusement, as Charlie scoffs.

“Cat is a classic,” Charlie says, eyes narrowing. “How could you not like Cat?”

“It's not that I don't like it!” Leonidas retorts, throwing up his hands in defense. “I'm just saying, Chirp is far better!”

Charlie opens his mouth to retort, but Spyro is feeling like starting trouble, so he cuts the other man off.

“I like thirteen the most.” Spyro says offhandedly.

Charlie and Leonidas both gasp like they've been wounded, the movements startling the pig beneath Charlie.

“Of course you do.” Charlie grumbles, looking away. The man shifts on his pig, shooting Spyro a playful look.

“Hey! What's that supposed to mean?” Spyro asks lightheartedly, brows knitting together.

“I think he's sayin’ you're edgy.” Leonidas responds with a lazy shrug.

Spyro scowls. How dare Charlie insult his superior choice in music taste. “I'm not–”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Come on, it's not even proper music!”

Spyro pouts. He thinks about retorting for a moment, before the restaurant comes into view. It's only then when he realises that they're in a more rural part of the city, buildings now dwindled down to small cottages. Smoke curls from chimneys, the distant buzz of the city replaced with the chirp of birds.

He blinks, taking the scenery in.

In front of him, lies a large expanse of water, rippling in the light breeze. It's surrounded by trees and grass. Upon the water, on stilts, lies a hut. It's made of weathered oak wood, and Spyro can see glimpses of seats and waiters through the large windows.

“Guys.” Stan says, cutting off his conversation with Jayden to give the trio a disapproving stare. “Do you think you guys can go in there without causing too much trouble?”

Spyro bristles. Is Stan implying he can't behave? He spent months in the Noctem Alliance! He knows how to obey rules! Leonidas looks down at him, then at Stan, before responding.

“We'll be fine.” Leonidas responds reassuringly, grinning. Spyro doesn't share the sentiment. He doesn’t think anything will make him warm up to Stan, not even their conversation last night.

Eventually, they approach the hut. The whole group walks into the restaurant – it's small, with wooden tables cramped together, and waiters rushing back and forth. Spyro doesn't quite know what to make of it.

He thinks he prefers that diner, somehow.

Regardless, a waiter guides them to a table, and Spyro instantly gravitates towards the corner seat. The sunlight pours in through the window, practically blinding him, but it's better than the customers at this cafe realising he's there.

Spyro grips the menu so tight his knuckles turn white, barely acknowledging Leonidas shifting into the seat next to him. Static rings in his ears, and he can feel his hands burning.

He should be enjoying this. He likes fish. The fresh air is good for him.

But the fact that Spyro doesn't like busy places still stands.

It's only then when he remembers that the entire population knows he almost blew up the castle. It's only then when he remembers Stan's speech from about an hour ago, and the mixed reception that came from it.

He has completely forgotten about it until now. But now, the memory hits him with full force.

They're all staring at him. They're all planning ways to get rid of him. They want him dead.

He can feel energy threatening to pulse through his hands, and that's when Spyro realises he has to keep his crazy powers bullshit under control.

Leonidas waves a hand in front of Spyro. “Earth to Spyro? Don't go all broodin’ on us, dude.”

Spyro jolts upright. “I'm not brooding!”

Leonidas rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat slightly. “Sure you're not.”

Spyro cracks a smile, but can't help but feel as though his gut is sinking. He should be better than this. He has no reason to be in a bad mood.

He’s just being paranoid. Everything will be fine.

He lets himself scan through the menu, ignoring the way he can hear every single customer, each voice overlapping the other. Or the way he can feel another customer’s chair being pressed against his back. Or the fact that everyone is most surely looking at him, wondering what kind of disgusting creature gets to sit with–

He decides he'll settle on cod and a salad.

It's about time he eats something nourishing.

“So,” Charlie starts, and it's only then when Spyro looks up from the table and realises the man is sitting opposite him. “The furnace blew up, earlier?”

Spyro doesn't want to think of this. Not about his powers or how he's most certainly becoming the next Tenebris. He thinks of a quick diversion.

“Yeah.” Spyro says tersely. “But Sirus is fixing it – he's uh, a great guy.”

Spyro doesn't know why he feels so damn awkward saying it. He's known the man for all of a few hours! Even so, Charlie and Leonidas share a look, like they're onto something Spyro isn't.

He quickly thinks to add something else, hands tightening around his menu like his life depends on it. “We're uh, we're going roller skating tonight.”

“Really?” Leonidas asks, looking far too invested in this conversation. Spyro shifts slightly under the other man's gaze, feeling like he's missed a memo.

“Yes.” Spyro says, a little sharper this time. “He invited me. I thought it'd give me something to do. And besides, I've never been rollerskating before–”

He abruptly cuts himself off, realising he's rambling.

“Well, I think it's a good thing,” Charlie says softly. “Hopefully some of his positivity will rub onto you.”

“Maybe,” Spyro grumbles. He then looks down at his trenchcoat. What used to make him tough instead makes him feel vulnerable, like he's some filthy, foul creature. “What should I wear?”

Leonidas and Charlie share another look.

“Wear something nice. Casual, but not too casual.” Charlie says, at the same time Leonidas says: “Just be yourself!”

However, in unison, they both speak. “Ditch the trenchcoat.”

Spyro clenches his fist. Maybe it was a mistake to ask. “What's wrong with the trenchcoat?”

“Spyro, it smells foul.” Charlie says bluntly, clearly not noticing Leonidas's desperate shake of the head as he says it.

How dare Charlie insult his clothing style.

“I like it.” Spyro mumbles. Despite its poor state, the texture is nothing short of comfortable, and he's always felt a little safer wearing it.

Did he say it makes him feel vulnerable? Screw that thought.

“Well, Charlie does have a point,” Leonidas says slowly, doing his best to avert his eyes from Spyro's glare of daggers. “But! Maybe it just needs a wash, and to be sewed up a bit.”

Spyro nods. Maybe he'll ditch the coat for tonight, then. Maybe he'll wash it first thing tomorrow morning. Lord knows he hasn’t. Ever.

“Guys?” Stan calls from the other end of the table. “The waiter's here.”

Spyro averts eye contact with the waiter, reciting his order in a robotic manner. “Cod and salad, with water, please.”

The waiter scribbles the order down with a frown, most surely judging Spyro's taste in food, before waiting for everyone else to order. Spyro sits in silence as the rest of the table order their food, words blurring into static.

Spyro presses his hands on the table, feeling like his environment is blurring around him. He vaguely notices that Charlie is now in a conversation with Stan, and Leonidas and Cassandrix are gossiping about something or another. Instead, Spyro looks out the window, watching the lake like it might make him feel something.

Spyro clenches his fists as quickly as the static crawls up his wrist.

Why does he feel so off? Today is going great. Well, besides for discovering he’s twisted into something beyond normal humanity.

“Hey!” someone shouts from the other end of the restaurant, snapping Spyro out of his thoughts. “There's the guy that almost blew everything up!”

Oh fuck.

Spyro’s stomach drops like he’s on a top speed rollercoaster. His nails find their way into the armrests of the chair, biting into the wood. He watches cautiously – like prey – as a gang of teenagers approach their table.

They’re all adorned in metal chains and black shirts. They look like those high school bullies in every movie Spyro has seen. But their eyes burn with something different. Anger, fear – it’s all the same to Spyro.

“Can we help you?” Stan asks cordially, and Spyro wonders if Stan even heard their first comment, or if he’s simply giving them a way out.

The teens look amongst themselves, before one of them steps in front. He looks older than the others, probably seventeen. His shoulders are squared, and he glares at them all like he’s rebelling against a parent.

“I’ll tell you how you can help us, President Stan,” The teen says dangerously, black hair flicking over one eye. “You can help us by removing this scum from our city.”

Spyro swallows hard, like it may help whatever tension he can feel brewing in his chest. He can feel static ringing in his fingertips. It’s not like being called scum hurts him, because Spyro has heard and been through far worse. It’s the fact that he can’t quite tell what will happen next.

“Are you questioning my judgement?” Stan says softly, but despite that, Spyro can feel a wave of fear wash over him. He becomes faintly aware that the whole restaurant is staring at them now.

“He almost killed us!” Another teenager says, drawing out their sword from their belt. “You’re crazy, President Stan! This guy needs to be locked up, not taken out for dinner like he’s one of you!”

Swords only really mean one thing, Spyro thinks. But somewhere in the static, he thinks he can hear Leonidas mumbling reassurances, that nothing will come of this, and people treated him just the same, and that it will all blow over eventually.

“He’s changed,” Stan says calmly, ignoring the sword the teenager is practically throwing about, and giving a side eye to the security guard. “He could have blown us up, but he didn’t.”

“Well—”

Spyro’s brain hums a wasp’s nest of static. He doesn’t hear the teenager’s curses, or Stan’s words, or how a security guard comes to Stan’s aid to drag the group out. Spyro’s mind is nothing more than white noise.

Then, words slice through the static, crashing down like a tsunami.

“You’re making a mistake! He’s a dangerous Noctem! This is just an elaborate scheme!” Someone’s voice cuts in through the monotonous hum of Spyro’s brain.

“If he was a threat, I wouldn’t allow him in the city!” Someone says, exasperated.

“You never even thought to tell us of his attempted murder! You’re a liar!” Someone else says, heels digging into the ground.

“It was for his own safety!”

Safety? Did Stan always think, deep down, someone would kill him if he knew of his crimes? Did he think Spyro to be incapable of protecting himself? He can fight his own battles!

There’s nothing but static, all to promise him nothing but death.

“How about our safety! Are you seriously putting one man above your entire population!”

“Guards, drag them away.” Someone says defeatedly. Spyro doesn’t dare acknowledge the screams coming from the teens.

Spyro feels his brain threaten to shut off.

“Spyro?” Someone says, but Spyro can’t bring himself to think of a response. He doesn’t even twitch. There’s nothing that can really scare him now, not after Tenebris.

Gently, he feels someone nudge his shoulder. He startles, jolting his head to look at the other man. Blinking, Spyro looks up to see Leonidas, looking worried. Spyro doesn’t know what about. Everything the teen said is true. Spyro is dangerous, and the council is ignorant.

“Ya good?” Leonidas asks, concern evident in his voice. Spyro is starting to get fed up with the pity.

“I'm fine.” Spyro grits out through his teeth. If he could, he would gladly break down, but defiance crawls through his veins, telling him he shouldn’t let some random teens get to him.

He's changed. He's definitely, completely, changed.

“Spyro.” Leonidas says firmly. It’s enough to make Spyro feel bad.

“Maybe things are shit,” Spyro states bluntly, keeping his gaze on the solid oak table. “But I’m alright enough.”

“Well, if you need anythin’, I’m here. I uh, I know what it’s like.” Leonidas says, before silently ruffling Spyro’s hair. Spyro instantly reacts with a bark, lightheartedly shoving Leonidas away.

“Quit mothering me!” Spyro says with a pout, but his words lack real bite. Opposite, he can see Charlie attempting to stifle a laugh. He's about to chastise him, before lunch arrives. In front of him, a cod and salad is placed, and Spyro wastes no time in indulging.

It doesn’t make him feel nauseated, and the food is warm against Spyro’s tongue. It’s nice.

He refuses to think what might become of him if whatever power within him gets stronger. Or what might happen if the population finds out he’s the devil incarnate himself.

Instead, Spyro allows himself to joke with Leonidas, allows himself to talk to Charlie like he’s a friend, and think of what will come from tonight.

Chapter Text

Spyro sits on an armchair in his bedroom, watching his watch tick at an annoyingly slow pace, feeling as though time itself is killing him.

After lunch, they went back to the castle. Spyro had gotten roped into baking cookies with Leonidas. The result? The kitchen now had a restraining order from Leonidas, because god damn, that man is a disaster near any kind of kitchen appliance.

However, day has since faded into the early hours of evening, and Spyro has an outing to attend.

He's adorned in a yellow-green hoodie and pastel blue jeans. His hair – now growing long and untamable – is tied up in a miniature ponytail. For once, Spyro thinks he looks presentable.

He hesitantly grabs a makeup brush, and puts concealer on one of his signature facial scars. Partly so people are less likely to recognise him, and partly for the chance that Sirus might simply forget he's going roller skating with a prior war criminal. The makeup is likely half assed, because Spyro’s judgement is based solely on where he feels his face indent slightly. Who said he needs to look?

When his watch finally indicates that it’s six o’clock, Spyro pushes himself out of his armchair, intent on making his way to the castle’s entrance.

As he walks, Spyro can feel static ringing in his ears. Soon enough, and his thoughts spiral out of control – accelerating – and only then does Spyro think of all the bad things that could come from tonight. Because worst case scenario is that he blows up the roller rink with his mind, and Sirus hates him, and the population chase him down with burning stakes and pitchforks, and he’s thrown into Brim–

Lightning strikes the ground in front of him.

The air in Spyro’s lungs freezes. He turns his head behind him in a jerky manner to ensure no one saw. Thankfully, this time he’s safe, but Spyro dreads to imagine what could happen if that happens whilst he’s out in public.

Rule 1, Be positive. Whatever these powers are, they’re worse when you’re scared out of your mind.

Spyro turns down a corridor. His eyes flicker to some group selfies of the council, some with a particular raven’s face scrubbed out in red marker. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it for too long.

Rule 2, Don’t brood. This is the one guy who doesn’t see how fucked up you are. Don’t let him figure out what a pathetic, selfish, asshole you are.

Spyro hastily makes his way down a set of stairs, his heels clicking against the tiles.

Rule 3, Enjoy yourself. You need to get better. You need to be alright. You don’t have an excuse to be a miserable bastard anymore.

Spyro makes it to the bottom of the stairs. He digs his nails into the palms of his hands, ignoring the way he can hear static vibrating from each bone in his body. He’s fine.

“Spyro!” Sirus calls ecstatically. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that says ‘ur mom’ in hot pink, along with some blue denim shorts, even though it’s the middle of autumn. Sirus practically bounces up to Spyro, taking his hand. Thankfully, Spyro doesn’t accidentally give the man an electric shock, like he once did to Stan.

“Hey.” Spyro says calmly, subconsciously slipping his hand away from Sirus’s hand and into his pocket.

“Are you ready to go roller skating?” Sirus asks with a playful nudge, pulling on a neon orange jacket (Spyro thinks the man has no sense of colour coordination). Spyro on the other hand, has none, because his trenchcoat was his jacket.

“Not at all.” Spyro answers honestly, earning a laugh from Sirus. The other man unlocks the door, the cool night breeze hitting Spyro face first. The air is heavy with damp, like a storm is coming. It’s probably a bad day to have no jacket.

“Well, you better get prepared, because I’m going to annihilate you at roller skating. And I don’t mean in skill, either. You know, last time I went, I crashed into this poor, unsuspecting child. I’m pretty sure they had to go to the hospital–”

“This is going to end terribly.” Spyro murmurs quietly under his breath, but Sirus hears him all the same.

“Damn, tough crowd,” Sirus says, zipping up his jacket as they walk away from the castle. Spyro wishes he had the luxury. “If you’re not up to skating, we could do paintball. Or laser tag, or–”

“Skating is fine!” Spyro squeaks, fearing all the bad things that could happen from team based games. He shivers, the cold making its home under his collarbones.

Sirus shrugs his shoulders lightly. “Whatever suits you, man. Besides, skating is a classic anyways.”

“I’m going to fall straight on my ass, I just know it.” Spyro blurts offhandedly as they walk through the streets. Perhaps the blaring lights and crowds and the fear of being spotted is getting to him. Even so, Sirus laughs softly, and it’s almost comforting.

“Who doesn’t? It’s not so bad.” Sirus says with a smile, fidgeting with his jacket. Spyro, on the other hand, is shivering like he’s been dumped in the tundra.

Rule 4, Don’t think about the Noctem Alliance or anything related to it. It’ll only put you in a bad mood, and you know it.

Spyro blinks, realising Sirus is rambling to him about the history of roller skating. At least, that’s what he thinks is happening – he sort of lost track of a couple of sentences.

Rule 5, Don’t think too much.

Sirus jerks his head towards Spyro, pausing mid rant. “Are you cold?”

“Not at all.” Spyro lies through his teeth. He wants tonight to go well and he refuses to be beaten by the cold.

Sirus pauses in the middle of the street, not looking fooled by Spyro's lie. He presses his hand against Spyro's knuckles – the sudden movement is enough to almost enough to make Spyro's hands spark – before rolling his eyes.

“You're freezing, man!” Sirus says, loud enough to disgruntle the people walking by on the street. Spyro pulls away, shrugging. The cold is all the same to him, and it’s never bothered him in the slightest.

“I’ll be fine,” Spyro drawls, like a petulant child. “It’s not that cold!”

“Nope, I’m not accepting this.” Sirus says, before pulling his jacket off, and Spyro’s eyes widen in dread. He’s watched enough movies to know what’s about to happen. Instinctively, he shuffles backwards.

The jacket lies haphazardly in Sirus’s arms, held out as if it were a prize. “Your reward for coming skating with me, my good sir.” Sirus finishes with a dramatic bow, before shoving the jacket into Spyro’s awaiting hands. He looks like a mediaeval knight bestowing some sacred gift.

Spyro stares at the jacket as if it’s an insult to his ability to handle the weather.

“I hate this,” He mumbles, streetlights casting a sickly yellow upon the neon orange jacket. “I’m going to look like a human traffic cone.”

“You love this,” Sirus counters, smirking. “And you'll look fine!”

“Oh, you fucking–” Spyro starts, but his voice cracks, and he can’t quite find the words to continue. Sirus smirks like he’s just won the lottery, and Spyro slowly forces himself to put the neon orange jacket on. It’s a little snug, because Sirus is an inch or two shorter than Spyro, but it doesn’t lack warmth. Maybe that’s enough for Spyro to get over the fact it smells like redstone and soot.

Spyro thinks it’s a fucking stupid cliche, but he supposes he’ll keep the jacket for tonight.

“See? The colour’s coming back to your face again!” Sirus exclaims, like it’s the best thing in the world. The other man obviously doesn’t realise that the colour is red, because Spyro is officially embarrassed. Sirus turns on his heel, resuming walking, and Spyro grunts as he attempts to keep up.

“Well how about you?” Spyro asks with a raised eyebrow. “Now you’re going to be cold! Do you have a death wish or something?”

“I’ll be fine,” Sirus says reassuringly, practically bouncing on the heels of his feet as he walks. “I can deal with the cold.”

“So can I,” Spyro grumbles, looking off to the side, before looking back at Sirus when a glaring neon pink sign meets his eyes. “I lived in the tundra for months.”

“I forgot about that,” Sirus admits honestly. Spyro goes to take the jacket back off, thinking he’s won, but Sirus stops him with the poke of a shoulder. “You’re still keeping the jacket.”

Spyro groans, thinking the other man is impossible, before a building comes into view.

It’s like a relic from an era Spyro has never quite been in. A neon sign flickers above the entrance, the blue light bouncing against the retinas of Spyro’s eyes. Through the window, Spyro can see the blurry form of a roller rink.

He can feel dread rising in his stomach.

The idea of roller skates and a crowded rink makes him feel a little sick.

He’s breaking the first three rules.

Instead, he turns to face Sirus, forcing a small grin.

“You look constipated.” Sirus blurts, looking a mix of concerned and disgusted. Spyro instantly drops his forced smile.

“And people wonder why I don’t smile.” Spyro murmurs under his breath, pouting.

Sirus laughs, before grabbing his hand, fingers interlocked with Spyro’s. Sirus gives something that looks like a shit eating grin, before tugging against Spyro’s hand, and dragging him inside.

—

The rink is bathed in a mirage of neon lights, and they’re all like a radioactive substance against Spyro’s eyes. Spyro sniffs, the air heavy with popcorn and far too sweet slushies, and atop it all, the whole place reeks like sweaty rubber. The music is relentlessly upbeat, and Spyro practically feels like a fish out of water.

It’s a fucking lot, that’s for sure.

To his left, the arcade glows like a brightly lit city, the unmistakable noise of coin pushers and various arcade games gritting against his ears like the scraping of metal. Kids run around like they’re on some kind of sugar rush.

The rink – the grand centrepiece of it all – is a swarm of people, too many people.

Spyro is such a fucking idiot to have let himself be dragged here. He can’t seem to take a step away from the entrance, like he’s locked in place.

“Man, I wish they played the music louder in this place. I can barely hear it!” Sirus says, exasperated. Spyro raises an eyebrow, wondering which one of them is losing their mind. Or perhaps the music is playing at an average sound and they’re both going crazy.

Sirus takes a couple steps forward, only looking back once he realises Spyro isn’t moving.

“Dude? You coming?” Sirus asks, tilting his head like a confused animal.

Spyro simply shakes himself out of his thoughts, ignoring the static that feels restless in his hands, before slowly following.

Sirus wastes no time in ordering two pairs of skates. Once done, he practically tosses a pair in Spyro’s direction. Spyro barely manages to catch them, fumbling with the skates in his hands. Once they're safe in his hands, he eyes Sirus, wondering how he managed to guess his shoe size. Spyro sighs, before dumping himself on the nearest seat, and struggling to put his roller skates on.

It’s not that he doesn’t know how to put shoes on, or that he can’t tie laces or anything of the sort – instead, it’s because his hands are shaking terribly, and he can’t keep helping but jerking his head backwards to ensure no one has spotted him. But if you asked him, Spyro would say he’s fine.

Rule 2, Don’t brood.

Sirus, having already tied his roller skates, slowly walks over to Spyro, clearly trying to not fall flat on his face. Eventually, he takes a seat next to Spyro, looking unimpressed.

“Dude, you’re completely butchering those laces.” Sirus says with a smirk, nudging his leg against Spyro’s. Spyro barely processes it, his mind an ambience of static.

“I’m doing fine!” Spyro says, perhaps a little defensively. “My hands are just cold.”

Sirus shrugs, before leaning over and yanking Spyro’s foot towards him. From there, he wastes no time in beginning to tie Spyro’s laces. Spyro can feel his face go red with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment, wondering how far he's fallen in order to let someone tie his shoelaces for him.

Spyro growls. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Is it a crime to be excited?” Sirus asks, before single handedly pulling Spyro from his seat. He almost falls forward, practically crashing into Spyro, before he digs his heels into the old, tarnished carpet. Once Spyro’s steady, Sirus wastes no time in dragging him to the entrance to the rink. The moment Spyro’s foot meets the polished wood of the rink, he can feel his heart rise to his throat.

Instantly, he lets go of Sirus’s hand, the other man elegantly gliding across the rink. Spyro, on the other hand, clutches at the wall as if his life depends on it, his legs trembling like a newly born fawn. Sirus shoots Spyro a look, trying very hard to not burst into laughter and failing.

“Are you just going to spend the rest of the night standing by the wall?” Sirus asks with a grin. Spyro shoots him a scowl of utter loathing.

“Yes.” Spyro responds simply, his nails digging into the boarding of the wall.

Sirus merely shrugs, before skating over to Spyro. He eventually manages to pry the other man’s hands away from the wall, albeit after a struggle. He then grips Spyro’s hands, pulling him away from the wall. Spyro tries and fails to pull himself out of the other man’s grip, screaming like a child who lost their parents in a shopping centre.

“I hate you so much.” Spyro grumbles, eventually resigning himself to the situation, his hands gripping Sirus’s so tight that they’re turning white.

“I know you love me.” Sirus says with a grin, dragging Spyro across the rink. Spyro’s sure if it weren’t for the other man’s grip, he’d be falling straight on his ass.

Spyro grumbles, feeling his cheeks warm, and ignoring the man’s comment. “How are you so good at this?”

“I survived death. I’m hardly going to be bested by a pair of roller skates.” Sirus says, as it were the most casual thing in the world.

“What?” Spyro says, like his ears are deceiving him. He practically trips over his own feet.

“Oh, did I not mention it?” Sirus asks, still gliding around the roller rink, and dragging Spyro across like he’s a suitcase. “I died.”

“What?” Spyro repeats, shoulders stiffening. Briefly, he wonders if Sirus has completely lost it. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s a funny story,” Sirus says breezily. “You know about how Kev changed the gamemode to revive himself?”

“I–yeah.” Spyro murmurs, briefly remembering Stan mentioning it. He pushes his roller skates against the ground, not relying so much on Sirus anymore.

“Someone killed me at that moment,” Sirus says with a careless shrug. “I managed to respawn.”

Spyro looks at Sirus with nothing short of shock, barely processing the words. He breathes, like the words might finally make sense if he just thinks enough.

“Really?” Spyro asks in confusion, the pair approaching the wall of the roller rink. Sirus leans against it with a grin, pulling up his shorts.

“See? That’s where I took an arrow to the knee.” Sirus says, gesturing to a scar on his knee. Spyro simply gawks.

“Anyways,” Sirus continues, stretching his hands above his head. “After I respawned, I saw someone duck into the woods – now that I think about it, it was probably Kev – and then I decided to go to the ender desert, but then I ate a cactus and began hallucinating about a wedding between a watermelon and a cantaloupe–”

“Wait so, you just carried on like nothing happened?” Spyro asks quietly, feeling dumbfounded. “Weren’t you like, freaked out or I dunno – traumatized?”

“Death wasn’t that bad, man,” Sirus says with a shrug, tilting his head as though it were nothing. “Yeah, it was weird, but why would I let it affect me?”

“I– okay.” Spyro says quietly, pushing away from the wall. Spyro thinks if he died and respawned, he probably would have had a crisis, and probably would have tried to kill himself again.

Instead, Spyro tries to focus on skating, his legs wobbling beneath him as the skates meet the wood with unsure steps. Sirus’s words play like a chorus on loop in his brain.

It’s only then that it hits him then, like a punch to his stomach, that Sirus so much better at dealing with everything. Even here, where Spyro is on the verge of a breakdown because the lights are too bright and the sounds are too loud. Where Spyro feels like he’s standing in a storm of static and people who want him gone, Sirus is joking about his own death, completely fine.

Spyro clenches his jaw. He won’t dwell on it. He’s here to loosen up.

“Hey, you’re getting the hang of this, man.” Sirus says, as Spyro shakily skates on his own.

“I—” Spyro starts, words tangling in his throat. There’s a small part of him that wants to lash out, another that wants to just leave Sirus high and dry. “Yeah, yeah.”

Sirus shifts as he skates. “Seriously, you’re a natural. When I tried for the first time, I fell straight on my ass, knocked into about ten different people, and gave myself a concussion.”

Spyro forces himself to laugh, but it feels like sugar that’s far too sweet – it’s completely wrong. For some reason, his mood has gone sour. Even then, he can’t quite bring himself to shout at Sirus.

“What gives, man?” Sirus asks, taking a hold of Spyro’s hand, and forcing him into a spin. “You’ve gone all quiet and broody.”

“I guess I'm just tired,” Spyro says, a half truth. Luckily, unlike Charlie or Leonidas usually do, Sirus falls for his partial lie.

“Man, we haven’t been skating for that long,” Sirus says, pouting. “Five more minutes?”

“Fine, fine.” Spyro says reluctantly. He really doesn't want to ruin his only clean slate.

Sirus pulls Spyro into all sorts of manoeuvres, spinning him around like he's some kind of movie star. Spyro can feel his face flush, briefly realising how people are looking at them.

They recognise him, don't they? Spyro had thought the roller rink had been gradually emptying out, but it's only now that he realises why.

People are afraid of him. Present tense.

But he takes one look at Sirus and feels okay, sort of.

Or he does, until some random teenager goes crashing into Sirus, knocking him to the floor, before beginning to shuffle away without apologising.

Spyro promises he won’t get mad at his friends, but this person isn't a friend, and his temper flares white-hot.

“Hey!” Spyro snaps, crouching next to Sirus, who’s doing some exaggerated death pose, before glaring at the teenager. Spyro can feel his hands balling into fists, because god, it has been so long since he’s started a fight. “Aren’t you going to apologise?”

The teenager sneers. “That’s rich coming from a Noctem.”

Before Spyro can even react, or throw a punch, or do anything, the teenager skates away.

The air freezes in Spyro’s lungs.

Even when his hair is tied up, when his scars are covered up, and when he’s wearing anything other than his signature black, he’s still recognisable. Does everyone in this roller rink notice him? Are they all watching him? Are they–

Spyro feels whatever response he was going to say evaporate into thin air. He growls, before deciding to not dwell on it, grabbing the unmoving Sirus and shaking him by the shoulders. The other man groans.

“It was sweet of you to defend me.” Sirus says, like it’s his final words. Spyro can feel himself going red, before he pouts.

“Yeah, well, it was the least I could’ve done.” Spyro says simply, before hoisting Sirus up with one arm. However, halfway through the movement, Spyro forgets he’s wearing roller skates, causing him to tumble to the ground, bringing Sirus with him.

He feels the polished wood smack against his back with a thud, causing him to heave a breath. Slowly, Sirus sits up, and Spyro looks up to see the other man’s eyes upon him. They glint with amusement, and for once, Spyro allows himself to reciprocate.

“I knew I’d fall on my ass.” Spyro grumbles, feeling stars dance around his head.

“It’s all part of the fun!” Sirus exclaims, pulling Spyro up, and succeeding. “Maybe that’s enough roller skating for one night,” Sirus pauses, before continuing. “How about we hit the arcade?”

Personally, Spyro has had enough of blaring lights and people and everything about this place. He wants to say no.

But he hasn’t had enough of Sirus. Maybe just this once, he’ll indulge the other man.

—

Sirus wastes no time in returning the skates to the front desk, before dragging Spyro into the adjacent arcade. The moment he steps inside, Spyro's senses are instantly attacked. He blinks, every single slot machine and arcade game blasting static into his ears. The chime of retro games, the erratic clicks of coin pushers, the sound of tickets cascading from a prize machine.

It's a lot.

Spyro exhales slowly, steadying himself – after all, he is sleep deprived – before his eyes flick to an air hockey table. He can spot a faint led strip under the base of the table, illuminating it in a soft glow.

They had one back in Nocturia. Spyro was the reigning champion.

“Sirus?” Spyro says. The other man’s hand twitches in his grasp, eyes darting between every single machine simultaneously, like he's mentally playing them all at once. Within an instant, the man’s attention is back on Spyro.

“Yesssssss?” Sirus answers with an almost devious grin.

Spyro tilts his chin to the air hockey machine. “Game?”

Sirus’s eyes narrow, his pupils lightning up like duel flames. “Oh, you’re on!”

Spyro doesn't hesitate, wasting no time in grabbing a mallet. He shoves an iron ingot into the money slot, watching in awe as the machine whirls to life. Sirus, on the other hand, is spinning the mallet in his hand like a swordsman about to go into battle.

“Prepare to lose, my friend.” Sirus says, a competitive glare in his eyes. Spyro tries to shoot back the same sentiment, but he can only feel himself softening from being called ‘friend’. He has to force himself to straighten his shoulders, trying to not let himself get caught off guard.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Spyro smirks mischievously. His plan is to make Sirus think he’s winning, only to catch him off guard. It's foolproof.

Spyro taps the puck lightly, sending it sliding toward Sirus in an almost lazy arc. A bluff, but fast enough for Sirus to not notice that he's playing dead.

The other man raises an eyebrow, before smacking it back with full force, the puck ricocheting against the walls multiple times before going into Spyro's goal.

Perfect.

“Rats.” Spyro says in mock exasperation, trying to mask his grin. He has Sirus exactly where he wants him.

Then, Spyro grabs the puck, before pounding it with the mallet at full force. It bounces around a couple of times, disorienting Sirus, before it goes straight into his goal.

“That's not fair!” Sirus says defensively. “You're cheating!”

Spyro smirks. “I think you mispronounced ‘being good’.”

From there on, it's an easy victory for Spyro. He makes countless scores into Sirus’s goal, eventually winning ten to one. Once it's over, he does a victory dance, whilst Sirus pouts like he's lost a war.

Sirus soon gets over it, though, and it's not long before Sirus is dragging him to all kinds of games – coin pushers, the dance machine, shooting games. For once, Spyro doesn't hear static ringing in his ears.

Even as they leave, Spyro thinks he would do it all again.

Chapter Text

When Spyro gets back to the castle, long after midnight, his first instinct isn’t to sleep.

His room has all the comforts he could ever need, in fact, it's a safe haven from the rest of the world. The soft light of candles provides a sanctuary of light that Spyro actually tolerates. The air is fresh with lavender, enough to make Spyro’s eyes droop. But that doesn't make it any easier to sleep in. Not when his hands burn with something not quite tangible, not when his chest feels like a void has been opened within it.

He pads the bed with a hand, as if testing the waters. But as soon as Spyro's fingers make contact with the plush bed, he feels a spark of pain, like the jolt of touching a live wire. Instinctively, he repels from the bed as if it were a magnet of the same pole, and Spyro has to keep all his energy to stop himself from collapsing.

The bed is rejecting him. Maybe Spyro should take it as a warning.

Because, truthly, he doesn’t want to ruin a good night with whatever horrors await him when he goes to sleep.

Spyro knows that Tenebris waits for him, like a demon stalking its prey. And for a moment, Spyro is back in Nocturia, or the Mushroom islands, or Element City.

“You’ve disappointed me.” It hisses, words ringing in his ears like static. But Spyro doesn’t have time to think of it, because he’s met with a stabbing pain in the chest, fire burning his disconnected nerves like static.

It only lasts for a split second, but Spyro thinks it promises a long and painful death. His hand makes its way to his chest, feeling the creasing of a scar under his shirt. He can’t necessarily feel anything wrong with it.

Spyro doesn't have to look at it. He's seen enough wounds and blood for a lifetime.

Spyro blinks, the warm light of his bedroom spilling into his eyes. He should be relaxed enough to sleep – he’s had one of the best evenings in a very, very long time. On the other hand, his dreams are far from inviting, and they’re enough to keep him far from his bed.

So, like the coward Spyro is, he turns on his heel, slippers padding softly against the oak floors. He wastes no time in slipping out of the room.

As he walks down the halls, Spyro can feel energy surge through his hands like a threat. It’s easily suppressed with the clench of a fist, but Spyro fears the day where that doesn’t work.

Spyro faintly becomes aware of a sound, uneven and fragile. His ears prick, the muffled noise barely audible over the silence of night. The sound is so very familiar – nostalgic, even – and it feels out of place in the steady calm of the castle.

Spyro freezes. It's the sound of crying.

The sound in itself is very faint, the owner of it likely shoving a hand against his mouth with intent. Spyro knows that endeavour far too well. After all, he's done so in many contexts.

However, Spyro can count the number of people who inhabit the castle on two hands, and if you pair it with the secrecy of it all, then Spyro is down to a few fingers. Briefly, Spyro wonders if Charlie has suffered from another nightmare, or if Stan has simply broken from a lack of breaks. But he thinks both thoughts to be morbidly misplaced, and decides the culprit is someone that hasn't dared to cross his mind.

Spyro shuffles towards the source of the sound, each measured step taking him closer to the castle’s balcony. And the closer he gets, the more audible it becomes – the fractured breaths grating sharply against the dead silence.

Spyro lets the light from the city, shining through the glass door, guide his steps. He presses a palm against the sliding door, peering outside.

He should turn back. Whoever's out there obviously doesn't want to talk, and the empathetic thing to do would be to leave them out there in peace. That's what Spyro would want, he thinks.

Spyro is a fool.

He continues squinting as he gazes on in the darkness, and Spyro briefly wonders if he's hallucinating. But slowly, he begins to see the outline of a figure, curled in on himself. In fact, it's someone Spyro never would have guessed.

Leonidas.

It's fucking Leonidas.

Spyro pulse spikes, and he practically shakes the copper door handle, not realising how sliding doors work. The metal rattles, and it only provides a warning to Leonidas, who jerks back like a scared cat at the sound.

Spyro twists his hands around the door, eventually figuring out the mechanism, and shoving the door open with all his weight. Not a moment later, and he's sat opposite Leonidas, who's done a good job of clearing himself up.

“Leonidas?” Spyro asks in the softest voice he can muster, trying to twist his head to get a good look at the other man. Leonidas only stares back, but Spyro can see the redness in his eyes, only illuminated by the shine of the moon above.

“O-oh. Hey Spyro.” Leonidas says flatly, grinning. It doesn’t take an emotionally intelligent person to know it’s forced.

Spyro wants to blurt out the words ‘I heard you crying, so don’t you dare even think to lie to me’, but they die at the bottom of his throat. If Spyro did that, the chances are that Leonidas would rather deny it or run than talk to him.

Spyro knows from his own experiences.

“What are ya doin’ up?” Leonidas asks, voice incredibly hoarse. It’s painful to Spyro’s ears, but he can’t quite find the heart to cringe. “Ya should be asleep.”

Spyro pauses. For a moment, he tries to think of what Charlie would do, because he seems to be closer to Leonidas than anyone. But Spyro is hardly a master at putting himself in other people’s shoes, and so he tries his own approach.

“Because you’re definitely sleeping peacefully out here.” Spyro says sarcastically, clenching the armrest of the spruce chair. His nails leave indentations in the wood, but Spyro thinks Stan has enough money to replace them.

Leonidas doesn’t respond to that. The other man gazes off at the skyline, like he hadn’t even noticed Spyro talking. Now, Spyro has the right to be concerned.

“Leonidas?” Spyro repeats, static clinging to his words. He forces himself to swallow the feeling down, because there’s no way in hell he’s blowing something up or shooting lightning in the air with Leonidas around. Not in this state.

Leonidas jolts upright, almost falling off his chair. Spyro would laugh if the man didn’t look so scared.

“Huh?” Leonidas says absentmindedly, gripping the base of the chair with a death grip. Spyro only casts an expectant look, like Leonidas might talk if he simply stares enough.

Leonidas’s eye twitches.

“Spyro, ya should go back to sleep.” Leonidas says softly, hunching over himself. It’s a defensive pose that Spyro would never quite associate with someone like Leonidas, and all it does is confirm a hundred thoughts Spyro should already know to be true.

Something is wrong.

“So should you,” Spyro says, perhaps a little harshly. “But let’s face it, you’re not sleeping tonight, and neither am I.”

Leonidas shifts uncomfortably, biting his lip. “Nah, I’m headin’ back to sleep, uh, right now!”

His attempt to sound enthusiastic just sounds broken, like an old scratched record that used to play good music. However, Leonidas gets up anyways, face crumpled like it’s moments from breaking. It’s only then when Spyro realises the situation is slipping from his hands, and he’s doing a shit job of helping, and all he’s doing is driving the other man into hiding and–

“The sky looks uh, nice tonight.” Spyro murmurs, catching the attention of the standing man. Leonidas jolts his head to look back, like Spyro has lost his mind.

“I guess.” Leonidas says, sounding lifeless.

Spyro tries hopelessly to read the other man’s face. “I guess I didn’t really have time to appreciate the sky back in Nocturia.”

Spyro’s attempt at empathy just makes Leonidas tense up like a statue.

“I think ya need to go to sleep, Spyro.” Leonidas says slowly, eyes ever so slightly glossy. He goes to shift back into his chair, but he doesn’t look any more comfortable.

“I thought you were going to sleep.” Spyro says, eyes narrowing. He watches as Leonidas’s face screws up with bafflement, like he had forgotten he had said that.

“I uh, I changed my mind?” Leonidas says, voice sounding miserably confused. “I can be pretty darn indecisive sometimes.”

Spyro can feel his frustration boiling like static in his chest. Briefly, he wonders what’s stopping Leonidas from opening up to him. Maybe he’s just a useless shoulder to cry on. Maybe Leonidas doesn't think he can handle the burden.

“Well, do you mind if I stay?” Spyro tries to sound as caring as possible, but he thinks he falls slightly short. “I don’t really plan on sleeping, heh.”

Leonidas looks at Spyro like he’s silently pleading for him to leave, but unfortunately for him, Spyro is the most stubborn person in the world.

“Fine.” Leonidas mumbles in defeat, turning away from Spyro. There’s a beat of tense silence.

“Are you alright?” Spyro asks quietly, suddenly feeling small. Tentatively, he digs his hands into the sleeve of his hoodie, like it may make this conversation any easier.

“Never better! Why wouldn't I be?” Leonidas grins, but it seems so very, very fake.

Spyro just stares. After much consideration, he reaches a hand towards Leonidas, but the other man only caves away from the touch.

“There's no need to look at me like that, kid,” Leonidas reassures, but Spyro hears the wetness in his voice, and the sniffle he tries to hide with a cough. “I think you're just tired and imaginin’ things.”

Spyro can feel emotions slipping from his fingers like grains of sand. “You're talking out of your arse, Leonidas.”

“Woah, who taught ya such bad words?” Leonidas asks in a cheery tone, like it's some kind of joke. Spyro can sense the deflection from a mile and a half away. It’s so blatantly obvious that Spyro almost wants to deflect the conversation back onto its correct course.

“You did, Leonidas.” Spyro states, but he doesn't laugh.

“Oh yeah, I did, didn't I?” Leonidas laughs, but it sounds so very broken. Spyro's eyes draw a pattern across Leonidas, watching intently at every slight movement. The moonlight spills a sickly shadow on the other man, and the shadows cast under his eyes only seem darker than usual.

“Just–just know you can talk to me, man.” Spyro says, voice too gruff to sound comforting. Perhaps he should have quit whilst he was ahead. All he’s doing is making everything worse. He’s an idiot to think he could help anybody.

“Where’s this comin’ from?” Leonidas asks, clearly still playing dumb until it kills him. That’s fine, Spyro thinks, two can play at this game.

“I heard you crying, Leonidas!” Spyro shouts angrily, like a parent chastising their child. His chest aches. “And don’t you even dare deny it!”

Leonidas blinks, sniffling. He simply stares at Spyro, like a criminal caught committing a crime. For a moment, he doesn’t move, sitting like a deer in headlights. Spyro briefly wonders if he’s broken him. The beat of silence is almost enough for static to curl up Spyro’s hands, promising a terrible fate.

“Maybe I just had somethin’ in my eye.” Leonidas says, shoulders stiffening. Spyro can feel emotions burn in his throat, and a voice in his head telling him to just let it go – but Spyro is far more stubborn than people give him credit for.

“Leonidas.” Spyro says firmly, before sitting up straighter in his chair, and reaching an arm to Leonidas’s shoulder.

“Fine! I was cryin’!” Leonidas shouts, eyes watering. “I just, I just don’t wanna talk about it, alright?”

Static whirls in his brain like a shitty air conditioner.

“Hypocrite.” Spyro bites. Leonidas jolts in his chair like he’s taken aback.

“I–how?” Leonidas asks quietly, not meeting Spyro’s eyes.

“You’re always telling me that I can talk to you! Why doesn’t that work both ways?” Spyro continues, doing a shoddy job of hiding his frustration. “Why? I’m not a useless kid, y’know! I have a damn brain! I have empathy!”

“Spyro.” Leonidas says firmly, for once sounding honest. “Ya have enough on your plate–”

“I knew it!” Spyro snaps, heart rising to his throat. “You think I'm too troubled to listen to you!”

“I didn’t mean it like that…” Leonidas mutters, voice cracking. “Ya just shouldn’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m worrying about you either way, man,” Spyro admits, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Because like it or not, but I care about you.”

There's an unsteady beat of silence. Spyro's pulse makes its home in the muscle of his throat.

“But I've hurt ya.” Leonidas looks off into the distance, and Spyro growls. So what if Leonidas has hurt him? That is in the past now, Spyro swears. There's absolutely no reason to bring that back up.

Spyro can feel frustration boiling in his gut, twisting him apart from within. He sighs, and after a futile attempt to meet the other man's eyes, opens his mouth to speak.

“Yeah, you have.” Spyro admits, and Leonidas jolts upwards.

“I–” Leonidas begins, and he sounds so distraught that Spyro cuts him off before he can continue.

“But I've hurt you. Much worse, too,” Spyro continues. “And you forgive me, so why doesn't that logic apply to yourself?”

“Because– because I’ve done horrible things.” Leonidas says in defeat, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“So have I–” Spyro starts, but Leonidas cuts him off.

“It's my fault they're dead,” Leonidas mumbles at the bottom of his breath. “I'm a damn monster.”

Spyro doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know if there's anything that he can do.

“Don’t you dare call yourself a monster.” Spyro commands, harsh but kind. “You know the real monsters are Tenebris, or Caesar, or Dra–”

Spyro's voice catches on something. For once, he knows why.

“They called me ‘sacred one’.” Leonidas murmurs absentmindedly, seemingly not paying attention to a single word that's come out of Spyro's mouth. “Some sacred one I am.”

Leonidas laughs. Spyro feels delirious.

“Leonidas, I–” Spyro tries to reach a hand towards Leonidas, which is a massive mistake. The other man only jerks away from the touch, glaring at Spyro with tears in his eyes.

“Spyro, ya need to leave – go back to sleep or somethin’ – ya shouldn't have to deal with this, you're–”

Spyro feels the last string holding his together break in half.

“Don't you dare brush me off, Leonidas,” Spyro's voice is firm, or harsh – he can't tell, the world is going too fast. “You think you’ve done shitty things? So have I! If there's anyone here who gets it, it's me! Remember, the guy who almost blew you all up! So you can talk to me!”

Leonidas blinks, tears falling down his face. Spyro tries to extend a hand of comfort, but the other man shrinks away from the touch.

“Ya remember the attack on those villagers?” Leonidas asks, shoulders sagging. Spyro can feel nausea rising up his gut. He remembers the corpses, the green, sickly faces, dragging them back to Nocturia–

“Yeah, I do.” Spyro mumbles, not knowing what this has to do anything.

Leonidas breathes. It's so shaky that it almost scares Spyro.

“They were my family, or uh, like family.” Leonidas admits, water dripping onto his jumper. Maybe it's what Leonidas says, or how broken he looks, but something about it makes Spyro seriously uncomfortable.

Spyro hurt Leonidas’s family. He dragged their corpses to the Alliance. He did that to Leonidas's family.

Guilt gnaws at him like an old friend.

He's not used to such emotions. Well, maybe his own. But even then, he seldom felt anything but rage until less than a week ago. He doesn't really know how to deal with people crying.

“Leonidas–”

“I was s’posed to p-protect them,” Leonidas rambles on, digging his hands into his sleeves, tears continuing to messily fall down his face. “A-and all I did was kill their golem and leave them defenceless.”

Leonidas practically sinks into his chair, boneless. Spyro doesn’t know what to say. His words can’t fix this.

“H-how can Mella still look at me when I'm the reason her husband died?” Leonidas chokes out in a strained voice, eyes watering. His hand digs into the armrest of the chair like it's a lifeline.

The name rings a bell in Spyro's head. He remembers asking her to tell him her name with a gleeful smile. Something claws up his throat – guilt, maybe nausea – it's all the same sickening feeling to Spyro.

“It's not your fault,” Spyro mumbles, but he doubts his words are reassuring. “You—it was Tenebris's fault.”

“Yeah, but–” Leonidas tries, but Spyro shuts him down before he can begin.

“You didn't know the Noctem Alliance was going to plan an attack on your family. You can't predict time, Leonidas,” Spyro looks away, glaring at the stars above, and wondering if he would be this forgiving towards himself. “How about you try being fucking fair to yourself?”

Leonidas jerks his head up, as though, for once, he's paying close attention to Spyro's words.

“I know, I know,” Leonidas says, and Spyro thinks Leonidas has already had this lecture before. “I'm just– it's been a year, almost, and, and I should be over this.”

“Leonidas, I–” Spyro starts, before words begin messily cascading out of his mouth. “–I’ll be honest, man. It’s never not going to hurt.”

Leonidas raises an eyebrow, using a hand to scrub the tears of his face. “What?”

“It’s something you did,” Spyro says slowly, for once carefully picking his words. “And you’re never going to… forget it, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

“Spyro,” Leonidas starts, eyebrows furrowed. “I–I know that.”

“I know you do, but look,” Spyro tries again, even though he probably should have got Charlie or anyone better with words a long time ago. “You can’t go back in time and change things, so you may as well accept that it happened and forgive yourself.”

Spyro doesn’t know what has possessed him to say such things. He’d never tell himself the same things.

“Spyro–”

“And I know you know it, but you need to fucking hear it.” Spyro says firmly, and it’s only then that Leonidas begins bawling his eyes out.

Spyro attempts to put a consoling hand on Leonidas’s shoulder, and for once, the other man doesn’t try to back away. Instead, he practically collapses into Spyro, resting his head just under Spyro’s shoulder.

Spyro can safely say he’s grossed out by how damp his hoodie seems to be getting, but he thinks he’ll make an exception for Leonidas. He's sure there will be times in the future where the roles are reversed, if Spyro keeps having nightmares like he does now.

“I’m horrible.” Leonidas mumbles defeatedly, voice choked by sobs. The words sound so strange coming from Leonidas’s mouth.

