Chapter Text
The first night in the room given to him —his room—, Rudo stands before the bed for a solid 3 minutes. He's never met such hospitality like this, back in the Sphere. And, for as much trust-worthy the Cleaners seemed to be, Rudo couldn't shake the anxiety in him that told him it would only be a matter of time.
A matter of time before they came and took the bed, a matter of time before they realized Rudo had no place here. He didn't even know what he'd done back there, when chains had turned sharp and a beat-up tire had seemed like a perfect weapon to deal with his problems.
Part of Rudo, still in shock and refusing to acknowledge what had landed him here, expected Regto to burst through the door, ready to scold him for being so eager to use violence as a response, even if in self-defense.
Rudo's eyes move towards the door of the room. He waits.
Regto doesn't come through.
The gaping hole within him inches wide, and the loss of his father feels fresh all over again. His eyes sting with tears he refuses to shed, and he bites at his lower lip, trying to ground himself. It's a distraction from his grief.
Rudo thinks he can't move past it, feels himself hollowed out by Regto's death. A part of him, torn away forcefully, leaving him lacking, leaving him empty.
Rudo knows he won't ever forget the sight. It's embossed in his mind— the sight of Regto, laying in a puddle of his own blood, in their home. A place that was supposed to be warm and safe, and that held so many precious memories, tainted by the same blood that had besmirched Rudo's hands. The same blood that had been used against him, an incriminating evidence of Regto's wound, fatal, cruel in the way it had taken him away from Rudo. Evidence, of Rudo's own affection and grief, clinging as he clung so desperately to the one person in this world who loved him with all his flaws, the one person Rudo could say he loved back.
Rudo looks down to the shirt he is wearing. It isn't his. Oversized and clean, it was given by Enjin to borrow in the meantime. Rudo tugs at it from the hem of it, finds it suffocating, almost final in the way it cements the transpired events— it placed Rudo in a new, unknown place. It placed Rudo under the care of others. Under the care of those who were not his father, who were not Regto.
It was a clean slate Rudo wasn't sure he wanted— a warmth and acceptance he had only known in Regto, and in Chiwa. The bitterness of the girl's name explodes inside his chest, and Rudo feels betrayed. He's alone. Without Chiwa to believe in him and his innocence, he had no one. Regto was gone.
Regto was gone, and Rudo could not accept it. Rudo didn't want to. He didn't want to make it final. He didn't want to face the loss of the only person he cared for so deeply. Rudo looks at the clean shirt, pulled taut by his hand, oversized. Rudo looks at his gloves, the only thing he had to remember Regto by, and his hold breaks. The elasticity of the shirt brings it back close to his body, and the air it pushes through the neck of it makes Rudo's eyes sting.
It's not even a soft breeze, but Rudo feels it like the most solid, devastating blow. It pushes him off balance and throws him onto unknown waters. And he doesn't know what to do in this new, unforeseen situation. Rudo doesn't know how to accept it— he doesn't want to. He misses his father dearly, can almost hear his voice come from outside
Rudo's eyes move towards the door of the room, frantic, expectant. He wills Regto's figure to it, wishes it to appear with a gentle knock and a smile so warm Rudo's fears would be eased. Rudo looks at the door to the room —his room—, and he waits.
Regto doesn't come through.