“Leonidas, quit being a fucking idiot,” Spyro says, shifting slightly to accommodate Leonidas’s dead weight. “You’ve made a few mistakes, sure. But you’re far from horrible.”

“But I–” Leonidas attempts to retort, but Spyro is already hushing him.

“Leonidas, you are one of the kindest, friendliest people I know,” Spyro says bluntly. “You’re not horrible, not like–”

Spyro wants to say ‘Not like me,’ but he figures a self depreciating rant isn’t what Leonidas needs. Instead, he lets his voice trail off, softened by the ambience of night.

“But I–” Leonidas starts, hands threatening to tear the fabric of Spyro's hoodie.

“But you feel guilty, and someone who feels remorse isn't horrible.” Spyro counters, and Leonidas looks away. That logic might not apply to himself, but it applies to Leonidas. It always applied to Leonidas.

Leonidas says something, but it's muffled by Spyro’s hoodie.

“What was that?” Spyro asks very softly. With luck, Leonidas may finally pull away, and stop drenching one of Spyro’s only decent hoodies.

“I’ve done so many bad things—he hates me, I just know it,” Leonidas mumbles, like Spyro is somehow supposed to know who he’s talking about. “I’m such an ass, how could he ever–”

“Who doesn’t like you?” Spyro prods gently. Finally, he may be getting to the root of what this is all about.

Leonidas doesn’t say anything for a beat, before detaching himself from Spyro, and straightening up.

“Charlie.” Leonidas says after a moment. Spyro blinks, thinking the other man to be insane. Is he seriously comparing the potential of Charlie not liking him to the tragic death of his family?

“What are you talking about?” Spyro says in an almost accusing tone. “Charlie likes everyone – well, most people – heck, he even tolerates me!”

“Not in that way.” Leonidas states, looking away. His cheeks look slightly red. Probably from crying so much, Spyro thinks.

“Then in what way?” Spyro asks, getting slightly frustrated with how vague Leonidas is being.

Leonidas presses his hands against his head, looking like he might die. “No, I mean, I like him in the—that way.”

“Which means…?” Spyro is so fucking confused, and Leonidas’s cryptic messages aren’t making it any easier.

“Do I really have to spell it out for ya?” Leonidas mumbles in dread.

“Yes.” Spyro says, without missing a beat.

The other man sighs, hunching over himself like it may protect him.

“Romantically, Spyro.” Leonidas admits with a groan. It answers one question, but only leaves more unanswered questions.

“Well, why didn't you just say– wait,” Spyro can feel his voice shrink, and he practically merges with the chair. “Guys can like other guys?”

“Yeah.” Leonidas has the look of a man who's moments away from spontaneously combusting. It'd almost be entertaining, but the other man's eyes are still red and puffy and Spyro can't quite see past that.

“Oh.”

Leonidas shifts uncomfortably, eyes watering once more.

“Wait, so, this is what you're upset about?” Spyro asks, confused. He doesn't think having a crush on Charlie of all people warrants crying. “Why is liking Charlie so bad? I can think of worse people to like.”

Leonidas’s shoulders lock up, like a gun about to go off. “It ain't that simple.”

“Why not?” Spyro tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Is Charlie not a… man lover?”

“He is,” Leonidas murmurs, cracking a very thin smile. “And the term is gay, Spyro.”

“Oh,” Spyro says dumbly. “But if he is, then what’s your problem?”

“Oh, come on, Spyro!” Leonidas says, eyes watering once more. “Do you really think Charlie would like me back? I hunted people down for a livin’! I left my own family out for slaughter! I did so many bad things – I almost killed him – multiple times!”

“Leonidas–” Spyro says, like a shoddy attempt to defuse the growing bomb in front of him.

“Charlie is one of the kindest people I know,” Leonidas says in a mournful drawl. “He deserves better than me.”

Spyro doesn’t quite know what to say or do. How can he convince Leonidas he’s worthy of love when he can’t even do the same for himself?

“Leonidas, you’re kind too,” Spyro says softly. “Maybe you did bad things, but I think Charlie sees more in you than those things.”

Leonidas’s eyes water once more.

“Then he’s an idiot!” Leonidas shouts, words ricocheting off the walls and into the array of stars that hang heavy in the sky. It’s almost deafening.

There’s a beat of silence that Spyro can't quite bring himself to fill. Then, he exhales, carefully picking his words.

“Charlie is not an idiot,” Spyro simply says, ignoring how Leonidas looks moments away from crying again. “And Charlie wouldn’t know what to fucking do without you, even I can see that! You’re practically – I dunno – the pepper to his salt!”

Leonidas, despite how glossy his eyes look, snorts. “Never thought I’d live to see the day where ya use a metaphor.”

“I can come up with more!” Spyro growls, like it’s a challenge. “He’s like the sun to your moon, the water to your fire, the–”

“I get it!” Leonidas says, looking beyond mortified – something Spyro thought he'd live to see.

“Then why are you sitting here crying instead of telling him that?” Spyro asks, genuinely confused.

“Because! Even if he doesn’t completely h-hate me, I don’t want to ruin whatever friendship we do have,” Leonidas says, looking at the stars like they may provide solace. “He’ll never love me back, and if I tell him, things would just be awkward, and– and he’ll just look at me differently.”

“Maybe…” Spyro mumbles. Love advice definitely isn’t his strong suit. He’s never really felt the emotion like that before. “But you still have no excuse to mope by yourself.”

Leonidas huffs. It sounds wet.

For once, Spyro feels present enough to realise how cold it is on the balcony. Perhaps his mind was running on autopilot until now.

“We should get inside.” Spyro suggests. Leonidas pouts.

“I like it out here.” Leonidas mumbles, and Spyro wonders when Leonidas was so damn petty.

“If we go inside,” Spyro starts, because he will bargain if it means he doesn't have to sit in the biting cold. It's too reminiscent of his evenings in Nocturia. “I’ll make you ice cream.”

He always hears about how people eat ice cream when they’re rejected by their love interest. Perhaps it’s exactly what Leonidas needs.

“Ice cream?” Leonidas blurts like an overexcited child. It’s almost endearing, and also the Leonidas he knows and loves.

“Chocolate ice cream.” Spyro says, hands in his pockets. Leonidas practically jumps out of his seat, taking Spyro by the hand, and dragging him away from the balcony.

––

The halls of Element castle at night are better when you have company, Spyro realises.

Leonidas keeps up the commentary as they walk, ranting about how long it’s been since he’s had a scoop of ice cream. For once, Spyro doesn’t think of the shadows dancing around the room, nor does he think there’s something lurking in the distance, out to get him.

In short, things are generally better with Leonidas around.

Spyro leads Leonidas to one of the smaller kitchens – Spyro has figured the castle has around five or six total, including the grand kitchen that Spyro seldom uses. Thankfully, this one is different from the one earlier, so he doesn’t have to be reminded of the explosion of his own creation.

Instead, he’s met with spruce counters and vines growing down the windows. On the ledge, potted flowers sit, providing a crown around the furnace. Spyro knows there’s an ice cream maker around here somewhere.

After many cupboards are opened, he finally finds the metal machine, and wastes no time in placing it on the counter with a thud. Then, Spyro plugs it in, ignoring the jolt of electricity he feels running up his hands as he does.

From there, he grabs his premade chocolate ice cream mix from the freezer, hands curling around the container. It’s damp with condensation, and so Spyro wastes no time in opening it. Spyro allows himself a moment to smell the sweet cocoa, before scraping it into the machine, and turning it on. Whilst waiting, he casts a glance at Leonidas. It’s still clear that he’s been crying, eyes tinted a blood red, but he does look beyond excited at the idea of ice cream, so Spyro thinks he can look past it.

The other man shoves himself into one of the spruce chairs of the two seater table, and Spyro, realising the ice cream could take a while to churn, joins him.

“So, What were ya doin’ awake, anyways?” Leonidas asks genuinely, and Spyro tenses. Never did he think this conversation would shift to him. Leonidas is the one that Spyro should be getting concerned over, not the other way around.

“Couldn't sleep.” Spyro murmurs. It lacks truth though, because he never even tried.

“Did ya not have a good evenin’ with Sirus?” Leonidas asks, not relenting. Spyro represses the urge to growl.

“It was fine. Sirus made sure of that.” Spyro says flatly. It’s not that he had a bad time, in fact, it was one of the best evenings Spyro has had in months. But now, it feels like a lifetime ago, and Spyro has since had other things to think about.

“Then what are ya doin’ up?” Leonidas asks curiously. “You’re as bad as me, sometimes.”

Spyro doesn’t let himself dwell too long on what that could mean for Leonidas.

He shrugs his shoulders. “Just didn’t want to.”

“Ya just didn’t want to carry out somethin’ needed for survival, huh?” Leonidas says dryly. Spyro considers grabbing the ice cream machine and whacking it against Leonidas’s stupid head.

“Well I don’t see you carrying out that very same function ‘needed for survival’, Leonidas.” Spyro retorts, and Leonidas goes quiet after that. Spyro smirks at rendering Leonidas speechless.

The only thing Spyro can hear is the whirl of the ice cream machine, and it’s only then when he realises how drowsy he feels.

His legs burn with fatigue from roller skating, like a reminder of his thrillful night. But above it all, his chest aches from a certain stabbing. It's like the blade is still lodged between his ribs.

It’s strange. By now, the wound should be healing.

But it’s nothing in comparison to blowing things up with his mind, or making objects spontaneously appear in his hands. Those are the concerning things, the things that Spyro has tried to hide from, like the coward he is.

He doesn’t want to admit he’s somehow made himself into the next Tenebris by stabbing himself with his sword.

And then Spyro looks at Leonidas. The other man looks out of the window, tapping his fingers against the spruce wood table with a rhythmic pattern.

It’s only then when it dawns on Spyro that he stabbed Leonidas with that very same sword. And all it takes is for that thought to send his mind down a dark path, like a derailing train.

If Leonidas didn’t get Tenebris’s powers, then why did he?

Perhaps it’s a cruel twist of fate, or a cosmic joke played at his expense, or perhaps a chemical imbalance – because Spyro’s homeostasis is well and truly fucked. Or maybe the sword didn’t go deep enough into Leondas’s skin or–

Or perhaps it was a last resort. Maybe Tenebris always knew that If Stan won, he would give the sword away to the Alliance. And if Tenebris were to die, who would he want to carry out his mission?

Drake, Spyro thinks. But Drake is rotting six feet under in a lava pool somewhere, and like one of life’s cruel turns, Spyro took his place.

But weren’t Tenebris’s powers taken from power from the servers? There’s no way in hell that Spyro could ever generate that much power from his own body alone. No average person could.

Maybe there’s a reason why his powers only spike when his adrenaline – his own energy source – is high.

Spyro feels nauseous.

“Spyro,” Leonidas says softly, but it snaps him out of his thoughts all the same. “I think the ice cream’s done.”

“O-oh,” Spyro can feel his voice crack, and he doesn’t quite know why. “Two ice creams coming up!”

He forces himself out of the chair, ignoring how his legs feel numb like jelly, before heading over to the machine, and scooping the ice cream out of it. He wastes no time in distributing it between two bowls, before heading back, shoving one bowl in front of Leonidas and keeping one for himself.

Leonidas instantly digs his spoon into the ice cream and wastes no time in devouring it like a wild animal. Spyro watches, fascinated as to how the man doesn't have an instant brain freeze. Spyro gazes for a moment longer, before exhaling a content hum. Unlike Leonidas, Spyro simply takes a spoon and takes a small bite of ice cream, ignoring how it bites against his teeth.

“This,” Leonidas starts, holding up the bowl as if it's some kind of prize. “Is the best ice cream I've ever had.”

Spyro feels his face contort with embarrassment, and he tries to laugh in the most humble way possible.

“It was nothing.” Spyro says, rubbing his neck. His eyes meet the window, and he can see faint light from the rising sun.

Another sleepless night. What else is new?

“It's not ‘nothing’,” Leonidas says, doing a shitty impression of Spyro's accent. “It's about time ya start givin’ yourself more credit.”

Spyro shrugs his shoulders.

But he doesn't believe the words. The only plausible explanation is that Leonidas is lying to him, pretending Spyro can make good food. And Leonidas is either doing it to save his ego – because what else is Spyro good at besides cooking? Either that, or it's a trap.

Spyro doesn't know if that's a rational thought. It doesn't really matter, because it's believable regardless.

“You mean it?” Spyro asks, feeling small. “You're not just lying to make me feel better about myself?”

Leonidas blinks, like he's taken aback.

“Spyro,” Leonidas says, sounding dead serious. “I wouldn't be eatin’ this if it tasted like shit, man.”

Spyro doesn't really have anything to say to that. Perhaps it was a mistake to ask. He simply looks to the ground, silently wishing Leonidas would change the subject as quickly as it started. However, the other man simply grabs his shoulders, shaking him.

“Your food is good, man. You're the best cook I know.” Leonidas says, like it's a mantra.

“What are you doing?” Spyro says, wishing Leonidas would stop shaking him backwards and forwards.

“Positive affirmations.” Leonidas says simply, Spyro raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“I don't need any ‘positive affirmations’, Leonidas.” Spyro says, even though it's only a half truth, or not a truth in the slightest.

Validation is something he's been deprived of, after all. Tenebris didn't exactly care about employee of the month or anything like that – only failure of the month, and they were all failures, and all paid the price.

“Spyro.” Leonidas says. He's stopped shaking Spyro – thank god – but his hand still rests on Spyro's shoulders.

“I know.” Spyro says quietly. He doesn't need a lecture on how to love himself right now.

Sunlight floods through the window, a signal that night has since ended. It should feel warm – comforting – but it only sharpens the dull ache behind Spyro's eyes. He wishes he could say that he feels refreshed.

“Man, I'm worn,” Leonidas says offhandedly. “Ya like coffee?”

Spyro hates the stuff. It's far too bitter for his tastes. Somehow, he thinks he could use the caffeine boost, though. He'd rather not pass out whilst cooking breakfast.

“Yeah,” Spyro says simply, wondering where this conversation is heading. “There's no coffee beans in this kitchen though.”

“Well,” Leonidas starts, standing up from his chair. “Don’t ya worry, I’ll hunt down some coffee beans! My treat.”

Spyro nods, and all it takes is that signal for Leonidas to abruptly leave the room. Spyro thinks the man will never not be strange.

For a moment, Spyro sits at the table, hands clenched into fists. Morning has come quicker than he anticipated.

Tonight has just been a lot, and Spyro is very, very tired.

“Fuck.” He murmurs under his breath, standing up, and curling his hands around the table like it may provide him solace.

It doesn't, and Spyro's brain just keeps winding with thoughts and ideas and the fact that Leonidas is just as weak as he is and—

Spyro doesn't know what he idolised in the man. There's no strength there, not really.

Spyro spent months trying to be just like him. He had always wanted to be as tough as the great General Leonidas. But Leonidas isn't that much better off than Spyro. Maybe he never was. Spyro was – is – a fool to think that Leonidas was so perfect.

Suddenly, Spyro pounds his fist against the table. It's not at all thought out, and pain shoots through his nerves within an instant. It doesn't stop his thoughts, nor does it stop the urge to punch again.

“Fuck!” Spyro bites, slamming his fist against spruce wood once more. That’s when Spyro hears a low rumbling.

Before Spyro can even process it, spikes of jagged obsidian erupt from the floor, coming close to piercing him in the heart. He heaves a breath, staggering backwards.

‘Of course! Because life isn't difficult enough!’ Spyro thinks bitterly, panting. His heartbeat pulses through his ears with the rush of adrenaline, and within a moment, the obsidian pillars sink back to whatever hell they came from.

Spyro begins to walk away from the scene, wanting nothing more than to stop thinking about it, before a voice startles him out of his thoughts.

“Spyro?” Charlie says. It's only then when Spyro jerks his head up and realises that the man is standing at the doorway, and probably has been for long enough to witness that.

Spyro doesn't respond. Words freeze in his throat.

“What was that?” Charlie asks, and it's all the confirmation that Spyro needs to know he's fucked.

Chapter Text

Spyro tenses, nausea coiling in his gut – like a snake is wrapping around his ribs. His pulse falters, like he's a moment away from flat-lining. Charlie simply stands opposite, like a deer in headlights.

There's a beat of tense silence.

Spyro watches as the other man raises a hand to scrub at his eyes. Charlie squints a couple of times, blinking hard. He's probably debating on whether what he's just seen is real or fake, if Spyro could guess.

He's a coin flip away from Charlie figuring it all out.

“Spyro? Did you just do that?” Charlie asks placidly. Despite it, it's clear his voice is still thick from the sort of groggy feeling you get after just waking up.

There's no accusation in the tone, just a simple question. Maybe, if Spyro plays his cards right, he can convince Charlie that it was simply a figment of his imagination. Maybe, things might work out in his favour, maybe–

“Do what?” Spyro asks after a moment of hesitation. He pins his hands behind his own back, the burning of sparks like whiplash.

Charlie tilts his head like a confused dog.

“We both saw those obsidian pillars rise from the ground,” Charlie says slowly. “Did we not?”

His pulse hammers an unsteady beat in his ears. He pinches his lips together, staggering one step backwards.

Spyro is a liar. The Noctem Alliance has taught him well.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Spyro says, like a string of code. He doesn't know any better, but he knows the words are too stiff, too orchestrated. “I think you need to go back to sleep, man.”

“Are you sure you're telling the truth?” Charlie says firmly, but somehow, it's not harsh. “I doubt that I'm imagining things.”

Spyro grits his teeth. He heaves a breath. “I'm telling the truth, and I don't have a damn clue what you're talking about.”

“Look, I just want an honest answer,” Charlie says, more softly. “Did I just imagine that? Am I hallucinating?”

“Yes!” Spyro barks. It comes out far harsher than he intended.

Charlie twitches. His mouth drops into a mindless gawk. That's when guilt twists in Spyro's chest. He has to stop himself from doubling over.

“Really?” Charlie asks, and Spyro has a way out. He could just tell the truth, and everything would just end. But the truth hurts, and as if on cue, Spyro can feel lightning spark from somewhere within him.

Charlie barely misses the bolt of lightning, practically falling to the ground. Spyro can feel his shoulders lock up, can feel his breath hitch, can feel something hot stir an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

“Spyro–” Charlie starts, pulling himself back up.

“You're being rather jumpy today, aren't you?” Spyro says, laughing nervously. “Why exactly did you throw yourself to the floor?”

Charlie huffs. “Spyro, don't try to gaslight me.”

Spyro can feel his heart rising up to his throat. It takes a harsh swallow to push it down. Charlie is going to find him out–

“I have absolutely no clue what you're talking about, Charlie!” Spyro's voice is bordering on an unholy high pitch. “How bad did you sleep last night?”

“Spyro, I slept fine last night,” Charlie states, and Spyro can feel a stare of scrutiny blazing through his chest, picking apart every flaw. “I know I'm not imaging lightning and blocks, and I know for a fact you can see them too.”

“Well, maybe you're just losing it, Charlie!” Spyro barks, static buzzing white noise in his ears, layering over anything else Charlie says. “Maybe you're just completely deluded!”

Maybe it's harsh. Maybe it's better than Charlie finding the monster that lies within Spyro.

“Your words only prove my point, you know.” Charlie sounds oddly calm for someone who almost got struck by lightning. Spyro, on the other hand, can feel his head swimming with lies and half baked notions.

“It's clear you're hiding something,” Charlie continues on, painfully slow. “Your voice is weird, you're tense. And if you thought I was imagining something, I don't think you'd be trying to antagonise me.”

Damn Charlie, always able to read him like an open book.

He knows that Charlie is sure of his own judgement, and there's nothing Spyro can do to change it. That doesn't stop his heart jerking painfully in his chest, nor does it stop the words that flow from Spyro's tongue.

“I have no idea what you're talking about!” Spyro's voice tethers something frantic, and static burns his throat.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Charlie’s voice lowers. “You’re hiding your hands behind your back, too.”

Spyro shakes his hands in front of him for a mere moment. Not enough for Charlie to notice the boiling heat emitting from them.

“My hands are damn fine!” Spyro seethes, frustration burning a sinkhole in his stomach. “Why won’t you just believe me?”

“Because you’re clearly lying!” Charlie exclaims, raising a hand above his head in exasperation, the other gripped tightly against his cane.

“You’ve lost it Charlie!” Spyro shouts back in a last ditch attempt. “I’m not creating obsidian pillars or whatever, I’m not shooting lightning, and my hands aren’t boiling hot!”

Charlie blinks.

“I never mentioned your hands being hot.” Charlie states. Checkmate.

Fuck.

Spyro feels his pulse come to a halt. “I– I–”

He’s going to be killed or locked up or–

“Spyro–”

“Guess who found the coffee beans!” Leonidas exclaims, barging in through the door. Charlie instantly whips around, and Spyro feels his breath hitch. For safety, he shoots Charlie a desperate glance, and he can see the man's eyes soften, if only for a moment.

“I–” Spyro starts, before loosening his shoulders, trying to take a deep breath. If Charlie knows what’s best for him, he won’t try to pursue this conversation with Leonidas around. “You got the beans, then?”

Spyro practically slaps himself for repeating something Leonidas already said, but he's lagging behind. Spyro can safely say he feels like a glitch – a flaw in the code, something that was never meant to be there. He bites his lip and pretends he said nothing.

Leonidas places the bag of coffee beans onto the counter with a grunt. The aroma is something too rich, too bittersweet, but Spyro thinks it may be his only saving grace. Besides, there's nothing a dash of milk can't fix.

“Two coffees, then?” Spyro asks, looking at Leonidas in curiosity. He knows Charlie doesn't like the stuff – something about how it makes him too jittery – and only drinks it sparingly.

Now, however, Leonidas doesn't seem so set on the coffee. In fact, his eyes remain on Charlie's, practically fawning over the man. Spyro can see the redness on his cheeks from almost halfway across the room.

Charlie has to nudge Leonidas, the man clearly not paying attention to a word Spyro is saying. The man jolts upright, before answering.

“I’ll pass,” Leonidas drawls, before turning to face Charlie, grinning like a fool. He bounces on the balls of his feet in silence, before opening his mouth to continue. “Ya uh, ya know the castle gardens look pretty at this time of day.”

Charlie’s eyes narrow. “It’s the middle of autumn, Leonidas. Half the plants are wilted.”

“I uh, well– there’s uh, somethin’ nice about them,” Leonidas stammers. For some reason, his attempts to flirt with Charlie somehow settles the nausea in Spyro’s gut. “It’s… uh, comfortin’ to know I’m not a dead plant.”

Charlie eyes Spyro, the other shooting a look of sheer desperation.

“Do you think you could wait a couple of hours?” Charlie says, eyes flickering between Spyro and Leonidas before eventually settling on Spyro. “I have something I need to sort out.”

Leonidas's face drops like a sad puppy. His eyes are still blatantly red, Spyro notices. He wonders if Charlie has noticed too.

“If ya don’t want to hang out, ya can just say it to my face, y’know.” Leonidas says, turning away.

Spyro watches, mug in hand, as Charlie casts a baffled look.

“Leonidas, I didn’t say that–”

Charlie takes a step closer to Leonidas, but the other man shies away from the touch like it's poison. Spyro glares awkwardly at the pair, somehow thinking he shouldn't be seeing this. When he tries to move, he discovers his legs are nothing more than a block of lead, solid and unmoving.

“It’s fine,” Leonidas says, grinning something fragile. “It’s fine, it was a dumb idea anyways.”

Charlie grabs Leonidas's hand in what seems to be a split second of impulse, but Leonidas quickly brushes the man off, eyes glossy.

Spyro thinks that Charlie has simply dug a knife in an already deep wound.

“Leonidas–” Charlie growls in frustration, but his words are cut off by the man swooping out of the room quicker than he arrived.

For a moment, Charlie stands still, looking like a deer in headlights. His head tilts between the door where Leonidas left and Spyro, whose grip on his mug is bordering on something deathly tight. Even through Spyro's bleary eyes, he can tell the man doesn't know which disaster to clean up first.

Spyro thinks it's a cruel position to be in, stuck between two sides. He knows the feeling all too well.

Eventually though, Charlie does decide. His hands still twitch, but he sighs, eyes eventually settling on the door.

Charlie's bias bleeds something blatantly obvious. For once, Spyro doesn't mind.

“I need to sort something out,” Charlie blurts, quickly looking back at Spyro. “Look, I just–”

Charlie sighs, twitching nervously in a way that uncannily reminds Spyro of a caged animal.

“I’ll be back, and this conversation is not over,” Charlie says, casting yet another worried glance at the door. Spyro can feel his nails biting into the heavy ceramic of the mug. “I'll find you later.”

Spyro doesn't think there's anything he can say to change Charlie's mind. It's far too late to untangle himself from the trap he's caught himself in.

“Okay.” Spyro says, voice cracking on the single syllable, but he somehow thinks Charlie’s brain is too occupied to catch it. It seems like the confirmation was all Charlie needed, because he instantly twists around, cane gripped tightly in his hand, before storming off

The door clicks shut behind the man, but Spyro doesn't move. His fingers remain in a tangled mess around his mug, heavy, but still unfilled. It's probably the right time to make some coffee.

He can make some coffee, and everything will be fine. Spyro is capable of fixing his messes. He's capable of convincing Charlie it's all in his head. He's capable of being nothing more than a common man.

He goes to place the mug on the counter, but it slips from his hand, falling onto the ground with a harsh shatter.

Spyro jolts backwards, hairs on his skin crawling like he’s a comically scared cat. The glass shards surround Spyro’s feet like snowflakes, and all he can find himself able to do is stare in horror, like a frozen statue.

With shaky hands, he grabs a broom, sweeping the shards into a pile and scooping them up with a dustpan. Barely, he manages to unsteadily walk towards the bin and dispose of it.

Spyro is fine. His secrets are safe. No one has to know. Charlie can be easily gaslighted.

Breathe. Breathe. Everything is going to be okay.

Spyro is strong. Spyro has survived the tundra, has survived Lord Tenebris, and has survived a war.

So why does he feel like he’s about to vomit?

Spyro remembers how the tundra used to gnaw at his fingers, how a friend became a foe before the sun set. He remembers the static of Tenebris, as sharp as a whip, and remembers the fire that curled in his throat and burned him inside out.

Acid climbs up at his throat like a fear response, like he needs to remove the disgusting monster that lays uncomfortably under his skin. He clenches his hands, tight enough for his fingers to dig into his palms like ice.

His stomach churns with something desperate.

There’s no reason to be afraid. Charlie is too kind to hurt him, and Spyro is too strong to be hurt.

That's not the thing he fears, though.

Charlie wouldn’t hurt him, but Spyro is sure Charlie would leave him high and dry at the first sign of danger. That’s something Spyro knows for a fact, because as much as people pretend, they’ll always leave.

He thinks of a man with southern drawl for an accent. He thinks about an arrow in the heart.

People always abandon a sinking ship eventually.

Spyro becoming Tenebris only speeds up the process, anyways.

Breathe, you idiot. Everything's going to be okay.

He just can't.

Charlie is going to kill him, or lock him up, or something worse. This is the last straw. This is it. Now that he knows Spyro is nothing more than a mere successor to Tenebris, everyone’s mercy will end drastically quick.

With ragged breath, Spyro decides he needs to get out. He makes his way across the room on shaky legs, eyes on the door.

It clicks open.

Spyro feels the last string holding him together snap in half.

“Spyro?” Charlie asks softly, looking around the room until his eyes latch onto Spyro. “I couldn't find Leonidas, so.”

Spyro stumbles backwards, trying to put as much distance between them as physically possible. That is until his back is suddenly met with the solid spruce counter behind him, and the jolt of contact is so startling Spyro can feel static twitching at his fingertips.

“There's nothing to talk about,” Spyro responds hoarsely. “You're, you're imagining things, Charlie. You should go lie down.”

Spyro's attempt at gaslighting might've been successful if his voice wasn't so damn shaky.

“Hm, I don't think so,” Charlie says softly, shuffling a couple steps closer to the cowering Spyro, but doesn't go any closer than that. “I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.”

Spyro can feel his throat close up. He's spinning a lie that the other man can clearly see through. The only person he's lying to is himself, really.

“I– I– Charlie, stop,” Spyro blurts desperately, a shoddy attempt at an escape plan. “I don't want to hear what you have to say. I don't want to answer your questions.”

Charlie tilts his head, and Spyro thinks the man's face is the mockery of concern.

“That's fine, we don't have to talk,” Charlie says calmly, before extending his hand out. “I just want to–”

“No!” Spyro shouts, voice cracking on the single syllable.

Spyro tries to shy away from the contact like it's something poisonous, and his back hits the counter for the second time in that minute. This time, with a far greater force – and Spyro squeaks in pain and surprise, lightning crashing into the floor a few metres away.

Charlie's head jolts backwards in surprise, before turning to face Spyro with a deadly amount of concern. It sickens Spyro to his bones.

“Get away from me!” Spyro shrieks, digging his nails into the spruce wood like it's the only thing keeping him upright. “I have nothing to say to you!”

Charlie taps his cane lightly with the pad of his index finger, looking at Spyro anxiously. “Well, I have a couple things to say to you.”

Spyro side steps, still clinging onto the counter with a desperately tight grip. The floor burns beneath him, like the portal to hell has opened. His feet threaten to merge like liquid molten to the ground, and Spyro simply wants none of it.

“Well, I don’t want to hear it!” Spyro shouts, but it comes out torn and broken, like a desperate plea. “I just, I need– just leave me alone! I’ve got this covered! It’s fine!”

“Spyro, I don’t think it’s ‘fine’ for you to be uncontrollably shooting lightning everywhere.” Charlie’s words are straight to the point, but all it does is ring alarms in his head.

“I’m not letting you lock me up, Charlie! You’ll never take me alive!” Spyro growls, a delirious smile cast on his face. He watches with bleary eyes as the man’s eyebrows sink, head tilting to the side in confusion.

“Spyro, I never said–”

Spyro jabs a finger in Charlie’s direction, scuttling sideways around the room like a crab, trying to keep as far away from the other man as space allows. “But you were thinking about it! Don’t deny it!”

“Spyro, please, for the love of Herobr—Elementia, just listen to me!” Charlie demands, and Spyro jerks his head up to quickly meet eyes with the man. Spyro thinks the man’s face is a mix of frustration and concern, and Spyro personally just wants Charlie to stop sticking a knife in his heart because it’s too damn painful.

“Or maybe you want to dissect me? Maybe I can be your grade A science project, huh?” Spyro questions frantically, eyes darting around the room like a caged animal.

Charlie shakes his head in frustration, snapping. “I’m not going to hurt you! Why would you even think that?”

Spyro scowls, even though he feels moments from bawling his eyes out. “Fuck off, Charlie. Go find your boyfriend. Oh wait, you can’t, because you pissed him off! Because you're so great with emotions, aren't you, Charlie? You know exactly the right thing to say, don't you?”

“Spyro.” Charlie mutters, voice low. The shadows of the kitchen place a perfectly dangerous lighting on the man’s face. The single word rings alarm in Spyro’s eardrums, and a lump takes a home in his throat.

“Piss off!” Spyro’s voice scratches painfully, erratic and tired. A bolt of lightning slams down on the ground in a place a little too close for comfort, black soot dissipating on Spyro’s jumper.

Charlie sighs, trying hard to meet the glowering eyes of Spyro. “Can we just talk? Please?”

“No, we can’t talk, because I don’t want to talk to you!” Spyro shrieks, pressing himself so tightly against the cabinet that he almost feels like his skin is merging with the wall. “So you might as well fuck off to wherever you came from!”

It’s supposed to sound menacing, but his voice just cracks desperately.

“Spyro, come on, just–”

“Fuck off!” Spyro shouts, a lightning bolt barely missing Charlie. The other man doesn’t even flinch, somehow. “Fuck off! I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you!”

Charlie takes two steps backwards, looking weary. “I’m worried about you, man.”

“Oh, piss off!” Spyro is sure his language sounds less than proper, but he simply couldn’t care. In fact, if he wasn’t running on sheer adrenaline, he’s sure he would have stopped to consider who he’s talking to about ten minutes ago.

The other man still stands though, leaning on his cane, tilting his head upwards to try and meet Spyro’s eyes. “Spyro.”

“What?” Spyro hisses, his throat becoming painfully tight. “You care about me? You want to help me? You know, being a liar doesn’t look good on you, Charles.”

“I’m not lying!” Charlie snaps, and Spyro almost laughs. He’s finally brought the man to his breaking point. Perhaps now, he’ll crawl into a hole and leave him the hell alone. “I’d just like to know what the hell is up with you! Because you’ve suddenly got operating powers, and you’re shouting at me, even though you know better! That’s a pretty valid reason to be concerned!”

“shut up!!” Spyro screeches, legs feeling like jelly. Somewhere along the line, he started feeling nauseous, but he can’t remember if that started before or after he began insulting Charlie. “I owe nothing to you!”

Charlie simply looks at him helplessly, like he has nothing to offer in response.

“GO AWAY!” Spyro snarls, and only then does a strike of lightning threaten to hit him. Like instinct, he rolls out of the way, tumbling into a corner cabinet, head first. He groans in pain, feeling a crown of obsidian spikes rise around him like a nest – or a cage – either way, he still feels trapped. The motion only takes the air out of him, lungs shrivelling up, and he can’t quite find the strength to move himself from his crumpled up position on the ground.

“Are you alright?” Charlie asks softly. Spyro squeezes his eyes shut, but he thinks he can hear the man walking towards him. He only curls up tighter, the last thing holding him together snapping pitifully.

“N–yes,” He says, gritting his teeth. “So you can l-leave, because your services aren’t required here, and they’re certainly not wanted.”

“Spyro, I—” Charlie starts softly, and Spyro simply presses his head into the floor because he doesn’t want to hear it. “I don’t know what’s going on in your brain, and there’s only so much I can guess, y’know? But I think you’re scared, and you’re lashing out—”

“Don’t act like you know me!” Spyro bites, words bitter on his tongue, and like ash in his throat which is still desperately trying to heave a normal breath – or vomit, because Spyro can’t tell the difference. “You know nothing about me!”

“You want me to get someone who knows you better?” Charlie tries, like he’s running out of ideas. “Leonidas?”

That suggestion is perhaps the last straw. Spyro wheezes, body snapping upwards. His eyes dart in a futile attempt to find an escape, only to realise the cabinet is behind him, and Charlie stands only a mere meter away from him and his obsidian contraption of his own making. His eyes dart around helplessly, lungs threatening to collapse in on himself, along with every other bone in his body.

“Don’t.” Spyro begs desperately, shakily pushing himself into the spruce counter, almost falling into an obsidian spike.

“I–” Charlie starts, but Spyro doesn’t want to hear it. He just wants the world to shut up. Charlie is going to lock him up, and he’s going to bring Leonidas for reinforcement. Spyro’s going to spend his life in a cage and only see the light of day when they want to experiment on him or–

“Don’t,” Spyro repeats, voice wobbling. “Please.”

But why would Charlie listen? He’s spent an unknown amount of time – maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours, because he feels too nauseous to tell – antagonising the man. And Spyro, like the fucking idiot he is, has been biting the hand that feeds him, insulting the man he should be negotiating with.

“I–” Charlie tries to start again, taking a step closer to Spyro, but he cuts the man off.

“Please,” Spyro repeats, voice cracking from overuse. Through his own bleary vision, he barely acknowledges how bad he’s shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just please don’t–”

“Spyro, I won’t do something you don’t want me to, yeah?” Charlie says gently, shooting Spyro a concerned look.

“Liar.” Spyro hisses, but his voice sounds so strangled he simply sounds like he’s on the verge of sobbing.

“How am I a liar?” Charlie asks placidly, tilting his head slightly. Spyro simply wants to spit at the man’s deceiving face.

“Well I don’t want you to stay, and yet you’re still here.” Spyro mumbles, because he can’t quite summon the valiance to do anything more than that. He feels too overwhelmed by a sickening amount of fear to do anything.

“That’s different,” Charlie says, because there’s always excuses, and always exceptions, and they never apply to Spyro. “I’m concerned that if I leave you here alone, you won’t be safe.”

“Safety? That’s what you’re concerned about?” Spyro snarls, or at least, he thinks he sounds menacing. He’s too delirious from a lack of proper air in his lungs to tell. “I can take care of myself!”

Charlie blinks, taking a step closer to Spyro, who only tries more to shrink into the counter, only for a sharp splinter of wood to wedge itself into his back. “Spyro, you’ve almost killed yourself like, three times in the past ten minutes.”

“I–” Spyro starts, because he can’t listen to this. He just can’t—

“Spyro, it’s true, and I know you know it’s true,” Charlie starts calmly, still worriedly looking at the crumpled man in front of him. “And I know it’s scary, and I know you don’t like accepting help, but you’ve got to for this one, I think.”

“I can’t.”

“Why–” Charlie starts, but Spyro talks over him, because the world is going too fast, and Spyro can already predict the words that will come out of the man’s mouth.

“I can’t,” Spyro repeats, ribs crushing his heart. It’s a miracle he hasn’t passed out yet, even though it’d probably be more merciful if he did. “I just can’t. I can’t trust you.”

And he falls straight back down, curling up against the counter like it’s the only thing that will protect him. Charlie simply looks down at him with the most pitiful of stares, and Spyro just wants to claw at his own heart and rip it out, because it’s beating so unsteadily it genuinely scares him.

“I think I already knew that,” Charlie murmurs, and Spyro snaps his head to pay attention to him. The statement is unexpected, but he doubts it’s a lie. “And that’s fair. We haven’t really known each other for long.”

Spyro looks down in shame, arms shaking as he tries to hug himself. Another ray of lightning strikes, but another flinch doesn’t mean all that much.

Charlie simply puts his cane aside, crouching down to Spyro’s level. “You think you can listen to me, though?”

Spyro gulps, shaking his head softly. He digs his nails into the sleeve of his jumper, breathing like he’s run miles and miles. The obsidian pillars around him only grow taller.

“I think you can,” Charlie decides, because the man suddenly knows everything Spyro can and can’t do. “I know you can.”

“Can’t.” Spyro says hoarsely, looking up at Charlie with what he can only imagine to be sad puppy eyes. It’s nothing short of the truth, because Spyro feels so dizzy he can’t focus on much of anything.

“Just look at me, yeah?” The man says kindly, taking an exaggerated breath. “Just copy my breathing.”

Spyro scoffs, eyes watering, because everything is too much, but he tries anyway. The thing is, he simply ends up taking a shaky exhale, and coughing out any air he does manage to take in.

“I can’t.” Spyro mumbles lightheadedly. The world is too much. Nocturia was never this bright, never this loud, never this suffocating. It was a lifeless abyss, after all. And in some weird form of Stockholm syndrome, Spyro wishes he was back.

Charlie extends a hand towards the man, gaze softening. “You can, I know you can. Just count to four.”

Spyro, despite all his instincts, takes the man’s hand, placing his sweaty hand into Charlie’s rather cold palm. It’s funny, because it’s usually the other way around. Spyro is usually colder than a morgue, and Charlie is usually warmer than the sun itself. The thought sends an uncomfortable spark down his hand, most surely giving the other an electric shock, but if anything, Charlie only holds his hand tighter.

He takes a shaky breath, shoving his head between his knees. The motion provides little comfort, and it sure as hell doesn’t make breathing any easier. It’s worth it, though, because at least Charlie can’t see his screwed up face, eyes glossy with tears.

“Sorry,” Spyro mumbles. Breathing is a little easier, despite everything. “I’m sorry.”

Charlie simply squeezes his hand, looking at him with a gaze too kind. “Don’t apologise.”

“But, I–”

“Spyro, you’ve done many things that warrant an apology,” Charlie starts, awkwardly shuffling between obsidian pillars to close the distance between the pair. “But I don’t think this is one of them.”

“But–”

“Spyro, for the love of god, don't you dare even try to apologise to me right now,” Charlie cuts in between Spyro's babbling, successfully hushing the man. “I'm not mad at you, I promise.”

“...So you're not going to punish me?” Spyro asks hoarsely. He knows that the way he asks it only makes him look pitiful and broken, maybe because he's breathing like he's been plunged underwater, but he just needs to ease his mind.

Charlie simply stares at him with nothing short of concern.

“This isn't the Noctem alliance,” Is what Charlie says after a beat of thought. “No one’s going to hurt you for this.”

Spyro shakes his head. That's not the life he knows. “But, but I’ve hurt you, and I'm w-wasting your time, and you probably–”

“Spyro, I'm not–”

“I am wasting your time!” Spyro says raggedly, breath hitching. “I can deal with this by myself—I should be able to deal with this by myself.”

“Damn Noctem alliance mentality.” Charlie says, almost bitterly. He blinks, looking at Spyro like that was something he never meant to say.

“Huh?” Spyro gasps, looking up at Charlie. His breathing has evened out, somehow, but his chest has yet to loosen.

Charlie sighs, looking to the side. He loosens his grip on Spyro's hand. “When it comes to accepting help, you and Leonidas are just as bad as each other.”

The thought tugs at something fragile in Spyro's heart. Maybe it's just the thought that Leonidas is just as broken as he is that makes him genuinely, genuinely upset. Unlike Spyro, who has dug his own grave, Leonidas deserves to be happier. Or at least, that's what Spyro thinks. But then again, when was the last time Spyro's thoughts matched reality?

Spyro can only find it in himself to scoff, not really wanting to admit the truth in Charlie's words. “It's probably something I picked up from him. It's no big deal.”

“Spyro, it is a big deal,” Charlie mutters worriedly, looking at Spyro with what almost looks like a plea. “Everyone needs help at some point, and you know you can't go carrying all this by yourself.”

Spyro pulls himself away from Charlie's grip, fingers desperately clutching at the counter behind him, and he's able to push himself upwards with slight difficulty. “I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“Spyro,” Charlie says sternly, clutching at his cane and standing up to Spyro's level. “You’re always avoiding that damn bridge. You'd much rather plunge yourself into freezing cold water and drown.”

“I'm fine, Charlie, seriously!” Spyro snaps, balling up his fists until his nails bite into his palms. “You've got to stop worrying about nothing!”

“But it's not nothing though, is it?” Charlie shouts, but it lacks harshness. “I don't think throwing around lightning is exactly an everyday problem!”

Spyro growls. “I've got it under control!”

Like a funny coincidence, lightning almost strikes him, and he's forced to fall out of the way, slamming his head back into the top cabinet above him. He groans in pain.

“Well, if you've got it so under control, you can at least explain to me what the hell's going on.” Charlie says, looking at Spyro with a sickening amount of concern. It only makes Spyro want to slam his head into the cabinet again and again until he passes out from a concussion.

Spyro, despite his calmer breathing, might just vomit from how nauseous he feels. It's like he's stuck on a tilting ship in a storm with a man who only wants to rock the boat.

“I don't want to talk about it.” He says, a futile try to escape this endless conversation.

“Spyro—”

“But I guess I don't have a choice, do I?” Spyro says, like a cornered animal. The only escape he has is to either talk or die, and at this rate, the latter seems more favourable.

“Spyro, you do—”

“I never have a choice when you're around,” Spyro snaps bitterly, and he may just curl up and hide away from the world if he could just let go of the counter holding him up. “You think I wanted you to know about how I was tortured? You think I want you to know about this? But fine! I'll humor you! I stabbed myself in my sleep a few nights ago, and since then I spontaneously developed operating powers! Honestly, I'm just as confused as you are!”

“Spyro—” Charlie's eyes soften with what Spyro can only guess to be pity. It only widens the void in his stomach.

“Shut up!” Spyro hisses, clutching at the wound in his chest. It aches painfully, somehow, even though it should have healed a millennium ago. “You know everything you need to! You've got what you wanted!”

“I'm sorry.” Charlie says simply, looking down like he can't bring himself to face Spyro.

“What?” Spyro asks in disbelief, brain buzzing with static.

“I'm sorry,” Charlie repeats, and it's real, and Spyro's ears aren't deceiving him. “I never meant to make you feel cornered, I never meant to make you feel like you had to tell me everything. I just… I just worry about you, I guess, and I just worry that if you internalise everything, you're going to send yourself into a downward spiral.”

“You shouldn't worry about me,” Spyro mutters hoarsely, but his words are probably as effective as telling a drug addict to quit drugs. “I’m fine – sorta – and I'll live.”

“Spyro…” Charlie murmurs, eyes softening. “I'm always going to worry about you, it's just in my nature, y'know.”

Spyro feels like the wound in his gut is being torn alive.

“You've got enough to worry about,” Spyro mumbles, looking to the side. “Leonidas, I think–”

“I'll talk to him later,” Charlie decides, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “Right now, it's you I'm focused on.”

“Well, isn't that delightful.” Spyro mutters sarcastically, digging his hand into the fabric of his jumper and attempting to feel the creasing of a scar. The touch only burns.

Charlie eyes him with slight confusion.

“..it's from where I stabbed myself, accidentally.” Spyro elaborates, and Charlie's eyes widen.

“You stabbed yourself. In the chest. The place where, like, all of your vital organs are, and you didn't—Spyro, seriously?” Charlie asks worriedly, already taking two steps closer to Spyro. The latter only shies away from the man's attempt to close the space between them.

“It's fine,” Spyro says, for what might just be the hundredth time today, even when it's a complete and total lie. “I put a healing potion on it.”

“That's it?” Charlie asks, voice torn between sounding like an accusation and genuine horror. “That could have been a fatal wound!”

Spyro clutches at the creasing of the wound, looking down. “It probably wasn't my best work.”

Charlie shifts, absentmindedly tapping his cane. “Y'know, I am good at potions. I could take a look, if you want.”

Spyro's hand finds its way back onto his chest, fingers clenching his shirt. He can still feel the jagged creasing of a poorly healed scar.

“O-or at least let me find you some potions or–” Charlie suggests unsteadily, shrinking slightly, and it's only then when Spyro realises that Charlie is scared of him.

Maybe not in the same way people feared him when he was a Noctem General. It's different.

Charlie fears his emotional reactions, because Spyro is an alkali metal, exploding even when he's presented with something steady, like drinking water. The idea is laughable, almost.

“You can take a look if you really want, man.” Spyro responds nonchalantly, cutting off Charlie's rambling. The other man's eyes widen with genuine shock, before he nods.

“Okay,” Charlie murmurs under his breath. “Okay,” He repeats, slightly louder. “I'll do that. I think I have some medical supplies in my room.”

“Okay,” Spyro parrots, head swimming like he’s one step away from passing out. “Lead the way.”

——

Charlie’s room is everything Spyro expects it to be. Spruce floorboards that creak a soft hum under Spyro’s feet, walls lined with bookshelves, with books that appear to be arranged in alphabetical order. It’s the room of a clean freak, each trinket lined up like a ruler was used to measure them, and something Spyro hasn’t really experienced in a very long time.

Spyro remembers his shitty room that he had to share with Drake of all people, because Fungarus was as cramped as every place the Alliance tried to force themselves into. Spyro’s room was how it always was – a mess. Drake always had standards, though, and his amount of orderliness always put Spyro to shame.

He looks at Charlie, who’s rummaging through cupboards, and he doesn’t think he should mention how much deja vu he gets from just being here.

Instead, Spyro mutely shuffles onto an armchair tucked into the corner of the room, pulling off his jumper with little thought. He doesn't dare look down, because his torso is a grave of all kinds of burn scars, as are his arms.

He hasn't dared to look at them in recent times.

Charlie gives him one glance. Then another. Spyro hopes his pleading look is enough to keep Charlie's eyes on the wound of focus and not his other scars.

“Shit,” Charlie says, tentatively approaching Spyro. “It's clearly infected.”

“Oh?” Spyro murmurs, shifting uncomfortably under Charlie's glare of scrutiny. Not too long after, and the other man turns his back, rummaging through cupboards for potions. Spyro can faintly hear the sound of glass clinking.

“I thought you were decent with medical stuff,” Charlie states, and Spyro wonders how much Leonidas has been saying about him behind his back. “How did you not realise?”

‘Because I never fucking looked,’ is what Spyro considers saying, but his words are blocked by a lump in his throat. Instead, he finds himself digging his fingers into Charlie’s chair, trying to find the right response.

“I just… didn’t?” Spyro offers helplessly, but Charlie’s glare doesn’t ease up.

“You spent a long time on a battlefield,” Charlie starts, and Spyro can see where this conversation is going, and he wants nothing to do with it. “I’d imagine you’d know an infected wound if you saw one.”

Spyro shifts under Charlie’s careful glare. Maybe it would be for the best to just say the truth.

“I didn’t realise because I didn’t look, Charlie.”

Charlie grabs a handful of potions, filing through them. However, he tilts his head, turning to look at Spyro with an expectant stare.

“Do explain.” Charlie says, staring at various potions in his hands, and reading the various labels. He chucks the useless ones aside, before returning to Spyro with two potions in hand.

“Ever since Tenebris—” Spyro chokes on thin air. He knows Charlie well enough to know the other man can fill the blanks. “I just kind of like – fuck, I sound stupid – I just find it hard to look at myself, y'know? I have a lot of scars. Burns and shit.”

“You’ve never looked at any of your injuries, then?” Charlie says, uncorking a potion with a lack of effort.

“Once or twice.” Spyro responds, bluntly – honestly. “I wear jumpers, or anything with long sleeves, honestly. Makes it easier to ignore them.”

Maybe if he ignores them for long enough, he may finally forget.

Charlie applies a potion of regeneration to Spyro's wound with little input. It's cold against the fire of the wound, but Spyro feels too delirious to notice. The world is spinning far too quickly, and yet he is almost okay. Static hums in his brain like a wasp's nest, and Spyro thinks he gives the other man an electric shock without really thinking about it.

Charlie bites his lip. “What do you plan on doing when it’s no longer jumper weather? Y’know, it’s a lot warmer here than it is in the tundra.”

Spyro scowls – perhaps out of tiredness and frustration alike. “I don’t want to think about that right now.”

Charlie tilts his head slightly, discarding a used potion bottle aside. He turns away, rummaging through his drawers to find more potions. “Spyro, I–”

“Charlie,” Spyro says, nails biting into the leather of Charlie’s armchair with little guilt. “This has got to be the shittiest small talk you could come up with right now.”

Charlie nods in understanding. Spyro allows himself to close his eyes, the only thing he can hear being the sound of glass rustling as Charlie looks for potions. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he may be able to catch up on missed sleep.

He can faintly hear the sound of Charlie uncorking another bottle, sniffing as the smell of blaze powder and fire fills the air. Suddenly, he’s not as tired. In fact, he finds himself opening his eyes, staring at Charlie with a perturbed glare.

He knows it’s a potion of strength, but it smells like fire, and fire reminds him of things he should be long over.

So he sucks in a deep breath, and waits for the sting of the liquid meeting his wound before he lets his shoulders sag.

The man walks off, puttering about before retrieving a roll of bandages. Spyro can feel his eye twitch. He thinks it's overkill. He's hardly dying, is he?

Charlie presses a bandage against his wound, and even though almost anyone would expect Spyro to flinch, he remains still. Charlie's touch is firm but cautious, and Spyro allows himself to relax as the other man gets to work.

“You're being more compliant than I expected.” Charlie mutters absentmindedly. Spyro can feel bandages pull snug against his ribs. His only complaint is that Charlie is going far too slowly – far too carefully.

“It’s not so bad. You're gentle – annoyingly so,” Spyro responds gruffly. “Besides, the bandages are the best part about stabbing yourself in the chest, heh.”

“I guess,” Charlie looks away, eyebrows furrowing. “Just– the next time you stab yourself in the chest, maybe tell someone?”

“Next time I stab myself,” Spyro mutters sarcastically. “I'll be sure to send you a formal invite, so you can keep me company whilst I bleed out.”

“That’s not funny,” Charlie huffs, shoulders going rigid. “Even though you're a pain in the arse, I worry about you – a lot – y'know.”

Spyro looks to the side. The idea is genuinely nauseating.

“I know, but I just don't understand–” Spyro asks softly, not meeting Charlie’s eyes, because his heart might just break into pieces if he does. “–Why?”

“‘Why?’ Are you seriously asking me that?” Charlie sounds so genuinely upset that Spyro almost wants to retract the question. “You’re my friend, Spyro. Of course I worry about you.”

Spyro simply stares at Charlie like a confused dog, because he refuses to get emotional, but he can’t help but feel so painfully upset at the words.

“... I'm your friend?”

Charlie simply blinks at him, almost dropping the bandages he's holding. “Yeah. Why wouldn't you be?”

Spyro can feel his hands shaking a little. For once, it might just be from excitement. He can only find it in himself to shrug his shoulders.

“Well, you are my friend, Spyro.” Charlie repeats, continuing to wrap a bandage around Spyro's torso.

“Cool,” Spyro says, for a lack of any better word. “I guess you're my friend, too.”

“So, please, like, take care of yourself, maybe?” Charlie suggests. He finishes up with the bandages, and he steps back, looking satisfied with his work.

Spyro, for once, briefly looks the man in the eyes. It'd be cruel to make a false promise.

“I'll try.”

Chapter Text

Spyro would much rather prowl through the hallways of Element castle than sleep.

Partly because there is far too much on his mind, and if he were to sleep now, antsy and restless, he'd probably be plagued with nightmares that will haunt him for years to come.

That’s Spyro’s theory at least. He has enough evidence to prove it.

He’s sure he looks bizarre, scuttling through the halls like a rat, a small lantern tightly gripped in his hand, because despite the fact that it’s only early evening, the castle always makes a habit of turning the main lights off early. Something about saving energy, Spyro thinks he heard Stan once say.

The monotonous line up of the same coloured doors and the same endless halls somehow silences Spyro’s thoughts. It’s exactly what he needs. Something to stop his brain from buffering, something to let him process the fact that Charlie knows his secret, and he isn’t mad or hates him. Because Spyro doesn’t think he’ll ever believe him, because people should hate Spyro, and it’s baffling that they don’t.

At the very least, the silence of the halls is comforting.

That is, until he hears light mumbling. Spyro takes two steps forward, and he becomes faintly aware of a conversation. His ears prick, and that's all it takes for him to decipher it's coming from what appears to be Charlie's room.

Despite his instincts telling him it’s bad to spy on others, Spyro softly treads towards the door of the source, pressing his ear against it.

“Leonidas, for the last time, I never said I don’t want to hang out with you!” It only takes that sentence alone for Spyro to realise who’s in the room, and what the conversation is about. “Why are you acting like I hate you?”

Spyro should probably go. This is not the kind of conversation he should be hearing. He can’t seem to find it in himself to move, though. Strange.

“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” Leonidas says, rather loudly. “I’m just bein’ stupid! Seriously! I’m fine!”

“Leonidas.” Charlie says, and Spyro can feel the sternness in his voice from a room over. The tone is recognisable. He only ever uses it when he’s concerned and wants answers.

“What?” Leonidas says defensively. “I’m telling the truth!”

“Oh, are you?” Charlie says in an accusing tone. “Then why did you run away from me earlier?”

“Because I was just acting dumb, alright?” Leonidas shouts back, and Spyro hears the way his voice cracks and thinks that now is the time he should really mind his own business but he just can’t leave. “I was just tired.”

“You’re not sleeping well? Again?” Charlie asks, and it almost sounds accusatory.

“No, I sleep…fine,” Leonidas says, voice fumbling in an attempt to sound earnest, though Spyro doubts anything he's saying is true. “Just had a bad night.”

There's a pause. Spyro thinks he can hear socks scuffing against the carpet.

“Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m here,” Charlie says, more quietly. “I’m always here.” He repeats, a little louder.

“I know that.” Leonidas responds, slightly muffled by the door. Spyro hears all the same. At least if there’s one good thing about the Noctem Alliance, it’s that it heightened his senses.

“You sure don’t act like it,” Charlie mumbles. Spyro thinks there’s something mournful in the tone. “Not when you’re saying I don’t want to hang out with you, even when I have no reason for not wanting to.”

Someone scoffs. It sounds wet. “Ya have plenty of reasons, I bet.”

“Like?”

“Like, I dunno,” Leonidas bites sarcastically. “Maybe the fact that I almost killed you, or helped in the attempt to overthrow your government! Are ya not rememberin’ any of that? Did ya hit your head?”

“Yes, I remember all those things,” Charlie replies sharply. “But like I’ve already told you multiple times, I forgive you!”

“Sure ya do.” Leonidas counters sarcastically. Spyro thinks he hears footsteps, perhaps a scoff.

“How could I not? You’re kind, you’re sweet, you always make me laugh,” Charlie responds. Spyro thinks he almost sounds sad. “How could you even think to imply that I hate you?”

“Charlie, I didn’t mean–”

“Then why,” The other man starts, and Spyro thinks he can hear a shaky breath. “Would you say it?”

“Charlie, I didn’t mean,” The conversation is becoming painful to listen to, Spyro thinks. He feels like a child stumbling on their parents arguing, or at least something similar to that. “I didn’t mean that, I just thought, I—I dunno!”

“Leonidas,” Charlie says, but Spyro feels dizzy, the same conversation looping like how it began.

With a sigh, Spyro pushes himself away from the door. Firstly, because it’s none of his business, and secondly, because it’s hard to listen to. Even as he takes a few steps away, he can still hear muffled shouting. He almost feels like a child overhearing their parents arguing.

Perhaps he’ll bake them cookies tomorrow, or something equally sweet. Totally not because he feels bad for them and food is his way of showing he cares, because Spyro is definitely not soft like that. He's just… concerned, maybe. Leonidas and Charlie never fight. Or at least, nothing beyond their usual bickering.

His breath catches in his throat, and there's a small part of him that wants to storm back into the room and stop them fighting. Instead, he lets himself exhale, walking away, because it’s not his business. At least the solitude of the castle halls is something nice. The twists and turns provide something comforting. It allows his brain to go numb with static.

He’s certainly not thinking about Charlie and Leonidas at all. Definitely not.

He doesn't know why he cares so much. He never used to. Perhaps he is changing, although Spyro doubts the possibility. The things he did only a few hours ago prove that he hasn't. Because if there’s anyone Charlie should hate, it’s him, because he’s almost killed the man ten times today, and even more if you count all the other days.

Suddenly, he vaguely notices the sound of people talking. It’s faint, almost artificial, but it startles him anyway, ears pricking. Absent-mindedly, he goes to investigate the sound, because it serves as a distraction, and Spyro is very fond of them.

He tiptoes towards what he thinks to be the source, and he seriously hopes it’s not a repeat of last night – because he doesn’t think he can deal with another crying person, not right now. However, another two steps prove that’s not the case, because where Spyro expects to hear tears, he instead hears what appears to be an argument.

Another argument? Spyro wonders if the friendship the castle proposed to him was just a lie. And it sounds bad. And by bad, Spyro means worse than how Tenebris would get when something hadn’t gone according to plan.

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” Someone screams from the other side of the door. It’s not a voice Spyro recognises.

“Well go ahead and try!” Someone else says, and Spyro thinks he can hear the clash of blades. He can feel his heart lurching to his throat.

People are fighting. Someone could get hurt. Desperately, Spyro scans his inventory. There’s no real weapon – Besides Tenebris’s sword, but Spyro would rather die than use that. He does however, find a stone, which he wastes no time in clenching in his hand, fingers digging scratches into the smooth surface.

He practically slams the door open, a lantern in one hand, a rock in another.

He shouts. “Surrender!”

He then blinks, looking around. A girl, Cassandrix, is sitting on her bed in a bright pink dressing gown, popcorn in hand. She startles back, looking a mix of confused and horrified. Spyro finds his eyes darting around, trying to figure out what the hell’s going on, before his eyes land on a screen.

It seems to picture two girls screaming at each other. Spyro, somehow, is even more confused.

“Uhhhh,” The girl starts, looking disgusted. “Can I help you?”

Spyro stands like a deer in headlights. He finds himself drawn to the glowing screen like he’s in a trance.

“I thought I heard– nevermind,” He tilts his head over to Cassandrix, then to the screen, looking baffled. “What is that?”

Cassandrix blinks a couple of times, shifting on her mattress. She pauses before answering, looking at Spyro like he’s a fucking idiot. “You don’t know what a television is?”

“Television?” It takes Spyro an embarrassingly long time before he manages to pronounce the word. “Can’t say I have.”

Cassandrix’s eyes light up, any sign of disgust or hostility evaporating. “How on earth have you lived this long without ever watching a tv show? Sit down, now.”

Spyro discards the lantern and the rock on the floor, before silently shuffling onto the bed. He makes sure to maintain a healthy distance from Cassandrix, because he still stinks like shit – he never really had time to shower today, not with everything that happened – and he thinks unlike most of the council, Cassandrix may actually have standards.

“Okay, sweetie,” She says casually. There’s something eerily nostalgic about the way she talks, but Spyro can’t quite put his finger on it. He decides that it’s nothing more than the usual anxiety you get when you talk to a stranger. “Have you ever read a book before?”

It’s been a long time since Spyro’s read anything. Before the Noctem Alliance, probably. He faintly remembers fairytales and comedies and dramas of all sorts, flooding in like nostalgia.

“I guess.” Spyro says, unsurely. He can never guess where these kinds of conversations lead to. He spent more time learning to fight than he did learning about the world. He still has that sort of naivety that comes from that.

“Okay,” Cassandrix says with a wicked grin. “Now imagine if those books were performed by real life people, and then you could watch those stories on a screen.”

Spyro blinks. It sounds like a lot of words, and words that don't make sense.

“Sure.” Spyro says, still baffled. He watches as Cassandrix messes with something that looks like a brick with a tonne of buttons, before she clicks one with intent. The screen flashes on with a buzz of static, and the two girls come into view.

“I don’t see what you’re so pissed about.” One girl, with black hair, comments with an eyeroll. Spyro watches as the other girl’s face twists into a rage beyond comprehension.

“You made out with my boyfriend!” The other girl, with blonde hair, barks, before pulling the other girl's hair. Cassandrix presses another button, before the video comes to a stop. Spyro turns back to look at her.

“See? Those are the wonders of TV, darling.” Cassandrix says with a grin, helping herself to another handful of popcorn. Spyro thinks his mind is fucking blown.

“Seems… unreal.” Spyro murmurs. He wonders why his room doesn’t come with a TV, because he sure as hell needs the distraction.

“And you seem ancient. Seriously, sweetie, what decade were you born in?” Cassandrix asks, grinning.

Spyro simply shrugs. Cassandrix rolls her eyes.

“Do you want to watch this episode with me? I can give you a rundown of the plot.” Cassandrix says, and the smirk on her face suggests Spyro isn’t getting out of this one.

Spyro, with little consideration, flops onto the bed, taking a handful of popcorn and shoving it into his mouth. It’s sweet – but not sickly – and it tastes so good in his mouth that he wonders if he's even eaten anything today. Regardless, with a mouth choked full of popcorn, he settles on an enthusiastic nod.

“Okay, you see that girl with black hair? That’s Cassandra, and she’s the baddest bitch in town. She just does as she likes, y’know. But the other girl, the blonde one, is called Katherine, and she’s like, an idiot, but like, a lovable one. They’re both best friends, but Katherine has been pining after this other guy, Gavin, for like, years – y’know, the whole childhood friends to lovers scenario. However, Cassandra made out with him before she could, but the whole reason she made out with him is because she wants Katherine to ditch that guy and date her. But Katherine doesn’t know that, and this is the season finale!”

Cassandrix dramatically gasps for air. Spyro can’t say he’s any less confused than before.

He thinks Cassandrix is about to turn the TV back on again, but instead, she reaches to her bedside table, grabbing an array of nail polishes and dumping them on the bed in front of Spyro. He looks up to realise she has the biggest shit eating grin on her face.

“Can I paint your nails?” She bats her eyes like it may make her case any more plausible. “No one in this castle ever lets me paint theirs – well, besides Leo – and it’s boring as hell.”

Spyro briefly wonders why this girl, who he hasn’t had a single conversation with until now, is suddenly offering to paint his nails. Heck, two nights ago, she was suggesting that Spyro ought to be locked up.

“I– I'm confused.” Spyro mumbles, throat suddenly very dry.

Cassandrix frowns. “About what, exactly?”

“Why are you suddenly acting so nice towards me?” Spyro asks, genuinely confused. There’s no plausible explanation for any of this. “I thought you wanted me gone. You said so at that meeting.”

“Oh, I did, darling,” She huffs, face unreadable. “But Leo had a talk with me, and well, you don’t seem so bad. And after Kat—the least I can do is give people a chance.”

Spyro blinks. Without thinking about the static that nestles in his hands, he stretches them out in front of him. “Do you have black?”

Spyro has never had his nails painted. After all, the Noctem Alliance promoted strength, and coloured nails aren’t exactly a ‘strong’ feature to have. It never stopped Drake, but it's not something Spyro could've afforded to do. Not when he was the Alliance's runt.

“You have taste, I see.” Cassandrix says, looking faintly amused. She switches the remote on, before grabbing the black nail polish. She twists the lid off with nothing more than her bare teeth, before taking one of Spyro’s outstretched hands.

It takes every muscle in Spyro’s body to not flinch, and he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to not let the static that courses in his veins to run free. Somehow, he manages – barely – and gladly lets Cassandrix loosely hold his hand. It’s honestly quite comfortable. Cassandrix’s hands are neither hot nor cold, but rather a Goldilocks's temperature between.

She grabs a hold of the mini brush, looking at both the TV and Spyro’s hands simultaneously. She carefully applies the colour onto Spyro’s nails, like she’s done it a million times before. The episode blasting on the TV comes to halt by about one hand in, and Cassandrix somehow multitasks between turning the TV off and painting one of Spyro’s nails simultaneously.

She mutters something about Katherine and how dare the TV corperation end the season on a cliffhanger, but Spyro’s focus is rather faint. There’s something relaxing about the whole situation, somehow, and it makes him feel comfortably drowsy. With the background static of the TV gone, Cassandrix hums a soft tune, face unreadable.

“Y’know, darling, this would be a lot easier if your hands were more steady.” Cassandrix points out. Spyro mutely looks down, realising his hands do have a tremor in them. It’s an unnerving reminder that turmoil still twists at his gut, no matter how much he tries to divert himself with cheap distractions.

Spyro offers a lighthearted “Fuck.” Before making a clumsy attempt at keeping his hand rigid. Maybe it’s not so much tension as it is restlessness.

“I’m not used to sitting still, I guess,” Spyro murmurs under his breath, looking away. “In the Noctem Alliance, I–”

“Is the Noctem Alliance the only thing you talk about, darling?” Cassandrix asks. It’s sharp, but not necessarily mean or spiteful. It’s nothing more than a question, and Spyro doubts there’s a backhand to it. “You must have done more in life than be a Noctem.”

It’s been a long time since Spyro has properly thought about what life was like before the Noctem Alliance. Because it was a completely different Spyro, not him.

“I guess, but, y’know, it’s been a long time.” Spyro murmurs. It’s a softer way of saying that he can’t really remember. Cassandrix finishes up with his nails, leaning back against one of the many cushions on her bed. She nonchalantly shrugs her shoulders.

“I suppose. It’s hard to remember life before I was a spleef player.” Cassandrix says quietly, looking absentmindedly at the ceiling.

Something clicks in Spyro’s mind, something about spleef and the name Cassandrix in particular.

“Wait, you’re Cassandrix? The Cassandrix?” Spyro asks in awe. Maybe he was a spleef mega fan back in the day. Maybe he had lost that part of himself somewhere in the Tundra.

Cassandrix flicks her hair behind her like she’s the main character of a Hollywood movie. “That I am, darling.”

“You were one of the best spleef players, back in the day.” Spyro says, eyes lighting up like stars. If his nails weren’t still wet with black nail paint, he’d grab a shirt for her to autograph.

“I was – am – the best, darling.” Cassandrix corrects. Spyro grins.

“I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you.” Spyro says softly, pressing his head against one of the plush cushions of the bed. For some reason, he doesn’t need an invitation. It’s a strange thing to think about. Here he is, sitting on a stranger’s bed, when he can’t even warm up to Leonidas or Charlie.

Maybe it’s just easier with strangers, Spyro thinks, sinking into cushions. They don’t know him well enough to judge him. They have yet to dissect all of his flaws.

“That’s what a lot of makeovers will do to you.” Cassandrix simply says, and it’s true. Spyro faintly remembers the Cassandrix who had short red hair, wore tank tops, and was a menace in a spleef arena. Now her hair is black, and she’s sitting in a dressing gown like she owns it, but somehow looks… softer.

Cassandrix tilts her head, looking at Spyro expectantly.

“I think you’re in desperate need of a makeover, sweetie.” Cassandrix asks offhandedly. “No offense, but you look like a drowned rat.”

Spyro bristles at the insult, because he swears that he looks presentable at least, but he nods his head anyways. “You’re charming, I see.”

“And you look like you lost a fight with a sewer monster.” Cassandrix retorts sharply. Spyro glares.

“I think what you need is a haircut, hair dye, and perhaps something for your skin. Seriously, when was the last time you washed your face?” Cassandrix explains seriously. Spyro shifts on the bed, growling in mock exaggeration.

“My face?” Spyro says, in a disproportionately angry voice. “My face is fine! My skin is great, thank you very much!”

He may be avoiding the question.

“Darling, you have no reason to lie to me,” Cassandrix says simply. “Come on, get up, we’re taking a trip to my ensuite.”

Whatever retort Spyro can muster dies on the tip of his tongue, so after stuttering for a moment, he pliantly follows.

If you told Spyro two weeks ago that he’d be getting a makeover from some girl he barely knows, he’d probably laugh. Because Spyro is – was – manly, and there’s nothing more pathetic than getting your hair done by a girl. He would have rather died.

Whilst the other girl begins rummaging through bathroom cupboards, Spyro perches atop the toilet, keeping an eagle eye on the room. The walls are painted a light purple, and there are all kinds of hair and skincare products on the shelves. It eerily reminds him of Drake’s bathroom back in Fungarus, for some reason.

Maybe it's just the way it's neatly lined with more beauty products than the average person needs. Either that, or it's the colour of the walls, or the fact he's sitting on a toilet, being told that he looks like a dying rat.

Still, it unsettles something in his gut. And before he knows it, his brain is making connections that he never should have.

Because Cassandrix reminds him, eerily, of Drake. Perhaps it's the same posh accent, the same sort of nicknames (‘darling’ or ‘sweetie’ isn’t that much different from ‘dear’, Spyro thinks), and the same care for beauty. In fact, Spyro can almost close his eyes and pretend he’s back in the Noctem Alliance.

Perhaps it's cruel to compare anyone to Drake. Morbidly, Spyro can't quite stop.

Cassandrix shuffles over to Spyro, holding some damp looking fabric in her hands. It’s shaped like a face, and the girl presents it to Spyro like he’s supposed to know what to do with it.

“It’s a face mask, darling,” Cassandrix says, like it was apparently obvious. “It hydrates your face.”

Spyro rolls his eyes, pouting. “Sounds dumb.”

“And that is why you look like you lost a fight with a group of bees, darling.” Cassandrix retorts swiftly, before plastering the mask to Spyro’s face like he gave consent, which he didn’t, and the mask is so cold that Spyro can’t decide on scowling or cringing.

“Still sounds dumb.” Spyro parrots. He shifts uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than to rip the sheet off his face. He relents, though. The once great leader of the powerful Noctem Alliance can handle a face mask.

Cassandrix turns her back to him once more, grabbing a pair of scissors and a brush. She positions herself in front of him, staring at him with a puzzled look.

“What hairstyle are we going for, darling?” Cassandrix asks curiously. Spyro, for whatever reason, doesn't trust her with scissors.

“I like my hair how it is!” Spyro grumbles petulantly. He absolutely doesn't, but he likes the idea of changing it even less.

“Really now? I'm surprised you can even see with all that hair,” Cassandrix states. “It's practically covering the top half of your head.”

It's only then when Spyro cracks.

“You can cut my fringe, only if you're careful,” Spyro pouts, feeling the face mask slipping slightly off his face. “You're not touching the back, though. I want to grow it out.”

He never got to grow his hair out in the Noctem alliance.

“Fair enough.” Cassandrix says simply, before brushing the front of Spyro's hair with a surprising amount of gentleness. It makes something twist in Spyro's gut.

Drake used to fuss over him like this, always fixing his collar, always telling him to brush his hair. The care had always seemed misplaced – dehumanising coming from Drake. This, however, isn't so bad.

“Tilt your head forward.” Cassandrix says softly. Spyro tries to ignore the way her accent is the exact same as that damn person, obliging without a word.

She wastes no time in grabbing a pair of scissors, before beginning to snip Spyro's bangs. The metal whispers too close to his skin for his liking, and he finds himself tensing more often than not. If Cassandrix notices, she doesn't say anything.

The result is a fringe of hair that rests just above his eyes. The loose ends of Spyro's hair fall limply on the floor, and his hands twitch.

It's not so bad.

Cassandrix finishes cutting his hair, and dyes it a dark blonde. It eradicates his ginger roots and platinum blonde ends, and Spyro is almost satisfied with his appearance. He keeps waiting, though. He's sure there will be a cost, or a catch, or something to make Spyro regret the whole endeavour.

It never comes, though.

He stares at a standing mirror, taking it all in. He doesn’t look like himself in the slightest, but that’s better, Spyro reasons. The less people that recognise him, the better. Spyro may finally be able to live in peace.

Spyro looks over to Cassandrix, puttering about the bathroom, placing items back in the shelves they belong in.

“Thanks.” He murmurs under his breath, eyes drooping. Spyro has gone far too long without proper sleep.

“It was hardly a hassle,” Cassandrix states, Pocketing her hairbrush. “At least now, you look like far less of an eyesore.”

“Rude.” Spyro murmurs, even though she's not wrong. He makes a quick exit of the bathroom, winding up in the bedroom. He can’t quite find it in himself to go all the way back to his room. He's too drowsy to navigate the castle’s halls.

Instead, he grabs a pillow, chucks it onto the floor, and quickly follows it. For a moment, he lets his eyes close shut.

“Spyro, are you—” A faint voice rings through a monotonous hum. “Oh, for the love of God, what are you doing on my floor?”

Spyro doesn’t think enough to respond. The planks of the floor provide a sturdy comfort, and the pillow is lush in all its softness.

Spyro feels something weighted, like a fluffy blanket, being draped on top of him. He almost waits for it to suffocate him, or dig knives into his skin. It doesn't, though, and he doesn’t care enough to flinch or shift or even move a muscle.

“Have a good sleep, darling.” A voice says, and Spyro lets the sound of muffled footsteps cast him into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

Spyro blinks, startling awake.

The world is eerily quiet. His head is pressed against the wood planks of the floor, and he's cocooned in a fluffy, neon pink blanket – suffocatingly warm. Faintly, he can hear the ticking of a clock, and he snaps his head upwards to read the time.

8.00am.

There's no way in hell Spyro actually got a good night's sleep without being haunted by nightmares. He refuses to believe it.

But it's true. Birds chirp outside, golden light bleeds through the curtains, and Cassandrix snores lightly on the bed above him. He’s not in a cold sweat, nor does he feel an overwhelming amount of terror. There's nothing to suggest he's in a nightmare.

Slowly, Spyro pushes the blanket away, the fabric rustling softly, before stretching his arms above his head. He exhales softly, trying his best not to wake the girl. He somehow thinks if he did, he would be met with a rant about a need for beauty sleep.

Strands of loose hair fall into Spyro’s face – a dusty blonde. Briefly, he wonders what people will think of it. It’s a sharp change from bright ginger.

Gently, Spyro tugs a strand of hair, before letting go a moment later, watching as it springs up slightly. Who would have known he had wavy hair this entire time? Certainly not Spyro, who doesn't wash his hair.

With little ceremony, Spyro stands up, trying to shake away the stiffness in his legs from a long night’s sleep. He then shoves away whatever blankets still cling onto him, floorboard creaking softly beneath his shifting weight. He quietly shuffles out of the room, closing the door with a gentle thud.

For once, Spyro feels energetic and refreshed. He can feel his heart pumping with excitement at the idea of cooking something. Therefore, there is a spring in his step as he heads over to the grand kitchen, walking down hallways like he's the excitable main protagonist in some new hit show.

However, Spyro doesn't particularly care to look at what's right in front of him, eyes darting between paintings of creepers and other various mobs, and rusted ornaments. He looks at various trinkets and shimmering trophies. It’s nice, for once, to allow himself to be distracted by the beauty of it all. Because the castle is grand in all its architecture, and perhaps Spyro simply hadn’t seen that until now.

Spyro had once thought of a castle as a stolen gem, something that was his for the taking, but the truth is, he never deserved it.

Spyro’s hair is clean and freshly cut, but he can’t shake the filth that lies beneath his skin. His fingers twitch, rubbing them together absentmindedly, like it may scrub away the layer of something unseen.

He won’t think about it. He refuses to let it dampen his mood.

He forces himself to let go of the thought, trying to cling to a positive attitude, for once. Today is going to be a good day.

Despite that, he spends a moment too long immersed in his thoughts, because he winds up colliding straight into someone.

Spyro stumbles backwards, before falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. His back meets polished tiles, a sharp jolt shooting up his spine. The shock is enough to send static travelling down his neurons like neurotransmitters.

He blinks, looking up to see the lights flicker for a moment, and taking a brief moment to think about why that’s happening, until the answer clicks.

It’s him. It’s always him.

He snaps his head upwards, trying to gauge who exactly he fell into. If it’s Charlie, he’s bound to receive another talking to, but if it’s someone else, he can play it off. Probably, if his nerves don’t get the better of him.

He blinks, looking through bleary eyes at the person in front of him.

Leonidas stands, unshaken by the impact. His hands are shoved into his pockets like it's their home, a look of confusion on his face.

“What the hell happened here?” Leonidas says, blinking like a dazed goldfish. Despite it, the man extends a hand towards Spyro, helping him from the floor. His grip on the other man’s hand is death tight, and it’s only when he’s steady on his feet that he dares let go.

Spyro can feel his heart in his throat. A wave of déjà vu threatens to strangle him. Between a ragged gasp for air, he tells himself to get a grip.

“Uh, well, it's probably just… faulty redstone, or uh, something!” Spyro says, shoulders squaring like he’s about to fight for his life. He cringes at how frantic he sounds. He really needs to work on that.

Suddenly, Leonidas jerks his head upwards to the ceiling, before looking dead straight at Spyro. “I was referrin’ to ya, Spyro. Honestly, I didn’t even notice the lights were flickerin’.”

“Huh?” Spyro mumbles, feeling disoriented. What the hell’s wrong with him? Static buzzes in his ears like a wasp's nest, pounding against his skull. Is Leonidas finally onto him?

“Ya changed your hair.” Leonidas says softly, nodding towards him. It’s only then when Spyro’s heart shoots back to where it belongs. The tension collapses as quickly as it came, shoulders slumping.

He’s too suspicious. No one is going to see flickering lights and think that Spyro is causing that. It’s hardly a normal thought.

“Oh, y-yeah,” Spyro stutters, trying to act natural. “Cassandrix dyed it, and uh, trimmed my fringe.”

“Well, you’re lookin’ good.” Leonidas says, shooting finger guns at Spyro, who only shrugs like it’s nothing.

There’s a beat of silence. Leonidas looks away, rubbing his hands together like he has something to say. Spyro simply looks at him expectantly.

The last thing he can do is ask, ‘Did you and Charlie have an argument last night? Are you alright? What happened?’ Because then he’d be classed as a stalker, and he doesn’t really know if Leonidas really wants to talk about it anyways.

“Earth to Leonidas?” Spyro asks, gently nudging the man who seems to be looking off into the distance.

“Hm?” Leonidas startles upright, like he managed to forget he’s supposedly meant to be in a conversation with Spyro.

“You alright, man?” Spyro asks, tilting his head to the side.

“I, yeah, I’m fine,” Leonidas starts, looking away. “I should get goin’.”

“You don’t look fine.” Spyro states bluntly, and it’s not even a lie. The man looks dishevelled, if anything. More than the usual amount of dishevelled that Leonidas tends to look.

Leonidas stares back at Spyro like his secret has been found out, fumbling with words.

“I’m fine.” Leonidas parrots, a little harsher this time.

It almost startles Spyro, solely because of how much it reminds him of himself. And in a split second of clarity, he wonders, ‘Is that how I actually sound?’, and suddenly the fact that everyone can see through his constant lies makes sense. He looks at Leonidas’s attempt at lying and thinks how saddening of an attempt it is, and it’s only then that he realises that must be what people think of him.

No wonder Charlie always looks at him with nothing short of pity.

The man turns around, walking away, and on impulse, Spyro finds himself grabbing the man’s hand. He digs his heels into the ground, dragging the man to a stop. Leonidas looks at him with slight disdain, before shaking his hand away.

“Look,” Leonidas starts, and Spyro thinks the man might actually talk to him. “I’ve just got missed sleep to catch up on.”

Spyro rolls his eyes. The man is a terrible liar. “Oh, since you care so much about catching up on sleep. Who are you, and what have you done with Leonidas?”

He tries to sound lighthearted, but his voice comes out sterner than he intends.

“Spyro,” Leonidas sighs, looking down. “I’m fine. And I really do wanna sleep.”

Spyro bites his lip. Briefly, he wonders if he should be honest, if he should just tell Leonidas he overheard that little argument. But it’s almost like a game, isn’t it? Or a test to see how far he can push the man before he wraps himself up in his own web of lies.

“Leonidas, you’re a horrible liar.” Spyro mutters, glaring at the man with defiance. Maybe, if he didn’t know the truth, he would’ve given up by now. But he does, and he intends to drag it out of the man, even if it means a replay of two nights ago.

“I’m not lyin’!” The man retorts, clenching his fists.

“But you are!” Spyro growls, slamming his hand into the adjacent wall for effect. “You’re lying about being ‘fine’ when you’re obviously not, and you’re pushing me away, even when our talk on the balcony should’ve put an end to that! But you can’t stop, can you? It’s no wonder Charlie is mad at you! Your communication skills are horrible!”

And Spyro realises what he’s said all too late, and when he looks at Leonidas, the man is visibly shaking.

“...What?” Leonidas asks, looking pitifully confused.

Spyro’s head is swimming. He should have never spoken. He should’ve just let the man go. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I–”

Leonidas stumbles backwards into the wall behind him, grinning like his mouth is being held up by strings. The sight of the man only deepens the pit in Spyro’s stomach, and yet he can’t find it in himself to say anything more.

“No, no, you’re right,” Leonidas says, voice disturbingly calm. “And ya should be mad. Charlie has every right to be.”

“Leonidas,” Spyro tries, any sensible thought to leave before he makes things worse screaming at the back of his mind. “I didn’t mean it like that, and I’m not mad, I just–”

“Leave me alone.” Leonidas demands, sinking against the wall until he meets the floor. If he’s trying to sound threatening, it doesn’t work, because all it does is tug pitifully at the last string keeping Spyro sane.

“Hey, c’mon man, you know I’m not going to do that.” Spyro tries. He takes a step closer to the bundle of mess that is Leonidas on the floor, but the other only shrinks away, like the other is scared of him. As if it were never the other way around.

“Ya should,” Leonidas mumbles distantly, tightening a hand around his knees. And Spyro doesn’t quite feel like himself, because he caused that, and yet he doesn’t feel remorse or sadness or anything.“You’re goin’ to regret stayin’,”

Spyro crouches on the floor, legs going weak. “Leonidas, you are so, so frustrating.”

Leonidas simply tilts his head upward like a powerless, cornered animal – a hand tugging at one of his sleeves. Spyro couldn’t care.

“Leonidas, do you ever think that lying to people about how you feel isn’t very effective?” Spyro asks, like the hypocrite he is. “I mean, I dunno, but I think, ugh, I mean,” He’s fumbling with his words, stalling because he can’t quite fix them together in the way he wants to. “Do you trust me?”

Leonidas snaps his head upwards, looking at Spyro with glossy eyes. “Of course I—”

“But you don’t,” Spyro says, voice hoarse. “If you did, you’d be able to admit that everything isn’t sunshine and rainbows all the damn time. I…would know.”

Because Spyro doesn't trust people, not really. Even when he really wants to.

Leonidas genuinely looks like he might cry. “But–”

“Look, I,” Spyro starts with a shaky breath. “I overheard some of your argument that you had with Charlie last night. And I mean, I don’t know the whole story but, I think I can see why Charlie is so frustrated with you.”

Leonidas doesn’t say anything to that, covering the majority of his face with his sleeve, desperately trying to save any kind of face.

“And it’s—it’s because you lie, all the god damn time. How are you ever supposed to bond with anyone who’s putting up a front all the time?” Spyro can feel his voice crack, and he faintly thinks about old co-workers, and quickly shoves any memories of his to the back of his mind. Now is not the time to be emotional. “And I know that probably sounds hypocritical coming from me, but it’s true, and you need to hear it.”

“I’m sorry.” Leonidas mumbles, very quietly, rubbing a hand across his face.

Spyro throws his head back in frustration, partly because the man shouldn’t be apologising, and it’s not really the kind of apology he wants, either. “Leonidas, you—don’t apologise!”

Leonidas simply inhales shakily, looking away. “What else do ya want me to say? Ya want me to agree? I already know it’s true.”

Spyro shuffles slightly closer to the man. “Then, why do you insist on still doing it?”

Leonidas looks away, going silent. His eyes narrow.

“Leonidas.”

“Because maybe, Spyro,” Leonidas hiccups, eyes watering. “I just don’t wanna burden people.”

Spyro finds something in himself snapping. Empathy, maybe?

“God, Leonidas,” Spyro starts, before trying to sound consoling. “You’re anything but.”

‘You’re already far more useful than I am, and far more pleasant to be around,’ He almost wants to say, ‘And if you’re a burden, then I’m fucking doomed, aren’t I?’

Instead, he looks at the man, on the verge of tears, before sighing. He presses a hand against the man’s shoulder tentatively, waiting for some kind of reaction. Leonidas slumps slightly, but he doesn’t pull away, so at least that’s something.

“So, if you want to talk, I’m here.” Spyro tries, making an attempt to meet the man’s eyes.

Leonidas, of course, says nothing.

“Or, we could go make pancakes?” Spyro suggests placidly. The idea might be a good one. It’d be nice to get off the floor. It'd be nice to not have to think. “You like pancakes?”

Leonidas hunches over himself. “I don’t think I can stand,” He presses his head on top of his knees. “My legs are all like jelly.”

“Oh,” Spyro instantly says, regretting his suggestion. He can’t help the way his face falls. “I—yeah, that’s fine, we can sit here for a while.”

He should really just shut his mouth. He knows nothing about helping people. He knows nothing at all. And there's something about that thought that makes him twitch.

Leonidas seems to notice. “Uhm, are ya alright?”

“Me?” The word is said defensively, because how dare Leonidas even try to think about Spyro's problems right now. “I’m fine.”

‘It’s you I'm worried about.’

“We can go cook pancakes if ya want,” Leonidas says with a very fragile grin, gently brushing Spyro’s hand away. “I won’t be much use, but–”

“It was just a suggestion,” Spyro mumbles, feeling nauseous. “No need to act on it.”

“Spyro.” Leonidas starts, and Spyro, forgetting his mission is supposedly meant to be comforting the other man, finds himself crumbling.

“I just thought that—fuck, I don’t know what else to do,” His voice cracks, and he can feel the table’s turning, a loose screw causing everything to tilt. “Some help I am.”

“Spyro, ya are—”

“No, I’m not! Because if I hadn’t been so emotional, Charlie wouldn’t have declined your offer to hang out, and you never would’ve had that argument! Really, it’s my fault you’re upset right now!” The words spill out of his mouth with no input from his brain. It only takes a moment of processing to realise how stupid he sounds.

“Wait, what?” Leonidas asks, seemingly having found himself whilst Spyro was shouting. “What happened?”

Trust the man to instantly zoom in on Spyro's problems instead of his own. What should be considered a deflection tactic serves as a thorn to Spyro’s side.

“Nothing,” Spyro says, in reflex. “Nothing happened, forget I said anything.”

Leonidas looks away, twiddling his thumbs. “Spyro, you’re as bad as me, sometimes.”

Spyro bites his lip, looking away. His chest is too tight, like his ribs are crashing into his heart. “Am not.”

“Talk to me. What happened?” Leonidas asks, very gently, wiping at his own face.

“I dunno,” Spyro mutters, and he does know, but he can hardly look at Leonidas and say, ‘I had a breakdown because I have operating powers, by the way’. “I was just upset, I guess, and I think Charlie was concerned for me. That's why he didn’t want to hang out with you.”

“Oh,” Leonidas starts, before his eyes go wet. “Shit!”

Spyro, not expecting it, flinches backwards, finding himself almost falling on the floor. An apologetic look instantly flashes across Leonidas’s face, and his hands pull Spyro steady.

“F-fuck, I’m an idiot,” Leonidas says, voice cracking. “I thought that he was like, trying to kindly tell me to fuck off.”

“We’re both idiots.” Spyro mumbles, trying to include himself in Leonidas’s self-loathing. “And I don’t think Charlie would ever want you to fuck off.”

Leonidas hugs his legs, staring at the ground like it might stop his eyes from watering. Suddenly, Spyro feels powerless.

“Hey,” Spyro starts, forcefully gentle. It’s getting hard to modulate his tone. “Have you ever considered telling him you like him in that way? It could really save the, ‘will they, won’t they’ thing you’ve got going on.”

“There’s no use.” Leonidas mutters, burying his head in his arms. It’s awfully saddening. “I’ll be lucky if he still wants to be my friend after yesterday.”

“Oh come on, how bad was that argument of yours?” Spyro asks in curiosity.

“Bad,” Leonidas says, words muffled by the arm in front of his head. “We argued for hours – he threw the bracelet I gave him at my face, uh, I gave him back our photo album—”

“You two have a photo album together, and you still think he hates you?” Spyro asks in disbelief.

“Yes.” Leonidas says, voice cracking on the single syllable.

“Leonidas you–” Spyro tries, only to realise he has no good retort. “You are wrong, yeah? I don’t think Charlie hates you. He wouldn’t constantly hang out with someone he hates – that’s just, stupid. You’re being stupid.”

Leonidas doesn’t respond.

“You know that, right?” Spyro asks, pulling his hands over Leonidas’s shoulders. “You—”

“Spyro, ya shouldn’t talk about somethin’ ya don’t know anythin’ about,” Leonidas says, very softly, but the words still hit like a truck. His voice goes quieter. “Especially when ya don’t act much better than me.”

He knows what Leonidas is implying – that Spyro is a hypocrite, that Spyro thinks everyone hates him too – but Spyro chooses to ignore the words, because if he thinks about them for more than a split second, something is going to break.

Spyro gulps, desperately trying to find words to say. “I was just trying to help, I didn’t mean to—”

“Spyro,” Leonidas starts, and it’s only then when Spyro realises the world is revolving around him, the room spinning like he’s drunk something he shouldn't have. Leonidas’s hands pull him steady. “You’ve helped, really.”

Spyro genuinely wants to cry. He rubs his face with his sleeve instead, because now is not the time. He pushes himself to his shaky feet.

“Well,” His voice cracks on the single word, even when there’s no reason for it to. “Maybe I don’t know much about you and Charlie, but, you’ll work it out,” He looks down the hall, hands itching to do something. For once, he really, really wants to be behind a kitchen counter. “In the meantime, however, you have no business to sit here and mope.”

Leonidas tilts his head upwards slightly, mulling over Spyro’s words. “Maybe.”

Spyro stretches a hand outwards, like an offer. “Pancakes?”

Leonidas reluctantly takes his hand, and provides no help as Spyro singlehandedly tries to drag the man off the floor. “I already told ya, I’d be–”

“‘No use?’” Spyro finishes the sentence. “I don’t really care. I could just use the company, y’know?”

Besides, the man looks too pale, like he’s on the verge of passing out, and Spyro thinks he needs something to eat. Eventually, he pulls the man off the floor, only for him to list into Spyro. He pulls him steady, and Leonidas eventually finds it in himself to stand straight.

“Sounds alright, I guess.” Leonidas mutters tiredly.

“Yeah?” Spyro says softly, gesturing a hand to the hallway.

“Yeah.” Leonidas adds, and Spyro tries hard to hide his grin. He’s really become attached to the idea of pancakes, and with food so sweet, he doubts that anything will go wrong.

The walk to the kitchen is silent, but not necessarily uncomfortable. There's some tension – Leonidas is keeping his head down as he walks, humming softly to himself, while Spyro fumbles with a map of the castle, trying to find a kitchen that won't evoke traumatic flashbacks.

There's a small kitchen on the ground floor of the castle, apparently. Spyro thinks he'd rather take a chance with that one than the grand kitchen, or the others.

Leonidas manages to pull himself out of his daze by the time Spyro pushes the door open to the kitchen, lightly exclaiming about how they better have maple syrup. Spyro can’t help but snort. If it weren't for everything that's happened, it'd almost be endearing.

Spyro allows himself a moment to familiarise himself with the surroundings, and once he takes it all in – the polished cabinets, the white walls – he begins rummaging through the cupboards.

“Have you ever made pancakes before?” Spyro asks absentmindedly as he grabs everything he needs – flour, eggs, milk.

“Nope.” Leonidas answers, and Spyro can faintly hear the man shuffle awkwardly around the kitchen.

“How have you been alive this long and have never baked anything?” Spyro asks seriously, grabbing a large bowl and setting it on the counter.

Leonidas shrugs. “Mella used to cook for me back in the day, and in the alliance people would just bring food to me whenever I wanted.”

“I keep forgetting you were raised by villagers.” Spyro murmurs out loud. He thinks it must've been nice. He doesn't know quite how he would've turned out if he had people who cared enough about him to make sure he was well fed.

He probably would have turned out nicer. A lot nicer.

“I should probably pay them a visit one of these days,” Leonidas says softly. “They live in a new village near the old Adorian village.”

Spyro blinks. He didn't quite know how many villagers survived. He briefly remembers a few foiling his plans, but the memory is fuzzy.

“What were the casualties then, if you don't mind me… asking?” Spyro asks, setting all the ingredients on the counter, and then slamming the cabinets shut. He barely manages to look at Leonidas.

“Uh, well, Mella, Oob and Stull survived.” Leonidas says in a monotone, looking moderately uncomfortable with being asked that question. Spyro thinks it was a mistake to ask. He's supposed to be cheering the man up, and he's instead reminding himself of his dead family.

There's an uncomfortable silence, before Spyro gestures to the bag of flour on the counter. “You think you can measure a hundred grams of flour for me?”

Leonidas nods, grabbing the flour and struggling to open it whilst Spyro pours three hundred millilitres of milk straight into a bowl. He's cooked enough to be able to measure it by eye.

He almost ends up dropping the bottle when Leonidas accidentally blows a cloud of flour onto his face. He chokes on his own breath.

“Shoot!” Leonidas yelps, as Spyro tries to scrub flour out of his eyes.

“I should never let you into my kitchen. Ever.” Spyro mutters dangerously. Leonidas throws a towel in his direction, thankfully.

Leonidas just shrugs, a shit eating grin on his face.

“You're lucky I tolerate you.”

Leonidas just continues grinning.

“Why are you giving me that look?” Spyro asks, and Leonidas only laughs.

“Ya never would have even admitted to toleratin’ me two weeks ago.” Leonidas simply says, beaming.

“Things change.” Spyro mumbles, not really wanting to admit the truth in the words. Leonidas smiles, but doesn't follow it up with another comment. Spyro simply looks back at the counter.

He works on cracking two eggs whilst Leonidas finally manages to weigh the flour. He lets Leonidas mix the batter whilst he sets a pan on the stove.

“You ready to make the most delicious pancakes ever?” Spyro asks with a grin.

“Hell yeah.” Leonidas responds, pouring an appropriate amount of batter into the pan. Spyro goes to flick the oven on, until he decides against it.

Whilst they have acted out a minimal amount today, Spyro's powers are unpredictable, and if he burns down the castle via electrical fire, he thinks that people will finally have a real reason to hate him.

“Can you switch the furnace on?” Spyro asks. Leonidas looks at him funny.

“Why can't ya do it?” Leonidas asks in confusion, but he still does it, leaning over the furnace and flicking the switch on.

“My uh…my arms are too short to reach?” Spyro responds unsurely, chest tightening slightly. He had expected the other to listen without question.

“Makes sense, I guess,” Leonidas says nonchalantly. “You’re quite small.”

“I'm not that short!” Spyro shoots back with a pout. “I'm still growing.”

“I'll believe that when I see it.” Leonidas answers with the smuggest of grins. Spyro halfheartedly wants to punch him in the face.

Spyro sets the pancakes to simmer on the pan, looking up at Leonidas with a playful grin.

“Watch this.” Spyro says, before grabbing the pan and flipping the pancake gracefully.

“Oh, come on, I bet I can do that.” Leonidas retorts, and without any input from Spyro, he grabs the handle of the pan, flicking the pancake upwards.

It hurtles upwards with a surprising amount of velocity, before sticking to the ceiling.

Spyro looks up at the pancake stuck on the ceiling, before glaring at Leonidas.

“‘I bet I can do that.’” Spyro mocks, almost wanting to strangle Leonidas.

“It's not as easy as it looks.” Leonidas admits, looking up at the half cooked pancake stuck to the ceiling.

“Well, your mistake. You can clean it.” Spyro says, dumping another round of batter into the pan. With some hope, they may end up with at least one edible pancake.

“Aw, don't be like that,” Leonidas drawls, pulling out the puppy dog eyes. “It was a group effort.”

“How on earth did I contribute to flipping a pancake onto the damn ceiling?” Spyro retorts with a raised eyebrow.

“Ya did invite me to the kitchen.” Leonidas simply says, grinning smugly. Spyro seethes, clenching his fists.

“Why, you–” Spyro starts, only for his words to be smothered by a pancake hitting him straight on the head.

He blinks in silence for a moment, before scraping the batter off his face, feeling it drip onto his jumper.

Leonidas only laughs and laughs and laughs. Spyro is almost glad that the batter on his face covers how red his cheeks must surely be from the embarrassment of it all.

“Laugh any more and I won't give you any pancakes.” Spyro tries to say threateningly, grabbing a nearby tea towel and scrubbing through his hair, but Leonidas just continues laughing hysterically.

“It's not even that funny!” Spyro says, ditching the tea towel. It's only a split second later he realises his hair is standing up on all ends from his shoddy attempt at trying to scrub away the batter.

“Oh, it definitely is,” Leonidas says, before pulling out a polaroid camera from his pocket, like he's been waiting for this moment. “Smile!”

Spyro realises a moment too late, and the shutter clicks before he can do anything about it. He tries to swipe the camera out of Leonidas's hands, but the man simply raises it above his head, and despite Spyro's valiant attempts, his arms simply aren't long enough to reach for it.

The photo prints into Leonidas's awaiting hands, and he shoves it into Spyro's face.

“I hate you.” Spyro mutters, and Leonidas simply raises an eyebrow.

“Aw, ya don't need to lie to me, Spyro.” Leonidas says, beaming. Spyro growls, before turning his attention to the pancakes.

“I'm not–” Spyro starts, before sighing melodramatically. “You know what, there's no point. I'm not winning this, am I?”

He continues on with cooking the pancakes, trying his hardest to ignore Leonidas puttering behind him. Finally, five pancakes manage to be served onto a plate, and Spyro sighs and hands them to Leonidas.

The man stares at them in awe, grabbing a hold of the plate, and instantly shoving a pancake into his mouth. Spyro wastes no time in snatching a pancake for himself, before looking down the hallway.

He should probably wash the pancake batter out of his hair.

He eyes Leonidas, who looks at the pancakes with wonder, and he thinks he may have succeeded in making someone happy.

“Well, enjoy eating the pancakes,” Spyro says, shuffling backwards. “I need to rid myself of this damn batter in my hair.”

He goes to leave, before Leonidas's voice catches him off guard.

“Spyro?”

“Yes?” Spyro answers.

“Thank ya,” Leonidas says softly, and despite how annoying he finds the man to be, Spyro smiles. “I feel better, really.”

“No… problem.” Spyro says, before setting off down the hall.

He needs a shower, badly. He doesn't necessarily appreciate his hair being sticky with pancake mix. Besides, a shower will most surely do him some good. Perhaps, if he tries hard enough, he'll be able to rid himself of everything filthy within him.

Despite it all, for once, he feels warm. Perhaps it helps to actually have something in his stomach.

He shuffles to the end of the hall, where his room is situated. He can smell cinnamon. Spyro thinks he likes it. It only encourages him to open the door with more heart than he can usually summon.

His bedroom is different to how he left it.

It’s not all bad, at first. Spyro notices a reed diffuser on his shelf – the obvious culprit of the cinnamon smell. Briefly, he wonders who would’ve spoiled him. He crosses out Leonidas, because if he were to give Spyro a gift, he’d probably do so like they do in movies – completely over dramatic and out of proportion, certainly not a silent gift. He crosses off Stan from his list, and any other council member, because they simply do not know him well enough to care. He can exclude Sirus, too, because he’d never leave anything in such a careful manner. If it was him, it probably would’ve been spilt on the floor.

Charlie, Spyro knows without really thinking. He’s the only one on the council who’s careful and sort of quiet and cares far too much to present Spyro with a gift to his face. He’s the only one smart enough to know giving Spyro with a gift straight up would end terribly.

Spyro appreciates the sentiment. It’s almost enough to distract him from the book and paper lying neatly on his bed. It's at that moment that Spyro belatedly realises that the diffuser is nothing short of a trap. He shuffles against the floor like a mouse running towards a mouse trap, wooly socks scuffing against the carpet.

The first thing he notices is a self help book, bookmarked on a concerning amount of pages with bright sticky notes. Spyro doesn’t even need to read the letter to know where this is going. Despite his heart beating unsteadily in his chest, he takes the note, fingers crawling around the paper in a desperate manner. He reads it out loud, because he doesn’t think his brain could focus on the words otherwise.

“Spyro,” He says, the neat handwriting matching that of the person who wrote the constitution for a country he long abandoned. “As you can see, I’ve left you a book on self help. It’s one of my personal favourites.”

Oh, fuck.

“I’m not going to force you to read it, nor am I going to force you to seek help, as much as I would like you to,” Spyro reads, voice wobbling. “Whilst I don’t approve of your method to try and ignore things until they go away, which, for the record, they won’t, I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to. If you ever want to understand why you’re behaving this way, or want to seek help, the book is yours.”

Spyro has to prompt himself to continue.

“On a side note, I really think you should tell someone about your operating powers, maybe Stan or Leonidas. While I understand your fears, if you continue trying to hide it, I fear it's only going to hurt you more in the long run. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone, nor will I force you to, because that's your choice, but I feel the need to highlight the importance of doing so.” Spyro can feel something dangerous rising in his voice. “Regardless of your decisions, I’m here if you need me. Kind regards, Charlie.”

Spyro sighs.

He has a conversation to have.

Right after he washes his hair. Not that he thinks he could do it in anything more than a half assed manner, not with so many thoughts in his head.

He's going to vomit.

He doesn't, because everything he's just eaten gets caught somewhere in his throat, stuck in a net of emotions and thoughts and feelings that don't seem quite tangible. All it does is leave a thick wave of nausea in his gut.

Shower. He needs to shower. Forget about what Charlie said. He has all the time in the world to talk to him.

He shuffles to his ensuite, clicking the door shut behind him, and trying to force himself to get air into his lungs. It's a valiant attempt, but under current circumstances, is rendered as entirely useless.

He rids himself of his clothing, struggling to pull the hem of his jumper over his head with how bad his hands are shaking, before quickly slipping into the shower. He allows water to run over him, feeling both too hot and too cold, squeezing his eyes shut.

He probably should tell Stan about his operating powers. Maybe he can teach him how to get them under control. If he continues at this rate, he's going to set something on fire.

Spyro shakes his head, feeling damp strands of hair stick to his face.

He can't do that. Stan will kill him. It'll be the final straw.

He tries to scrub at his hair, but he simply finds himself tugging at strands, trying to think coherently.

Maybe he can tell Leonidas. Leonidas cares about him.

Spyro feels something strangle at his throat. Perhaps a laugh. The statement is terribly misguided, after all. This is the same man that abandoned him without so much as a goodbye.

Who else is he supposed to tell? He's not exactly on the greatest of terms with the people around here.

It's honestly a miracle Charlie hasn't locked him up yet.

Spyro dumps what he judges to be about half a bottle of shampoo onto his hair, eyes still shut. He digs his hands through tangled strands, greasy with pancake mix. He breathes like something is strangling him.

He'll figure something out. He'll talk to Charlie. Everything will be okay.

Chapter Text

Spyro's hair hangs damply on his forehead as he tries to find Charlie. After all, his shower was hasty, and his attempts to scrub at his hair with a towel had been even more rushed.

The letter simply was a reminder of harsh reality. And in what might be a rare moment of clarity, Spyro has realised that he can't hide from his problems by slaving away in a kitchen. He should probably confess, despite his fears. He just can't figure out what to say and how to say it. But Charlie does have a way with words, when he actually thinks things through, and regrettably, Spyro needs his help.

Not that he can find the man, though. He's already searched the council room, the castle’s library, and the main living room. That's all the usual spots Spyro can think of that Charlie usually is. There's only one more room on his route – the man's bedroom. If Charlie isn't there, then Spyro can conclude his search is futile.

His boots click against the polished floors, and for once, Spyro can't find it in himself to admire the architecture of the castle. He's got other matters to dwell on.

Like what a monster he is. Tenebris's next of kin.

He knows anyone would tell him the thought is born from self hatred, but the problem with that is that it's true. He is a monster. Even when he tries to be kind, he inevitably fucks something up, and inevitably makes something snap or break.

He doesn't deserve the right to beg Charlie for his help. He doesn't deserve the right to wallow in cowardice. He doesn't deserve the right to be too damn scared to tell the truth. Because really, it shouldn't be that hard.

Spyro has done so much, and yet his biggest problem is walking over to Stan and telling the man he's an operator.

It's ironic, really.

Spyro, the man who was so set on revenge, who clawed his way to power, who once dreamed of blowing everything up, is actually a quivering coward.

He really is taking after Drake.

It'd be funny if he didn't see first-hand what end Drake met. If he hadn’t felt the heat of the splashback of lava, even when he was metres above the man’s grave.

Spyro sighs, trying for the millionth time to bottle his emotions down to the abyss where they belong. He can't afford the right to be emotional right now. He needs to just relax, and talk, and sort everything out.

The bedroom to Charlie's door stands menacingly in front of him. Somehow, he finds his hands shaking.

Snap out of it.

Briefly, he tries to string together a practice opening, racking his brain for any soft spoken words. None come out, or not good ones at least. No matter how much he tries to practice the art of having a conversation, he either sounds too vague or too demanding, and Spyro wants neither. Maybe the words will come to him eventually. Maybe if he stares at the door long enough, something appropriate to say will come to mind.

You’re stalling.

And yet he doesn’t stop stalling. Instead, he takes to pacing around the door like it’s a new hobby. The man might not even be in there at all. Or he might be busy with paperwork, or something like that. Who is Spyro to intrude? Charlie probably doesn’t even want to talk to him anyways. He probably just wrote that letter out of pity or something alike.

Oh, shut up, that's stupid. Just knock on the damn door already!

He yanks his hair out of his face, and after a moment of silence, filled only by his own ragged breathing, Spyro balls up his fist, holding it at the door with hesitation. Fear lines his stomach like tar, and he brings his fist to the door, wincing in anticipation.

What comes out is a knock that sounds far too timid, and Spyro immediately regrets how small it sounds, and he almost mourns how far he’s fallen. Eons ago, he would’ve knocked with far too much force, or he would’ve just kicked the door down. Who is he, and what has he done with himself? Sure, he’s nicer, perhaps more approachable than the rather jaded kid he acted like when he first stepped in the castle walls. But now he’s just…unnecessarily scared. For no reason. And it's hindering him terribly.

Regardless, he doesn't particularly expect a response, because the knock he produced was barely audible. Besides, there's a very likely chance that the man has gone out for the day.

And expectedly, he doesn’t get a response. The man is probably out somewhere, doing councilman things that Spyro can’t quite wrap his head around. That's until he presses his ear against the door, only to hear some kind of rummaging, clearly that of the person who inhabits it. Blatantly, the man is there, and hasn't heard him.

That means Spyro has a chance to run. It'd hurt his ego, but the option is plausible.

You're not a coward. You're no Drake, are you?

He clenches his fists, inhaling what will probably be his last steady breath, before gently pushing the door open.

Charlie’s room has always had that sort of comforting light, Spyro thinks, as his eyes adjust to the more dimly lit room. He appreciates the warm light that comes from fairy lights and table lamps. It makes him feel at home.

It’s not the first thing he notices, though. The thing he notices is that everything is a fucking mess.

Well, it’s not that severe. But there are a few books on the floor, and drawers left open like they were rummaged through hastily. It’s something you would never really associate with someone as neat as Charlie.

The second thing he notices is Charlie sitting at his desk, back facing Spyro. And it's hard to gauge from the doorway at which Spyro is standing, but he thinks he can hear what sounds like heavy breathing, maybe even sobbing.

“Charlie?” Spyro asks softly, not daring to move a step forward from the doorstep. Despite how quietly he talks, he notices Charlie instantly jolt upright like Spyro's some sort of predator. And Spyro shrinks backwards himself, trying to make himself look more approachable.

“Spyro?” Charlie says, voice cracking, still facing away from him. It's the only confirmation he needs to know that the man is, or has been, crying.

“Hey,” Spyro mumbles softly, looking down. “I uh—I read your letter.”

Charlie doesn’t make any attempt to turn around to face Spyro. He runs a hand through his hair. “Shit, I knew I forgot something.”

His voice sounds unnervingly flat. Spyro shifts uncomfortably.

“Now’s not a good time, is it?” Spyro asks, trying to sound as soft as possible. His voice just comes out gritty and gruff, like it always does. It’s been a long time since he’s had to sound comforting.

“No, it isn’t.” Charlie murmurs absently.

Spyro shifts on his feet once more, eyes darting around the room. He can’t really think of the right thing to say. He doesn’t think there is a right thing to say.

“Should I go?” Spyro asks gently, placing his hands in his pocket. He tries to tilt his head to see Charlie’s face, but the attempt proves unsuccessful.

“Probably.” Charlie mumbles, not moving a muscle. It’s not really the answer Spyro wants. Charlie is usually more specific about these sorts of things. Spyro likes that about him.

“Do you want me to?” Spyro keeps his voice soft, and yet he can’t help but sound at least a little condescending. Maybe it’s just in his nature, because people like him don’t really do kind words and pleasantries.

Charlie tilts his head downwards, shoulders sagging.

“I dunno, man,” he’d sound nonchalant if his voice wasn’t so damn hoarse. “Do whatever.”

So Spyro takes two steps closer to Charlie. He stretches his hands outwards, almost considering the action of grabbing Charlie by the shoulders and spinning the man around to face him. It only takes a moment of thought before Spyro’s hands retract back to his side.

“Like hell I’m leaving.” Spyro says brashly, and yet the man doesn’t even snicker at his tone.

Right, that's not working, but he can adjust. Spyro lowers his voice to that of someone who might sound empathetic to your problems, before speaking.

“Look, I know you and Leonidas kinda had… an argument, last night,” Spyro admits. He feels uncomfortably small, like he’s still a private back in Nocturia. “I overheard.”

“You did?” Charlie asks, startling upright and looking over his shoulder to face Spyro. Painfully red eyes meet Spyro’s, and the latter can’t help but cringe. He doesn't think he's seen Charlie look so…pathetic before.

“Yeah,” Spyro confirms gently, scrubbing his feet against the carpet. Everything is too damn quiet, and it makes his skin crawl, because only the tundra was ever this quiet, and Spyro has grown to hate anything that reminds him of the Noctem Alliance. “And I kind of spoke to Leonidas earlier.”

Charlie simply stares at him for a moment, blinking, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Spyro, for once, doesn’t blame him.

Charlie’s voice wobbles. “What did he say?”

“Nothing bad about you, I promise,” Spyro adds hastily, before he speaks more quietly. “I think he’s more mad at himself.”

That fact doesn't seem to please Charlie. His face just falls ever so slightly.

“Of course he is.” Charlie mutters, rubbing at his eyes for what’s probably been the hundredth time in the last couple of minutes. The attempt is getting somewhat desperate. Spyro should know, because wiping at your eyes never really gets rid of the urge to cry anyways. It’s a useless defense mechanism.

“I don’t really know the details,” Spyro mumbles, rubbing his knuckles against each other. “But I think he’s sorry about what happened.”

Charlie swivels around in his chair, pressing a thumb against his forehead and pulling his fringe out of his face. “God dammit, Spyro, tell me something I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Spyro asks, shrinking back at the unexpected tone and motion. Charlie pushes himself backward, curling his feet onto his chair with an apologetic look on his face.

“He’s always sorry,” Charlie exhales slowly. “He apologises for everything, all the time! You know how frustrating that is?”

“Fustrating? Is that not a good thing?” Spyro tilts his head like a confused dog. He doesn’t understand. Apologising is a good thing, is it not? What else could Charlie expect from the man?

“Because he does it even when he has no reason to,” Charlie mutters, looking away. “And I know he means well, but it just comes across as shallow after a while. And it’s not like empty words help anything. It doesn't fix anything.”

Spyro doesn't see anything wrong with Leonidas's behaviour. What is he supposed to do? Some grand gesture of affection? Charlie is just picky, maybe. Or maybe Spyro is just in the wrong too.

He nods slowly anyways. “I guess…that makes sense.”

Fuck, he needs to change his strategy. All he’s done since he’s turned a new leaf is apologise, and apparently, according to Charlie, that means nothing! Elementia, they must all hate him, or think he’s annoying, or shallow, or–

“I should be the one apologising, anyways.” Charlie says under his breath, but his words are as clear as day. Spyro raises an eyebrow.

“But he—” Spyro starts, but Charlie cuts him off before he can continue, tears in his eyes.

“But he thinks I hate him, and I’ve only confirmed that by throwing everything he’s ever given me back at his face,“ Charlie says, pressing his chin against his knees. He looks pitifully small. “I must make him feel like shit.”

Huh, Charlie must be sad if he’s swearing.

He tries to think of a response. Because people like Charlie are never in the wrong. It's people like him and Leonidas who should be spitting apologies. He pauses, taking a moment to try and put himself into Leonidas's shoes, before speaking.

“Charlie,” Spyro starts, taking a step closer to Charlie. He doesn’t think he can manage another. “I don’t think you’ve confirmed anything. And it’s clear you care about him. He just doesn’t believe you, because he probably thinks you should hate him. You can't really do much about that. Because that is totally his problem, not your problem. He needs to just get over—”

Spyro cuts himself off. Maybe he isn’t just talking about Leonidas, but for now, he’ll allow Charlie to believe that he is.

“He thinks I should hate him?” Charlie asks, fumbling with the collar of his shirt.

Spyro sighs. He sort of feels bad for talking about Leonidas behind his back, but he thinks it’s the only way. “He told me, two nights ago. Found him crying.”

Charlie just blinks, hands sitting awkwardly in his lap like he can’t figure out what to do with them. Spyro regrets telling him. Sometimes a few white lies does some good every now and then. Maybe Drake was right about something.

“He just thinks that you should.” Spyro adds quietly. Just like Charlie should hate him.

“I damn well shouldn’t,” Charlie counters, pouting. His eyes look glossy. “He’s done so much for me, how could he think—”

“He probably just feels like he’s done nothing good for you,” Spyro says, and he’s projecting, isn’t he? He stopped talking about Leonidas a long time ago. “But, uh…what the hell do I know? It's not like I read his diary.”

Spyro doubts Leonidas would have a diary anyways. The man seems to be insistent on containing his emotions until it kills him.

“But he has done good things,” Charlie counters bitterly, throwing his hands over his head melodramatically. “He’s always been the one there for me—he was the only one who could stand to talk to me when I was acting like an asshole. How could he not see any of that? How could he think he’s made my life worse? That's just…stupid. My life would be so much worse if he wasn't in it.”

“I think it’s just a Noctem alliance thing,” Spyro cuts in, feeling a hundred miles away. “He’ll come around, eventually.”

Charlie shifts in his oak chair, looking like he might just cry. It was never Spyro’s intention, and he can feel a hundred different apologies threatening to spill out of his mouth, before Charlie cuts him off.

“You know him better than I do.” Charlie mumbles, voice cracking. Spyro can feel himself stiffening. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Charlie sound jealous before, especially not jealous of him. And he shouldn’t, because Spyro knows nothing, and Spyro is just a kid trying to project onto Leonidas to feel better about himself.

“I don—”

“You do!” Charlie counters, almost looking disgusted. “You’re saying things I never even considered, because I…I—fuck.”

Charlie inhales shakily. “He always knows how to help me, and I don't know how to repay the favour! I understand absolutely nothing about him, but you do, it seems!”

Spyro’s eyes begin to dart around the room, as if trying to figure out a way to defuse the growing bomb in front of him. He's never really seen Charlie mad before. It's a weird emotion to associate with Charlie.

“I don’t, really,” Spyro admits in a forcefully calm voice, because how could he? He’s spent months wanting nothing more than to put a stake in the man’s heart. “I just spent a lot of time with him, before everything went to shit.”

“And I haven’t?” Charlie asks sadly, eyes looking glossy. “Because I spend practically every single day with him. I don’t understand how—”

“You don’t understand because you weren’t in the Noctem Alliance,” Spyro cuts in, a little more harshly than he intended. “You’ll never understand the kind of guilt you feel after doing all that shit. Maybe you're not perfect yourself, sure, but you’ll never understand how it feels to be responsible for the deaths of so many peo—”

“Of course I know what it feels like!” Charlie retorts, voice strangled, and a strange glint in his eyes. “If I hadn’t confessed the location of our base to Drake, all those people wouldn’t have died in that half-baked attempt to take over the Adorian village! I know what it feels like to feel guilt, Spyro! I wasn’t born yesterday!”

Something in Spyro snaps. Whatever part of him that wanted to help has turned to something malicious.

“But you’re a good person!” Spyro shrieks, trying to ignore the way Charlie’s face falls. “You never would have done that shit out of your own choice, but I would’ve! Leonidas would’ve! I mean, you've always done the right thing when you could, you've always tried to be a good person, but Leonidas sure as hell didn't! He was the guy who’d kill without a shred of regret, the guy who would watch you die without even the blink of an eye! And so was I! So no, Charlie! You don’t know what it’s like to be a terrible person, and you’ll never feel guilt in the way me and Leonidas have! And for that reason, You’ll never understand that part of him in the way I do!”

Lightning strikes ominously behind him. Spyro instantly recoils away, watching in his peripherals as Charlie shrinks against his chair. He tries to say something to soften the blow of impulsivity, and yet his throat only strains, and he can feel himself choking on his own words. All he can do is look at Charlie sadly and pant in an attempt to get air into his lungs.

Spyro takes a moment to catch his breath, feeling a little nauseous. It’s probably the most emotionally vulnerable he’s ever been on his own accord. Charlie honestly looks a little spooked, backed up against his chair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. The man doesn’t dare move a muscle, like he’s simply trying to process Spyro’s words, and the weight of it all.

Perhaps Spyro was a little too harsh. He probably shouldn’t be screaming at the guy he’s trying to comfort.

“Sorry,” Spyro mumbles tiredly. “I—I was just trying to make a point.”

Charlie blinks. He looks away for a moment, somewhere distant that Spyro just can't see, before looking back at Spyro.

“I know, and—and I guess that makes sense.” Charlie mumbles, like he’s been rejected. If Spyro knew it wouldn’t make things worse, he’d probably hug the man, because damn, he looks huggable as hell right now.

“If there’s anything I can—”

“You’ve done enough,” Charlie says seriously, eyes watering. “You’ve done so much, and you shouldn’t be the one dealing with this.”

Spyro could make a point about how Charlie must think Spyro's too fragile, about how he must think Spyro is too unstable to help, and that he should let Spyro deal with this, and yet no counter agreement leaves his throat. He understands, somehow.

The man grabs a book on his desk, the front cover a shitty looking picture of him and Leonidas. Spyro tries to look at it closer, and although the picture is upside down from his angle, he can feel the sentiment all the same. He briefly wonders how long ago that picture was taken, and how long it took Charlie to lose that resting bitch face he seemed to have back then.

Leonidas has that kind of effect on people, Spyro thinks, because Spyro should know.

“No matter what I do, I just wind up pushing him away.” Charlie says tiredly, fingers curling around the book. Spyro tries to avert his gaze, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? It takes a beat before he begins fumbling a response.

“He’ll come back,” Spyro says, but he can’t quite find it in himself to sound reassuring. “He’s like a cat.”

Charlie laughs, all the while tears drip down his face. “He is.”

“You’ll make up,” Spyro says, a little louder. “I don’t think either of you can really stand to be apart for that long.”

‘You need each other.’ Is what Spyro almost ends up saying, but he doesn’t think Charlie needs to hear that right now. He focuses on looking away, not wanting to acknowledge that Charlie is ugly sobbing right now.

“One day we won’t.” Charlie says pessimistically, pressing his knuckles against his face.

Spyro shuffles closer to Charlie, rug squishing under his feet. He reaches his hands out awkwardly – instinctively. Charlie looks up at him, and something tugs at Spyro’s heart. The man looks heartbroken.

“That’s complete bullshit. You know you will,” Spyro says softly, and he feels like he’s still a kid in Nocturia, trying to comfort people he should have had no business in helping. His hands still hang helplessly. “I know you will. You’re both good people. You’re just both just a bit messy.”

Charlie presses his head against Spyro’s shirt, shoulders slumping. Spyro only shifts, feeling his shirt going damp with tears at an alarmingly fast rate. He simply hooks his chin over Charlie’s head, messy hair meeting his chin. His arms awkwardly find their way around Charlie’s shaking shoulders, and he just allows himself to close his eyes and pretend everything’s okay.

He has no business trying to deal with this shit. He couldn’t deal with his colleagues, and he can’t deal with this. He can’t! All he’s done is ramble and make mockery at the attempt to be comforting. Deep down, he knows the only reason he’s doing it is to pay back for yesterday. Because he feels in debt.

He only ever cares about himself.

“It’ll be okay.” Spyro murmurs, ruffling Charlie’s hair like he’d wish someone would do to him. Charlie sniffles, gently pushing away.

“Thanks,” Charlie says, throat dry. Spyro knows the feeling all too well. “Thank you.”

And Spyro simply pulls away, feeling warmth evaporating from his skin as he does. He shrugs, trying to play it off. “It was nothing.”

That’s a lie. It’s a lot. Spyro feels fucking delirious. Especially when he remembers why he originally came here. Because he wanted advice. That plan went out the window, didn't it?

He looks to the door, thinking Charlie will be no help to him in this state. “I have shit to sort out,” He says, eyes meeting the door. “I need to tell Stan about my—my operating powers. That'll be fun.”

The words ‘operating powers’ come out strangled, taking the air out of his lungs. Perhaps his legs might well and truly buckle. And as he struggles to keep his breathing straight, a flash of clarity hits Charlie’s face.

“Fuck, the letter.” Charlie says, wiping away the last few tears. Spyro shifts his weight on the balls of his feet, rubbing at his neck nervously.

“It’s kind of the reason I came here.” Spyro says, tugging at the sleeve of his jumper. In hindsight, it was a bad idea. Charlie is in no state to help him.

“I wrote it before I got into that argument,” Charlie explains, eyes looking red and tired. “I was going to give it to you in person, but I couldn’t find you.”

“Well, I can never stay in the same place for too long,” Spyro simply says, averting his gaze from Charlie. It’s a lie though, because the truth is, that if Spyro could sleep, he’d be spending a lot more time in his room. “But I’m glad you left it for me. I think I needed it.”

Charlie simply shrugs his shoulders. “It was no problem.”

Spyro nods, feeling a wave of silence crash over him. He can’t stand the sound, and after a moment of thought, he begins speaking anyway.

“I was thinking of telling Stan.” Spyro mumbles, finally taking the time to perch himself on the end of the man’s bed without an invitation, putting him eye to eye with the other man.

“That’ll be good,” Charlie says, very softly. Spyro can’t tell if he’s just tired from crying or trying to not scare Spyro away. “Stan will understand.”

“I doubt it,” Spyro says, shoulders shuddering. “Knowing me, I’ll fuck something up.”

It’s blatantly depressing – self-depreciating enough that it makes Charlie’s firm gaze soften. And all Spyro can feel is overwhelming regret for letting such words escape from his mouth. He needs to get it together already. It shouldn't be that hard.

“I didn’t mean that.” Spyro adds hastily, trying very hard to play it off. But his chest doesn’t loosen, nor does his throat get any less tight. All he can do is tilt his head downwards and stare miserably at the floor.

“Then why did you say it?” Charlie asks, very seriously. His hand makes a rather gentle presence on Spyro’s shoulder, but the latter still flinches.

“I-I—” Spyro stutters helplessly, because he has no retort to say to that, or at least not one that isn’t a terribly obvious lie.

“It’ll go fine,” Charlie says soothingly, and Spyro can’t feel but feel slightly unnerved by how quickly the roles have been reversed, because only moments ago, he was using the exact same tone. “Stan’s an understanding guy. He won’t hate you.”

He should. “Are you sure he won’t?”

Charlie removes his hand from Spyro’s shoulder, and the latter is almost disappointed. “I’m sure.”

Spyro tries to swallow the bile in his throat. “But what if I–”

“Spyro, no one’s forcing you to tell him,” Charlie says, his tone reassuringly sweet. It doesn’t do anything to ease the nausea in Spyro’s gut. “So if you’re not ready, you don’t have to.”

You're not a coward. You're not like Drake. If you believe it you might finally act as such.

Spyro can feel his hands threatening to fizzle with static. “No, I will.”

Charlie simply smiles, nodding.

“Could you do me a favour?” Spyro asks, feeling painfully small.

Charlie instantly straightens, meeting Spyro’s eyes with full attention. “What is it?”

“Talk to Leonidas, will you?” Spyro asks, walking to the door, because he has shit to do. “It’s honestly painful watching you two fight over nothing.”

He says the last part lightly, and Charlie simply exhales out of his nose and nods.

“I will,” Charlie says simply, as Spyro shuffles over to the door. “Bye, Spyro.”

“Bye.” Spyro says softly, before stepping out of the room and clicking the door shut behind him.

—

As Spyro struggles to find Stan around the castle, he can’t help but feel like he has a death wish.

Despite all of Charlie’s reassurances, he can’t help but feel like Charlie knows absolutely nothing about Stan, because Stan is most surely going to kill him. Sure, Spyro has no evidence of that fact, but he has a growing hunch splintering through his chest like a spider’s web, telling him that Stan is going to do terrible things to him.

And that makes it hard to breathe, if anything.

Everyone around here just lies, Spyro has realised. No one here wants to see Spyro safe – they’re all just plotting against him, waiting for the moment he leaves himself vulnerable for the slaughter.

Shut up, that sounds ridiculous.

Turns out, Spyro simply can’t make up his mind on who’s a friend and who’s a foe. It doesn’t really matter, because Spyro, like the self destructive piece of shit he is, will gladly step into the lion’s den, anyways.

The lion’s den in question happens to be Stan’s office, and for the supposed death he’ll probably meet in this room, it’s not so bad. It’s a nice place to die, at least. Better than in a crater, or in a lava pit.

Static ripples through his skin.

He presses his hand to the doorknob.

Somehow, electricity sparks through Spyro’s hand at the touch, even though he’s sure that’s not how physics works. It burns.

“Fuck!” Spyro says in a strangled pitch, clutching his hand in his own clasp, gritting his teeth like it might make it hurt less. His ears prick at the sound of footsteps, and before he can let Stan see him like this, he simply bursts into the room.

He almost crashes into Stan, who’s probably in the middle of checking to see who’s lingering outside his office. Instead, in a stroke of luck, Spyro flips forwards into a chair, eyes meeting his own reflection in the mirror.

His hair is fucking standing like it’s been rubbed by a thousand balloons. He looks ridiculous.

Stan heaves a breath, looking like he’s almost on the verge of a heart attack. “Spyro?!”

“Hey, Mr. President.” Spyro drawls, flipping himself over on the chair, and shaking his hair. It doesn’t stop it from standing up on all ends.

“Do you have a reason for almost giving me a heart attack?” Stan asks, treading behind Spyro and slipping into his chair.

Spyro shudders. “Yeah, actually.”

Stan simply looks at him patiently.

In a split second of nausea, Spyro feels like a man on a stage in front of thousands of people. The room is spinning around him, his throat threatening to strangle him, hands threatening to plunge him deep underwater.

He can’t do this. If he does, he’s going to ruin everything nice that the people here have handed him on a silver platter.

His own hand finds itself in his hair, desperately trying to straighten it. His eyes find themselves looking anywhere but Stan.

“I’m-I–” Spyro stutters miserably, brain unable to form a suitable response. His lungs have been sucked into a black hole, it seems. Just great, if not totally expected.

“You’re…..” Stan starts, like he’s hoping that Spyro might find it in himself to complete the sentence.

Spyro tries, and he tries, and he just can’t.

And he squeezes his eyes shut, and when he tries to find it in himself to mutter the words, he’s cut off.

More specifically, he’s cut off by the earsplitting shockwave of lightning slamming against the floorboards of Stan’s office, mere meters from himself.

The man opposite him instantly startles backwards, almost tipping out of his chair. Spyro can’t find it himself to move. Everything in his body feels painfully numb.

“I—I’m…that,” Spyro barely breathes, everything swimming in his head in a way it probably shouldn’t. “An operator.”

Stan simply looks at him like he’s finding it hard to take his words in. “Oh, shit.”

Spyro scoffs, before sniffling. “Shit, indeed.”

He shifts in the chair, crossing his legs, and wrapping his arms around his chest in the mimicry of a hug, and Spyro is sure he looks fucking pathetic. His eyes can’t quite find Stan’s, and he makes use of staring at one of the vases on Stan’s desk. It’s filled with pretty flowers. Daisies, maybe – Spyro doesn’t really know much about plants.

The silence presses against his ears, filled only by his laboured breathing. He wishes Stan would say something, because the anticipation might be the thing to finally kill him.

“I have a few questions, if you don’t mind me asking.” Stan says, voice strained like he’s giving it his all to sound calm. Spyro is not naive, and he’s lived long enough to know the man is probably anything but.

“Yeah,” Spyro says, voice cracking. “That’s fine.”

It’s definitely not fine, and the use of the word is laughable. Spyro feels like laughing.

“When did this happen?” Stan asks, leaning over his desk, like he’s trying to take a better look at Spyro. “How?”

“Like, four nights ago,” Spyro mumbles, trying to avert his gaze from Stan’s widening eyes. “I woke up with Tenebris’s sword in me – next thing I know I’m shooting lightning everywhere.”

Stan blinks. “Four nights ago? This started four nights ago and you waited till now to tell me?”

“Well, I–” Spyro starts nervously, wringing his hands. Stan cuts him off before he can even get a word out.

“Look, Spyro, I don’t ask much from you,” Stan starts, very seriously. Spyro thinks his heart may have permanently made its home in his throat. “But if you’re shooting lightning, which has the potential to harm my friends, and everyone else in this castle, the least you can do is tell me. This is serious, Spyro.”

He can feel himself shrinking backwards.

You are a coward, aren't you? Cowardice has led you to this.

“I was scared,” Spyro admits quietly, feeling flames threaten to spark at his fingertips. He simply clenches his fists and hopes it will go away. Fear and Spyro don’t really sound like a pair that would go together. Spyro and destruction is a far more fitting duo. “And I thought I could deal with it.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, more softly. “I can tell that much.”

Spyro can sense a beat of silence, and he decides to change the subject before it can pass.

“You think you know why this has happened?” Spyro asks, straightening from his hunched up posture. If there’s anyone who should know, it’s the only god in the vicinity. Maybe Stan will enlighten him, and give him all the answers he could ever need. Somehow, though, Spyro thinks that life isn’t that easy.

“I… really don’t know,” Stan says with a shrug, but it’s the last thing Spyro needs. “I don’t really know much about operating powers, or where they come from. If I were to guess, maybe it was a glitch? Or some of Tenebris’s powers were left on the sword—”

“Can’t be,” Spyro cuts in hastily. “I stabbed Leonidas with the same sword, and he seems just peachy.”

Well, Leonidas is probably not peachy, but at least he doesn't have operating powers.

“It’s probably just a glitch then.” Stan confirms, and Spyro can feel his hands warm with something artificial, like static.

“So how do I make it stop?” Spyro asks, nails biting into his palms. Maybe two weeks ago, the power would have been a delight, but now, Spyro wants anything but. He just wants life to be easy, and normal. Is that so much to ask for?

“I don’t think it works like that.” Stan says calmly, but Spyro shakes his head frantically, slamming his hands down on the desk.

“But you’re an operator too! Surely you can… remove them, or something!” Spyro says, a desperate glint in his eyes. Stan simply shifts in his office chair uncomfortably.

“Spyro, I have no idea how I could even do that without… killing you.” Stan elaborates softly.

‘Well, why don’t you just kill me then!’ Is what Spyro almost says. He even opens his mouth to say it, until clarity hits him. His jaw simply goes slack, and he finds himself looking at Stan with nothing to say, and a miserable look in his eye.

Stan's eyes widen, like he can tell what Spyro's thinking from just his facial expressions alone. Not that Spyro thinks he’s particularly expressive, and he can’t help but feel unsettled by how well Stan can read him.

“I’m not killing you, Spyro.” Stan’s voice is almost…nervous? Worried? There's care somewhere beneath it.

“But—”

“Spyro, I want you to think about what you’re going to say next,” Stan says simply. “Like, actually think.”

Spyro doesn’t think, like always. He feels like his skull is being split in half. “It’d just make things a hell of a lot easier.”

Stan tilts his head, debating on his words.

“Maybe,” Stan says, eyeing Spyro up like he’s a kicked dog. “But if I let you die then Charlie and Leonidas might have me executed.”

Spyro snorts. The thought is endearing. The man’s words are rather…light, though. Spyro would’ve expected something more serious – perhaps a rant about Spyro’s total lack of self worth – but nothing comes.

“So, I’m just stuck like this then?” Spyro asks, pulling at the sleeves of his jumper subconsciously. Sure, anyone else may want to be an operator, but Spyro doesn't feel fit for the power. Not now. Not after everything he's done.

“You say that like it's a bad thing,” Stan says simply, before closing his eyes, and like magic, a cake appears on the table. The man takes a slice, eating it with little etiquette. “See? You can do anything you want.”

Spyro doesn't think he shares Stan’s sentiment.

He pouts. “Well, I dunno how to do cool things like that. All I can do is almost kill myself with lightning and obsidian.”

“I could teach you how to use them?” Stan offers, looking at Spyro expectantly. The other man simply blinks, feeling beyond confused, maybe just through the sheer surprise of it all.

“You're willing to do that?” Spyro asks softly, like if he raises his voice, he might just finally piss off the president. “Don't you have… I dunno, president things to do?”

Stan simply shrugs, a couple of cake crumbs falling on his shirt. If Spyro could get his jaw off the ground, he would take a slice and join in on the fun.

“Well, yeah, I do,” Stan says in agreement. “But now that we're in an era of peace, things are far more relaxed. I have more time than I did.”

Spyro can feel his hands fizzle with an unknown emotion. Excitement, maybe. It'd be nice to not have to worry about accidentally setting the castle on fire. “Thank you, I guess.”

Stan smiles, taking enough bite of cake, and Spyro tentatively takes a small slice and manages a bite. After all, the only thing he's eaten today is one pancake. It tastes good, if not slightly artificial, and another question finds itself jumping to the front of his mind.

“Wait—wait,” Spyro says, head spinning with spite and confusion alike. “If you can make anything you want – food included – in the blink of an eye, why did you ever hire me to cook for you?”

Stan shifts, looking a little uncomfortable. “Because, Spyro, you're a good cook, and–”

Spyro takes another spiteful bite of cake, not even bothering to close his mouth as he talks. “And so are you, it seems! This tastes—it tastes fine! And it hardly takes much effort, does it? You just snap your fingers and it appears! Why even bother hiring me? Why bother to give me a paycheck and let me live here? You clearly don't need me!”

Stan raises an eyebrow at Spyro's eyebrow, with a surprisingly calm expression on your face.

“Because, Spyro, it doesn't taste as good as when it's freshly made, even you can taste that.” Stan explains casually.

Spyro growls, pouting like his ego has been hurt. If Stan doesn’t truly need him, then why the fuck did he let him like here? Spyro could only make guesses of what the answer could be.

“Still doesn't explain why you're letting me live here,” Spyro says bitterly, harshly swallowing the rest of the cake slice. “You just pity me, don't you?”

“Spyro, I don't pity you,” Stan says seriously. “You've made your own choices out of your own free will, some of which were pretty shitty. I have absolutely zero reason to pity you.”

Spyro sighs, looking away. He wants to break something. His hands itch with the urge.

You like to throw accusations in my face, don’t you? Even when you have no evidence for them,” Stan says, placing his hands on his desk. “Why?”

Spyro scoffs. “I don't know why, do I?”

“So you're always trying to start arguments with me for no reason at all? Kind of seems counterproductive.” Stan asks, his gaze warm and cold, and Spyro can feel himself shrinking against his chair. There’s something about Stan that just makes him feel so…small. Maybe it’s because Stan stands above it all, and Spyro has long fallen from that kind of position.

“It’s just the way I am,” Spyro says simply, rubbing the back of his neck. He's not one for introspection. “I'm just angry.”

“Have you ever considered getting a punching bag?” Stan asks, very seriously. Spyro blinks, almost surprised at the suggestion.

“No.” Spyro admits quietly. The suggestion is so simple, and yet has never been thought of. He shouldn’t need a punching bag. He should just be over everything already. He shouldn’t want to hurt people, because that’s cruel, and Spyro swore he wouldn’t be so cruel any more.

Stan fiddles with a chain on his neck, a few keys dangling on the end. “Can I show you something?”

Spyro simply gawks at him, chest tight but airy – because everything Spyro feels is a contradiction in itself. “Sure. What is it?”

“You'll see.” Stan says, standing up from his chair, and tucking it neatly under his desk, the wood of the chair makes a slight screeching sound as it grates against oak planks. The man begins walking out of the room, and Spyro hastily scuffles behind.

“You know, it'll be good to have another operator around.” Stan says softly, as the pair walk through an array of halls that Spyro isn't sure he recognises.

“Really? How?” Spyro asks, words tainted with bafflement.

“Oh, don't get me wrong, it's great,” Stan says, hands deep in his pockets. “It'd just be cool to have someone to share the experience with.”

Spyro scoffs. “The experience is bullshit.”

“Only when you don't know what you're doing,” Stan explains, a spring in his step as he walks. Spyro simply shuffles behind. “You know, it took me weeks to learn how to use them properly. It's no surprise you're… struggling.”

“I am not struggling.” Spyro says with an eye roll – it's a clear lie, and he can feel static running up his arms, slithering uncomfortably under his skin.

“Really?” Stan continues, raising an eyebrow at Spyro. The latter simply shrugs, shoulders hunched.

“Okay, maybe I am struggling – maybe,” Spyro admits, eyes on the ground. “But you'd be pretty pissed too if you were shooting lightning everywhere whenever you're spooked.”

Stan looks at Spyro curiously as the pair walk. “It's kinda weird how closely tied your emotions are to your powers.”

Spyro blinks, bile in his throat. “Does… that not happen to you?”

“No, not really,” Stan says, and Spyro can feel his face unintentionally falling. “I once blew something up when I was really angry about something, but that was kind of a one time thing. If my powers reacted to everything I felt, we’d be standing in a crater right now.”

Spyro scoffs.

“So my powers aren't working right?” Spyro asks, a miserable look on his face. Stan seems to notice, because the other man's face softens.

“Well, weird things have been happening ever since Tenebris died,” Stan explains carefully, like he's trying a little too hard not to send Spyro spiralling. “I think his tampering of the servers fucked things up, y’know? People have seen death and survived, occasionally civilians spot a random glitch in the world every now and then. It doesn’t surprise me that your powers aren’t working right. Even mine are—”

The president cuts himself off.

Spyro looks at Stan expectantly.

“Even mine haven’t uh…been easy to…learn?” Stan says unsurely. Spyro raises an eyebrow, almost wondering if the man is having a stroke, and yet he’s far too occupied to ask.

Instead, Spyro finds himself scoffing, ignoring the last part of Stan’s statement, and trying to hide the way he can feel his chest tightening. “Of course my powers don't work how they should. Why am I not surprised?”

He growls bitterly, the urge to punch something rising in him. A moment later, he finds himself sighing heavily, trying his hardest to not make eye contact with Stan. He doesn't think he can stand it.

“Look, if I give you lessons, it may be easier, yeah?” Stan says reassuringly. “I couldn't even break a single block when I first got mine. We don't need to jump to negative conclusions just yet.”

Spyro growls bitterly, but nods, trying his hardest to not piss off Stan. The last thing he wants is to be made homeless. “Yeah, I guess.”

He ends up sounding more apathetic than anything, like he's simply grown used to almost killing himself with lightning multiple times a day.

“It'll be fine, Spyro.” Stan says calmly, like he can sense Spyro's lack of reassurance. The other man simply flinches and nods in forced agreement.

“Yeah, okay.” Spyro says softly. For once, he tries to sound agreeable, and he thinks he succeeds. Beneath, however, something stirs in his gut, telling him everything is bound to go to shit.

“You clearly don't believe your own words.” Stan murmurs absentmindedly, strutting beside Spyro with enough strength to make Spyro look weak. He finds himself tripping on words, trying to figure out how Stan can read him so well.

“Of course I—wait, how do you know that?” Spyro asks, genuinely. He’s a fairly decent actor, when he chooses to play the part, and he’s sure he had the genuineness of his statement nailed down. He knows at the very least, he’s learnt a few useful tips from Drake.

Stan’s eyes widen.

“I could just uh, tell by, uh,” Stan is fumbling on his words, somehow. Spyro looks on at him with disbelief. “I could just tell?”

“By what, exactly?” Spyro asks, voice almost saddening. He doesn’t like the way Stan always knows how he’s feeling, in fact, at this point, it’s getting scary.

“By, your, uh,” Stan starts, and then he notices a staircase. He yanks Spyro towards it. “This way!”

Spyro chooses to ignore Stan’s awkwardness, or the way he shoves him, pinning it down to Stan just being hyperempathetic and being embarrassed of it or something like that. If that even makes sense.

The pair ascend five flights of stairs with nothing more than soft small talk, each step rustling under the pressure. When they reach the castle’s attic, sunlight filters through the slanted roof like judgment. Stan fiddles with a chain on his neck, pulling off a key after some difficulty. He silently jams the metal into the lock, and twists it with a swift click.

By the time Stan does, Spyro has long forgotten the awkward interaction.

Stan walks into the room, and Spyro lags cautiously behind, before taking a step. He squints in the poor lighting until Stan decides to turn the light on. When the room is illuminated, Spyro realises he’s simply in an empty room made of bedrock.

Bedrock, a perfect material for a prison cell.

Spyro can feel himself taking two steps back, deciding it's a trap. His head swims, everything around him indistinct and unfocused. He ends up slamming into the wall behind him, alarming Stan, who turns around to face him.

“What are you doing?” Stan asks carefully, tilting his head down slightly to look at the startled Spyro.

Spyro ignores the question.

“What is this?” He pants, breath not quite strained enough to be a wheeze but definitely not relaxed enough to sound remotely normal.

“It’s a wreck room.” Stan explains simply, conjuring up a block of obsidian, and exploding it with a mere punch of the fist.

“A—huh?” Spyro asks, feeling like he’s lagging behind, like there’s something he’s missing. He must be missing some sort of detail, somewhere along the line. Thankfully for him, the knot in his chest loosens anyways.

“A wreck room,” Stan parrots. “Y’know, bedrock is pretty tough. It can withstand explosions. Which also makes it pretty good for letting off steam.”

“Huh.” Spyro mutters, in a weird mix of awe and excitement.

Stan snaps a key off his neck with little ceremony, placing it in Spyro’s hand. The metal feels cold in his palm. “No one else knows about this room besides me, and nowadays, I don’t use it much. It’s free for you to use.”

Spyro twists the key in his hand, looking up at the ceilings that tower over him. He’s never really seen bedrock before. He’s not exactly a miner. “Cool.”

Stan smiles. “Yeah, it is pretty cool.”

Spyro nods, suspecting the conversation is about to end regardless, and goes to leave the room. What he instead finds is a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“I wasn’t finished.” Stan says seriously, and Spyro doesn’t know if it’s the touch or the fact he can’t comprehend that this isn’t a trap, but he can feel static crawling beneath his skin anyways. He thinks he gives Stan an electric shock, because the man pulls away and grabs at his own hand.

“What is it?” Spyro asks defensively, still keeping his eyes on the door.

Stan rummages through his pockets, pulling out some metal device with a black screen, and a weird antenna sticking out of it. He places it in Spyro’s hands carefully. “I’ve been meaning to give you one of these.”

Spyro looks down at the blank screen, and the buttons on the side of the brick like metal. “What is this?”

“A communicator,” Stan says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone in the castle has one. You can send people messages on it.”

Spyro fumbles with the buttons on the side, and the screen turns on, revealing a list of familiar names.

“See? You can click on a contact, and a little keyboard will appear on the screen for you to message them,” Stan beams. “It’s the Mechanist’s latest invention, and it’s awesome.”

Spyro can feel his hand hovering over Leonidas’s contact, debating something. “Cool, thanks.”

Stan nods, walking towards the door. “Well, that’s everything I wanted to show you. I’ve got to deal with a nasty set of paperwork.”

“Have fun,” Spyro mumbles sarcastically. “Bye.”

Stan leaves the room, and by leave, Spyro means that the man simply teleports out of existence. It’s startling, if anything, but it stirs a new question in his mind. He wonders if he can teleport too. Because that would be pretty damn cool. It might make the hell that is his life worth it.

He shakes himself out of that thought, looking down at his screen, and clicking Leonidas’s contact with as much haste as he can muster. The keyboard pops up on the screen, and after about five minutes of trying to figure out where all the letters are on the keyboard (they’re surprisingly not in alphabetical order, which is fucking odd) he manages to type out ‘aM. opEraitorr.’

He’s sure Leonidas will get what he’s saying. The man always does.

Even so, something terrible stirs in his gut. He blinks the feeling away.

He clicks send.

Chapter Text

Spyro, with the communicator still in his hand, instantly clicks away from Leonidas’s contact, not wanting to see his response. In some way, he already knows it’s bound to be bad. After all, he did just confess that he’s an operator. And sure, maybe Charlie and Stan took it well, but Leonidas is different.

If Leonidas’s experience as general was anything like Spyro’s, the man is probably traumatised by such power. Spyro wouldn’t be surprised if Leonidas wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Because if the tables were turned, Spyro is sure he’d have the same uncomfortable feeling he gets when he’s alone in a room with Stan for too long.

On his contacts list, he can see an unread message. Seeking a distraction, he clumsily clicks onto the contact, almost dropping the device multiple times as he does.

Mecha11: Hey, if you’re reading this, I presume Stan gave you one of my latest inventions, a communicator.
Mecha11: If you have any thoughts on how it could be improved, let me know. I want to polish off the final design before I release it to the public.

Spyro squints, trying to remember who the hell ‘Mecha11’ is. He vaguely remembers something about an old man who was a well renowned redstoner, but the memory is fuzzy. He struggles to type a response, like one of those grandmas who aren't at all accustomed to new technology.

Spyrodabagon: sUre.!

He looks around at the room of bedrock, and with something uncomfortable settling in his gut, he thinks he should probably leave this room. He’s wasted a whole morning and afternoon dwelling on feelings and shit, and the day is almost gone. It’s about time he does something useful, like cook for the council. Yes, if he makes them a good dinner, the council might think it's worth it to keep Spyro around despite the fact he’s an operator.

He may be fucking exhausted, even though he had a fairly decent night’s sleep last night, but that’s beside the point. There’s shit that needs to be done. So quietly, he pockets the key into one of his trouser pockets, and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

As he descends down the wooden staircase, Spyro decides on dinner. Steak and potatoes, maybe some vegetables. It hardly sounds grand, though. Here he is, cooking basic meals for the most important people in the city. Surely they must have a more refined palette than Spyro can ever dream of. Because he’s no grand chef, in fact, he’s sure there’s at least a hundred people in this city alone who could cook better than Spyro.

It’s most likely just something to keep him busy. It’s probably a way to keep his hands full, so that he doesn’t try to blow something up again.

He tries to shake the thought away. If they wanted better food, surely they would go to him with suggestions? Unless they’re afraid of him, or—

As he descends down the stairs, he pulls out his communicator once more, before tensely turning it on with the click of a button. As he scrolls down through his contacts, he finds that there’s a whole group chat, and with a shaky breath, he types out a message once more.

Spyrodabagon: dInneR sugestiOnss?

He ignores the fact that the text looks like that of an insane person. The piece of metal instantly begins buzzing with each message that pops up.

Jayden10: Meatballs and spaghetti!!

MadamCassandrix: Steak is good. Or maybe chicken.

Leonidas300: I like steak too!!

Spyro, with a jolt, realises that their palettes aren’t refined at all. But worse, he realises if Leonidas has seen his message on the group chat, he’s probably also seen the one he sent to him privately. So, whilst not at all looking where he’s going, he clicks on Leonidas’s contact, only to see what looks like a block of text, unreadable by the consequence of his own bleary vision.

God dammit, the one time he needs his eyes to work.

He tries to squint and focus on the message, wiping his eyes in a desperate attempt to get rid of the fog in his eyes. Unfortunately, his focus diverts from walking down the stairs safely, and instead on trying to read the message. He can’t, because his eyes refuse to cooperate, and yet he keeps squinting at metal like it might finally work.

He needs to know if Leonidas hates him, even though he knows the answer.

He’s going to be sick. Leonidas has definitely sent him an angry paragraph about how he hates him, hasn’t he?

His leg loses its footing a singular oak step and he missteps, falling down the few remaining steps with a crash – communicator slipping from his hands like jelly as he does. He finds himself squeezing his eyes shut as the metal cracks, along with what might be his rib.

Damn, shit, fuck.

He doesn’t know what hurts more – his body, or the fact that he’s broken a device that most surely took weeks or months to work on, in no less than twenty minutes of receiving it. Or the fact that he’s never going to see what Leonidas texted him.

‘Idiot,’ He hears his brain ring. He tries to convince himself he’s being too harsh on himself, and that everything can be fixed, but it’s smothered by a barrage of self loathing. ‘What kind of screw up texts whilst walking down a set of stairs?’

Him, because he’s stupid. Because he has no respect for anything the people of the castle do for him. He just takes and takes and destroys something, and never gives anything back in return.

Weakly, he opens his eyes, untangling his arms from his head. Through his own teary eyes, he can see the communicator split in two. The sight of it makes him a little sick. In fact, he can feel bile clawing its way up his throat. Shakily, he swallows it down, trying to uncurl his limbs and sit up.

Fuck.

There’s a small, filthy part of him that just wants to bang his skull against the floor, that just wants to lie curled up on the floor and chastise himself for eternity for being such an idiot. It’s the same part of him that wants to pretend he never broke it, to believe that the metal is still intact in his hands. It’s the part of him that would gladly lie there forever until someone comes and picks up the pieces for him.

What he does do is stand up, ignoring the dull ache in his ribs as he does, and make use of his eyes, no longer blurry, by staring at the broken communicator.

After a minute or so, he musters the valiance to pick up the pieces of metal from the floor, dumping them in his pocket, ignoring how all the shards of metal feel odd against his palms. His mistake stings like one of his left ribs does, but with a glance of the clock, he realises it’s only 5.00pm, he has time to rectify it.

Or, time to convince the Mechanist to fix it. Hopefully the man is agreeable, or at least, takes pity on Spyro’s case.

He’s sure, somewhere in his trouser pockets, he has a mini paper map of the castle, and from that, he can probably work out where the Mechanist’s room is. His hands digs itself into fabric, and what he finds is a crumpled piece of paper, first given to him by Stan along with his contract for chef. Gently, he unravels it, trying very hard to not break the delicate paper.

He squints at the map – because the writing is very small, and Spyro’s short distance vision is not exactly perfect – and in a stroke of luck, he sees that the Mechanist’s room is only at the end of the hallway. It’s almost perfect. Too perfect.

It should be fairly easy to walk to the end of the hall. But Spyro is a coward, and his legs feel like bricks of lead. Even when he tries to reassure himself, when he tries to tell himself it’s fine, because it was just a mistake, his legs remain stuck to the ground like it’s their new home. There’s nothing to prove his case.

Spyro is not a coward. He is many things – a monster, a murderer, a naive kid – but he is not a coward. He’d rather die than call himself such a word.

So with nervous eyes glaring at the end of the corridor, he takes an uneasy walk to his destination, metal rattling in his pocket as he does. His rib still stings, but compared to the emotions in Spyro’s throat, it feels like nothing more than a dull ache.

As he gets closer to the door, he sighs. The door, made of metal – which seems like an odd choice for what’s supposed to be a bedroom – looms over him menacingly. But despite the way his gut churns, Spyro musters the courage to pound his knuckles against the ice cold metal, ignoring how it stings.

“Come in!” A voice shouts from the other side of the door, voice gruff and old.

Spyro looks down the hall. If he really wanted, he could run away. There’s no one around to tell him to face the consequences of his actions.

But then he’d be a coward.

And you aren't a coward. Not like Drake.

So for that reason, Spyro inhales a sharp breath, before opening the door.

He blinks, trying to adjust himself to the surroundings of the bedroom. Or at least, Spyro thinks it’s supposed to be a bedroom, because it sure as hell doesn’t look like one. All he can see are metal and wires – on the tables, on the shelves, dangling from the ceiling. There are gadgets and tools haphazardly spread around the room, and the only thing Spyro can see that resembles a bedroom is a small bed tucked neatly in the corner of the room.

He doesn’t have much time to think about it, because a comical explosion cuts him off. Spyro finds himself recoiling like a scared cat as soot fills the room, sticking to his face. The source of it is the man that’s seated at his desk, holding some smoking metal contraption.

“Darn it.” The man says in frustration, chucking the metal piece into the trash, which Spyro can see is filled to the brim with all kinds of other metal trinkets.

“Am I interrupting something?” Spyro asks softly, using his hand to draw the cloud of smoke away from him.

The Mechanist simply wheels around in his chair to look at him, looking caught off guard by the fact that Spyro of all people is invading his space. His expression is unreadable, that of true neutrality. “Not at all. What is it?”

Spyro slowly walks over to the man’s desk, emptying his pocket’s contents, and staring at the man like he hasn’t already put together the pieces of where this story is going.

“I kind of tripped, and broke it,” Spyro explains softly, voice strangled by fear. He wonders if the man will find his mistake worthy of a consequence. “I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, and I know you probably worked hard on it and—”

Is he rambling? Probably.

“Ah, don’t sweat it, kid.” The Mechanist drawls nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair. Spyro instantly feels himself slump, like all his problems have been lifted off his shoulders. “I have like, a hundred of these things.”

Oh.

“Really?” Spyro asks. He feels his face flush with embarrassment. He’d almost had a breakdown over absolutely nothing, and then proceeded to explain himself like it was the end of the world. In the other man’s eyes, he must look pathetic, or like a total fool.

The Mechanist, with a grunt, stands up from his desk, before walking to the back of his room. He pads his fingers against a keypad Spyro hadn’t noticed, each finger hitting each button with a soft click. In a moment, Spyro faintly acknowledges the sound of a click before his ears are filled with the whirl of redstone.

The wall instantly slides open, blocks being shifted by pistons before Spyro’s own eyes. He can only stand in awe as light from a newly opened room floods into his eyes.

“Wha—” Spyro starts, jaw going slack. He feels like he’s in a sci-fi novel – or a dream. He has to lightly slap himself to confirm to himself that the latter isn’t true.

The Mechanist simply steps into the room, looking amused at Spyro’s reaction. “Come in. Just try not to break anything, will you?”

Spyro nods, before shuffling through the archway leading into the room. The walls and floors are composed of a metal – iron, perhaps. There’s a table full of blueprints and redstone contraptions that appears to be the main centerpiece, but when Spyro looks up, he notices that hanging on the walls are about a hundred other communicators. The older man simply stands on a small stall and reaches for one, unhooking it off the wall with slight effort. He presses a couple of keys on it before passing it to Spyro.

“See? Problem solved.” The Mechanist says simply. “Just try not to break this one, okay? These things don’t grow on trees.”

Spyro grips the metal unsurely, shifting his footing as he looks at the man expectantly. “You think you can get back whatever was saved on my other one?”

“Depends on if the SD card broke,” The Mechanist says with a shrug, walking back into his main bedroom and eyeing up the broken pieces of Spyro’s old communicator. “Why do you ask?”

“I had something important on it.” Spyro says vaguely, looking down at the ground, whilst the Mechanist rummages through the pieces of broken metal on his desk.

The older man hums, eventually picking up a piece and staring intently at it. He swiftly swipes the metal brick in Spyro’s hands into his own, gazing at them.

“Well, I think you’re in luck, kid,” The Mechanist says, grabbing a pair of goggles hanging from his shelf and snapping them on his face. “It seems like the SD card is completely intact. All I need to do is to insert it into your new one and then wait for it to update.”

Spyro sighs in relief. At least he’ll get to know if Leonidas really does hate him. Which he probably will. He doesn’t know why he needs a message to confirm it. Maybe because there’s a part of him that hopes the man won’t.

“Can you do that now, then?” Spyro asks, clasping his hands behind his back. His palms are practically dripping with sweat. “It's kind of urgent.”

The Mechanist eyes him curiously, and it's only then that Spyro realises he’s said far too much. “What's so urgent that you need it this minute?”

Spyro blinks, having presumed the man simply wouldn't ask. His brain lags for a moment, trying to formulate a suitable lie, but he finds himself with nothing to say. Or at least, nothing believable. Instead, all he can do is look at the older man and stutter on his words before he blurts the truth.

“I've got operating powers—” Somehow, that's what Spyro starts with, and Elementia, he just said that out loud, didn't he? How on earth is that a valid reason to get this man to restore the data on his communicator? He just sounds stupid. “—and I, I was telling Leonidas about it, y'know?” The man clearly does not know, because it's hardly an everyday situation, but somehow, he continues. “And I just need to see what his response was.”

“Operating powers?” The Mechanist asks with the tilt of his head, like the cogs are turning in his brain. “How'd you manage that?”

Spyro shuffles himself onto a metal chair, propped on top of a set of miniature wheels. The metal is cold, almost reassuringly so. He can feel his shoulders tense, though. He expects backlash from his admission. “I dunno. Stan seems to think it's a glitch.”

“A glitch?” The mechanist mutters to himself, a finger pressed against his chin like he’s thinking hard.

“I developed them randomly,” Spyro explains, fumbling with his words. “It was a couple days ago.”

The Mechanist looks at him for a moment, gears whirling in his head, before he nods in understanding. He doesn't at all look horrified like Spyro expected him to be. The man simply keeps his poker face on, before meeting Spyro's eyes.

“Well, I guess that is a possibility. With all of Kev’s tampering of the server, there have been all kinds of strange happenings, even a certain few that have managed to escape death. I wouldn’t be surprised if your powers were born from a glitch.” The Mechanist says casually.

“Wait, a ‘few’ escaped death? Sirus wasn’t the only one?” Spyro asks curiously, trying to pry his hands away from his chest. He doesn’t need to keep his guard so high, or at least, that’s what he tells himself. Not that he believes it.

“Yeah, well, allegedly, Avery managed to respawn twice with no explanation, if Stan is correct. And it’s not just him, either. There have been a few civilians who have claimed to have died, only to find themselves on Spawnpoint Hill. Though some claims might have just been for attention, there have been a few verified cases.”

Spyro finds himself with a slack jaw, processing the words. He nods softly.

“And there's all kinds of other weird happenings. You have Stan, and his operating powers,” Mechanist says, leaning back on his chair. “I could go into details about it, but the story is long as hell.”

“Okay…” Spyro mumbles quietly. Perhaps, when all of this has blown over – if it does blow over, that is – he might talk to Stan, or read some books on the matter. “So, you’ll fix it, my communicator?”

The Mechanist simply shrugs, turning his attention to the graveyard of metal pieces, picking a couple up. “Well, I guess I can restore your data onto a new communicator, but it’s going to take a couple of hours at minimum.”

“I can wait.” Spyro says, voice hoarse. He should probably cook dinner in the meantime. The Mechanist fumbles with the device for a moment, before taking it apart, and inputting the SD card into it. He grabs a selection of wires, inputting them into the device.

“Or, you could just tell Leonidas, you know, in words?” The Mechanist says wisely, spinning on his chair. “It’s probably better than texting, anyways. This clearly seems important to you, and if you want good communication, it’s best not to have a screen between you. You’ll probably find that Leonidas just ends up sending you a cat meme or something.”

Spyro doesn’t dare question what a ‘cat meme’ is, and instead eyes the man with defiance. Spyro has autonomy for a reason, and he’d much rather use it to avoid consequences than face them head on – like he always has, because he's a coward. However, Spyro would rather call it ‘playing safe’.

If he talks to Leonidas with real words, something in him is bound to break. And he really, really can’t afford another breakdown right now. He might just die from embarrassment if he does.

“Really? I doubt that.” Spyro says with a sharp glare. And so what if the man is right? Spyro would much rather that than have the man tell him how much he hates him in person.

“Spyro, conversations are more than just words, y'know.” The Mechanist explains thoughtfully. He discards a few pieces of metal broken beyond repair into a trashcan.

“How so?” Spyro asks, looking down. He doesn’t like how small this old man makes him feel. It almost sparks some of his old anger, rooted somewhere in his chest.

The Mechanist looks at Spyro like he’s a naive kid who knows nothing about societal convention. “It’s not just about what someone says, it’s about how they say it. And you know, with messages, it's hard to know exactly how the person meant something. Things get easily misconstrued. Feelings get easily hurt.”

“Uh-huh.” Spyro says, dumbfounded, because the idea has never once hit him before. Apparently spending months in a snowy wasteland with no one to talk with other than people who hate you does something to your social skills. Who would’ve known? Certainly not Spyro. When does Spyro know anything?

“I get that you’re dubious,” the Mechanist says, surprisingly patient. “But, sometimes, when you text people, the reader can interpret things differently than how you meant them, y’know. Like—like books! Different people have hundreds of interpretations for random throwaway lines, and unless you ask the author, you're never really going to know what they really meant.”

Spyro blinks, nodding his head slowly. He thinks he gets what the man means, but that doesn't make the idea of saying ‘Hey, I'm an operator, by the way!’ any more appealing.

The Mechanist notices Spyro's unsure look. “You know, for instance, even the punctuation you message with comes with implications. It’s very easy to lose track of what someone really means, and sometimes that ends up making everything way worse.”

“Okay.” Spyro says softly, looking at the door. He should probably go cook. It seems far more pleasant than facing the inevitable.

The inevitable is that Leonidas hates him, but maybe Spyro can accept that. At least they had a good run, right?

At least they had a good few days before it all went to shit.

The Mechanist fumbles with gadgets and metal and pieces that Spyro can’t quite fathom the name of. “Look, I’ll fix the communicator, but maybe, I dunno, consider talking to him? What’s the worst that can happen?”

‘The worst that could happen,’ Spyro thinks bitterly, ‘Is that Leonidas thinks I’m turning into the next Tenebris, and since he clearly wants to be rid of all ties to the Noctem alliance, he’ll rid himself of me, potentially by arrow to the heart.’

The Mechanist looks at him with a look of shock, or pity, and oh god, did he say that out loud? He said that out loud, didn’t he? He tries to smile like he said nothing, but he can only force his mouth into the stupidest of grins, like that of an injured cat.

“Spyro, I don’t really know much about operating powers,” the Mechanist says. “But I highly doubt that there’s a direct link between Tenebris and you. Strange things happen all the time around here. Just look at Sirus’s case, or Stan’s.”

But Sirus and Stan were perhaps blessed by some sort of god, though, and Spyro might just be cursed by the devil.

“Sure.” Spyro says, disbelief apparent. He knows what he is – the only person to serve directly under Tenebris’s hand and live through it. The only person Tenebris would ever curse with operating powers, because Spyro doesn’t have Tess or Drake to take the fall for him anymore.

He’s probably just some kind of vessel. That's what he is, is he not? A vessel made to follow Tenebris's will. He was an idiot to think he could be anything more.

“Leonidas is one of the most relaxed people I’ve ever met,” the Mechanist says simply. “And he’s fond of you. He’s not going to hate you for something you can’t control.”

Really? People have hated Spyro for things he couldn’t control since he first took a step into the tundra. He tries to nod, but he can’t find it himself to meet the man’s eyes.

Somehow, though, the Mechanist reads his uncertain look, and swivels out of his chair, walking over to a bookcase tucked amidst the chaos of tha man’s room, before pulling out a book. The man steps over at least three discarded gadgets before shoving the book into Spyro’s hands.

Spyro looks down, blowing dust off the cover. The title reads ‘Unsolved mysteries of Elementia’. He goes to look up at the man.

“You might find something helpful in it.” The Mechanist says simply, with a shrug. Spyro looks down at the book with apprehension.

“You think it might explain operating powers? You think the book might have an explanation of, I dunno, how to get rid of them?” Spyro asks, a dull ache in his heart. He curls his hands across the book like it might provide comfort.

The Mechanist looks at him with a dumbfounded expression. “You have powers that almost any person in Elementia would want, and you want to get rid of them?”

Spyro’s eyes narrow. He’s hardly powerful if all he can do is use them to throw himself into near death situations every time he feels a bloody emotion.

“I don’t like power. Not anymore.” He explains softly, hands digging into the cover of the book.

The Mechanist looks at him with a weird glint in his eyes.

“Well, you know what? Neither do I,” The Mechanist says vaguely. “I mean, sure, being on the council is great. But I spend most of my time working in my room on inventions, and honestly? I enjoy that. You could never pay me to be the face of Elementia. I’d never want to do Stan’s job again.”

Spyro blinks, wincing like he was expecting the man to tear down his belief system. Instead, he only feels confused. “Really?”

“Kid, did you see how much of a mess I made when I was president?” The man says, a little too seriously. “And I was in the role for like, less than a month.”

“How?” Spyro asks. He doesn’t really know what happened during Stan’s absence as president, after all, he was much more concerned with putting a blade through Leonidas’s neck. “You seem, I dunno, fairly responsible – I thought you’d make a decent leader.”

But then again, what does Spyro know? He’s throwing around assumptions about a man he’s had…one conversation with. He's really got to stop having biases about people. He should probably stop trying to shove people he barely even knows into boxes.

“Well, I really wasn’t,” The man replies solemnly, and Spyro wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. “I let emotions rule my head, and I…made poor decisions.”

Spyro briefly wonders if he’s like that. He briefly wonders if he lets feelings run his life. Acting on every emotion he feels is what’s familiar to him, and he’s been running on bitterness and fear for so long it almost feels weird to stop now.

“Oh.” Spyro says, for a lack of any other words to say. He should be surprised, but he knows how people can fool you. Some people look responsible, but they just wind up cracking under the pressure.

“Just don’t do Slo-po, kid.” The man says ominously, and Spyro wonders if that implies anything about the man’s presidency, and somewhere along the line, Spyro finds himself thinking of someone he hasn’t thought of in a while.

Every time he had a conference with his co-workers and Tenebris, he always knew the room smelled of Slo-po. And it wasn’t Tenebris, because why would he do the stuff? And it couldn’t have been Drake, because he always said he couldn’t let potions mess with his work. So, of course, Tess was the culprit.

He always wonders what drives people to such things. It’s not like he’s going to ask the man about it, though.

“Trust me, I won’t,” Spyro mutters, before his eyes find themselves looking at the door frame. “And I get what you mean. When I was leader, I almost drove my country to the ground. I think my decisions made the population unhappy.”

He sighs. Something about the backstory makes him feel a little better. Maybe it’s just the fact that the council aren’t as infallible as they seem from a distance. He looks at the door. “Thanks.”

The Mechanist looks at him curiously. “What are you thanking me for?”

“Nothing,” Spyro says, face going red with embarrassment. “Well, I mean, thanks for fixing my communicator.”

“It’s no problem,” The Mechanist says, before muttering more darkly, like he’s making a business deal. “Maybe you could just consider cooking salmon sometime.”

“Are you bribing me?” Spyro asks, raising an eyebrow. He says it lightly, because he couldn't real care either way.

“No, not at all,” The Mechanist says, drawing out the word ‘no’. “But say I was. Is it working?”

“Maybe.” Spyro says, before leaving without another word.

Chapter Text

Without much thought, his head still spinning, and ribs still aching, Spyro walks down the halls, deciding now is the perfect time to start cooking – to start doing something of use. His eyes remain peeled for Leonidas, who he’s decided he’s going to avoid for the rest of today, and when he does make it to the kitchen – the grand one – he can feel his chest loosen, if only slightly.

Mainly because the kitchen is an empty expanse, empty another for breathing room. Spyro doesn’t really know why he’s avoided cooking here for so long.

Because he doesn’t deserve it. Because he doesn’t deserve all this space to do such a mundane task as cooking for the council. They should have just made him work in a small, dismal basement, because that would be far more fitting than all the luxuries that come from a kitchen this large.

However, the grand kitchen is large enough to distract him from the mess of his mind, and enough to keep him occupied until the Mechanist fixes his communicator. All he has to do is cook for a few hours, avoid Leonidas at all costs, and then retrieve the communicator and find out what Leonidas's answer is.

Because, of course, that is far easier than asking the man straight on – than hearing the words come straight out of the man's mouth. Spyro can practically already hear them ringing in his mind regardless.

Monster, scum, vermin – Tenebris’s failed puppet.

Static runs through his veins like liquid metal, and faintly, above the hum of his thoughts, he hears slight rumbling.

When he turns his head and looks to the ground, he notices a small obsidian shard protruding from it. It’s sort of bent, like halfway through, the rock decided it was no longer a rock and instead something malleable, like metal. Despite that, it looks like obsidian all the same. And the magenta veins that run through it imply that it’s crying obsidian.

Air goes stiff in his throat at the sight, and he shakes his head and pretends that it doesn’t. Who is Spyro to dwell on a rock? His operating powers are just…being weird. Like usual. It’s nothing to fret about. Spyro feels perfectly fine.

He's definitely not thinking about how if him and Leonidas were even close to being friends, they certainly aren't now.

You're definitely not fine, Spyro.

He looks at the shard, and notices that it's growing taller.

Spyro exhales, and with the heel of his shoe, he digs it into the rock, shattering it into pieces. And without dwelling on it, he picks up the small remaining pieces and shoves them into the kitchen bin.

Regardless of everything buzzing in his mind, Spyro gets to work. He looks for basic cooking supplies – plates, knives, various other utensils, only to realise there’s about a hundred cupboards and cabinets in this room alone, and with zero sense of where anything is stored, he could be here all day.

If only there was a way to just get everything he needs without having to search.

If only there was a way…

That’s the moment when, like the flick of a lightbulb turning on, Spyro remembers there is a way.

He is an operator, after all. It’s almost stunning that he can forget the fact. Not that it matters anyways. He’s never made anything appear out of his own conscious will. Not like Stan, who can just make whatever he wants appear from thin air.

“Uhm, fuck,” Spyro softly mutters to himself, intently thinking about a plate. He blinks, like each time he opens his eyes, it might be there. He clenches his fists, squeezing his eyes shut, like if he just thinks hard enough it might just work.

Plate, just summon a plate. It shouldn’t be that hard. Surely, you aren’t that pathetic.

Spyro, wait—

Instead, he becomes sickeningly aware of his own doom, and like instinct, he jumps away from the place he was standing, only worsening the ache in his ribs.

It gives him a millisecond to watch as a plate crashes into the floor, directly where he would have been standing. Like slow motion, he can only watch with half-focused eyes as the ceramic shatters into a dozen pieces, followed by an earsplitting crash.

Oh god, he almost just killed—

“I thought I’d find ya here.” A voice rings, and Spyro, still panting from worn off adrenaline, snaps his neck to see the source of the voice. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is, because only Leonidas talks like that, but he has to look because his brain is whirling at a hundred miles an hour, and he simply can’t comprehend anything.

His eyes simply flicker to the broken plate and he thinks he needs to clean it, because he’s destroyed enough today, and he just needs to fix something. Anything.

He doesn’t want to talk to Leonidas. He’s supposed to be avoiding him. He can’t deal with this, and he knows he can’t, because he has boundaries and they’ve been crossed time and time again, and he just needs space. But space is too much to ask for, isn't it? He'll just sound rude if he tries.

“Hey, Leonidas.” Spyro says, voice like gravel, perhaps from everything festering inside of him. It’s so very hard to sound fine, after all. Despite all of Drake's attempts to whip him into shape, teaching him how to pretend, it didn't really do much for him. So instead, Spyro turns his back to the man, stepping over the plate and looking for a mop or a broom or a dust pan or anything.

Leonidas steps too close to him for comfort, but Spyro instead decides to divert his energy to rummaging through cupboards, because that might just be enough of a distraction to stop himself from electrocuting Leonidas. All he finds are jars and bags of sugar and anything other than what he needs.

“I read your message,” Leonidas says forwardly, before finally noticing the smashed plate on the floor. “What happened here?”

Spyro desperately swallows the bile and food he can feel rising up his throat – pancakes, probably, because it’s not like he’s eaten anything else today. The attempt to keep his food down doesn’t really make him feel better, if anything, it only makes him more nauseous, and it only makes the room spin more.

“I…dropped a plate.” Spyro mutters in a strangled voice, trying to use as few words as possible. He slams yet another useless cabinet, shuffling to dig through another.

Leonidas eyes him, practically leaning over him. Spyro wishes the man would just stay three metres back, far enough so Spyro doesn’t have to even think about the man.

“What are ya lookin’ for?” There's something deceptively kind in Leonidas's voice, and it makes no sense. Surely, Leonidas should hate him. Because Spyro has all the same powers Tenebris did, and Leonidas is probably traumatised by Tenebris. Isn't he? Surely Spyro is just a bad reminder for him.

Regardless, there's just something about the tone, so light, so curious – the man must have made up with Charlie – that ignites something like anger within Spyro's own chest. The proximity to Leonidas isn't helping, either.

Spyro stands, almost tipping over as he does, and lightly pushes the man away from him. The effort sparks something sharp in his ribs, and whilst the other man doesn’t look hurt, the shock on his face is enough to break Spyro for a lifetime.

“Something to clean up the plate with, obviously,” Spyro says distantly, before searching through yet another few cabinets. He feels lightheaded, and he can’t tell if it’s because of what he's done or because of everything Leonidas reminds him of. “Don’t get so close.”

The man is surely here with no good intention. Perhaps he’s here to mock him, or shout at him for being the next Tenebris. Even if such ideas don’t match with the Leonidas he knows, Spyro can’t help but find truth in his own maladaptive thoughts.

Because he knows he’s right. Everyone always lies to him. He can’t trust any of what the people in the castle pretend to be.

Spyro, that's not–

“Ya uh, ya want me to help?” Leonidas asks softly, like Spyro is a bomb waiting to go off. Something tight pulls at his heart – something cruel and angry. It's the part of him that only seems to come out when he tries to keep himself in one piece. Spyro tries to ignore it. He doesn’t want to shout at Leonidas, not really.

“I’ve got it covered,” Spyro says, voice hollower than the hole in his chest. He desperately tries to find a way to ask Leonidas to leave without making himself sound like a concern, or without sounding threatening. “I can—just come back later, alright? I need space when I…when I cook. I uh, I don’t want to get distracted.”

Spyro searches through another cupboard, poorly stored pots and pans crashing out of their respective storage and crashing into the floor. Desperately, he grabs them, shoving them back into a cupboard with a grunt, and trying to shove the cupboard door to close, but no matter how hard he shakes the handle, it just won’t.

He keeps shoving against the cupboard door. If he just pushes hard enough, it'll stay closed.

“Spyro, ya seem uh, tense.” Leonidas says, as if it weren’t blatantly obvious. His voice is small though, something that sounds so strange coming from Leonidas. “I just wanted to talk–”

Spyro can’t hear this right now. He refuses to know what Leonidas thinks, because it can only be bad.

“Leonidas, this is—is bad timing, yeah? I just need you to leave, because I need to get this done, and you and kitchens don’t go well together.”

He tries to sound as placid as possible, because if his encounter with Charlie taught him anything, it’s that if he lashes out, he’ll only pull Leonidas to him like a magnet. And he doesn’t want that. He simply wants the man gone.

Leonidas rubs the back of his neck unsurely. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before sighing. “Okay, yeah, I’ll go if ya want me to.”

The man turns to go to the door, and Spyro wishes he could say he feels relief, but if anything, his chest just tightens. He steps on his tip-toes and shoves open another cabinet, and he only manages to avoid a pan crashing into his skull by feinting backwards, only he loses his footing and begins to fall in what feels like slow motion.

He expects for his face to meet the cold floor, but instead, he feels something yank at his feet, snapping his body upwards. Squinting, he looks down to see what looks like obsidian shards, shaped like vines, wrapping around his feet, and sinking into the ground. They're so strong that they pull him upright, his feet locked to the ground.

“Ya good?” Leonidas says, looking over at his shoulder to get a look at Spyro, eyes fixating on the obsidian that is coiling around Spyro’s boots.

Spyro forces a smile, trying to shake the obsidian off his feet, only to realise it won’t budge. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Just trying to get used to uhm, operating powers. You can leave. I’m fine.”

A laugh, rather nervous sounding, escapes his strangled throat. Perhaps it’s from the fact that Leonidas is looking at him with a stare that promises a long and painful death, or perhaps it’s because the more he seems to try to yank the obsidian off his feet, the more it claws up his legs.

“O…kay.” Leonidas says, still eyeing Spyro with what seems like concern, before trying to exit the room.

He tries, but doesn’t succeed, because just in front of the door, an obsidian spike emerges from the ground at surprising speed, accelerating upwards until it hits the ceiling, blocking the exit. Spyro can feel the lump in his throat only grow at the sight.

“Uh, Spyro?” Leonidas says, looking at the man with a look Spyro can’t read. Instinctively, Spyro tries to back away, only that the veins of obsidian yank him back in place, crawling up his legs and twisting like plants. “I uh, I don't think I can really leave. Is that uhm, caused by ya?”

Spyro doesn't answer. He doesn't want to admit he's the cause of the web of obsidian he seems to be creating both around the room and himself. Besides, he's sure his grimace answers the question.

“Shit, uh,” Spyro mutters to himself nervously, squeezing his eyes shut. He continues trying to pull himself out of the obsidian that grips at his feet, movements getting more desperate by the second, all the while he tries to think of vanishing the blocks. If he just tries hard enough they might just disappear. “Uh, just give me a moment, heh.”

It doesn’t stop. For whatever reason, the obsidian just seems to crawl further up him. And when he looks up, the barrier of obsidian that was only blocking the door has begun to spread to the ceiling, like a disease.

Because that’s what you are – a disease. Being here hasn’t changed that. You’re still the same obnoxious, self loathing, cruel piece of shit—

Shut up, he thinks, and yet his brain doesn’t shut up, and all he can feel is a barrel of harsh words slam against his skull. They only fuel his adrenaline, and his need to escape. The way Leonidas feels about him should be blatantly apparent. Spyro should feel the hatred. There's no reason for Leonidas to look at him like he's a kicked dog.

It's all wrong, it's wrong, it's all wrong—

“Spyro,” Leonidas says, more softer now, walking towards Spyro, who only tries to falter backwards, relentlessly trying to pull himself out of the obsidian that only coils around him, twisting around his torso and pressing against his ribs. “I think you’re–”

“Shut up, let me think,” Spyro mutters, vision blurring, and he can’t breathe, can he? All he can feel is ice cold rock digging into his chest, relentlessly twisting around him like he’s the core to a tree. “I can just, uh, I can—”

Fuzzily, he looks up from the obsidian entrapping him like a snake wrapping around its prey, and at the door – or where the door should be, at least. The obsidian pillar seems to have only splintered across the ceiling like a spider’s web. Desperately, he tries to think, because if he just thinks hard enough, if he can just control himself, this nightmare might end—

And in his peripherals, he can see Leonidas, faint and out of focus, and he thinks if the man didn’t already hate him for being the next Tenebris, he’ll sure as hell hate him now.

Despite how he knows his attempts to break free are only making the obsidian tighten painfully around himself, he still tries, because he can’t think, and he can’t control himself, and he can’t—

“Spyro,” A voice says, muffled by the static that rings like fire in his ears. “I think you’re uh, makin’ it worse—”

“Shut up!” He bites, still frantically trying to pull obsidian off him, and faintly, he thinks this is how he might die. He can’t breathe. He’s trapped. “I can—I can just, uh, I can…”

And he can’t. Obsidian wraps around his arms, entwining him like he’s prey, so cold it burns. His chest heaves like it’s been set alight.

His eyes flicker to the ceiling, obsidian spreading like a disease, split with bright magenta veins. It’s too purple, and it reminds him of a man that only makes him want to vomit. He can feel nausea struggle to climb up his throat, only for him to shakily attempt to push it down.

“Spyro, please, I think,” A voice mumbles to themselves, and then Spyro can feel the touch of fire, and he recoils and kicks his legs and tries to scream. He feels something strangle his chest painfully tight. “Okay, no touchin’ ya, I got that much.”

You’re a nightmare to help, aren’t you? Never once do you give in and actually let someone aid you. It’s pathetic.

Spyro, you aren’t a nightmare. You’ve just been through a lot. There’s a difference.

A reassuring thought rings through the static – the voice is recognisable, but it’s not something he would say. And for that reason, Spyro can’t trust it.

He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to not think about it, like a last ditch attempt to keep his insides from spilling out. Because this is somehow worse than when he was shooting lightning at Charlie, worse than when he almost killed himself via plate, worse than anything destructive that’s ever come from his powers. In a split second of clarity, Spyro thinks he’d rather die than let this hell of a movie end. He’d rather cut it short.

And that’s when obsidian presses up towards his neck. And Spyro knows that the person is watching the entirety of this pathetic charade.

“L-leave,” Spyro rasps, a last effort to save face. “I’ve got this handled, r-really.”

“Have ya?” A voice asks, clearly in disbelief, and Spyro wants to say ‘yes, I'm fine’, but when he tries, he finds that his voice only cracks. Perhaps his breathing picks up slightly, too.

“Spyro, buddy,” A voice says, sounding sickeningly concerned. “Listen to me. Can ya hear me?”

Spyro wants to shake his head, because he can’t do anything. He can’t control himself and he couldn’t please Tenebris and he couldn’t be a good general and he couldn’t hide his powers and he couldn’t stop himself from spiralling in front of Charlie and he sure as hell can’t stop this.

He struggles to get the words out of his choking throat, clogged with feelings and nausea and a sickening amount of fear. “N–yeah.”

His chest knots, and the obsidian tightens, and Spyro thinks it might just squeeze out everything destructive within himself. His hands frantically grip a death-cold shard of obsidian, using all remaining strength to try to snap it or pull it away or just make the world stop.

“Spyro, I’m not very smart, but,” The voice says, but Spyro feels like he’s sinking underwater, everything fuzzy and faint and not quite meeting his eardrums. “I think your strugglin’ is makin’ it worse. Just let me—”

Spyro can’t bring himself to care. He needs to get out, doesn’t he? He needs to control this before he hurts someone, and he can’t sit passively whilst obsidian threatens to strangle him, like a predator. He barely manages to open his eyes a slither, and when he does, all he sees is obsidian, and purple, and it’s encasing him, and is encasing the room, and it’s just too cold—

“No!” He bites back, voice ragged and torn, because all he can feel is thorns pressing against his chest. “I’ve got to— I’ve gotta—” His voice cracks.

His voice simply dissolves into shaky breaths, unable to finish his sentence. His eyes remain fixed on the obsidian looming over him, splintering across kitchen counters.

What are you? Five years old? Even a five year old can talk. What the hell is wrong with you?

Another voice rings in the back of his head, perhaps saying something along the lines of ‘there’s nothing wrong with you, Spyro.’ but it's drowned out by heavy breathing and static.

Spyro thinks he'd rather die than have anyone seen him like this. The humiliation he feels is sickening.

“Can ya look at me?” The voice says, very gently. It’s not so much of a question and more of a last attempt beg. Spyro, still panting from the effort of trying to fight a rock too strong for his feeble hands to handle, shakes his head.

“Can’t.” He says simply, brain whirling with static. His limbs flail frantically without any input from his brain, acting only on instinct. It doesn’t get him far. It never got him far.

Struggling makes you weak. Can't even sit still? Seriously, this display is pathetic.

Spyro, you don’t have to force yourself to do something you don’t want to, y’know. The second voice rings like static in his head, and it's almost uncanny.

“Uhm, okay, nevermind,” The voice says unsurely. They sound…stressed, and that's an unusual adjective to describe the usually calm person. “Just listen to me, yeah? Has this ever happened before?”

Spyro pushes tighter against the force of obsidian pressing against him, constricted in what feels like a ring of fire. He pants from the effort, his brain barely processing the words that are being said to him. All he can really hear is the buzz of static, anyways.

Has this happened before? No. Spyro doesn't know how to deal with feelings or panic attacks, or anything like it. Until he turned up at the castle, he was doing a good job of running from such things. Anger can take you a long way. It's hard to panic when you're too busy channelling your nervous energy into who you want to kill next.

Besides, he never had powers that summoned black-purple rock. He never had powers that were actively trying to kill him every time he felt a goddamn emotion.

“I—” He starts, letting his breathing run ragged – devoting all of his remaining willpower to trying to escape. He needs to escape. “N-no, I, I–”

He fumbles words, all of them choking his throat and refusing to leave him. When he looks down with blearly eyes, all he can see is black with faint specks of purple, pulled tight around him like rope. The sight makes his eyes burn with water.

“Hey, hey, it'll be okay. Ya just—Spyro, ya gotta breathe,” The voice instead suggests, and Spyro thinks the person sounds worried. It almost makes him want to laugh. “Y’know, in through your nose, outta your mouth.”

“B-be useful and just make it stop!” He begs, voice pathetically desperate. He never asked for this. He never wanted this. He just wanted to cook and do something right and helpful and just be okay. Why does he always make a mess of everything? What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Spyro…” The voice says, trailing off softly. There’s an odd, almost painfully serene silence, only cut by Spyro’s sharp gasps and pants. “I can't uhm, help, if I don't know why you're all stressed out. Do ya know what’s causin’ this?”

“I—” Spyro's voice cracks painfully on the singular word, brain whirling with radio static. He knows, of course he knows. But he can't say it, can he? Because he likes hanging out in the castle and talking to Leonidas and actually having people to talk to, and a selfish part of him doesn't want it all to end.

You'll just get abandoned again. You know he doesn't like to stay. That's his trademark, and you should know that firsthand. He'll leave you high and dry at the first sign of trouble.

Just like before.

Spyro feels harsh rock dig into his collarbone, and he tries to yell and yet nothing comes out.

“Ya can talk to me, y’know.”

Spyro blinks, brain whirling. And he doesn’t know who he’s talking to, but somehow, he knows exactly what the person thinks of him.

You should know a lie when you hear one. Or are you still the naive kid you used to be?

He’s not lying, Spyro.

Even his brain is trying to lie to him, it seems. But it’s fine, because Spyro knows the truth anyways.

“I can’t. I can’t talk to you, I shouldn't. Because you—you h-hate me! Why would I ever dump my problems onto someone, who—who hates me?”

And like the snap of a whip, the obsidian cage that surrounds him decides to let go of its pulled strings, instead catapulting him backwards with increasing acceleration. His back winds up hitting an obsidian covered counter with a harsh slam, and when he goes to yell all he manages is a heavy gasp for air. Instead, he curls up against the cold rock, hands desperately weaving themselves into locks of his hair.

Despite the fact he’s freed from his own obsidian cage, his chest doesn’t feel any less tight. He’s almost sure he’s still trapped.

“Spyro…” The person says, almost sounding upset. Spyro thinks he can hear the pad of footsteps against the rock hard floor. “Can ya look at me?”

Spyro is sure the person has already asked that, and he’s sure he’s already given a response, and so he simply buries his head into the crook of his arm, one eye still open to look at the veins of obsidian crawling across the ceiling.

“Okay, that’s okay.” The person says, and Spyro doesn’t know if they’re talking to themselves or him or some other twisted entity.

It’s so dark – darker than night. The only light is the few veins of bright magenta cracked through the rocks. It elicits a ragged breath from his chest, and for a split second, Spyro thinks he’s scared of the dark, even though he’s not exactly sure why.

“Ya gotta,” The person’s drawl is tampered with emotions that Spyro just can’t read. “Ya gotta sit up. I don’t think ya can really breathe all hunched up like that.”

Spyro thinks the person is only stating the obvious. Like instinct, he curls himself against the obsidian, trying to make himself as small as possible. Maybe, if just disappears, the person won’t have a reason to hate him when it’s all over.

“Can I touch ya?” The person asks placidly, and Spyro can feel his vision blur.

Because it’s such a fucking stupid question, and Spyro doesn’t know the answer. He thinks if he moves, he’ll vomit, and yet if he stays still, he’ll probably pass out from a lack of oxygen, and he doesn’t know which one makes him feel sicker.

He thinks he wants the warmth, but he fears it the same way he fears himself.

“N–ye…I–I dunno.” Spyro whispers, voice hoarse. “You probably shouldn't.”

He tries to push himself upwards, trying to appease the person's wishes, and yet he can't. If anything, he just collapses in on himself.

Yep, you're a hundred percent useless right now. Awesome!

You’re not useless, Spyro.

Yes he is. Of course he is. His brain is just fucking with him, it seems.

“Just let me—” The person starts, and before Spyro knows it, he is met with a stinging touch. Instinctively, he pulls away, feeling static flare up in his veins. That's only followed by an earsplitting screech. “Shit!”

The person sounds in pain. Spyro can guess why. Even with his fuzzy vision, he can see a black shard protruding from the ground, directly pointed at the person.

“Damn, kid, ya really pack a punch.” The person muses, shaking his hand slightly. Spyro looks away with shame.

“S-sorry,” Spyro barely mumbles the word, curling into the kitchen cabinet. “Wasn't expecting you to m-manhandle me.”

“Well, just let me help ya sit up,” The person seems to come to that as the perfect compromise. “It'll take only a moment.”

Spyro finds himself at a loss for words. Why is this person still trying to help him? Spyro has done nothing to deserve such things.

The person seems to take his lack of protest as a yes, because Spyro can faintly feel an arm around his back, and it’s too warm – in fact, it’s hotter than a blazing sun. But he can’t find it in himself to object, voice far too strangled, and he just lets the person readjust him, and pull him upwards.

“Better?” The person asks, and Spyro wants to laugh, or spit insults, or cry, because there’s nothing that can make this situation better. There’s nothing that can make him breathe like he should right now. Perhaps that thought scares him.

“I–” He wants everything to stop, and yet he can’t peel his eyes away from the obsidian above him, encasing the room in filthy darkness and purple. It’s a disgusting sight – as disgusting as the person who made it. “No, not really.”

The person gently takes a hold of his chin, causing him to flinch, his line of view redirected.

And in a split second of clarity, he realises who he’s talking to.

“Leonidas?”

“It’s me, yeah,” The man says, not letting go of Spyro’s chin. The touch is somehow both comforting and overwhelming. “And for the record, I don’t hate ya.”

“B-but—” Spyro starts, trying to shake himself out of the touch. He wants to shove his head between his knees and shut out the world around him. He can’t face this, not right now, perhaps not for another millennium.

God dammit, this is fucking embarrassing. Spyro is not made for catharsis. He needs to get his fucking act together. He just needs to act normal.

Why can't he just be normal?

“Spyro, buddy,” Leonidas says quietly, sinking from his crouch into a seated position, crossing his legs. “Why would ya think that I do?”

“Because, b-because,” Spyro starts, unable to get oxygen in his lungs. He can feel darkness swimming at the corner of his eyes, and he thinks he might just pass out. It’d be merciful if he did. “I j-just know it, okay?”

“Well, you’re wrong. Please breathe, man,” Leonidas says worriedly, loosening his grip on Spyro’s chin. “I know your brain’s bein’ a bitch, but ya gotta get air in your lungs.”

Spyro tries to retort, but it dies painfully in his throat, words too scrambled to sound coherent. His eyes find themselves darting around the room, obsidian surely ready to strangle him once more.

“Look at me, buddy,” Leonidas tilts his chin yet again, so all Spyro can see is the man’s stupid face. “Ya don’t gotta look at some stupid obsidian when ya can look at my face, instead.”

“But—” Spyro tries, and he tries to yank himself from the man’s grip, but he just can’t.

“But, my face is clearly the better attraction to look at.” Leonidas finishes, and Spyro scoffs, eyes filling with water.

Spyro thinks he might just die. His hand tugs harder at his hair.

Leonidas instantly notices, because of course he does, and he gently takes Spyro’s hand, untangling it from his mess of hair. He doesn’t comment on the motion, nor does he even chastise Spyro, and yet he’s left feeling judged regardless.

Because Spyro doesn't want Leonidas to see him like this. Bitterly, Spyro misses the colder, distant – strictly business – relationship they used to have. Spyro misses the lack of emotions that came with it.

“This is pathetic,” Spyro mutters. His chest feels tight and uncomfortable and he doesn't like it one bit. “W-worked up over nothing, like an idiot.”

“I don’t think it’s nothin’,” Leonidas instantly counters, pressing his fingers against Spyro’s ice cold knuckles. “Ya can talk to me.”

Spyro ignores the words, brain humming. “Why—why are you being so kind? Aren’t you mad?”

Leonidas shifts slightly, looking a little confused. “Spyro, why the hell would I be mad at ya for this?”

Spyro blinks, as if it may make his vision less bleary. “B-because, I’m, I’m an operator, and, and,” He gestures around the room, at the veins of obsidian surrounding the pair, blocking out the outside world. “And this. I’ve, I’ve made such a mess, I make a mess of everything, and I’m supposed to be cooking, because that’s my fucking job, and I can’t even do that right. The only thing I was g-good at was being a Noc—”

“Spyro, that's not true, and,” Leonidas says, trying to untangle one of Spyro’s hands from his hair, and it’s only then Spyro realises how hard he’s tugging it. “I don’t care that you’re an operator, or whatever. Honestly, I think it’s cool – well, maybe this right now isn’t cool, but, ya know?”

Spyro feels his breath hitch. He knows he looks small and he hates it. “You do?”

“Yes, ya dummy,” Leonidas says with a teasing grin, and Spyro can feel whatever lump was in his throat dissipate. “Ya know how fun it’s goin’ to be to make pancakes now that ya can do anythin’? Think about all the pancakes ya can levitate and throw at Charlie’s face.”

Spyro snickers. “I would never – Charlie’s t-too kind,” He raises an eyebrow. “You, however, are not safe, especially b-because of earlier. I’ll get my payback.”

“Ah, Spyro, don’t be like that,” Leonidas says, still grinning. “We should form an alliance,” Leonidas cringes slightly at the word, but continues, “I think Stan would look good with a pancake on his face, don’t ya think?”

“I guess…” Spyro says, trying to crack a smile. Something in his chest loosens, and he can’t quite tell if he feels reassured, because it almost feels like a dam is being released as he does.

“We can’t do that if ya keep bottlin’ everythin’ up, though.” Leonidas says, and Spyro briefly thinks about how ironic the words are coming from him.

‘Well, you’d know, because you’re an expert on the subject, aren’t you?’ The words sit at the tip of Spyro's tongue, and yet he swallows them down. He shouldn't try to antagonise the one person who's helping him.

“I know,” Spyro admits, eyes glossy. “I just—I’m just so stupid.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Leonidas says, finally untangling Spyro’s hand from his hair, and pressing his fingers against Spyro’s ice cold knuckles. “We’re all dumbasses around here.”

“I think you’re the only dumbass around here,” Spyro mumbles, despite how much his hands shake and his eyes water. “Don’t group Charlie and Stan into the same category as yourself.”

“Oh, you’re insultin’ me, now?” Leonidas says playfully. “Ya must be feelin’ better.”

Spyro looks around, everything still painfully dark and purple, some pieces of obsidian glowing with bright purple veins. “I guess I do.”

The knot in his chest is gone, and he doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating, but he can still feel tears prick at his eyes nonetheless. His hand shakes beneath Leonidas’s. The crying obsidian is too reminiscent, a sickening reminder of the person he associates it with.

He notices Leonidas noticing that he’s looking at the obsidian with wary eyes, and he squints, voice ragged. “It reminds me of Drake.”

“Hm?” Leonidas says, blinking.

“The obsidian, the purple. It reminds me of Drake.” Spyro says, and he doesn’t know why that fact makes him want to cry. He shouldn’t want to cry over Drake. Drake was an arse at best.

“I guess,” Leonidas says, looking up at the ceiling, faint purple particles trickling downwards. “He was pretty damn purple. Too purple. It always kinda hurt my eyes to look at him too much.”

“Yeah,” Spyro says, voice cracking on the single syllable. “I think—I think I m-miss him sometimes, and I know I shouldn’t, because, because he did terrible things. But, I can’t help it. He was like, the only person that didn't fuck me over. He was nice to me.”

“Ya sure ya got the right person?” Leonidas asks, genuinely. “He always seemed a bit too preoccupied with himself to y’know, care about anyone else.”

“It was the closest thing I got to friendship in that fucking alliance,” Spyro mutters, and then he realises he’s defending Drake of all people, the Drake who hurt Charlie, the Drake who cared far more about Tenebris’s praise than he cared for Spyro. “I just miss him, sometimes, y'know?”

“Like the fucking idiot I am.” Spyro adds, looking away. Wallowing in self loathing is one of his strong suits, it seems.

He tries to swallow his feelings back into the void in his chest where they came from, but he just finds water dripping down his face. Faintly, he can hear something crack, and he looks up and he can see small chunks of obsidian crumble into nothingness, a crack of light from the window shining into the room.

“It’s okay to miss people, ya know,” Leonidas says, gently pressing his finger against Spyro’s knuckles. The motion is reassuring, somehow. “Even if they suck ass.”

Spyro chokes on a sob, and he tries to hide behind his free arm, and he desperately tries to scrub away at the tears, even if his attempts only end up irritating his skin and don’t do anything to stop his tears. Leonidas gently takes a hold of his arm, pulling it away from his face.

“O-oh god, I m-miss Drake,” Spyro says, voice cracking. “He was such an a-arse, and I miss him.”

He looks up at Leonidas, messy tears soaking his jumper. “I’m just so, so afraid, all the t-time, and I just wish he was—”

He finds his own hands trembling, and Leonidas staring at him like he can’t do anything wrong. “Spyro, ya don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

Spyro finds himself heaving a breath, and suddenly his spine feels like it’s breaking and he crumples into the man like he can hold him up. “I’m so s-scared, I’m scared of myself, I a-almost killed Charlie like, like ten times yesterday.”

“Well hey, at least this obsidian cage you’ve thrown us into ain’t that threatenin’, more of an inconvenience, really,” Leonidas says, removing his grip on Spyro’s hand, and wrapping his arm around Spyro. “I’d say that’s an improvement, don’t ya think?”

“W-well, I guess it’s not so bad…” Spyro says unsurely, latching his arm around Leonidas. He’s sure his grip is desperately tight, but the other doesn’t complain.

Leonidas pulls Spyro closer to him, hand brushing against Spyro’s injured rib, earning a yelp of pain from the latter. Leonidas instantly pulls away, eyeing Spyro up with slight worry.

“Ya alright?” Leonidas asks softly, as Spyro rubs at his rib, before looking up at the man, tears still in his eyes.

“Y-yeah, I just fell down the stairs. Hurt my rib.” Spyro says simply, like he’s talking about something mundane.

“Ya what?” Leonidas asks, blinking. Spyro looks away in slight shame.

“I was too busy trying to look at the message you sent me,” Spyro explains, rambling. “And then I kind of misstepped, and fell, and broke the communicator before I could read what you sent, and hurt my rib whilst I was at it.”

“Oh, ya never got to see what I sent?” Leonidas asks, and when Spyro nods, the man’s face goes slightly red in embarrassment. “Uh, honestly, I just sent a thumbs up symbol. Didn’t really think it was a big deal…”

“Oh.” Spyro says, trying to wipe at his face with his sleeve.

“But ya know what is a big deal? Hurtin’ your rib and doing nothin’ about it.” Leonidas says sternly, and Spyro finds himself looking down, eyes still watering.

“I, I know,” Spyro mutters, voice hoarse. “Charlie already had this talk with me.”

“When?” Leonidas asks curiously, Spyro pulls his hand away from Leonidas’s, fiddling with hands nervously.

“Yesterday,” Spyro admits. “I accidentally stabbed myself in my sleep,” He says it far too causally. “And then it kinda got infected. That was…fun.”

He faintly hears obsidian crumble, and he thinks he sees more light flood the room.

“Spyro,” Leonidas says, eyeing the man with concern. “You’re worse than me, sometimes.”

“It's nothing,” Spyro says, though Leonidas looks at him like it's not nothing. “Don't give me that look, it's fine. It doesn't even hurt. Probably just slightly bruised or something.”

Leonidas stands up, and Spyro feels a hundred responses threaten to escape his throat, all some iteration of ‘Don’t you dare leave me right now’. Every word winds up clogged in his throat, because it's just too painful to say it out loud, because Spyro isn’t that pathetic.

He just winds up staring at the man with the look of a pained cat.

“There's got to be an ice pack around here somewhere.” Leonidas mutters aloud, opening the freezer and searching through it.

“Leonidas, that's overkill,” Spyro says, and if tears weren't pricking at his eyes, he might sound believable. “I'm fine.”

“Don't ya dare lie to me, man,” Leonidas says, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer, and chucking it in Spyro's direction. The ice feels weird beneath his palms. “If everythin’ were peachy, ya wouldn't have trapped us in some obsidian lookin’ cage.”

“It's fine,” Spyro says, but his voice is so shaky he doubts it sounds reassuring. “It's hardly the reason my brain is creating monstrosities, is it? I can handle a bit of pain.”

He presses the ice pack against his rib anyways, pouting as Leonidas walks back over to him. The man crouches, looking at him with one of those stern looks your teacher gives you when you've stepped out of line.

“Spyro, it's not nothin’, as you keep sayin’,” Leonidas says softly. Spyro doesn't like how unnaturally gentle the man sounds. “You’ve gotta stop neglectin’ yourself.”

“It is nothing!” Spyro insists, huffing. “It's nothing compared to—”

And he wants to say ‘Nothing compared to what Tenebris put me through,’ but then he abruptly realises who he's talking to, and his throat thankfully blocks the remaining words.

He looks down, an obsidian vine sprouting from the ground, and wrapping around his hand. He tries to tug his hand away, and when he realises that won't work, he simply stares at Leonidas with defiance, doing his best to ignore how cold the rock feels against his wrist.

Leonidas raises an eyebrow, slouching backwards. Spyro wants to tell him to back away, because he feels like a cornered animal, but every word feels sour on the tip of his tongue.

“Ya don't gotta talk,” Leonidas says, like he knows Spyro has things to hide, and he sounds so damn soft and sweet that it just makes Spyro grit his teeth. He feels like he's being treated like a glass doll. “Just please, stop puttin’ yourself through pain when we have the best healin’ supplies in the city.”

Spyro looks away, because he has got to talk eventually, and if all his secrets are spilling out anyways then one more doesn't really mean anything.

“It doesn't feel painful, really,” Spyro mutters, still subconsciously trying to pull his wrist from the sharp rocks that wrap around it. “I've been through much worse pain. It seriously feels like nothing.”

Leonidas nods placidly, looking away. Spyro thinks he hears obsidian crack, and in a split second of clarity, he thinks he almost knows why. He quickly looks at the man, and the web of obsidian that's barely clinging to the ceiling, and somehow, he thinks he knows how he can get this nightmare to end.

“Leonidas, can I tell you something that happened to me a long time ago?” Spyro asks, voice hoarse but honest, for once. Leonidas simply tilts his head, looking at him curiously.

“Uh, yeah, sure man,” Leonidas says gently. “What is it?”

Spyro meets the man's eyes for a moment. If he's right, this could be a shared bonding experience. Because Spyro and Leonidas aren't so different, and they both suffered under the same man, after all.

Spyro, you can do this. I know you can.

The voice which says that is not his own, nor is it Leonidas's – but everything feels far too fuzzy for Spyro to really acknowledge that.

Spyro looks down, hand plastered to the floor with a wrapping of purple and black. He looks upwards to see obsidian looming over the pair, cracked with bright magenta veins. He inhales sharply.

“Tenebris tortured me.”

“What?” Leonidas says in disbelief, but he's cut off by a harsh rumbling, obsidian cracking.

In an instant, Spyro grabs the man by the neck, his hand somehow freed, before throwing him towards the door, which is no longer blocked by obsidian. He lunges at the man, sending the pair tumbling out of the door, narrowly avoiding death via suffocation as the obsidian on the ceiling instantly collapses, shattering on the floor.

Spyro finds himself sliding across the floor of the hallway, before falling flat on his face, panting in an attempt to get air into his tired lungs.

“Spyro?” Leonidas asks, and Spyro thinks the man is crouching over him. He can't quite bring himself to face the man.

“He tortured me,” Spyro parrots, words muffled by polished floors. “And it hurt, and now every injury just feels kinda dull in comparison.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Spyro thinks for a moment that the man might have just gotten up and left. Then again, why would Leonidas choose to leave now?

“Spyro, I– I didn't know–” Leonidas starts, rambling, but it's cut off by the static that rings in Spyro's ears.

“Of course you didn't, you're not telepathic, I hope,” Spyro mutters tiredly. “It was a long time ago, really, I'm fine, I just—it’s just tiring to keep secrets, and I trust you, I think.”

He trusts Leonidas, because it's likely Leonidas has been through the same. It's likely that Leonidas knows how it feels. Then again, Leonidas was always more competent than Spyro, so maybe he knows nothing of it. Maybe that's why Leonidas hasn't said ‘me too’ just yet.

Leonidas grabs Spyro from the scruff of his collar, pulling him upwards. He stares at him a moment, and Spyro winces in anticipation, before the man hugs him tightly.

It almost feels…okay. No, it feels better than okay.

It feels good.

“Leonidas,” Spyro groans in mock exaggeration. “I'm fine, really. But I won't be if you break my ribcage with how strong you're hugging me.”

“Sorry, I,” Leonidas says sheepishly, pulling away slightly. “I just didn't really know what else to do.”

“I know.” Spyro mumbles, pressing his head against the man's shoulder. And he does know, because the man is as bad with words as he is. He appreciates the sentiment, though. How could he not? Especially when Leonidas has probably been tortured too.

They're both a little fucked up, Spyro supposes. Maybe Spyro can make peace with that fact.

He looks at the kitchen through the doorway, filled with crumbled obsidian. He winces at the sight.

“Fucking hell.” Spyro mumbles, throat dry, and he sees Leonidas following his line of sight.

“Eh, it’s not so bad. I’ve done worse,” Leonidas says casually, and he continues before Spyro can question what the hell Leonidas has destroyed that is worse than this. “Besides, Stan can probably just fix it in like, two minutes flat.”

“I guess.” Spyro says, pulling away from Leonidas and standing up. He wants to say he feels relieved, almost.

Leonidas follows, looking at him expectantly.

Spyro clicks his boots against the floors, looking down the halls. There's another kitchen up the stairs. “Steak?”

Leonidas blinks. “Are ya really sure ya wanna be cookin’ right now?”

Spyro looks away, something odd stirring in his chest. “Yeah, actually.”

The air feels light. Spyro smiles.

He walks away, Leonidas not far behind.

Chapter Text

Spyro is standing in a room. Somewhere other than a kitchen.

It’s a room he’s grown to know well, as both a Noctem and the person he is today. Whether that person would be defined as a hero or a villain, Spyro doesn’t quite know.

The council room of Element Castle stands tall, golden accents patterned across the walls, a chandelier tilting slightly in the breeze. He’s not quite sure why he is here, but he thinks that a room as lavish as this makes him feel at ease regardless.

It is a part of his home, after all. Who would Spyro be to reject it?

Something stirs in his chest. It is a foreign feeling, like something light or bubbly, something Spyro hasn’t felt in a long time. It sweeps away all regrets and fears that knot in his chest, unravelling them, and removing the ball and chain he didn’t realise was there.

Spyro allows himself to inhale, and think for a moment that this is his home. This is where Spyro is, and always has been, safe. However, as his breath diffuses into the vastness of space, there is a small feeling in his chest, urging him to move. Spyro thinks it’s sending false signals, because he is not in danger.

He has no reason to move. No one's behind him.

Regardless of its purpose, Spyro sees no reason not to indulge in what his body is asking of him, and so he takes a step forward. As he does, his legs buckle, knees trembling like a shaking plate of jelly. Spyro blames the weakness on his poor quality sleep, because he can’t remember the last time he put his legs up on a mattress. He’s always running from a fight, cooking on his feet, storming into someone’s life without an invitation.

Eventually, he stops shaking like a fawn, and sets off to the grand window. The glass door is held at a tilted angle, somehow unlocked despite Spyro’s lack of key, but he simply thinks it to be good luck. It’s the kindest of lures, pulling him away from the stuffy air of the council room, and into something far more real.

The buildings of Element City stand tall, glimmering like stars in the sunlight. Good things have come off Stan’s operating powers, Spyro thinks. There are things beyond someone’s wildest imagination – floating buildings, the tallest of skyscrapers, statues so large that it would hurt to tilt your neck to look up at them all.

Spyro looks at the strawberry coloured sun, painted like an ice cream sundae, because somehow, he's not blinded by it.

It’s only then when Spyro realises that there was no sun to begin with.

Spyro squints, eyes shut like they were bound by the thickest of fabrics, until it all unravels.

The sky's the darkest of blues, and the sun is the angriest of blood moons.

Spyro thinks it’s strange that time has flown by so quickly, but the light feeling in his chest reassures him. It rings a soft melody to the beating of his heart, and Spyro feels the tension he felt being quickly shoved away.

This is his home, he thinks. This is where he’s safe.

He squints, trying to figure out who one of the statues, the centerpiece in the city, is depicting. Spyro thinks it to be someone who is probably dead.

One of Stan’s old friends, maybe.

The whirling of redstone presses against Spyro’s ears, and it’s then when he realises that the machine is turning – turning to face him.

Spyro thinks it must be the Mechanist’s doing, and he thinks when he next sees the man, he’ll have to shower him praises for all his redstone expertise.

Spyro breathes like soot is clogging his lungs. The statue’s face meets him.

White eyes meet him.

Suddenly, everything becomes very, very dark.

Spyro digs his nails into his hands, the motion not bringing any feeling, despite his expectations of pain. The neurons in his brain fire to life, desperately trying to make a connection, desperately trying to summon an explanation for all of this.

Spyro’s fantasies of his time at the castle are a lie, a dream. The Noctem Alliance won, and Spyro had been on that side. There is no possible reality where Spyro let them win, let alone join in on their pathetic fun and games.

He looks down at his hands, and all he sees is red.

Blood is caked beneath his nails, clotting on his fingertips and dripping down his hands. After everything Spyro has done, he can’t tell if it’s his or someone else's. He brings his hand to his jumper, desperately trying to scrub it away, but it simply stains the fabric red and doesn’t leave his hands.

Because Spyro can’t undo the things he did. He can’t hide behind soft fabric and a quiet smile. People will always know.

The weight of urgency hangs on his shoulders, demanding and prodding, and Spyro turns on his heel. He slams the glass door shut behind him, but he uses far too much force, and the door shatters, glass dismantling in front of him like a snowstorm.

He feels the prick of glass, but he doesn’t react. Too much cloys in his throat for him to even scream for help.

Dizzily, he backs away, and it only takes a couple of steps before his back meets the thick wall of the room. Spyro heaves a breath, the council room feeling like an airtight container. Spyro’s foot trips on a wire, and the chandelier goes crashing to the ground, embers sparking on the floor.

Spyro wishes he could take ‘pyro’ out of his name, like he wishes he could smoulder the flames that burn through the ground. He doesn’t have time to scream, because he can hear footsteps, and a good soldier doesn’t shout, because a soldier isn’t scared.

At the corner of his eye, he does see someone. A figure, distorted by his own unfocused vision. He dumps a bucket of water on the burning fire, flames dissolving into grey smoke. Spyro simply bites back a hundred feelings, chokes on a hundred apologies, and tries his hardest to merge into the wall.

“Spyro,” Someone says, and Spyro looks, and he tries to focus. “You should be asleep.”

Spyro tilts his head to look at the man. It was only a sunset a moment ago, was it not? But when he looks, all he sees is pitch black, and he thinks maybe the man might be right.

He stares, and he stares, and he tries to reel in the sight of the person like yanking in a fish from sea with a rod.

Charlie, Spyro thinks, and then he feels bad for not recognising the man sooner. And he tries to respond, but he realises he can’t talk.

“Why am I not surprised?” The man continues, stepping over the remains of fire and facing Spyro in the eye. He looks different, somehow. Younger, maybe.

Spyro has nothing to offer to that. His throat is simply a battlefield of ash.

“You can’t even sleep right,” The man says, perfectly calm. “Which kind of checks out, because when can you ever do anything correct?”

“I—” Spyro tries, finding his voice through his own instinct of desperation.

“You were far better at playing a villain, Spyro,” The man says, grabbing his chin and yanking it upwards like a certain someone used to do, and Spyro chokes down a gag. “At least that act was believable, even if you were the runt of the litter.”

This isn’t the Charlie he knows. There’s something wrong. But yet Spyro’s eyes dart around and all the pieces are still in place, and the words are from the right script. “I—”

“Good generals don’t talk back,” The man mutters aloud, eyes bright green, even though Spyro insists they were brown, but maybe he was just too inattentive to notice that fact. “Surely your days in the Noctem Alliance must have taught you that, at least?”

This isn't the Charlie that Spyro knows.

This is a lie.

Frantically, Spyro scratches his hand across the man’s face. He kicks the man off him in sheer desperation, before loosening himself from his grip. Nervously, he squeezes his eyes shut, everything a distant haze, and when he looks up, he sees Charlie on the ground.

He sees blood on his hand, and blood on Charlie’s face. Specifically Charlie’s blood – not his own – because Spyro hurt him the same way he hurts everyone.

He hurt Charlie. He hurt Charlie. Did he just imagine that? Did he imagine those words, and attack Charlie for no reason? Oh, god—

He feels obsidian vines wrap around his neck, and they drag him from the abyss.

He’s thrown into a room, but the movement feels more like teleportation. Spyro can’t decipher what direction he came from, and he can’t bring himself to look. Without any autonomy, he falls to his knees, hands warm with a red liquid. It pools around him like a blood river.

In a split second of clarity, Spyro wonders if this is what hell is like. That maybe, this is punishment for his sins against humanity.

He moves and tries to stand and tries to break free from the invisible cage he seems to be trapped in, but he is stuck here, in the abyss. He tries to shake the blood away, but it never leaves him, and all he can do is pound his hands against the fake plasticity of the floor and suffocate his head against it.

This is it. This is Spyro’s hell. Abandoned in darkness, weighed by all his failures, for all his misdeeds, for everything unsalvageable and twisted within him.

It's not the hell he expects. There are no pitchforks, no fire, no people demanding for him to be burned at the stake. It's just him, alone, abandoned, forsaken – left to rot in the dust.

The lights slam on.

Spyro is blinded by them, but somehow, he is standing, and maybe that is all that matters.

He blinks away the soot from his eyes, and he realises he’s back in the council room, still shining bright in the beautiful haven that it is.

Tenebris sits on a throne three feet in front of him.

Spyro knows nothing, but he knows he’s back.

“What do you have to say for yourself, General?” Tenebris asks, white eyes meeting him with shocking brightness.

Spyro goes to speak, only to realise his words are blocked by the heart in his throat, beating far too rapidly for someone who’s meant to be alive. Desperately, his eyes dart around the room, seeking refuge of an ally, only to realise no one is here.

He screams, throat bloody and torn and voice shrivelled and ragged, but nobody comes.

“Nothing?” Tenebris whispers, voice so soft it’s almost like he’s singing a melody, trying to urge Spyro into a deep sleep. “I’ve given you many chances, General, and you have failed time and time again. What reason do I have to not kill you now?”

“I’ll do better!” Spyro finally manages to choke out, desperate and frantic. The blood from his hands pools on the floor, staining Tenebris’s precious tiles, but Spyro somehow thinks that his Lord would like for the castle to be painted red. “Please, my Lord, have mercy!”

Spyro sinks to his knees, though it’s hard to tell if it is out of his own will, or if the movement came from Tenebris’s own force. He should feel shame, should feel humiliation from such a degrading stance, but Spyro simply leans into it like it’s second nature.

He's used to obeying mindlessly. It's what makes him a good pawn.

“You’re a disgrace,” Tenebris sneers coldly, but the voice sounds as though it’s been muffled by water. Perhaps Spyro’s eardrums have finally burst. “You are a disgrace to the entire Noctem Alliance! An imbecile could have stopped the revolution on the mushroom island in hours, and yet it's been weeks, and you haven’t done a thing!”

“I’ve been trying!” Spyro shouts desperately, bending his back in a defensive stance Spyro knows he could only do if at least one rib was broken. His vision smears red, and yet he valiantly forces himself to look Tenebris in the eyes.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh,” Tenebris says, sounding faintly amused. “If that is the case, you clearly haven’t been trying hard enough.”

“But I–” Spyro whispers, voice cracking two syllables in. Everything is red. Whether it’s his blood or someone else’s – Drake’s, maybe – it doesn’t really matter. Spyro will end up cleaning up the mess either way.

“But you failed, and you know what happens to failures, Spyro,” Tenebris says calmly. “Look at Minotaurus or Blackraven. They had failed just as you before I snapped their ribs one by one.”

Spyro breathes, but all he inhales are pollutants.

“I don’t feel so kind, today,” Tenebris says, and Spyro thinks that this is it. “Drake knew how to beg, at least. But look what I did to him.”

With that, Spyro feels his head jerk backwards, and feels his lungs choke on flames.

Something snaps. The room goes dark. The pain goes numb.

Slowly, Spyro opens his eyes, to realise he’s in a bathroom.

The tiles rot a dark blue in the lighting of night. The light is switched off, the only light coming from the moonlight that seeps in through a small window above the toilet. Spyro knows better than to question how he’s ended up here, or what reality or time he’s living in.

His hands are still wet from blood, dripping ink dots of crimson onto the tiles.

Spyro thinks Stan would kill him for creating such a mess, but he doesn’t know if he’s in the reality where Stan is an acquaintance, or the one where Spyro would gladly shove a sword into his throat.

Spyro’s bony fingers move to turn the faucet on, his grip slick with blood. He has to force his nails to curl into the metal as a means to keep his grip steady. Gently, the water flows into the sink, creating a soft pitter patter of noise as the liquid splashes against the marble.

Instinctively, Spyro places his shaky hands under the tap, the water running like the biting cold against his skin. His hands try to shy away from the coldness of the water, but Spyro stays firm. He’s not a quitter. He’s not a failure.

As he lets his hands run numb cold, the sink swarming with red water, Spyro decides to take the plunge.

He looks up at the mirror.

He’s met with white eyes.

They flicker for just a second, but it’s enough for Spyro to hurtle obsidian into the mirror. The effect is instant, and glass shatters like a broken symphony into the sink, notes distorted and broken. Barely, Spyro manages to scramble away from the destruction of his own creation, static running through his hands like a whirling motor.

He trips and falls into the tub behind him, head sinking into the water. The impact displaces some of the water onto the floor, Spyro’s corpse taking the new space in the container.

His hair lays in damp strands in front of his eyes, and despite Spyro’s attempts to claw himself out of the bathtub, he only sinks further in. The water goes red, like an ocean of blood – not his own, he realises.

In a moment of realisation, Spyro realises that he’s not breathing. Somehow, the lack of oxygen is comforting. There is a reassuring stillness about it all, a soft voice telling him it’ll all be over soon.

Spyro’s eyes hazily meet the ceiling of the room, vision tinted rose from water. It’s only when the blood water makes its way into Spyro’s lungs that he realises he’s suffocating, that he’s dying.

Someone blocks his vision from the ceiling above. A man with dense black curls and a reassuring smile on his face.

“Leonidas?” Spyro tries, but the words come out like mere bubbles. He tries to scramble to the top of the tub, only for his legs to be weighed down like a block of lead is attached to them. Leonidas only looks at him sadly.

“I tried to help ya.” Leonidas says softly, and despite all the water flooding Spyro’s ears, he can hear the words so very clearly.

Spyro thrashes. He only sinks deeper.

“And ya spat it out like it was gonna poison ya.”

“Help me, you arsehole!” Spyro desperately screams, water choking the words.

“Ya can only help someone who wants it, Spyro, I can't drag someone who's constantly got their heels in the ground.” Leonidas says, voice oddly soft.

Spyro chokes on water. He desperately wants the man to pull him out, and just hug him. It’s been so long since he’s felt warm.

“Ya don’t want help, Spyro. You'd rather drown and call it swimmin’.”

Leonidas turns away, and everything becomes suffocatingly painful for a split second, like electricity meeting water, before Spyro’s vision finally goes dark.

Everything is silent for a mere moment.

Then he opens his eyes, and he’s drifting in the midst of an ocean, a storm swirling around him. His back presses against something grainy and harsh – yellow, like sand. Something – or someone – blocks his view of the raging clouds. He blinks in an attempt to see normally, vision blurring.

Something pulls him upright, strong hands materialising from beneath a cloak, but Spyro can only feel his head spin, like a knife has been dug into his skull. Desperately, he tries to pry himself out of the touch, only to wind up lying back on the sandy shore, face pressed against grains of sand and shells.

Something seizes in his chest, gut twisting like it wants his insides out of him. He gags, before pushing himself onto his knees. The figure still stands above him, and Spyro frantically tries to pull his hair out of his eyes and save some face.

Beneath a hood, Spyro can see a mouth move, but he can’t exactly hear words. Like a last ditch attempt, he drags his nails across his ears, trying to shake water out of them. Suddenly, everything becomes far too bright, and far too loud, and Spyro thinks he might just vomit.

“–ro…can you hear me?”

Spyro’s eyes won’t focus on the figure, but he barely manages to tilt his head enough in agreement. His hands desperately cling to his jumper for the mimicry of comfort as he does.

“Okay, look, I don’t have much time before—”

Spyro blinks. His vision clears.

There’s something recognisable about the hood, and the cloak, and bare glimpses of a blue shirt underneath.

There’s something more recognisable about the eyes, though. They shine a bright white, even against the darkness of rain clouds and lightning strikes.

And Spyro only knows one person with eyes like those.

And Spyro scampers backwards. And all Spyro can think is fear, fear, fear.

And something snaps.

—

Spyro gasps for breath, half expecting to be drowning once more.

He flails, trying to kick blankets off him, the world all too suffocating. His knee instead hits against rock with far too much force. Instinctively, his eyes snap open, before groaning in pain, arms still scrambling to find something to pull him out of this cage of a bed.

Frantically, Spyro looks up, his vision still blurry, only to see obsidian like vines rooted from the floor. They wrap around the bed and coil around Spyro, effectively pinning him to a mattress that feels far too soft to feel safe. Desperately, he tries to thrash out of the grip of rocks one last time, heart beating at a pace that could only signal one’s end, only for them to grow tighter around him.

Painfully, he heaves a poor excuse for breathing, his hand finding its way into his hair. The greasy strands hang loosely at his shoulders, itching against his skin. With restricted movement, Spyro shakily pulls it away, before resting his arm on the pillow.

He needs out of here. He has to get out.

Spyro can’t do this again. He refuses.

His lungs seize, and he presses himself against the rocks with far more force in desperation, like they might just snap if he does.

But they don’t. They just grow tighter. And it’s only then when Spyro realises he can’t fight it.

So, with breaths still driven quickly by adrenaline, he tries his hardest to lie completely still, trying to find comfort in the softness of his pillow. He's fine. He's totally, and completely fine.

Or…maybe not fine, but he's safe, and that's…

You're okay, Spyro.

The voice is barely audible. It sounds like static, almost. But the better kind of static – calming, like white noise. It almost sounds….artificial, though? A little bit like how that figure that was Tenebris in disguise sounded at the end of his dream.

Spyro shouldn't trust it. It's not his own voice. It's just his brain playing tricks on him from sleep deprivation, probably.

For once, he focuses on breathing, trying to remember those stupid as hell grounding exercises he’d briefly skimmed across in that book that Charlie gave him. Spyro knows he's supposed to count, to some number – four or five or an amount Spyro knows he can't hold his breath for, and so instead, he simply lets his breath run erratic, closing his eyes.

He's simply met with a flash of blood, and Tenebris, and white eyes, and suddenly, he decides the sight of purple rocks and a plain bedroom ceiling are far more pleasant. Even if he does feel like he’s being strangled.

In desperation, he can feel his mouth contort in an attempt to shout, desperately calling for someone to free him, but nothing comes out.

And it’s then when Spyro realises that for once, he needs to save himself.

Because despite all his flaws as a Noctem, at least back then, he could fight for himself. At least he didn’t let self loathing and panic rule his head. At least he could stand his ground and keep steady even when faced with blood, fire and death.

And that's a part of Spyro that he misses – the part that was so strong willed.

And under the pressure of rocks and Spyro's own seizing chest, something in him breaks.

It’s a small feeling, pathetic and small, looping around his brain like a circuit of neurons.

He doesn’t want to be like this anymore.

He doesn’t want to be pushed around by feelings anymore. Because maybe it isn’t so bad to feel, but he doesn’t want to spend every day hyperventilating and crying every time he's faced with a minor inconvenience. If Spyro pushed through the Noctem Alliance, he sure as hell has the valiance to push through this.

Being good doesn't mean he also has to be weak. Stan packs a punch, and he's one of the strongest people Spyro knows.

Besides, Spyro isn't alone now. Spyro has people who care enough to help him when he's sinking. And maybe, that's all he needs.

So, with shaking hands – perhaps with the clearest intent Spyro’s had since he tried to blow up the castle – he pulls obsidian away from his neck, snapping it into two with all the force he can muster.

God, it’s been so long since he’s had something to destroy – since he’s been on a battlefield. And sure, domestic life might be okay, when he’s not making a wreck of it, but sometimes you’ve just got to slay a dragon for the thrill.

So, with all the force he can muster, he grabs a vine of purple rock, pinning it to the bed and punching it as hard as he can. And perhaps it’s just operating powers, but his hand instantly slices through it, sending the obsidian shrinking back into his bedroom floor.

“Fuck you.” He whispers to himself, breathing more even than usual. Against his will, his brain still tries to wire images from his nightmare into his vision, but he simply pushes the vision away.

Because it’s not real. Because people do care about him.

Leonidas wouldn't be so intent on hanging out with him if he didn't.

Spyro is okay. Spyro has friends. Spyro is very, very alive.

Spyro has to press two fingers against the pulse point on his neck to double check, and when does, he's met with the steady thump of his heart. It's probably stronger than Spyro's felt it in a long time.

Spyro shuffles to his drawer, picking up that book that Charlie gave him that he never really bothered to read properly, hands flicking through pages, sort of enjoying the way the paper rustles as he does. He tilts his head upwards. It’s barely six in the morning.

That means he has time to kill. He places the book down on the top of the stack of drawers.

Spyro barely remembers last night. He thinks he cooked steak in a kitchen with Leonidas, and instantly went off to sleep without a bite. It’d probably explain his hunger, and it tells Spyro that he needs to get something to eat.

Spyro has something he wants to do first, though. He has an offer he needs to take up on.

So, with one last glance at his bed of messy sheets, Spyro shuffles to the front of the room, and turns the door handle.

The door clicks open, and he leaves without another thought.

Chapter Text

Spyro walks down the hall, humming softly to himself.

It’s a tune he’s heard on a music disc before, perhaps ‘cat’, but he’s still far too groggy from a far too poor sleep to really make the connection. It’s a nice tune, regardless, and it makes him think that maybe he should take more time to listen to music.

Now’s not the time though – even though there’s never a time, really – because Spyro has shit to do. Like apologising, like getting himself under control, like doing something other than self loathing. So, whilst walking, he grabs his newly fixed communicator, before clicking on Leonidas’s contact. The next few moments are spent staring at messages, mainly what are apparently called ‘cat memes’ that Leonidas had sent, before sighing.

He types a simple ‘Thank you’, because he thinks if he apologises for what he's done, Leonidas might actually kill him. But at the very least, Spyro can show a bit of gratitude, can't he? The man did stop him from covering the entire castle in obsidian, and in doing so, he inadvertently saved Spyro from being kicked out.

Gritting his teeth, he stares at the message for a moment longer, before clicking send, and shoving the device into the depths of his pockets. He forces himself not to pick it up and stare at the screen until he sees Leonidas’s response, because it's not like Spyro wants to break another device in less than twenty-four hours, does he?

Anyways, Spyro doesn't really care for the other man’s response. Somehow, he knows that if the man doesn’t hate him for all the murder attempts, he’s not really going to hate him for sending him a text.

He doesn’t know why it’s taken two breakdowns and two nightmares to realise that people do, in fact, give a shit about him.

The idea makes him a bit giddy, really.

Absentmindedly, he rummages through his other pocket as he walks, eventually feeling his fingers grate against cold metal. He retrieves the object, eyes meeting the silver key that Stan had given him yesterday. It glints like a treasure in the sunrise, and Spyro thinks he wants to use it.

He has time to kill, after all. And it would be pretty fucking cool to learn how to fly.

At least it’d make all the near deaths through lightning and suffocation worth it, that is.

He travels up a set of stairs, clinging a hand onto the wooden banister as he ascends. He tries to be quiet, gently shuffling his feet against the floors, trying to not go flying into one of the many fragile decorations. Just before he makes it to the top story, he finds himself gazing out of one of the many large windows.

Element city is a beautiful place, truly.

‘And it could have been yours,’ A voice in his head rings, but Spyro doesn't really think he cares. Somehow, he got what he always wanted, maybe in the most twisted way possible. Who really needs a city when you have operating powers? He could make a new one from the ground if he truly wanted.

But he doesn't really want that either. No amount of luxury can make up for how lonely he would most surely be if he did that. Because despite how much he pouts about it, he actually likes spending time with Leonidas – Charlie, too. And hell, even Sirus and Stan are alright.

The thought is almost funny, really, like mockery of his former self. Spyro wonders how long he's been thinking like that. A few days, maybe? The haste in which he's changed is almost startling. It makes him doubt if he truly believed in the Noctem Alliance’s ideals in the first place.

The sunlight shining through the window brings a certain warmness to his bones, but he forces himself to push away from it, eyes cast on the final flight of stairs. As he walks, he trips over a loose plank, but he barely manages to save himself. Not without a shattering ‘CRASH!’, though.

He peers down the stairs, expecting someone to come running to see what made that sound, like any hyper-alert recruit would back in Nocturia, but no one comes. Spyro takes it as a win, pressing on until he reaches the door. Metal looms above him, a keyhole staring at him expectantly.

He looks at the key in his hands one last time, before shoving it into the lock. He spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to unlock the door, but eventually, it clicks open, revealing a room of bedrock. Spyro wastes little time before stepping inside.

He makes sure the door is shut, shaking the handle at least three times, before stepping to the middle of the room, looking around. Everything looks the same.

It's kind of a shitty looking wreck room. Where the hell is the decor? Or something to break, for that matter?

But Spyro guesses it'll get the job done, and like instinct, he drops himself onto the floor, crossing his legs neatly, eyes glancing about like something obscure might happen. It doesn't, and Spyro almost feels like a fool.

He doesn't actually know how to activate his powers, he realises. So far, they've all just acted like some kind of fucked up fear response. So, Spyro tries thinking hard, like his operating powers might just activate if he does, but they don't.

So, like a last resort, Spyro slaps himself across the face without much thought, his cheek burning, and he notices the room illuminate a faint white, a bolt of lightning slamming against the floor.

Pain works.

Not that it's a very appropriate solution to his problem. In fact, if someone saw him hitting himself, they'd probably drag him to a therapist. And even though Spyro's pain tolerance is good, he doesn't really want to make people worry about him.

Instead, Spyro rummages through his trousers pockets, pulling out one of those tiny notebooks, and opening it, because he might as well make some notes.

Then Spyro realises he forgot a quill. Like an idiot. He growls, wanting to almost slap himself again, but with far more force. Instead, about a hundred quills drop from the ceiling, falling in what feels like mockery of slow motion. Spyro grabs one, floating in mid air, trying to avoid the fact that he looks like he's just lost a pillow fight.

He inspects the feather flower, a small amount of ink dripping from the tip. He scratches it into the paper, taking some incredibly scruffy notes – more ink dots on the page than words. Spyro writes the general gist of it – the fact that they only seem to materialise when he's angry, or stressed, or afraid.

Or when he's just emotional. Which is almost always, nowadays.

It doesn't make much sense, really. Powers acting only on emotions sounds like a bullshit excuse for a bad movie plot.

Spyro is not smart. Spyro has spent far more time trying to hold a sword than trying to be a scholar. However, he thinks maybe there's something to do with biology, or psychology that could explain it – or something that Charlie would probably know of.

‘Why must everything be so difficult?’ Spyro thinks vaguely. Why can't he do cool shit like Stan without thinking about it? Why are his powers just as fucked as he is? At this point, it's just stupidly cruel (It’s almost as if the author of his story hates him).

Why don't you try something other than moping about it?

The voice is not like his own. It's weirdly optimistic, for starters. Because when has Spyro ever tried to do something about it?

He hears footsteps.

Spyro snaps his head backwards, the motion quick enough to send burns of whiplash spiking up the nerves on his neck.

It gives him just enough time to see Stan open the door. Spyro simply stares with what might just be too much eye contact.

“I thought I heard someone come up here.” Stan says softly, rubbing the back of his neck. Spyro instantly jumps to his feet, now feeling restless.

“Oh, shit, did I wake you?” Spyro says, feeling unnecessarily apologetic – and he almost hates the feeling. There’s a small part of him that feels disgusted for being so sorry all the time. He never used to be.

“I’m a light sleeper,” Stan clarifies, looking down at the pile of feathers, as well as the few loose feathers clinging to Spyro like he’s some kind of chicken. He looks a little amused. “And my bedroom is like, right under these stairs.”

“Sorry.” Spyro blurts, looking down at his feet in a poor attempt to avoid Stan's blue eyes. He doesn’t even know what he’s apologising for, this time.

“For… what, exactly?” Stan asks curiously, and Spyro simply blinks like the man is crazy. Spyro could write a never ending list of things he’s done that warrant an apology.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Spyro says softly, shaking a few feathers off his jumper. “And I didn’t mean to wreck your kitchen.”

“Spyro,” Stan says, and the tone is instantly recognisable, because Charlie and Leonidas use that damn same tone with him. It usually means ‘Shut up, you’re being stupid’. “I couldn’t really care less about either of those things. They’re like, minor inconveniences at worst.”

“Hm.” Spyro huffs, looking away. Sure, they might be ‘minor inconveniences’ to some, but in the Noctem Alliance, they were a matter of life or death.

“So, uh, what are you up to anyways?” Stan asks, looking down at the pile of feathers. “Did you win a fight against a chicken or something?”

Spyro snorts. “I’m trying to figure out how to use my–” He says with emphasis, because they don’t really feel like they’re his, more like a cursed family heirloom shoved into his hands. “–powers.”

“How’s it going?” Stan says, kicking a feather with a little too much glee for a so-called ‘respectable president’.

“Well, if you want a bunch of feathers,” Spyro starts, grabbing a bunch of feathers and throwing them at the wall, only for them to slam into it in slow-motion. The movement makes him look like an idiot. “Then I guess it’s a success.”

Stan looks down at him, with a strange kind of empathy. “Yeah, it does take a while to get used to.”

Spyro looks away, just wanting something to go right. He looks down at his hands, creased and scarred, and he thinks that he wants to do something good, for once. It'd be nice to do something to make up for all the pain he's caused. It doesn’t have to be anything special, really. Something mundane and harmless would be fine – like, making a flower appear in his hands! Nothing bad could come from that!

And he thinks, ignoring the way Stan paces behind him. The president doesn't seem to be keen on making conversation, but maybe that's just on the account that he doesn't know what to say.

“Why is this so fucking hard?” Spyro growls, kicking at air.

Stan is speaking, but Spyro isn't listening.

Instead, Spyro is faintly aware of static rippling through his veins. For once, it almost feels comforting, and rather pleasant, like a boost of euphoria. Spyro sees a faint flash of light bursting in front of him. From the corner of his eyes, he can sense as Stan startles when bright light shines. Spyro closes his eyes if only not to go blind.

Then a moment passes. And Spyro opens them.

When he looks down at his hand, there’s an oxeye daisy. The petals look sort of misaligned, and the stem is weak and droopy, but all Spyro can see is something he created, and it looks… okay!

“Hell yeah!” Spyro says, bouncing to his feet like an over excited puppy – he can’t really remember the last time he felt such an overwhelming amount of joy for something small, but that doesn’t really matter right now. He probably shouts it a little too loud, because Stan startles backwards again.

He made something. He actually made something that isn’t fucking terrifying, out of his own will!

The man looks down at the flower in Spyro’s hand. “It looks… alright?”

“‘Alright?’” Spyro parrots in mock offense. “That’s my damn daisy you’re talking about, President Stan! It’s certainly more than ‘alright’.”

He pouts for a moment longer, before shoving the flower in his mess of hair. Sure, perhaps the once tough Noctem General looks a tad misplaced with a flower in his hair, but Spyro thinks he likes it.

Stan smiles, covering his mouth with a hand to mask his snort. Spyro simply stares at the other with a look of confusion.

“What are you giving me that look for?” Spyro asks curiously, making an assortment of flowers appear in his hands – a dandelion, an azure bluet, an allium, and a miniature sunflower. They all look wonky, perhaps slightly artificial, but they still shine the same light in Spyro’s eyes as any other flower would.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Stan says, lowering his hand. “You just look more…happier than usual. That’s all.”

Spyro scoffs. “Don’t get sentimental on me, president Stan.”

Despite his words, he looks down at the flowers in his hands, before shoving the dandelion into Stan’s palm. Stan’s eyes widen slightly, looking down, before looking at Spyro.

“But, I would uh, like lessons on how to use operating powers.” Spyro says, looking away in embarrassment. Did he just give the fucking president a dandelion? A dandelion? Is he genuinely going soft? Or insane?

It's been less than two weeks since Spyro left the Noctem Alliance, and he’s already losing his mind, it seems. But perhaps he’s losing his mind in the right way, somehow. Going soft is probably better than being a hell-bent murderer, and Spyro is sure that Stan would agree.

“I can do that, yeah,” Stan says, before looking down at the yellow flower in his hand. “I better put this in a vase first, though.”

Spyro blinks, some unknown feeling rising in his throat. He likes the fact Stan likes his gift enough to put it in a vase. He tries to say something, but his mouth just hangs open with no response. Thankfully, Stan talks for him.

“And I think you have breakfast to cook.” Stan says simply, gently tucking the dandelion stem into his trouser pocket, yellow petals sticking upwards and clinging to his side.

“You’ll teach me later, then?” Spyro asks softly, tucking the leftover flowers into his hoodie pocket. He may or may not have a later use for them – or, in other words, three people he wants to give them to.

“After breakfast?” Stan says, and Spyro nods in agreement. That’s all it takes before the president vanishes into thin air.

Spyro blinks. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the way the man just teleports wherever. Maybe that’ll be him, one day.

Not today, though, he thinks, before giving the room one last look. He leaves the room as silently as he entered.

—

The thing about Element Castle is that it always looks pretty, no matter what time of day it is. However, to Spyro, it’s always at its best when it’s bright. There’s always something to be appreciated about light glistening through the windows that stretch from the ceilings to the floors.

Spyro likes being able to see clearly. He likes a lot of things, really.

Or at least, things that don’t remind him of the Noctem alliance. But then again, almost everything reminds him of the Noctem alliance. It's infected his perception of everything around him, and that's something that Spyro struggles to shake.

Maybe Spyro will never be able to forget those things, even if he really wants to. Maybe he just has to accept that.

Spyro told Leonidas that, in what feels like a millennium ago. He'd never thought it'd apply to himself, too.

Sighing, he pushes an oak wooden door open. What he expects to find is a kitchen, small and comforting.

He finds it, but he also finds something he wasn't expecting to see – Sirus crouching on the floor awkwardly, trying to fix the hinges on a kitchen cabinet. The man instantly turns around at the sound of a door creaking, wide eyes meeting Spyro’s. A screwdriver is clutched in his twitching hand like a weapon.

“Spyro!” Sirus says, sounding delighted. He instantly bounces upwards, practically sprinting to the stunned Spyro.

The man lightly slaps his hand against Spyro’s like some kind of cryptic handshake, the other simply standing there, hand hanging awkwardly in the air. Spyro stares at the man for a moment, before gently putting his knuckles against Sirus’s. Sirus’s eyes meet his, and they both pull their hands away, mimicking an explosion sound.

“Hey,” Spyro says softly, spinning around the man and looking through the fridge. He tries to make a decision on what to cook. “What are you up to?”

“I’m just fixing a good old cabinet.” Sirus says, sounding totally not suspicious at all, sliding back next to the wooden cabinet.

“A cabinet?” Spyro asks, raising an eyebrow. He thought the man fixed electrics and shit, not… wooden objects. “Did they demote you or something?

“Oh, not at all,” Sirus says with a shrug. “I just accidentally broke it when I was getting a midnight snack – don’t ask how – and if there’s no trace of the accident, then they can’t blame me when their kitchen cabinet is broken!”

“Dude, I don’t think anyone even goes in this kitchen, besides like, me.” Spyro starts, gawking at all the food in the fridge. He is way too indecisive for this. Sirus distracting him is definitely not helping.

“And imagine how mad you’d be if you walked into this kitchen and found the cabinet was broken! You’d be devastated!” Sirus reasons, logic questionable. He resumes trying to screw a screw into the hinge of the door.

Spyro considers the possibility that Sirus might be insane. “Mad? Why would I be mad? Who cares?”

“Damn, no wonder you left the Noctem Alliance,” Sirus says, pausing his fixing of the cabinet to cross his arms. His attempt to change the conversation is so startling that Spyro almost thinks the man is here just for his company. “You’re as intimidating as a newborn puppy!”

“Wha—I’m not anything like a puppy!” Spyro growls, face going red from the suggestion. He finds himself without a comeback, and he instead makes use of himself by grabbing a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread, slamming them down onto the table with such force he’s almost surprised the eggs don’t crack.

“You know I’m right,” Sirus says, jamming a screwdriver into the hinges of the cabinet. He seems to be taking as long as possible – almost intentionally. If Spyro were crazy, he'd think that Sirus almost wants to spend time with him. “But what have you been up to anyways? I’ve barely seen you in the past few days, and trust me, I’ve looked.”

Spyro bites his lip, trying very hard to ignore the fact that the man has been looking for him. “Uh, well…”

In the past forty eight or so hours, too much has happened. He can hardly go on a rant about operating powers, can he? He’d probably just scare the man away with the sheer weight of his…problems. Because who wants to deal with all that? No one. An azure bluet sits in his hoodie pocket, though. Spyro wonders if it could pose as a distraction…

Sirus continues after Spyro’s mouth hangs open for a little too long to be considered thinking time. “Oh, I see. Operating power troubles?”

The world stops.

Spyro blinks, startling upright. He never told the man, did he? How could he even—why would he even—

Unless someone told him. Unless one of the three people who already know couldn't keep their damn mouths shut.

Without thinking, Spyro storms over to the man, grabbing him by the collar with an alarming amount of urgency. Hastily, Spyro yanks the slightly shorter man off his feet, practically pressing his face against Sirus’s.

“Who told you?” Spyro whispers, voice like poison.

Spyro can feel his own chest tighten. It kindles that weird feeling he seems to get when something slightly unfortunate happens. Sure, Spyro is probably overreacting, like always, but Elementia, the world is moving far too quickly to tell.

“No one told me, dude.” Sirus says simply, looking slightly freaked out by the fact that Spyro has lifted him off the ground, legs flailing.

“Then how would you know?” Spyro growls, inflating like an angry cat. “Who told you?”

“I just figured it out a few days ago! Since the fuse on that furnace was intact, I figured you must have blown up that furnace with your mind!” Sirus reasons, somehow not looking phased.

Spyro face drops. “How the hell do you even make that kind of connection?”

Sirus shrugs nonchalantly, before looking away, like there's some kind of audience watching. “Honestly, it was just a theory, a game th–”

“That still doesn't make any sense!” Spyro snaps, digging his fingers into Sirus's shoulders.

“Well, I did also overhear Charlie and Leonidas talking about it.” Sirus adds, grinning nervously.

Spyro instantly drops Sirus out of shock, taking a few steps back. “What were they saying about me?”

Sirus readjusts his shirt, shaking his head until his hair goes back to normal. “I mean, I wasn't really paying attention. I just heard something about you having operating powers.”

They've been talking about him?

Spyro bristles, eyes digging holes into the kitchen floor.

People are allowed to talk.

That's true, and Spyro doesn't like that fact. Surely they're only…laughing at his expense, or something! It shouldn't be tolerated! If they have something to say, they should say it to his damn face!

“I can't believe they would do that.” Spyro's voice is worse than strained. Instinctively, his fingers go to dig at his palms. That’s only a moment before he slams his fist against the counter. His punching technique is completely off, and it only leaves his hand throbbing.

“Dude, they weren't saying anything bad. If they were, I would've remembered,” Sirus shrugs nonchalantly. “You're acting like they're calling you slurs behind your back or something.”

Sirus is right, unfortunately.

And it's not really in Leonidas's or Charlie's nature to be cruel. They’re probably just…worrying about him, or something.

Unfortunately, Spyro doesn’t really like that fact either. They shouldn’t be wasting their time fretting over him.

Spyro lasted about a year in the Noctem Alliance and came out alright. He’s sure he can survive his own mind. Then Spyro looks up and sees Sirus’s expectant look, and realises he’s been quiet for far too long.

“Oh,” Spyro shuffles backwards, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He pauses, twisting his hands. “You’re right. Sorry for freaking out on you.”

“Eh, it's fine,” Sirus says, looking like he couldn’t care less. He keeps his distance from Spyro, though, shuffling back next to the broken cabinet. “After dying and meeting god, this doesn’t even make the top ten most freaky things to happen to me.”

Spyro looks away apologetically (not even deciding to decipher what Sirus means by ‘meeting god’), before rummaging through his pocket and pulling out an azure bluet, walking over to Sirus and shoving it in his hand carelessly.

Sirus’s eyes widen like he’s won the jackpot. “Hey, where’d you get this?”

“My uh… mind?” Spyro says, before looking away. There’s some kind of uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Shame, maybe? He can’t quite pinpoint it. Sirus fiddles with the stem of the plant, twisting it in his hand, before pocketting it in his hair, tucking it haphazardly behind his goggles.

“That's awesome, dude!” Sirus exclaims, bouncing up and down like an overexcited dog. “Can you fly? Can you create explosions? Can you–”

Spyro rubs the back of his neck. He shakes his head after a moment of debate. “Heh, I wish. I barely know how to use them at the moment.”

Spyro could spend all day ranting about operating powers, but Sirus is perhaps the only person who doesn't see him as a complete wreck of a person, and Spyro intends to keep things that way. He likes the way Sirus is an acquaintance, kept at arms length. The lack of depth is comforting.

Spyro’s spent far too long around complex people. The kinds who say one thing but then do something else. The kinds that are walking contradictions. But Sirus isn’t like that. Sirus says what he means and means what he says.

Keeping Sirus far away keeps him from being burnt by the fire that is Spyro. Because you can't take ‘pyro’ out of ‘Spyro’, because then his name would be a mere initial, because Spyro is nothing more than his actions.

People around Spyro only ever seem to get hurt in the end. Maybe Spyro is just good at burning all his bridges.

Sirus looks away, fiddling with thumbs. The man looks small under his own stern glare that he can't seem to rid himself of. “I have some books on the subject, if you'd be interested?”

Spyro sighs, his exhale catching somewhere at the back of his throat. He speaks softly. “That would be useful.”

“I'll leave them in your room sometime.” Sirus says softly – leaving Spyro to realise that the man can talk in another tone other than exclamations, albeit rarely.

“Thanks.”

Sirus nods, before going back to fixing the cabinet, and Spyro finally considers the possibility of cooking breakfast. He looks at the carton of eggs and the bread, and he thinks scrambled eggs and toast will suffice. And with little thought, he slams a tonne of eggs onto a pan, finding a bucket of milk and pouring it over the eggs absentmindedly.

He looks down at Sirus, working on the cabinet at a painfully slow pace. If Spyro knew any better, he would say the man almost enjoys his company.

That’s not something that Spyro is imagining.

People do in fact, give a shit about him. Spyro just forgets, sometimes. Or perhaps he never thought of the idea to begin with.

“What have you been up to, then?” Spyro tilts his head to meet Sirus's eyes. The pan of eggs sounds a soft sizzle in Spyro's ears, and he, without really thinking, grabs a fork to tame the eggs. Sirus looks back at him with enthusiastic eyes. They remind Spyro of what he used to be like before he discovered how cruel the world is.

“I've been working on some new redstone machines, y'know, because Stan keeps thinking that something bad will happen, and when it does, he wants to be prepared. Like, me and the Mechanist have been working on an alarm system in case someone breaks into the castle.” Sirus explains, sitting on the floor with crossed legs.

The idea is at least slightly reassuring. If Zingster – god, Spyro's barely thought of the name in the past few days – tries to do more than leak Spyro's secrets, at least Spyro knows he'll be safe in the castle.

Probably. Maybe. Perhaps not at all, because when is Spyro ever safe? He's barely safe from his own mind. But maybe that's not forever. Maybe things will change.

He's just full of contradictions, isn't he?

“Sounds cool,” Spyro says, dumping various slices of bread into the various toasters. “Is it a lot of work?”

Sirus shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe, but it doesn't feel like work, dude. I could spend days straight working on all kinds of redstone contraptions. And even if it is tedious, and doesn't always work out, who cares?”

Who cares?

Spyro's sure he could pick out some kind of irony in Sirus saying that to him of all people, but somehow, he just moves on.

“Yeah, who cares?” Spyro mumbles softly, words grazed with something bittersweet. He turns his attention back to his scrambled eggs only a moment later, just as Sirus finishes up with the cabinet.

The man waves him goodbye, and all the other kinds of pleasantries that come with it, and by the time he does, the eggs are scrambled and the bread is toasted. Spyro could almost say it's perfect timing.

Spyro wastes no time in stacking the toast and eggs onto each plate, before realising he has no hope of carrying them all to the dining room. He can barely fit four plates in his hands, let alone enough for the council.

And he just thinks he's a fucking idiot. He could get someone to help him, but by the time he does, the food will be cold.

Something flashes, the ceramic of the plates rustling like they're sentient – which is fucking terrifying, for the record – and next thing Spyro knows, he's surrounded by a swarm of flying plates. They bounce up and down like they’re overexcited puppies, and Spyro feels like some kind of wizard.

No wonder Stan is so damn pleased with life.

Spyro pushes the door open, watching behind his back as the sentient plates linger behind him. They drift past the opening, floating in the hallway like they’re waiting for his command. Spyro simply stands there, looking at them. He genuinely feels like he’s in a fever dream.

“Go left.” He mutters at the plates, after remembering which way the dining room is. They don’t move, simply hanging in midair, and Spyro genuinely wants to rip his hair out.

“Go. Left.” Spyro barks, like pieces of porcelain can actually hear him. Then he realises he’s talking to plates. Plates. When the hell did he lose his grip on sanity? “Oh, please, just—Listen to me, you stupid plates!”

He throws the middle finger at the plates in a fit of rage.

Like a flash of wind, they wind up going left, and Spyro’s eyes dart around, surprised at the idea that giving them the middle finger is what made them listen to him. That’s when he sees a certain president walking down the hall, hand raised. Suddenly, Spyro can feel his face flush with embarrassment, wondering how much of that interaction the president just witnessed.

He tries to stutter out a pleasantry, but he finds himself far too mortified to do so, veins crackling with slight static.

“Y’know, I don’t think talking to them does anything,” Stan says casually, all the while Spyro can feel himself only wanting to merge with the ground. He briefly wonders if Stan has been stalking him. “They can’t hear you, y’know.”

“I–I know that!” Spyro growls, fumbling with the words.

“Do you?” Stan asks, and Spyro can’t tell if it’s a sarcastic quip or a genuine question. Nevertheless, the plates instead begin rotating around Stan, the man somehow taming them.

“Uh, Yes?” Spyro bites, but it lacks harshness. “It’s a plate, I know it can’t fucking hear me! I just—”

Spyro finds it annoying. Even if his powers aren’t kicking him in the arse, he’s not a man of much patience. There’s only so much he can take before he goes insane. And he looks up at Stan, who is all knowing, and he feels ridiculously small, and it makes him think about the old days when he was the scum under Leonidas’s shoe.

With a pout, he summons some kind of mysterious force. It wrenches one plate from Stan’s orbit, shoving it into his own. He grins at the success. “See, Stan? I’ve got it totally, under—”

The plate flies straight past him, causing him to duck to the ground to narrowly avoid being hit, before it smashes straight into the wall. It makes one of those comedic explosion sounds, and the next thing Spyro knows, fire (Spyro doesn’t even question how a plate manages to catch on fire) is being dampened by a stream of water that’s miraculously appeared out of thin air.

Spyro finds his jaw hanging slack, hands hanging in the air like he can’t quite figure out what to do with them. When Stan turns to face him, he almost wants to flinch. At least the other man looks as comically concerned as he feels.

“You’re somehow worse than I was when I first started using mine.” Stan mutters under his breath, looking at the wall, now tinged with black remnants of fire.

“How… bad were you when you first started using yours?” Spyro asks with a nervous grin. He thinks he can feel his eyebrow twitch.

“Like, I couldn’t even break a singular block kind of bad.” Stan states, and both him and Spyro share some kind of look, and there’s something about it that just makes Spyro snort.

“Well, I’m doomed,” Spyro says, pressing his hands behind his head in the most relaxed way he can muster. “You think you can carry these to the dining room?”

Stan ruffles Spyro’s hair with a startling amount of fondness, before walking past him. “Why else do you think I’m here?”

The man walks down the hall, and Spyro scurries behind.

Chapter Text

Breakfast goes okay, somehow. The food is served, everyone eats. He tucks the allium he created under Charlie's plate, and haphazardly shoves the miniature sunflower onto Leonidas’s. Neither of them comment on it, but every time Spyro looks up from his plate, he sees Leonidas staring at him with more fondness than usual. Spyro thinks that maybe, they both like the gifts.

It's weird how things change. It’s weird how the usually temperamental and hard as nails Spyro is now giving people flowers like he’s some kind of florist wannabe.

Spyro sucks in a breath, and he tells the remaining few who don't know that he has operating powers, via bringing a floating glass of tap water to his lips without really thinking about it. They don't care, because why would they? To them, it's just a typical fucking Tuesday.

Seriously, they just take it like it's nothing. Like it means nothing. Like Spyro isn't some fucked up demon of some sort.

…It’s almost nice.

And breakfast goes off on the same beat it always does. Leonidas teases Charlie over something or another, all the while Stan engages in a rather calm conversation with the Mechanist. It almost muffles the fashion rant Cassandrix seems to be giving Jayden, because wearing the same hoodie every damn day apparently isn’t ‘fashionable’.

And breakfast ends, and Jayden cleans up the plates, and next thing Spyro knows, he's stuck in a bedrock cage with the president himself. The other man paces around a bit, before turning to face Spyro, who can feel his own hands shaking with a mix of excitement and fear.

It’ll be nice to be able to have a grip on his powers. It’s the only thought that keeps Spyro rooted in place, because all his other instincts are telling him to run.

Somehow, Stan senses Spyro’s apprehension, because he keeps his distance.

“Okay,” Stan says softly, pulling a spruce armchair from thin air as if it were nothing, before shuffling onto it. Spyro, unable to do that, simply dumps himself onto the bedrock floor. “We should probably start with what you can do.”

Of course that's what the man starts with. Not anything worthy of Spyro's adrenaline, just questions. And Elementia, Spyro hates questions, because some things don't need answers, and Spyro likes keeping the mystery alive. Or at least, he doesn't like reminding himself of the truth.

Spyro shifts uncomfortably, nodding softly. “Uh, well, that depends, doesn't it?”

His answer is purposely vague, hoping Stan might just drop the subject, and instead teach him to…fly, or something equally fun. Spyro isn't here for an emotional pep talk – he just wants to learn something to make operating powers worth the trouble they're causing him.

“Depends on…what, exactly?” Stan asks, raising an eyebrow like Spyro is a failed specimen.

And he doesn't want to answer the question, because Spyro knows what his powers depends on, and the answer is fucking weak. And when he looks up at Stan, expression unreadable, he considers the possibility that the man is taunting him, because he's holding the strings on the puppet that Spyro is.

You can say it, Spyro. Nothing bad will happen if you do.

The voice, glitchy like static, rings reassuringly in his head. Which is odd, because Spyro's thoughts usually don't sound like static.

“It depends on my, ugh,” Spyro starts, not finding it in himself to say the word. But Stan still stares at him, expecting clarity, and it makes Spyro's resolve break. “On my feelings.”

He hisses the last word, because it sounds stupid coming out of his mouth.

Stan blinks a couple of the times, his expression shifting slightly – a flash of slow recognition. “Well, how do your feelings affect your powers, then?”

And fuck, Spyro knows its just a fucking question, but the man sounds like a therapist, and it just makes him feel slightly sick. Unconsciously, Spyro wraps his arms around himself, trying to fill the void that has split his chest open in a matter of sentences.

“Well, I guess, when I’m upset, I can suddenly create lightning, and obsidian towers, and shit,” Spyro mutters gruffly. Perhaps, if he talks quiet enough, Stan might just not be able to hear him. “And when I’m fine, I can’t do crap. Except for making some pathetic flowers, and throwing plates into walls, it seems.”

He hides a pitiful expression behind a pout, yanking his hands away from his chest and resting them on his lap. Stan leans forward, like he's taking a mental note, like he's subconsciously armchair diagnosing Spyro with a bunch of crap he doesn't really want to think about.

“That can be fixed easily,” Stan says sternly – his voice isn't necessarily one of comfort, more so logic. It reminds Spyro a little of Charlie.

Stan stands up, the spruce chair he was sitting on disappearing into thin air as he does. “You’ve just to reframe your mindset, man. Trust me, when I first tried to use mine, I spent like, half an hour trying to destroy a block. And trust me, I wanted to break the damn thing more than anything. And It was only when Sally gave me a pep talk that I was able to do it.”

“Sounds dumb,” He mumbles, standing up to meet Stan’s level. “And who the hell is Sally girl, anyways?”

“She’s uh,” Stan starts awkwardly, twiddling with his thumbs. “She’s kind of like, my, uh,” He clears his throat, face going red. “My undead girlfriend? Well, I dunno if she’s really my girlfriend, but—”

Spyro blinks. “...Undead?” Maybe he feels bad for implying she’s stupid.

“Uh, she kind of haunts my dreams, sorta? Well, she tries to hack into the server, sometimes, and she speaks to me,” Stan looks like he might implode if he has to continue his relationship dynamic. “It’s, uh, complicated?

Spyro finds himself unwillingly intrigued. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he scoffs. “Just be glad it’s someone you like, and not Tenebris or something.”

Because damn, does Spyro feel like Tenebris is haunting him sometimes. Sometimes he feels like his chest might just split open, and he'll be met with Tenebris's demon. And Stan just huffs softly, not giving any response to Spyro's comment, before straightening himself up, looking down at Spyro with an almost mournful look.

“Anyways, like I was saying, you’ve just gotta like, believe in yourself.” Stan's attempt to change the conversation is not subtle, but it works anyway. Spyro is not one to object to the possibility of not talking about Tenebris.

“Congratulations, Stan,” Spyro drawls sarcastically, mocking a grin. He’s not above being a little shit, especially when Stan is involved. “That was a wonderful pep talk. You know, I really am feeling inspired right now.”

Stan face palms, before dragging his fingers down his face in what seems like mild irritation. “Look, I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true. Just—just work with me here, will you?”

The man snaps his fingers, and a pillar of bedrock appears from the floor, directly in front of Spyro. It looms over his rather scrawny frame, and he shoots Stan a look. “What am I supposed to do with this, then?”

“Break it.” Stan says simply. As if it were that easy. Spyro wishes it was.

Without any input from his own brain, Spyro can feel his jaw clench. The instruction is a simple one, and Spyro should be able to do it. And yet, it seems like an impossible task. So instead, he circles the pillar like he’s thinking of an attack, even if he is just buying time.

“Uhm, okay,” Spyro mutters to himself, becoming far too aware of that stern look Stan is giving him. “I can break this, no trouble.” Maybe it’s just a lie to make himself seem better than Stan. He wants to be better than Stan. A fragile part of himself just wants to put the man to shame. “I just gotta warm up.”

“You’re stalling.” Stan observes. Spyro is moments away from pulling out the middle finger on the man, because how dare he make a correct assumption about him.

“Like hell I am!” Spyro growls, perhaps in exaggeration, before hurtling his fist at the bedrock pillar. It doesn’t slice the block into nothingness like he expects. Instead, his hand goes slamming into the rock with all the force he can muster, only to be defeated by it. “SHIT!”

He retracts his hand in pain, knuckles throbbing. His other hand moves to clutch it in comfort, and he finds himself hunched over himself, eyes pathetically meeting Stan’s rather nonchalant gaze. The man is giving him a look that shouts, ‘I told you so.’

“Oh, stop looking at me like that.” Spyro pouts, looking away. He was never this weak when he was a Noctem. Back then, pain meant nothing to him. Ever since being here, he’s been a shaking, sobbing mess.

Maybe it is nice to be softer, but Spyro can't help but miss the confidence he used to have.

Spyro punches the block again, and yet it still stands tall. At the very least, he manages to grit his teeth and mask his urge to holler in pain. At least there's progress on that front. But it hardly gives him any motivation to continue. If anything, he only wants to curl up on the floor and admit defeat.

“I give up.” Spyro mumbles after a few more unsuccessful punches, scrubbing a hand across his forehead, dripping with beads of sweat.

“So what, you’re just going to let a block of bedrock beat you?” Stan says, circling around Spyro with some kind of intent that Spyro doesn’t yet know about. There’s something urging in his voice, though.

“Oh, please, Stan,” Spyro growls in defeat, genuinely wanting to punch down on the floor. “I’m not all high and mighty like you! I can’t do shit!”

“Really, now?” Stan says, almost mockingly. Spyro can’t say he’s ever heard the man talk to him in such a tone “You can’t do anything? The once great general of the Noctem Alliance can’t do anything?”

“Yes!” Spyro hisses, taking a step back.

“Really?” Stan asks, almost teasingly. Spyro finds himself clenching his fists. “Then how have you made it this far, then?”

Spyro growls, pacing backwards. There’s something about the way the man talks that makes his chest spark with spite. “It was just dumb luck!”

That's false and you know it, Spyro. You're here because you preserve.

The static-like voice ringing in his brain is talking shit. Spyro shouldn't trust such uncanny thoughts.

“Dumb luck, huh?” Stan stops right behind the bedrock pillar. “You’re going to chalk everything you’ve ever done to dumb luck? You’re going to let a mere block beat you because of ‘dumb luck’? That's kind of weak, Spyro.”

Spyro grits his teeth, clenching his jaw shut. “Maybe it is! Shut up!”

Stan merely shrugs. “I guess I can do that,” He then grins, a conniving look crossing his face. “Think fast.”

Next thing Spyro knows, a block of bedrock is being hurtled towards him.

His first instinct is to scream bloody murder at the fact Stan is genuinely attempting to kill him. His second instinct, however – something nestled in his chest from his days as a Noctem – is to fight it back.

Spyro feels a wave of static ring through his hands, and he can only watch as the block meets an explosion of his own making, disintegrating into tiny pieces.

He breathes heavily for a moment, adrenaline still rushing high, before his head snaps upwards to meet Stan’s.

“That could’ve killed me!” Spyro barks, glaring at Stan like he’s an insane person. “Bastard!”

Stan shrugs, looking fairly unbothered by Spyro's foul language. “I needed to motivate you.”

“Motivation!?” Spyro growls, very bitterly. He’s sure he looks like a petulant child, but he just can’t bring himself to care. “You, you, you—”

Spyro finds himself without an argument, embarrassingly, and so he instead finds himself glaring at Stan with defiance.

“Spyro,” Stan says, more softly. “You have potential, trust me. You just don’t tend to act on it.”

Spyro pouts. If Stan is trying to sound consoling, it’s definitely not—okay, it is working, but that’s beside the point. “Fine, maybe I do.”

He looks up at the bedrock pillar, glaring back at him with defiance. Nonchalantly, he walks over to it, before putting it gently with his fist. The tower instantly shatters to nothingness, as though it had been made of glass this entire time. For a moment, he stares at his own hands like he’s a fucking idiot, before his head twists to meet Stan’s eyes.

“How did you know that would work on me?” Spyro asks, genuinely curious. He doesn't like the way Stan is always two steps ahead of him. There's something about it that just renders him feeling…small.

“People work harder when they have something to lose, especially if it's something they care about,” Stan explains placidly, shoulders slumping. “And you,” he points a finger in Spyro's direction, not necessarily maliciously. “Care about being seen as weak.”

Spyro scoffs.

“No, I don't,” He does, he really does. He knows what it's like to be the runt and Spyro doesn't think he can stand to ever be seen as such again. “I'm better than that.”

“Spyro.” Stan starts gently, like he's trying his hardest not to provoke Spyro's instinct to lash back. Unluckily for him, Spyro is in the mood to pick a fight anyways.

“I really don't!” Spyro says, voice bordering an insanely high pitch – the kind that suggests a desperate attempt at lying.

“You probably shouldn't start a fight you know you won't win.” Stan says, looking unamused. There's a small part of his mouth that curls upwards, though, like he's satisfied at proving his own point.

Spyro growls, even if it lacks heart. He feels like he's being spoken to as if he were a child. “Fuck you.”

Maybe he also acts like a child. That probably explains the treatment.

Stan huffs, puffing out air with nothing more than slight irritation, before ruffling Spyro's hair. “How would you feel about slaying a dragon?”

Spyro sputters, almost choking at the suggestion. “Absolutely not!”

They might be the words of a coward, but Stan still chuckles lightly, looking at Spyro with some weird form of fondness. It softens Spyro’s scowl, at the very least, though it’s probably for the best not to question why.

“How about a zombie, then?” Stan suggests, cleaning up the mess of bedrock shards with the twist of his hand.

“A zombie?” Spyro tries very hard not to roll his eyes, only to fail in said endeavour. “I’m not four, y’know! How dare you have the gall to imply I can’t–”

“You can’t use a weapon, either.” Stan continues, and that statement succeeds in silencing Spyro, whose look of cockiness is falling into slight uncertainty.

“O-oh, yeah,” Spyro mutters to himself, but he finds himself standing tall, if only to fake nonchalance. “Yeah, I can handle a zombie, no probl—”

A zombie spawns from mid air. And no, it’s not a normal zombie, the kind that slugs around at a terribly slow pace. Instead, it sets Spyro as its target, and proceeds to hurtle towards him as if it had taken three potions of swiftness. Spyro wastes a moment to yelp, before embarrassingly spending at least a minute running in circles around the room.

He spares a moment to catch his breath, and dumbly, he remembers he has operating powers.

He steadies himself, trying to ignore the way Stan is absolutely laughing his arse off – like the idiot that he is – and he glares at the zombie with a look that could kill.

“Oh, you’re going down.”

Spyro closes his eyes, imagining a raging storm.

Lightning meets flesh.

It disintegrates into nothing before his very eyes.

The sight of it fills Spyro's head with something – adrenaline, maybe excitement, maybe even glee – and when he looks at Stan, who’s nodding at him with a look of improvement, Spyro finds it impossible to contain himself.

“Hell yeah!” Spyro shouts, darting over to Stan and high fiving the man with all the force he can muster – which ends up being enough to knock the man to the floor. Spyro has no regrets. “Did you see what I did? I fucking obliterated it! Oh, this is awesome!”

Spyro then shuts his mouth, having a delayed realisation that he sounds like an overexcited puppy. And, like consequence, he finds himself with a red face from his own actions, and wastes no time in pulling Stan up from the floor.

“I’m glad.” Stan mutters, looking rather pleased. He lets go of Spyro’s hand.

Spyro sighs in some kind of relief. “I, uh, thanks, for this,” He gulps, looking down. “It’s been useful.”

“Well, that’s good,” Stan says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m glad I could help. I did worry that I wouldn't be much used to you.”

Spyro scoffs, a shit eating grin crosses his face. “Eh, you’re the perfect president. I don’t think you could fuck this up even if you wanted to.”

The comment is meant to be harmless, but Stan’s face falls anyway. It’s almost as though he doesn’t believe himself to be perfect – which is stupid, because of course he is. If even Stan isn’t perfect, then Spyro has no hope, doomed forever to be–

“Spyro, I’m not—” Stan exhales, his head lowering, “I’m not perfect.”

That's bullshit.

“You’re close enough.” Spyro says with a forced grin, because if he isn’t, then Spyro is beneath the ground, rotting in hell. Because Spyro doesn’t think that Stan has ever done anything to make him not worthy of being ‘perfect’.

Stan smiles genuinely, but something sad tugs at the man’s face anyways. “I’m honoured that you think that, really. But, you’re wrong. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. It’s impossible for anyone to be perfect.”

Spyro rolls his eyes, the man’s retort not really doing much to dampen the flame in his heart. “Stan, you’ve won a war, twice. You’ve defied odds, you’re the most powerful person on this server. You wouldn't hurt a fly! If that’s not perfect, then what the fuck is?”

Maybe Spyro is placating the man. Maybe it feels right to bow before anyone with power.

“You act like I’m a god,” Stan says, looking down at Spyro with an expression he can’t quite read. “I’m still a normal person, y’know? I have flaws, I have fears. I haven't had operating powers for that long.”

That pulls at one of Spyro’s already tearing heartstrings, and Spyro, having learnt nothing, decides now is the time to act on it. Sure, he’s never been a great judge of character, but there’s a small inkling that tells him that Stan is perfect, that he can’t be anything but, and Spyro has no hope of being anywhere close to the man.

“Fears?” Spyro asks incredulously, looking down at the ground. Stan is – must be – fearless. “You’re untouchable! You've got powers! You can do whatever the hell you like, and yet you're still a good person! You've been kind to me!”

Spyro could never be like Stan. He's the devil to Stan's angel.

Stan sighs. “You just think too highly of me, man. I’m just showing you basic human decency. I’m not perfect.”

Basic human decency, huh? If this is basic human decency, then Spyro’s fucked up, isn’t he?

He’s so sure he doesn’t say it out loud, and yet Stan still cringes like he’s stabbed a knife in his chest. Spyro figures that in his trance, he must have said the words out loud, somewhere along the line, but he was so sure he…didn’t.

“Most people are nice, and most people are flawed, too,” Stan mutters, trying to move on. “Most people will be nice to you if you give them the chance.”

Spyro lightly punches Stan in the shoulder, scoffing lightly. He means no malice by it. “Yeah, sure, President Stan.”

“I'm speaking truthly, y'know,” Stan says softly, lightly rubbing his shoulder. “People care about you, Spyro.”

Spyro rolls his eyes. “I know that,” Now he does, at least. It only took a hundred breakdowns to realise. “Why wouldn't they?”

‘Why wouldn't they?’ Spyro can think of hundreds of answers. Mainly the fact that he tried to kill them all, or worked for the alliance, and helped enslave Leonidas's family. And now? Now he's just a nuisance, isn't he? Unable to control his powers – pathetically weak.

But people like him. Charlie and Leonidas care enough to stay. Stan cares enough to teach him how to use operating powers, instead of slinging him into a top security prison.

Stan looks at him like Spyro should have more to say. Maybe he does. Not that he can find his voice. It's clogged with upset.

“I'm not sure if I…deserve it, though.” Spyro mumbles, looking away. “Like, I get that people care about me, and it's great! But, I just don't feel like it should be happening.”

Stan squints at Spyro, like he can see through him.

Stan sighs wistfully, and for a moment, he looks so damn mature. “Do you think you're a good person?”

“What?” Spyro breathes, looking at Stan like he's lost his mind. Maybe Spyro’s losing his.

“You know, I feel like I'm always going around in circles with you,” Stan says firmly. “And honestly, it's infuriating. So answer the question.”

Spyro looks down at his hands, and he knows everything he's done, because it flashes in his eyes like an eclipse. Sighing, he clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms.

Spyro, of course you're a good per—

“No, I don't think I am.” Spyro says, the words more bitter than ash. With a tightening throat, he looks down, trying to ignore Stan's glare.

There’s an unsteady beat of silence. At least Spyro isn’t crying his eyes out just yet. That's progress.

“Spyro, I'll be real with you,” Stan says, but Spyro feels like he's swimming in an ocean of thoughts and feelings he should have long pulled himself out of. “Or honest, or whatever just—listen to me.”

Spyro nods, looking down. And Stan presses his hands on Spyro's shoulders, and the pressure makes him flinch. It also makes him realise he's shaking horribly, but that's beside the point.

“I think you are a good person,” Stan says, voice awfully genuine. Spyro's gaze flickers upwards to the mouth with genuine, genuine disbelief. “You've done shitty things too, I'm not excusing that, but, you've got a good heart, I think, beneath it all.”

Spyro might genuinely, genuinely break. “But I—”

“But you're wrong.” Stan says firmly, like he knows the words that are bound to come out of Spyro’s mouth. “Good people can do shitty things. They can make mistakes. And you've made plenty but—”

Stan exhales deeply, almost sounding mournful. “If you really want to be a ‘good person’ or whatever you want to call it, you're going about it all wrong.”

Spyro finds himself looking up at Stan, almost fearing the close proximity. His hands are burning with electricity. “I am?”

He sounds like a stupid, stupid child.

“Beating yourself up over the tiniest things isn't really bettering yourself, man,” Stan says, and his voice is so casual, and yet it holds far too much power over him. “That's just making yourself suffer for no reason—and don't deny it, because I know you do that, all the time. You're doing it now.”

“How do you know?” Spyro says, voice raw like his chest is being teared open.

It is true though, Spyro.

Like hell is true.

“It's obvious that you feel guilty. It's obvious that you beat yourself up over trivial things,” Stan says, backing away slightly. He clamps his mouth with his hand like he's said the wrong thing. “Anyways, like I was saying—”

“How do you know what I’m feeling?” Spyro asks, voice raw. His brain is skipping beats like a scratched record. “You don't know anything about me!”

“Spyro, I—”

“What am I doing wrong?” Spyro’s voice is desperate sounding, pitifully so. “Am I being too apparent? I'm too emotional, aren’t I? Or maybe I'm not good at hiding what I'm feeli–”

“Spyro, it’s just intuition.” Stan tries to explain, almost nervously, but Spyro doesn’t notice the tone of his voice anyways.

“Intuition?” Spyro parrots the word like it’s venom. “You can tell how I’m thinking just by intuition? That sounds like nonsense!”

“Spyro, I–” Stan starts again, trying to maintain a steady voice.

A lightning bolt slams behind the pair of them.

“Tell me the truth.” Spyro hisses, voice a mix of pain and anger.

Stan looks away. “You're being paranoid, dude. Anyway–”

“Stan,” Spyro bites, words clotting in his throat like soot. “I'm not going crazy! You can tell what I'm feeling even when I don't say anything! You did this to me yesterday, too! Sometimes you cringe when I’m thinking, like you can hear them!”

Stan taps a finger against his side. His voice is stiff “I don’t have a clue as to what you’re feeling.”

“Bullshit,” Spyro snaps, all too quickly. “I’m just really bad at hiding my emotions, aren’t I? I'm just too expressive, aren't I? That’s why everyone pities me, isn’t it?”

“Spyro, that’s not—”

Stan’s words only add fuel to the fire in Spyro’s chest. “Admit it.”

Despite all of Spyro’s assumptions, the president actually sighs.

“This is going to be hard to explain,” Stan mumbles, his voice dull. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

Oh.

Who knew endlessly prodding someone would work?

Usually, it doesn't. Usually Spyro is just wrong.

Spyro almost wants to backpedal now, because he’s getting the feeling that he’s thrown himself into an unskippable cutscene. He deflates, if only slightly.

This is why people don’t push things. This is why people accept things as they are.

“Uh, really?” Spyro looks at him with doubt.

Stan paces around the room like he can’t quite get his words straight. “You’re not to tell anyone this, by the way. It’s an operating power thing.”

Now Spyro really does feel uncomfortable. “Uh, sure, man.”

Silence stretches between them. Spyro doesn't dare break it.

“You know how your powers don't really like…work right?” Stan asks, genuine, and lightning jolts through Spyro's body at the question. “Like, the way your powers react to your emotions and stuff?”

That's an odd question. It's almost implying that Stan's powers don't work right either, and that can't be possible.

Stan's perfect. Spyro wants Stan to be perfect.

Spyro minutely nods. “Yeah. It’s a pain in the arse.”

“Mine, sort of, uhm, do as well?” Stan sounds very unsure of himself. He squints at Spyro like he’s expecting backlash. “But it’s like…different to the way your powers act.”

Spyro, for a moment, is also expecting Stan to say that he also shoots lightning everywhere when he’s emotional, and that really does grab Spyro's attention.

Because Spyro might not be alone.

“How so?” Spyro asks curiously. He leans in, ears pricked.

“Well, your powers act to your own emotions, right?” Stan’s voice is wavering. Spyro never thought he’d live to the day where he’d hear such a thing. “Mine reacts to everyone else's.”

“What do you mean?” Spyro hisses, and he swears to god, if Stan dares to suggest him and Spyro are telepathically connected or some bullshit like that, then Spyro is genuinely going to break something.

Hear him out. Don't get upset over nothing, Spyro. That won't help anything.

“I don't really know if it's some kind of side effects from my operating powers being hacked onto me, or whatever, but I can sort of like, uh,” The other sighs, his usually powerful speech now becoming more clumsy. “I can feel your energy?”

Spyro genuinely laughs at the man, whatever tension he felt leaving him in a heartbeat. Spyro scoffs. “Are you telling me that you're some kind of hippie or something? That you can predict my future by reading some crystals or tarot cards?”

“No, not like, metaphorically,” Stan says, wringing his hands, words now failing him. “Like—like, I can kind of…see, what you feel? As well as everyone else. Like—like right now, I can feel how tense you are, and sometimes—”

Spyro's face has never fallen so hard in his god damn life.

“You…can read my mind?” Spyro’s voice is that of a dangerous whisper.

“I can’t read people's thoughts – we’re not in a sci-fi, Spyro,” Stan says firmly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And even if we were, it’d be a cliché plot at best.”

“Then what are you implying?” Spyro feels pitifully baffled – like he’s back to when he was just a naive private, never understanding what the hell was going on half the time.

Stan exhales. For someone who’s so well put together, he sure as hell looks…shaky, right now. Spyro, meanwhile, tries to not let impatience consume him. Maybe, if he just hears the man out, it’ll all make sense.

“I can just read people's feelings, sorta. Like, it’s all sort of…colour coordinated,” Stan’s head is so low he may as well be talking to the floor. “And if people’s emotions are more intense, I can read them better.”

Oh, dear god.

Spyro blinks, the world genuinely stopping. And, Elementia, the world is a strange fucking place. He thought the weirdest fucking thing was people coming back from the dead, or him getting operating powers, but it turns out that the President is a mind reader! That is definitely not…normal.

“The…the fuck?” Spyro is finding it very hard to not shout, and he instantly clamps a hand over his mouth to compensate. He suddenly feels exposed – open and raw for the whole world to see. “That’s…like you said, this—this isn’t a sci-fi!”

Stan tries to interject. Spyro doesn’t let him.

“You’re toying with me, aren’t you?” Spyro growls bitterly. It’s such a bold accusation, but Spyro believes it anyway. People always lie. “That’s…there’s no way—”

He's not toying with you, Spyro. Be sensible.

The static in his brain needs to shut the fuck up. Spyro is being toyed with!

Stan winces, looking down at his own hands, and then at Spyro, looking regretful. And fuck, Spyro never thought he'd live to see Stan look even remotely upset. Instantly, Spyro shrinking, wishing he had never made such a claim.

Spyro takes two steps back, trying to steady himself.

“Explain.” Spyro says, feeling nauseous, and he wonders if Stan can feel it too. Based on the way Stan's nose crinkles slightly, he's sure he can. Perfect. Just, fucking, perfect.

How long has this been going on without Spyro realising?

A chair appears from thin air, and Stan slides himself into it. “It happened when I got my operating powers.”

Spyro nods, clumsily snapping his fingers, because he doesn't think he can stand much longer. Barely, he manages to summon an oak stool, and it doesn’t exactly look comfortable, but Spyro sits in it regardless. It's better than nothing.

“Or, uhm, at least, I think that's when it started? It all kind of feels like a blur, now. I didn't really process much after the war happened, and then I was off in the desert by myself for a week or so, and even then, I was probably just running on autopilot, which—”

“You’re stalling.” Spyro states, looking at the man with genuine curiosity. He wants answers. Preferably before he passes out.

Stan sighs, eyes narrowed, glaring at the floor with something that could genuinely set a stick into flames. “I’m getting there. Anyways, I got back from my trip. It was quite late at night by the time I got back, I think. And I couldn’t really sleep that night, so I think I went to go get a glass of water, but then I heard Leonidas.”

Spyro nods silently, twiddling his fingers in his lap.

Stan stops himself. “You're not going to tell anyone this, right?”

“I won't,” Spyro's voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “Cross my heart and hope to die and all that.”

Stan stares at the floor for a moment longer before continuing.

“And I went to the next room to find out the source of the noise, and I found Leonidas hunched up in a chair, crying his eyes out. Which, I mean, isn't that abnormal, considering how bad everyone was doing after the war.”

Spyro nods silently.

“The morbidly funny thing was, I didn’t need to see or hear him to know that. I could already feel it from the next room over,” Stan sighs, and Spyro genuinely wants to tear something out of himself. “And, Herobrine, when I got close to him, I could feel his energy, black and sharp and jagged. That's when I realised that I could feel his emotions. Like I'd developed an insane amount of empathy overnight.”

Spyro nods slowly, not really processing the man’s words. He genuinely wonders if the author of this shitty novel that makes up his life hates the main cast. Here Spyro was, thinking only his life was terrible, but it seems everyone around him pulled the short straw, too.

“So, what did you say?” Spyro asks, trying not to sound too accusatory. His voice is dampened by a small part of understanding that smolders like embers in his chest.

Stan tilts his head like Spyro is the insane one. “I said nothing. I just comforted him like I would’ve anyways.”

Silence stretches between them. Seconds tick by, and Spyro waits for Stan to continue, but he never does.

“And when did you tell him?” Spyro asks, subconsciously gripping his knee.

“Oh, yeah,” Stan says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t.”

“You…you didn’t think to tell Leonidas that you could read his emotions?” Spyro asks, anger flaring. It only aches more when Stan shakes his head. “Did you tell anyone?”

Stan shakes his head again.

“So, you told no one? Not even your closest friends?” Spyro's voice is ragged, and when Stan shakes his head for the hundredth time, Spyro thinks that he might finally lose it. “And you’re telling me this of all people, why?”

Spyro, calm down. He can feel your energy, remember?

Screw that thought. Why should Spyro care what Stan feels? When has Spyro ever cared about such things? It's completely unlike him!

“Because, I dunno!” Stan says, hunching over himself defensively. “I thought, maybe if you had operating powers too…there was the off chance that, I wasn’t like, the only one. Maybe you'd understand better than anyone else here. Besides, if I didn’t admit it you would’ve just kept questioning me, and then you wouldn’t trust me.”

Oh. That's fucking…sad.

Spyro wonders if the president feels the same kind of loneliness that has already made its home in Spyro's chest.

Spyro sighs, like a defusing bomb.

“That’s…understandable, I guess,” Spyro sighs, genuinely trying to meet the other man’s eyes, even though the other refuses. “It still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell your friends. I thought lying was bad, especially in your books.”

Stan sighs something wistful, eyebrows creased in defeat. He shifts in his chair like a caged animal.

“Because people already have a hard enough time facing me now that I have operating powers. And if they knew that I knew what they were feeling, they’d just flat out avoid me.” Stan mumbles, clenching his hands together.

“Really?” The doubt in Spyro's voice is evident. “But they're your friends, surely—”

Something snaps.

“Oh, please!” There's something like fire in Stan’s eyes. “It’s not like I can go up to Charlie and say his amount of anxiety is overwhelming or tell Leonidas that the lack of respect he has for himself is sickening, or tell Jayden that he needs to get over his grief! That’d just make everything worse!”

Spyro blinks, his look softening.

“And it’s not like I can help them anyways! I know what they’re feeling, sure, but it’s not like I know the context. What use is it knowing that someone is sad or angry when you don’t know why!” Stan growls, and Spyro doesn’t think he’s seen the president look so…bitter. “It’s a pointless power to even have! I’m just…being taunted, or something!”

Oh, Spyro thinks dumbly, feeling empathy nestle its way into his gut. Both him and Stan are being taunted in different ways.

“Stan, I—” Spyro tries.

“I just want to help them.” Stan says with a shaky exhale. “And I can't, so all I can do is just watch them suffer.”

Stan's trembling breaths grate against Spyro's ears. They drown out the static that's usually there instead.

“And you say you’re far from perfect.” Spyro mutters bitterly, watching curiously as Stan’s ears prick at the words.

The president instantly jolts upwards to disagree. “But I—”

“Stan, you would rather sacrifice your own happiness so your friends can sleep slightly better at night. And that's…pretty fucking brave of you, it I'm being honest. Even braver that you try to use such an ability to help your friends. So no, you don’t give yourself enough credit. And you should.” Spyro says honestly.

Stan opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

“Here you are, beating yourself up over the tiniest of things.” Spyro decides to use the president’s words against him. “You’re making yourself feel bad for no good reason.”

Stan tilts his head, like he's actively trying to stare into his soul. Like he's looking for anything to tell him that Spyro is in fact, being genuine.

A small smile tugs at Stan’s lips. “Thanks, man.”

“But,” Spyro growls, and he tries to repress his anger, even though he's sure Stan can see through him anyways. “Why tell me? Out of everyone? You should've just lied to me. Because I don't understand, and I don't want to know that you know what I'm feeling. Anyone else would've been better. We’re practically strangers.”

Spyro finds his own hands sparking, electricity running through his veins like a threat. He can't find it in himself to meet Stan's eyes.

Every now and then, though, his eyes do skim up to briefly take a look at Stan, and right now, the man is pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I was bound to slip up around you anyways,” Stan says logically. “It’s hard to lie to someone like you.”

Spyro rises in defence, puffing up like some kind of angry bird. “And why’s that, huh?”

“Uh…” Stan looks to the side, like he’s gotten more than he bargained for. “No offense, dude, but you kind of have trust issues. It’s kind of hard to lie to someone who refuses to take my word for it. You’ll question anything harmless.”

“Oh.”

But things are better this way, no? Sure, some people might say ignorance is bliss, and maybe they’re right. But now that Spyro knows the truth, he now knows to never let his guard down around Stan.

And that’s a good thing, right?

“Besides, even if that weren’t true,” Stan starts, his body tensed up like a compressed string. “You—I’ve already mentioned that I can feel people’s auras more when people’s emotions are heightened, right?”

“I think you briefly mentioned it.” Spyro responds stiffly, returning back to his seat.

“You see, it usually takes like, a lot of effort for me to be able to read people,” Stan says as slowly as possible, like he’s trying to delay the inevitable. “But with you it’s…different.”

“How so?”

“I mean, maybe this has got something to do with the fact you’re an operator, I dunno,” Stan drums his fingers against the armrest of his chair anxiously. “But your aura is strong. Hella strong.”

Even an idiot could see the implications there.

“Ha,” Spyro says, but his voice is dreadfully monotone. “You gonna tell me about how the force is with me or something?”

“No, no,” Stan says softly, expression twisting with regret. “I mean that, well, your emotions…”

Silence stretches out between them. Spyro doesn’t like it one bit. Stan is the president, for fucks sake. He shouldn’t be scared to speak his mind like he clearly is right now.

His voice trails off. Spyro's eyes narrow. “My emotions are…what? You have a voice box, don't you? Use it.”

Stan’s eyes narrow.

“They're extreme,” Stan says after a beat, swallowing thickly. “Overwhelmingly so. And it's just…hard to ignore, I guess. I can feel it every time I get near you. And sometimes, I dunno, since you've changed to the good side – maybe even since you got operating powers, I dunno – some of your feelings, don't really feel like…your own? Like they're artificial? I feel a lot of static radiating from you. A lot of darkness, too.”

Spyro doesn't say anything to that. That's probably just what happens when you pretend to be something you're not, or something like that.

Right?

“It’d never have worked if I tried lying to you. With that, and your constant need to question everything, I would’ve given things away eventually,” Stan finishes, looking at Spyro with a desperate look. “And maybe, I dunno, it feels good to finally be able to talk about it? And since we’re not that close it’s easier.”

Spyro simply stares. And he feels Stan's eyes on him, and he feels judged. He has nothing to say to that.

It does make Spyro wonder, though. Because if Stan has fucked up operating powers too…

Then maybe this whole thing is bigger than Spyro thought.

“I mean, it was worse when you first came here to write that constitution,” Stan says, and he tries to sound tentative and understanding, but it just feels wrong. “It was terrible back then. Your fear back then was kind of nauseating.”

Spyro doesn’t really want to think of that time, just over a week ago. That was a different him. He’s changed, definitely.

As if people can change in a week. That’s not a ludicrous idea in the slightest.

“Shut up,” Spyro bites, nails digging into his palms. “I don’t want to think about that time. Don’t act like you know me.”

He can feel his voice genuinely threaten to crack, and there’s a part of him that genuinely wants to kill the man in front of him. It's pitiful, really. Stan knows more about his emotions than he does. Why does Stan get to know what he doesn’t? That's hardly fair!

He looks down, and sees an obsidian spike wrapping around his foot. Just typical! Spyro yanks and yanks and he can’t seem to move regardless.

“Spyro—”

“So what? You could feel my fear, huh?” Spyro scowls, and he feels like he's been put on display. The urge to hide is overwhelming, if anything. “I bet you told everyone, didn't you? That's why everyone was so damn nice, wasn't it? Everyone around here must pity me for some reason.”

“I didn’t—”

“But you did! You must have! I knew there was a reason Leonidas was so kind—”

“Spyro, I didn't need to tell anyone, and honestly, I didn't even need bloody mind reading powers to know what you were thinking. Even if others couldn't feel it in the way I could, they could clearly see it,” Stan’s voice is quiet again, almost condescendingly so. “You are about as discreet as a supernova, Spyro!”

Static fizzles like fire in his veins. Spyro tries to rip his ankle out of whatever kind of obsidian snake he’s manifested, and he just winds up struggling like a fool.

Spyro stares at Stan with desperate eyes. “F-fuck you.”

Spyro doesn’t feel like he’s breathing, but he is. Sluggish and slow, like he hasn’t quite caught up with what Stan is telling him. Spyro shoves a finger onto his wrist and his pulse is fine, and Spyro doesn’t know how. By now, he’d usually be on the floor, hyperventilating, or shouting until his throat is torn.

“Spyro, I'm just…worried about you,” Stan's voice is gentle, understanding. “If you want to talk to someone, I can arrange—”

“I'm fine,” Spyro says, voice ragged and torn. He shifts on the stool, his free leg bouncing with angry energy, whilst the other tries to wiggle out of his own trap. “Whatever you think you see in me, it's normal. It's fine.”

“Spyro, I don't—”

“I don't know what you expect from me!” Spyro hisses, rippling with anger and fear and overexposure.

“Spyro, I'm not—”

“I left the Noctem Alliance, when? A week ago!” The obsidian pulls against his leg. “Do you really expect that shit to leave me, and in less than a week! I was the leader of the Alliance for months, and I worked for Tenebris for even longer! And I'm sorry that you’re overwhelmed by my feelings or whatever the fuck you want to call it, but it's normal for me!”

“Spyro, I—” Stan tries, and Spyro cuts him off, because Spyro couldn't give a damn.

“D-don't look at me,” Spyro mutters. “You're just talking nonsense. Fucking auras. This is just a weird dream, isn't it? None of this is real.”

Denial is a useful weapon. It got Drake far.

Spyro wants to break something. And suddenly, he feels far too aware of his surroundings, and he knows what's coming. The obsidian around his leg instantly frees, and Spyro leaps off the stool he was perched on. He narrowly avoids being struck by lightning as it hits into the stool.

Spyro winds up a crumpled heap on the floor, and tentatively pushes himself upwards.

He sits on the floor, and fuck, he feels too much. Everything is too much. He doesn’t know why. He buzzes with confusion.

“You're overwhelmed,” Stan says, and that is so much clearer in hindsight. “And I don't expect you to be ‘fine’ or whatever, I just, if there's anything I can do—”

“Don't look at me.” It's a soft plea.

“It's not going to change anything.” Stan protests placidly.

Spyro pouts, and he gently prompts himself to notice the sensations of the room. The blocks around him that are chiseled with all kinds of blacks, greys, and whites. The feeling of his jumper is firm but soft. Spyro tilts his head up and sees that Stan is actually looking away, like Spyro asked him to.

“I'm alright,” Spyro mumbles after a moment. “You don't have to worry about me.”

There's another one of those long pauses. Spyro's almost starting to hate it when that happens.

“Spyro,” Stan says in defeat, like his brain is short circuiting. “Just answer something for me, will you?”

“..What?”

“I mean, you blame everything you feel on the Noctem Alliance, which is fair. They always had a way of messing with people's heads.” Stan comments aloud.

Spyro nods minutely.

“I guess I was wondering…if you were ever like this before that?” Stan asks, and Spyro finds his breath catching in his throat for a millisecond. “Like…the extreme emotions thing?”

Spyro blinks, and Spyro…doesn't know.

He seldom thinks about life before he was a general. How nice it was to walk freely around forests and swamps and only have bird songs for comfort.

If Spyro were to think about it, he could say that he was always quick to fly off the handle. It never really took much to get him emotional. He always was a bit of a crybaby, a runt. The Noctem alliance fed into his sadness and turned it into hatred. He did fucking lose it when Leonidas left the Alliance, after all.

And with a jolt, Spyro realises that it never took much to reduce him to uncontrollable anger or tears – or both. And suddenly, a whole new wave of self loathing is crashing over him, because Elementia, he could never control himself, could he?

And that…is fucking weak.

“Maybe.” Spyro sucks in a breath, before shaking his head. “No—yes. Yes.”

Stan looks at Spyro like he’s worth the concern. Spyro doesn’t know where everything went wrong. He much preferred beating up zombies and breaking bedrock. He could almost say that he was having fun, until Stan dragged all of the skeletons out of Spyro's closet.

It was much easier to blame all of Spyro's problems on the Noctem Alliance. It's easier than admitting that maybe he was a lost cause to begin with.

Stan’s hand hangs somewhere in limbo for a moment, like he wants to steady Spyro, before they retract firmly to the man’s side. Spyro, despite claiming to not care, finds himself tunnel visioning on the action. He’s hardly surprised. Spyro seldom takes the things lying in front of him on a silver platter, anyways.

“That’s not normal.” Stan states after a tense moment.

“Being able to read minds isn’t normal.” Spyro shoots back. It isn’t meant to come out harsh, or even as a retort, but somehow, it does.

“Spyro, I’d willingly pay for therapy for you.” Stan says, completely honest. That’s enough to make his throat catch.

And Spyro…laughs. He genuinely, honestly laughs.

Everything is just bullshit, isn’t it?

“Yeah? You would?” Spyro says, very gently. “That’s real evil of you Stan, that you’d be willing to make a poor therapist go through that,” He tuts at the man. “You know, the Noctem Alliance could do with a new leader…”

“Spyro, I was being…serious.” Stan says, and Spyro doesn’t let his face fall anyways.

“I know, man, I just,” Spyro looks down, mumbling the words like they’re a curse. “I want to have some fun, I guess. I was until you brought all that up.”

And he’s sure his energy buzzes like static, and he’s sure Stan can feel it. When Spyro looks up and sees Stan’s regretful look he knows he’s right.

“Sorry, I—”

“Don’t you dare apologise, either,” Spyro huffs, like he’s telling Stan off. “You clearly needed to talk about it. I don’t mind knowing about how you can read my mind or whatever. I’ll live.” And that’s a lie, because he does mind, but somehow it’s…worth it?

He just knows one person to avoid when he’s having a mental breakdown.

“No, no,” Stan mutters, nails digging into the armrest of his wooden chair. “I shouldn’t have dumped that on you—it was a mistake. I don’t even know why I decided to tell you and not–”

“Dude, it’s fine, I mean, it isn’t, but I can like, deal with it, y’know. I don’t really have anything to hide,” Spyro says, finally making the effort to stand. “And even if I did, I’m shit at hiding things, anyway. I'm not like Leonidas. I’m not a good liar like he is.”

The Noctem Alliance did not make a good liar out of Spyro like it did to Leonidas.

There’s something morbidly funny about the idea. Perhaps it’s the place where Leonidas and Spyro differ. Because Spyro is a supernova, on display for the whole world to see, and Leonidas has long imploded, a black hole collapsing in on itself.

In fact, Leonidas is somehow more cagey about things than Spyro is.

“Hm, maybe.” Stan says in agreement, but Spyro can’t quite unhear how painfully monotone the man’s voice sounds. A new question has sprung up at the back of Spyro’s mind.

“...Do you know if he’s alright?” Spyro asks, words leaving his mouth with no input from his brain, like instinct.

Stan’s look softens, opening his mouth and closing it a few times. The motion only confirms Spyro’s suspicions, even though they never really needed confirmation. Because Spyro somehow feels that Leonidas isn’t alright, because the man is more stubborn in his ways than Spyro is. Because even Spyro would accept a hand if drowning, but he knows Leonidas sure as hell wouldn’t.

“Stan?”

“Spyro, I–” Stan says, inhaling shakily. “I really don’t think I should—”

“If you’re going to tell me your secrets, the least you can do is tell me something I want to know,” Spyro says sharply, not backing down. How could he? In some twisted way, he wants an answer to something he already knows. “I care about Leonidas. I want to know that he’s alright.”

“It's not my right to say.” Stan tries.

Spyro's glare doesn't ease. “Then be vague.”

After a moment, Stan nods.

“He’s doing better than he was when I first knew him,” Stan says, infuriatingly vague. He slumps over in his chair, pressing his hands against each other. “I mean, he’s been better this week. I don’t think he’d admit it, but I think he’s happier now that you’re around.”

Spyro finds something catching in his throat. There’s a small part of him that wants to refute the statement, and at the same time, he can’t find the will to do so. There’s a pathetic, small part of him that just wants to believe in it – that maybe Leonidas does enjoy his company.

“Really?” The word is fragmented by doubt.

“Really,” Stan parrots, and he sounds genuine, but then again, what does Spyro know? “I mean, I don’t know what’s going on in his brain,” The statement is very ironic in this context – laughable, almost. “But I think it helps that he can relate to you. But uh…”

“But?” Spyro repeats, and his legs feel weak. He can’t tell whether it’s from tiredness or just this fucking conversation.

“He’s always been hard to read. He always acts like he’s trying to hide something.” Stan says, curling his hands into each other.

“Hm.” It’s all Spyro has to offer, and there’s not much left to say, either. Does he want to cook Leonidas his favourite meals now more than ever? Definitely – food could be considered Spyro’s love language. “Maybe he feels guilty about something. Has he ever opened up to you about the things he did whilst in the Noctem Alliance?”

“No,” It’s accompanied with a shake of the head. “But then again, I never pushed him to.”

“Maybe you should,” Spyro suggests, although his advice shouldn’t be taken. The result is Spyro himself. “You should know he’s not the kind to open up unprompted. He doesn’t want to feel like a burden and whatnot.”

“That’s true,” Stan nods, a flash of understanding crossing his face. “You’re quite…insightful, y’know?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Spyro mumbles, not meeting Stan’s eyes. “That’s something you learn in the Noctem Alliance. And, I mean, after a while, I got fed up with being the naive kid. I just became more alert.”

“Yeah.” Stan says. He seems calmer now, more subdued. Spyro could say he feels the same. It’s nice to take a moment to make sure he’s breathing, regardless.

Silence drags on.

“Uhm, so I guess that was a lot of information,” Spyro says, and suddenly, like the flick of a light bulb, he remembers that book the Mechanist gave him – ‘unsolved mysteries of Elementia,’ – and he has more to say. “But, didn’t you ever wonder why you suddenly got the ability to read people’s feelings? I doubt this can be a bunch of coincidences.”

“What do you mean?” Stan asks curiously, leaning forward in his chair.

“Well, I mean,” Spyro starts, trying very hard to not sound like a conspiracy theorist. “You get operating powers, and you can suddenly feel and see everyone’s emotions. I, somehow, get operating powers, and next thing I know, everytime I’m upset, I’m almost killing myself with lightning. Kinda seems like a curse.”

Stan blinks, like he hadn’t considered the possibility, but his face is slack with intrigue regardless. “Go on.”

“Do you think Tenebris is still here, tampering with the code of the server or something?” Spyro asks nervously, clenching his fists. “Maybe he wants us to suffer, or something. Maybe that’s why I got operating powers from the sword.”

“Spyro, you sound paranoid,” Stan says firmly, but not necessarily harshly. He sounds like he almost agrees with Spyro. “If Tenebris could do that kind of shit, if he was still alive, wouldn't he just kill us off?”

“Nah,” Spyro speaks far too proudly, because he understands, because he spent far too long working for Tenebris. “He’d rather make you suffer. Minor inconveniences."

Stan doesn’t look very impressed. “Look, I get what you’re saying, but it just seems very…far fetched?” Spyro can feel something in him fall, and as soon as it does, Stan’s tone changes. “I don't think Tenebris can come back.”

“Maybe he can't come back, but maybe he can tamper with the code of the server. Maybe he can–” Spyro rambles on, nails digging into his palm.

“I don't think that having operating powers means Tenebris is back, Spyro,” Stan says logically, a worried edge to his voice. “It could be anything – maybe even just a glitch.”

Spyro shakes his head. “You can't cancel out that possibility, Stan. Maybe he just wants us to think that he's dead! Maybe—”

Stan leans forward, his hands grabbing onto Spyro's shoulders to steady him. “Tenebris isn't back. Trust me.”

Spyro's not great at trusting people.

“So you just think this all random?” Spyro can't help the fear that leaks into his voice. “You just think that the server decided to give you the ability to read people's feelings one day? You think it just decided to give me operating powers? Bullshit.”

Stan's hand squeezes his shoulders tighter.

“I don't think it's random,” Stan mumbles after a moment of thought. “But I don't think it's Tenebris, either. I mean, I can look into it, but I don't think you have any reason to worry.”

Spyro reluctantly nods. Then, he pulls away.

“Thanks.” Spyro says, bouncing on his heels – sitting, talking – it’s not really how he expected this training session to go. Now, Spyro really wouldn’t mind slaying a dragon. A distraction would be nice.

He finds himself pacing around the room, trying to occupy himself.

Stan instantly springs up from his chair, the wooden object disappearing out of thin air. “Sorry, kind of went off on a tangent there. We can do some more training, if you’d like.”

Spyro groans lightheartedly. “Could you at least pretend that you can’t read my mind?”

“Didn’t need to,” Stan shrugs. “You looked like a caged animal.”

Spyro scoffs, before rolling his eyes. He takes a fighting stance anyways. “So, what are you gonna throw at me this time?”

Stan’s eyebrows crease, the man looking like he’s in deep thought. “Myself.”

Spyro practically chokes on air, and then clasps a hand over his mouth to hide his surprise. “You want me to fight you? That’s hardly fair!”

Stan snorts with some kind of…endearment, before raising his fist slightly. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“Wha–but—” Spyro desperately tries to protest, only for his speech to be cut off by a fireball being flung at him.

He narrowly avoids it, sending a shockwave of ice at the ball, a collision of fire and ice exploding midair. Somewhere between it, Spyro finds himself on the floor, panting. The other man stands in front of him, tilting his head slightly to meet his eyes.

“That’s—that’s hardly going easy, is it?” Spyro mumbles, even though adrenaline courses through his brain. Momentarily, he looks down at his hand, realising he managed to create a ball of ice. That’s…cool, at the very least – pun intended.

When Spyro looks up – dazed at best – he sees Stan stretching his hand towards him. With little thought, Spyro instantly clasps his fingers around the man's palm. The man instantly yanks him upwards, like Spyro is as light as a feather.

“Well, you’re alive and unhurt, aren’t you?” Stan says with a wicked grin. He lets go of Spyro’s hand, before resuming a battle pose.

“That could’ve killed me, Stan!” Spyro shouts in horror. The other man’s grin does not let up. Who knew that the president of Elementia is fucking insane? And here Spyro was, thinking the man was some kind of hippie at peace with the world.

Next thing Spyro knows, a pillar of bedrock is being shot at him. His brain clicks, and instantly, he finds himself creating a cage of deepslate around him, before bursting out of it, like a mole jumping out of a hole. He lands perfectly on his feet, the shockwave sending blocks of bedrock hurtling back towards Stan.

And they continue for a while, a back and forth of exploding blocks, fireballs and shockwaves, until Spyro is panting, adrenaline having worn off. Stan, on the other hand, only looks slightly more tired than before, breathing steady. To Stan, it seems like nothing more than light exercise.

Still, once the room is cleared, Spyro finds it in himself to walk over to the man and shake his hand.

“Good game?” Spyro declares placidly, knees weak. Stan clasps his hand around Spyros, before pulling him into some kind of bro hug. It’s surprising, but Spyro doesn’t resist. It's almost nice.

“Good game.” Stan repeats firmly, and he pulls away, but not before messing up Spyro’s hair. He pouts, but it’s not like he complains either.

Stan conjures up two oak chairs – and it’s always oak, isn’t it? Spyro briefly wonders if it’s Stan’s favourite wood. Tiredly – even though it’s not even midday, yet – Spyro slumps into one, trying to catch his breath. When Stan decides to sit in the opposite chair, he does so far more graciously.

“Would you like something to drink?” Stan asks, creating a glass of water from nothing and taking a sip. “Like, apple juice or something?”

“Apple juice?” Spyro repeats indignantly, his spine pressing against the backing of the chair. “I’m not four, Stan.”

“Well, I don’t know what you like.” Stan retorts with a careless shrug. “I can’t read your mind.”

The last part of his sentence is in bad taste, but Spyro snorts anyways.

“...Apple juice is, uh, fine.” Spyro mumbles under his breath, face going red with embarrassment. Like magic, he looks down and an ice-cold glass is sitting in his hand. He tilts the glass to his mouth, and drinks until his thirst is quenched, which ends up being until the glass is empty.

“Thanks.” Spyro says, looking at his distorted reflection in the remaining drops of apple juice in the empty mug. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look too disheveled, in fact, he almost looks okay. And when he looks up, Stan is giving a satisfied smile.

“It was no problem,” Stan says seriously, vanishing the glasses to the void. “Though I should probably get back to work. I have some hefty paperwork to deal with.”

“Of course. Have fun with that,” Spyro drawls, words stuck at the back of his tongue. “Though I do have a…question for you, before you go.”

Stan stands from his chair, looking down at Spyro. “Yeah? What is it?”

“Uhm, my uh, aura,” Spyro fumbles with the words. “How’s it looking, Mr. President?”

It’s such a stupid question to ask, but it’s not like Spyro ever knows the answer. He’s not really the best when it comes to…emotions, much less identifying them.

Stan stares at him for a moment. “Do you not know the answer to that yourself?”

Spyro minutely shakes his head. “I don’t have the most emotional intelligence, Stan.”

“Oh, well,” Stan glares daggers into Spyro’s soul for a moment, like he’s intently focusing on him. “You’re calm.”

Spyro nods. In all senses of the word, Spyro does feel calm.

Stan walks out of the room, and Spyro stands there for a mere moment. He smiles to himself, something light making its home in his chest. Spyro walks out, and in the hallway, he notices a mirror opposite him.

For a split second, Spyro is almost sure he sees Tenebris’s shadow behind him, white eyes looming over him.

He blinks, and when Spyro looks again, all he sees is himself – tired but feeling better about himself than he has in a long time.

Spyro deduces he must be imagining things, before walking down the stairs.

Chapter Text

Spyro finds himself wandering around the castle’s halls without much purpose. At the very least, admiring the architecture keeps his mind sharp, but he should probably find something else to do until his services are required.

Briefly, he wonders if the castle has a library, or if he could perhaps snag a television for his own room.

Then, Spyro turns a corner, and like the greatest coincidence ever (one that makes you question if the author of this story is even trying), he finds himself almost crashing into Leonidas and Charlie.

Barely, Spyro catches himself, feet levitating a few centimetres above the ground until gravity decides to work how it should. Leonidas snickers at him, and Spyro returns the gesture with a pout.

Charlie is perched atop his pig, Leonidas practically glued to the pair of them. They’re both wearing camo shirts and cargo pants, and they both reek of fish, peaking Spyro’s interest.

“What’s going on here?” Spyro asks curiously. “Or should I not ask?”

Leonidas snorts. “We’re goin’ to take the monorail to the jungle! We’re hopin’ to steal an ocelot.”

“Tame, Leonidas, tame.” Charlie clarifies, glaring at the other man. Well, at least they’re back to their weird status quo, Spyro thinks.

“Yeah, we’re goin’ to tame,” Leonidas puts emphasis on the word, glaring at Charlie with his usual amount of spite, “An ocelot, because we think it’d be cool to have a cat.”

Leonidas then rummages through a cooler in his hands, opening the lid with slight hassle. It reveals about twenty fish. “See? We have tons of fish, too! The ocelots are goin’ to love us!”

Spyro’s nose crinkles at the smell, but he nods. “Smells…delightful.”

He wouldn’t mind a cat. A companion would be nice, he thinks. So would the fresh air. He hasn’t been outside enough recently.

“Well, could I maybe, perhaps,” he twiddles his thumbs, trying to sound as convincing as possible, “Come with you guys? I wouldn’t mind having a pet cat.”

“Sure,” Charlie says softly, in unison with Leonidas shouting: “Hell yeah!”

There's something about Leonidas's excitement that makes Spyro snort.

“Really?” Spyro sounds far too surprised – like he expected them to reject him. “Uh, should I get changed, or?”

He looks down at himself whilst he says it. He doesn’t think a jumper and joggers is really appropriate attire for jungle navigation.

“Yeah,” Charlie says simply, absentmindedly brushing a speck of dirt off Leonidas’s sleeve, or at least, that’s what it looks like he’s doing. “Meet us at the castle’s entrance in like, ten minutes.”

Spyro nods in agreement, feigning nonchalance. “Okay, cool.”

He gives Charlie and Leonidas one last look, before turning on his heel, and darting to his room.

He runs, walls blurring into basic, beige looking rectangles. Spyro might think he’s genuinely excited at the prospect of getting a cat. Sure, people might think he’s more of a dog person, but that isn't the case, at least, not anymore.

Cats are quieter, more tentative, more wary – and they match the current Spyro better than an overexcited dog would, because that’s a thing of the past. Because the person he is now would much rather have a quiet ball of fluff keeping him company than a loud, hyperactive dog. Besides, cats are low maintenance animals.

Spyro can barely look after himself, and it's one of those facts that's painfully true. He can barely find it in himself to eat three meals a day, and shower, and it’s hardly like he ever sleeps like a normal person would, either. Three strikes, and Spyro's out, and that puts an end to any hope of ever having a dog.

A cat, however, is far more suited to him.

Spyro huffs softly at the thought, and he notices his bedroom door. He beelines towards it, grabbing the handle, and shoving it firmly behind himself. He takes soft steps towards a chest of drawers. Leonidas had mentioned thrifting a ton of clothes his size, and when he pulls the wooden box open, that much is evident. There’s shirts and jumpers and all different lengths of trousers that Spyro doesn’t think he’ll ever need.

He finds a pair of cargo pants with little issue, and after rummaging more, he finds a camo shirt.

A shirt, specifically, sleeves cut just above the elbows.

Spyro probably shouldn't pair it with a jumper. Jungles are far too warm for that.

Spyro's stomach twists, and there's a part of him that almost wants to heave the contents of breakfast out onto the floor. But he looks at the clock, ticking nauseatingly fast above him, and he decides he has no time to waste.

So what if he has to look at a few scars? Everyone else has just as many, and they live just fine. Spyro is just being a coward, as per usual.

Not anymore.

Spyro can't hide from his past. It's part of who he is.

So he grabs the camo shirt, nails biting into the fabric, before slamming the drawer shut, the clang of wood rattling in his ears.

Spyro changes out of his clothes in a matter of seconds, and a loosely fit shirt and cargo pants replace them. Blinking, he rests his arms behind his back. He sighs.

Spyro steps in front of a full length mirror, tucked neatly into the corner of his room. He presses his hands in front of him, clenched tightly just below his chest. Instinctively, he winces, expecting something bad, because he hasn’t dared to look in at least a couple months.

Oh.

Where Spyro expects something trauma inducing, he is instead met with only a few traces of burns, most scars gone. And sure, there are some, but they don’t really look as big and scary as they used to.

Oh. Spyro has been worrying about nothing.

It's not nothing, a voice in his head tells him, but Spyro ignores it.

Maybe time can fix things. After all, it has worn down something that used to make Spyro's stomach twist and grind at his jaw. With a few more looks at the mirror, Spyro wonders what else time could do. Maybe, one day, he and Leonidas will be friends longer than they’ve been enemies.

The thought makes him giddy, like he’s tipsy on happiness.

He ties his hair into a pony tail, resting just below his shoulders, before pressing a hand to the doorknob. Somehow, there’s a small part of him that genuinely believes it’ll be a good day.

And he has no evidence to counter the idea, anyways. It’s nice to believe, for once.

He's at the castle’s entrance approximately a minute before they planned to meet.

When Charlie sees him, Spyro's sure the man’s jaw drops, if only a little. Perhaps it's the fact that two days ago, Spyro would've rather died from infection than dare look at himself.

Briefly, Spyro wonders if staying in the castle was the catalyst for change that he always needed.

—

Spyro’s never stood on a train platform before, no less one where every commuter wants you dead.

“See?” Charlie says, gesturing a finger to a train map firmly, but all Spyro sees are coloured lines and names of what Spyro guesses to either be the names of the trains themselves (do trains have names? Should they have names?) or, more likely, the names of the train stations. “Stan expanded the railway recently, and now it goes to the jungle, and past the uh, tundra.”

Spyro pretends Charlie didn’t say the last part.

“How…interesting.” His enthusiasm matches the gravel in his voice.

Leonidas swipes the map from Charlie’s hands, holding it above his head. “Charlie, you’re borin’ him.”

“Hey—what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Charlie says, trying to swipe the map back. His attempts are obviously futile, because the man is short enough to begin with, and it’s not like sitting on a rather small pig is really helping. “I need that! It says what platform we need to be on!”

Leonidas rolls his eyes, pocketting the map, before nudging Spyro. “Oh, come on! I’m sure we can find some silly little platform, no problem, don’t ya think?”

“Leonidas, this station is massive.” Charlie deadpans. Leonidas doesn’t look all that convinced.

Two sets of eyes meet Spyro’s. Spyro looks between Leonidas’s teasing grin, and Charlie’s played up anger, before shrugging carelessly.

“Sure. Why not?” Spyro says, grinning awkwardly. Like all of Leonidas’s plans, it’s bound to end badly.

“Let's go!” Leonidas says, before heading off with a spring in his step.

“The lift to the other platforms is the other way, Leonidas.” Charlie points out, looking totally unamused.

“I knew that!” Leonidas instantly jolts around, strutting off the other way. “I was just, uh, tryin’ to trick ya!”

Charlie shares a glance with Spyro, before muttering. “I swear, one day, that man’s hubris is going to be the death of me.”

Spyro simply offers a shrug in consolidation, before following Leonidas.

The trio end up going up and down three different lifts, end up discovering about five platforms – two of which appeared completely abandoned – and they still hadn't found the correct platform. Between Charlie's growl and Leonidas's pathetic attempt at navigation, Spyro is honestly getting fed up with the pair of them.

“Leonidas!” Charlie shouts, ignoring the way a few civilians, who looked like they were about to approach him for autographs, are now backing away. “Just admit you have no idea what you're doing, and give me my map back already!”

“Ugh, fine–” Leonidas begins, sighing in defeat melodramatically, before immediately getting distracted by a glowing screen above him. “Hey, look, it says this is the platform for the train to the jungle!”

“Oh yeah, it does.” Spyro mutters nonchalantly, though he thinks Charlie might kill Leonidas before they even manage to set foot on the train.

“See! I told ya I knew where we were goin’!” Leonidas says proudly, doing a small victory dance. Charlie simply pouts, sighing in defeat.

“It only took us half an hour to get here.” Charlie mumbles dryly.

“But it was half an hour well spent!” Leonidas says, pressing a hand against the man's shoulder. Spyro simply watches, because god forbid he intervenes. However, when he looks closer, Charlie's face is beet red. Whether it be from anger or something else, or perhaps even a mix, Spyro can't quite tell.

He opens a mouth to make a comment, but a train pulls up.

The said ‘train’ is composed of a string of mine carts, maybe twenty or thirty, with a conductor sitting at the front. At the back of the carts, are a bunch of fireworks taped to the back piece of metal, presumably powering the carts. Spyro sandwiches himself in a mine cart between Leonidas and Charlie, all the while Charlie's pig takes the rear cart. A few civilians glare at him before paying their respects to Charlie and Leonidas, and Spyro does his best to ignore them.

The conductor pulls a lever with a surprising amount of force, and Spyro is instantly hit with whiplash as the train hurtles down the tracks, before clutching onto the metal sides of the cart in a poor attempt to keep himself upright. When he looks upwards, he notices Leonidas's grin, and he growls.

“This is some kind of death trap!” He barks at Leonidas, and the train turns a harsh left, and Spyro finds himself almost falling out of the cart. “I thought Stan cared about health and safety regulations! What the fuck is this?”

Leonidas turns to face Spyro, before laughing, and when Spyro looks to the front of the train, various civilians are laughing at him, too. Which is just great.

“Ya get used to it after a while.” Leonidas says with a grin, still laughing at Spyro's expense. He almost falls out of the cart again, and next thing he knows, he feels hands from behind him – Charlie's – yank him straight.

“I don't know what you're laughing about,” Charlie says in Spyro's defense. “The first time you went on this train, you vomited like, twice.”

Suddenly, Spyro finds it a bit easier to sit straight, revelling in Leonidas's look of embarrassment.

“Hey, ya promised not to bring that up!” Leonidas mutters, using a hand to cover his face. Spyro simply retorts with a laugh.

Spyro thinks Charlie says something in response, but he doesn't necessarily hear. Instead, he finds himself drawn to the scenery outside. They've barely left the city, and yet Spyro finds himself surrounded by trees and grass and flowers – so many flowers. And in Spyro's opinion, they're very pretty.

You don't get many flowers in the tundra, that's for sure.

He should really get outside more. Too bad he has to escape the city walls to do so, and he can't walk around the city without fearing the potential that someone might just come along and execute him.

Teleportation is a possibility that comes to mind. Spyro doesn't know how much training he'll need to get that one to work.

He curls his hands around metal, hugging his knees to his chest in an attempt to make room in the rather cramped mine cart. Honestly, once one gets used to the rickety carts, the side to side motion of them almost becomes relaxing. And Spyro finds himself caving his head in-between his knees, his hand pressing against his cheek.

He doesn't sleep, or at least, he doesn't sleep enough. Even though he actually slept last night, Spyro doesn't necessarily feel well rested, if that's possible. But maybe that's just the fact that his sleep was cut short by one of his dreams.

It really puts him off from the idea of sleeping. Desperately, Spyro wonders if there's a cure, or if he's simply broken beyond repair.

Slo-po comes to mind, briefly. He knows it'd knock Tess out clean if she drank too much of the stuff.

He had heard a couple of recruits talking about it. Rumors travel quickly in a place like the Noctem Alliance. Most of them were the kind that you’d hope wouldn’t reach your ears.

They do seem to be getting closer to the jungle, and the thickness of the air makes him groggy. Yet it’s so unfamiliar to him that it’s just enough to make him feel wide awake. He snaps his head upwards to notice Leonidas and Charlie talking.

“–hm, I think my favourite kind of cat is a tabby.” Charlie mumbles softly, pulling out a flask of water from his pocket and taking a drink.

“Nah,” Leonidas starts softly, looking generally out of place with the heat of the jungle. “I raise ya, a calico cat. Have ya seen their patterns? They’re so cool.”

“How about you, Spyro?” Charlie asks, noticing that he's finally paying attention. “What kind of cat would you want?”

“I dunno,” Spyro mumbles. Probably not a black cat. It'd be too reminiscent of the Noctem Alliance, but a white cat seems far too pure for him. “A black and white one? Or one of those grey and white ones.”

“You know, people call them tuxedo cats.” Charlie states, and Spyro blinks.

“Why—wait, because they look like they're wearing tuxedos?” Spyro asks with fondness. “That's fucking awesome.”

“Well, hey, if we're lucky, we might just get the cats we want,” Leonidas says with a shrug. “I didn't bring all this fish here for nothin’.”

They pull up to the train station, and they waste no time in walking across the platform. Leonidas rushes in front, leaving Spyro walking beside Charlie and his pig. And in between parrots chirping and awkward silence, Spyro realises he's never actually had a proper conversation with the man.

Well, maybe that's the wrong way of putting it. He's spoken to Charlie many times, but out of all of them, how many of them have been without tears? Practically none. And with a start, Spyro realises he knows near to nothing about the man.

Charlie likes cats, Charlie's smart. He likes Leonidas – or hates him – but with Charlie and Leonidas, they are practically synonyms. That ends the list of all the things Spyro knows about Charlie.

“So uh,” Spyro starts, rubbing the back of his neck. He already regrets this. “What have you been up to?”

Charlie blinks, looking at him like he's gone mad. “Not that much, I guess. Me and Jayden have been working on plans for a memorial garden for uh…some old friends. I mean, it's pretty grim, but it's been nice to spend some time with him.”

“Sounds,” Spyro starts, before realising he can hardly say ‘sounds cool’ or any other iteration of that to something like that. “Uh, interesting?”

He realises that sounds just as bad. “Or uh, depressing? I dunno.”

Charlie genuinely laughs, but not necessarily at him. “You’re not very subtle, Spyro.”

“I wasn't raised to be.” Spyro says, holding up a train ticket to the guard for permission to be let out of the station. He ignores the weird look the man gives him.

Then there's silence, and Spyro notices Leonidas miles away. Nothing seems to cut the awkward tension.

“Uh, so, what do we talk about, then?” Spyro asks, looking around. The trees around them have begun to get more concentrated, denser, and looming.

Charlie starts, looking at the damp, mossy ground beneath him. “I uhm, don't know. Leonidas is the one thing we have in common.”

Spyro realises he's never made small talk with Charlie in his life. He only seems to speak to the man when there's a crisis of some sorts.

“Me neither. But, I dunno,” Spyro starts, sharply inhaling thick air, “What is your favourite colour?”

Charlie locks eyes with Spyro for only a millisecond, looking at Spyro as if he's lost it.

“My favourite colour is uh, beige,” Charlie mutters, vaguely focusing on the trees. “Yours?”

“Hm,” Spyro starts, not really knowing, because when does a Noctem have time to think about favourite colours? “Maybe green? Or yellow?”

Charlie gives a small nod.

“What are your hobbies?” Spyro asks, albeit awkwardly. He hasn’t asked such a question in years.

“I like reading,” Charlie says softly. “I’ve been getting into Sci-fi, recently. I guess gardening is alright, too – Jayden got me into that one. Yours?”

Spyro presses his lips together, thinking. “Cooking is good, and uhm…”

What the fuck else does he do? He desperately searches his mind, all the while Charlie stares at him expectantly. “Rollerskating was alright, I guess. I wouldn't mind going again.”

“Cool,” Charlie does a thumbs up. “That was a, uhm, productive conversation.”

Spyro snickers, before rolling his eyes. “You're not very subtle, Charlie.”

Charlie goes to open his mouth, but he's interrupted by Leonidas running back over to the pair, two parrots – one a neon green, the other coloured like a typical red parrot – on each of his shoulders. “Guys! Look!”

Charlie's jaw drops so low Spyro almost suggests picking it up. “Leonidas. We are not keeping parrots.”

“Ah, come on Charlie, you're no fun. Look!” Leonidas says, and he throws a bunch of seeds into the air, and the parrots catch them mid flight. “They're awesome!”

“Leonidas,” Charlie hisses. “You don't know the first thing about looking after parrots!”

“We can learn!” Leonidas retorts, looking giddy.

“We?” Charlies says, in an attempt to sound menacing, before the green parrot flies onto his shoulder. It chirps softly, and Charlie pulls up his hand to gently tap its beak.

“See?” Leonidas says, grinning like he's won a war. “It likes ya.”

Sure, Spyro probably should defend Charlie from yet another one of Leonidas’s schemes, but doing the opposite is far more entertaining.

“Yeah, Charlie, imagine if you just left that parrot here,” Spyro says, choosing to take Leonidas's side. “It'd feel completely abandoned! Foresaken! You might just give it attachment issues for life! Are you really going to do that to an innocent parrot?”

Charlie just stares, and Spyro does a good job of making ‘sad puppy dog eyes’.

Charlie sighs, caving. “Damn manipulators, the pair of you. But fine, I suppose we can keep them.”

Leonidas and Spyro high five in victory.

“You should name them.” Spyro suggests, standing on his tiptoes to reach Leonidas’s shoulder, and stroking the feathers of the parrot perched atop him.

“Uhm, I’m thinkin’,” Leonidas points his finger at Charlie’s green parrot. “Brussel sprouts!” He then gestures to his own red parrot. “Chilli!”

“Why is mine called brussel sprouts?” Charlie demands. “And—and those foods aren’t even related!”

“I’d like to see ya come up with something better.” Leonidas says, crossing his arms like it’s a challenge.

“Uhm, uh,” Charlie starts, trying to rack his brain for something better. “Red apple, and uh, green apple?”

“Congrats, Charlie,” Leonidas drawls sarcastically. “That’s totally not a mouthful to say. Absolutely perfect. Our parrots totally aren’t gonna fill out a form for a name change when they’re eighteen.”

Charlie looks a moment away from spontaneously combusting. “It can be shortened to, uh, Rapple and Gapple?”

“That sounds awful.” Leonidas retorts, and Charlie goes to respond, but Spyro beats him to the chase.

“Well, if you both want a food theme,” Spyro starts, pushing himself in between the pair. “How about…tomato and cucumber?”

“And how are they any more related?” Leonidas asks, pouting.

“Easy,” Spyro says confidently. “They’re both salad foods.”

Charlie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's better than brussel sprouts.”

Both Charlie and Spyro glare at Leonidas.

“Ugh, fine,” Leonidas says melodramatically, accepting defeat quicker than Spyro expects. “I guess it’s slightly better.”

Spyro exhales, his stomach twisting. It’s only then when he realises he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Charlie glances down at his wrist, squinting at his watch, before sharing a glance with both Leonidas and Spyro.

“It’s probably about lunch time,” Charlie muses aloud, glancing at Leonidas. He then speaks with uncertainty. “You remembered the picnic…right?”

Leonidas rolls his eyes. “You underestimate me, Charlie. Of course I brought the picnic.”

The man then proceeds to crouch onto the floor, stripping his backpack off his torso. He spends a moment rummaging through it, various undescribed items making loud, obnoxious clanging noises as he does. After a minute or so, and after the majority of the bag’s contents being emptied, Leonidas pulls out a small box.

“We’ve got a few sandwiches, and apples!” Leonidas says with a grin. Charlie looks away like he’s still mourning the prospect of calling the parrots ‘Rapple’ and ‘Gapple’. “Oh, and a cake for dessert!”

Spyro nods in approval. “We should probably find somewhere to sit,” He digs his heels into the ground – damp, mossy mud squelching under his foot. “Somewhere dryer.”

“Sounds good.” Charlie says in agreement, and they take off, a parrot perched upon both Leonidas and Charlie.

Leonidas treads heavily beside Spyro, investigating various wildlife and mushrooms, rambling on about how he’s ‘one with nature’. On the other side of him, Charlie remains seated upon his pig, warning the man to not touch anything dangerous, which seems to be almost everything.

Spyro, meanwhile, having rarely ever been to a jungle, would much rather spend his time admiring the scenery. It’s not something he’s used to – the climate is horribly humid and somehow damp at the same time.

The trees loom so high that the sunlight barely seeps through the cracks, and dark shadows seem to be cast all around them. It’s something that Spyro is familiar with, and yet the darkness here seems far more comforting to the kind of darkness Spyro was accustomed to in the tundra, when the sun would barely rise above the horizon.

Spyro is sure he sees a frog or two. He squints through the clearing, hoping to spot more.

And next thing Spyro knows, he’s tripping on an exposed tree root, falling straight into soggy dirt.

“Spyro?” That’s Charlie’s voice, cutting through heavy air. Spyro can’t quite find it in him to pull himself up. The ground is honestly, rather comfortable, a nest of moss making a makeshift bed.

“Ya plan on lyin’ there forever?” Leonidas says, almost teasingly. “Guess we’ll have to find the ocelots without ya.”

That’s all it takes for Spyro to push himself onto his hands and knees. He definitely wants a cat. “I’m awake!”

Thankfully, Leonidas extends a hand towards Spyro, who gratefully takes it. All it takes is one yank and probably half of Leonidas’s potential to pull him up. “Well, at least ya found us a picnic spot.”

Spyro squints, looking at where he tripped. The root he tripped on leads to a far larger trunk, but somehow, the root has formed what looks close to a wooden bench between. Spyro presses a hand against it, and the wood remains unyielding.

“Seems sturdy enough.” Spyro mutters, before sliding onto the makeshift seat, Leonidas not far behind. Charlie, of course, remains seated on his pig, all the while Leonidas distributes lunch.

A sandwich is placed into Spyro's awaiting hands, and he wastes no time in taking a bite. He hasn't eaten anything since breakfast, after all, and now food is available, Spyro's primary instinct is to devour it.

“Damn, it's like ya haven't eaten in years.” Leonidas observes, taking a bite of his own sandwich.

“Fuck you, I'm growing,” Spyro snaps lightheartedly, before eyeing Leonidas, and realising the man is eating his sandwich as quick as he's eating his own. “What's your excuse?”

“I'm growin’, too.” Leonidas responds with a shrug, slightly unsure.

“You better not be,” Charlie mutters bitterly, finishing off his sandwich. “You're tall enough.”

“I'm not that tall,” Leonidas retorts, swallowing his sandwich with one final bite. “You're just very, very short.”

Charlie, having a mouth full of apples, instead pulls out the middle finger, the gesture so surprising that Spyro almost chokes on his lunch.

“Woah, Charlie,” Leonidas says between bites of fruit. “I thought ya were above that.”

Charlie swallows his food, before talking. “I thought I'd stoop to your level.”

“Stoop?” Leonidas asks, looking amused. “If ya wanted to reach my level, you'd have to be on your tip-toes, and even then, ya would still probably be shorter than me.”

“You're so frustrating sometimes.” Charlie says with a groan, rummaging through Leonidas's backpack, and pulling out the cake.

“Ya know ya like it.” Leonidas says with a smirk, and the other man almost drops the cake onto the floor, face going slightly red.

Spyro interrupts whatever weak retort Charlie was planning on making. “You're both frustrating, the pair of you. You both act like an old married couple, or something.”

The pair both look momentarily stunned, and Spyro can safely say Charlie isn't the only one blushing now. He uses the moment to steal a slice of cake from Charlie's hands, devouring it like he said nothing.

“I guess we do.” Charlie says, looking at Leonidas with a blank expression.

“Y-yeah, sure we do.” Leonidas mutters, fiddling with his hands. After a moment of hesitation, he takes a slice of cake for himself, practically shoving it into his mouth. Charlie merely rolls his eyes, but he almost looks…endeared?

Spyro, one of these days, needs to make it his mission to find out if Charlie likes Leonidas back. Such information would make it much easier to set them up together.

Spyro wipes away some remaining cake crumbs with a grin, and whilst waiting for Charlie and Leonidas to finish, he strokes the red parrot, Tomato. The parrot chirps lightly. It's nice. The other parrot, Cucumber, perches atop Spyro’s shoulder, and Spyro almost feels

Eventually, the pair both finish their meals, and after packing away lunch, they're finally ready to go cat searching. By the time they do, Spyro is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“So,” Spyro starts, as Leonidas packs the last container back into the backpack. “How do we do this?”

“Well,” Charlie starts with a smile, like he knows everything about the topic. “The ocelots usually don’t come out if it’s too loud. So, we should probably find a quiet spot and then just wait, I guess. If you see one, don't make any sudden movements, or you’ll scare it away.”

“Okay,” Spyro says, doing a thumbs up sign. “Cool. Let’s go find a cat.”

Leonidas instantly puts his game face on, and begins crawling about as if he were some kind of crab. He looks fucking ridiculous, but he justifies it as the perfect way to be ‘sneaky’.

Spyro follows the man anyways, Charlie not far behind. After about ten minutes, Spyro's ears prick at the sound of rustling from the bushes.

“I saw one!” Leonidas says in an excited whisper. Spyro grabs a fish from the cooler in Leonidas’s hand, instantly deciding to take the lead.

Spyro instantly shuffles towards the bush, trying hard to be as quiet as possible. He brushes a few leaves aside, stalking through the dirt. Through the clearing, he can see an ocelot, backing away slowly.

“Hey.” Spyro mutters softly to the ocelot, even though he's basically just talking to himself. He grabs the fish, holding it in front of him like it's a prize.

The ocelot doesn't look too impressed. It backs away further.

“Hey, lil guy,” Spyro says, crouching down to his knees, ignoring how dirt brushes against his cargo pants as he does. “It's okay.”

He tries to press the fish closer to the ocelot. The animal looks at it with hungry eyes, and Spyro tries his best to remain steady. After a moment, the ocelot begins to approach him tentatively, eyes darting around the clearing between jungle trees and bushes.

“Yeah, you like fish, don't you?” Spyro says teasingly, before slowly turning his head to ensure Charlie and Leonidas aren't close. He sounds like an idiot, but the ocelot continues to walk towards him. When the ocelot gets close enough – perhaps only a metre away – Spyro lowers the fish onto the ground, like a gift.

The animal looks at him, before looking at the fish. Slowly, it takes a bite out of the fowl smelling food, it's fur slowly changing colour. Pale yellow fur slowly turns to a mix of black and white, and Spyro realises a tuxedo cat has been bestowed upon him.

“Awesome.” Spyro says with a great amount of fondness, and once the cat is done with its meal, Spyro reaches out his slightly shaky hand, before petting the cat's head. The cat lets out a soft purr, leaning into his hand.

“Your name shall be…” Spyro mumbles to himself, sitting crossed legged on the floor, the cat moving to sit on his lap. “Felix?”

The cat purrs in agreement, pressing its head against Spyro's knee. Absent-mindedly, Spyro runs his hand through the cat's fur, watching as the cat closes his eyes. He has half a mind to join it, his bad sleep schedule catching up to him.

He probably shouldn't. He should probably go find Charlie and Leonidas. The last thing he wants is to be lost in the jungle, alone. Regardless, he doesn't think relaxing for a moment or two more will hurt. Charlie and Leonidas are probably in close proximity, anyway. And Spyro doubts that they would leave without him.

Spyro couldn't even move if he wanted to, because Felix is sitting comfortably in his lap, and it’d be a shame to disturb the little guy. Giving up, Spyro presses his hands back into the dense soil, fingers pressing against fallen leaves and various other small shrubs as he does. The jungle air sits heavy in his lungs, but it’s a welcome guest. It beats the air from indoors.

Spyro should really get out more. Present tense. It just doesn’t help that the entire population of this server, the Noctem Alliance and Element city alike, want him dead.

Or, maybe, Spyro is just a coward.

That's not true.

But it is.

And it’s so stupid, too! Spyro could easily defend himself, could easily blow someone into oblivion – provided his brain lets him – and yet he is scared of doing so. Because being in the castle, hanging out with Leonidas, talking to Charlie and Stan, has changed him, and he doesn’t really want to be the big bad wolf anymore. He’d rather just be Spyro.

Not that he knows who ‘Spyro’ is, though.

He plunges his hand into his cat’s fur, slumping over it in a protective stance. It’s a pitiful thought that he doesn’t even know who he is, or what he wants. He’s a blank slate painted with nothing more than decaying Noctem Alliance ideals. Really, he’s nothing more than a brainwashed soldier.

He has preferences, though. He likes the colour green. He hates black. He likes cats. He likes cooking—

Those are the preferences of a five year old. They’re all just surface level things – meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Such a thought is saddening. Spyro can't even remember who he even is, anymore.

What makes it worse is that he thinks that if Stan has been reading him right, then he probably knows more about Spyro than he himself does.

Spyro grabs a lone stick and digs it into the ground, before doodling a pattern in the mud. He racks his brain for aspirations or hopes or likes or anything. Something to prove he’s more than what he was – something to prove that he’s more than a shell of his former self.

Spuro wants to be nicer. He wants friends. He just wants to do everyday things. He wants to go outside. He wants to see the sunrise.

Something sparks in his veins. It doesn’t feel like the painful electricity that courses through him when he’s uneasy. No, instead, it buzzes like newfound vigor, running through him like fireworks. You could call it a will to live, a purpose, a want, but Spyro just couldn’t care. He needs to–

He scoops his cat into his hands and turns around, and when he does, Leonidas and Charlie are standing behind him. Charlie holds both a calico and a tabby cat in his hands, all the while Leonidas has a clump of leaves in his hands, raised above Spyro’s head, like an elaborate scheme.

Spyro scurries backwards, raising a playful eyebrow at Leonidas. “What the hell were you going to do there?”

Leonidas instantly chucks the pile of leaves aside. “Nothing!”

“He was going to dump them on your head,” Charlie says in monotony. “We’ve been standing here for like, five minutes.”

Spyro blinks, leaping to his feet, the cat in his hands letting out a soft squeak as he does. “I was…distracted.”

And he smiles, genuinely, before gesturing to the two cats in Charlie’s hands. “Who’ve you got there?”

Charlie shoves the calico cat back into Leonidas’s awaiting arms. “That’s Patches, Leonidas’s new cat.” He then gestures to his own cat. “And here’s my tabby, Willow.”

Spyro presses his head to both the tabby cat, gently pressing his own cat on the floor. As soon as he gets in close proximity with the cat, it begins licking his nose.

“Awww.” Spyro coos without really thinking.

Leonidas and Charlie share a look, before Leonidas laughs. Spyro instantly pulls away from the cat, glaring at Leonidas.

“What are you finding so funny?” Spyro pouts, picking his cat back up and cradling it.

“Nothin’, nothin’,” Leonidas says, snorting. “The great Spyro is just becomin’ incredibly soft, is all.”

“I am not going soft!” Spyro retorts, but it lacks any kind of anger. He almost likes being described as such, the idea of his more jagged edges being refined stirring something warm in his chest.

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Come on, you two. We’ve got to get back before it gets dark.”

Spyro nods in agreement. The funny thing about autumn is that the sun always sets early. Spyro can’t help but feel spiteful at the fact that the way the planet turns is cutting his day short with darkness.

But then, he looks at Leonidas, and then Charlie, and the three cats they have. And recently, he’s grown tired of the darkness, really.

But seeing the sunset with Charlie and Leonidas is nice. Even if darkness comes next.