Archive of Our Own ^beta

On nights like these, when the relative stillness of peace rings more eerie than comforting, does Tails partake in the deliberate art of destruction.

Boredom, for him, is a far better motivator than war ever was.

It’s not like he can help it anyways; it’s just the way he was brought up.

And much like his big brother snoozing in the other room, he gets bored very easily with nothing to do.

Yet, with all the screws and washers and tools littering the ground around him in a sea of metal and bad decisions…

He can only dismantle the Tornado enough times until he can no longer deny that his feeble attempts to keep himself attached to the familiar warmth of his workshop aren’t worth the empty mugs and candy wrappers that line the shelves where his drills should have been.  

Truthfully, there was plenty to do out there.

He’d seen most of it firsthand, after all.

Barren wastelands where cities once stood, the air permanently stained with the scent of melted iron and ash-

He’d moved fast and he’d moved far; that much he’d remembered, before the shame of it all blots out the memories he’s probably better off without anyways.

Surely, he’d assumed, that all the guilt he could shoulder coupled with his ability to wield a blowtorch would be all the qualifications he needed to offer his assistance to the former resistance so it could rebuild the world he’d tried so hard to run away from.

The world Eggman and Infinite destroyed.

Sonic had been absolutely crushed by it all (though in that dramatic sort of way he usually employs when he’s trying to get out of something), making his grandiose return to the home he so fiercely protected to find it just as ravaged and mechanical and cold as his cell…

…That was all the motivation Tails needed, seeing just how badly he’d missed him, to follow him as he sped away into the night, away from the obsolete HQ building as though it was as much an unwelcomed blight on normalcy to Sonic as it was to him when he’d first fled from there.

Unfortunately for him, Knuckles is the type to learn from his mistakes, and refused to let him leave a second time- denied him any much-needed escape into the security of the simpler days, when it was just him and his big brother-   

The angle grinder groans in agreement, underscoring his thoughts with angry sparks that just miss his cheeks because right now, this stubborn, immovable screw is the echidna and he won’t let himself be sidelined a second time.

(Or third. Or fourth. Or…it wasn’t like he’d been keeping count.)

He leans his entire body weight into it but makes little headway.

Frustratingly, it refused to yield.

Being in command of the only vestige of survival left at just sixteen will do that.

Still, he’d been no less annoyed then to find Knuckles’ hand on his shoulder for all his efforts, in a grip so firm he’d lose an arm to attempt an escape.

“Tails-”

“I’m only gonna tell you once. Let me go.”

He remembered the way his sharp tone seemed to cleave Knuckles in two, leaving the shattered hiss of a deep sigh to leak out into the colder evening air. Still, however exhausted he must have been in that moment, he wouldn’t budge.

Knuckles always managed to find some manner of comfort in ruins.

“Let him go.”

There’d been a softness to it he wasn’t expecting.

Though he’d turned to look at him against his better judgment, Knuckles only studied the twinkling stars like he’d been trying to remember the names they’d given them when they were much younger-so he wouldn’t feel as lonely after him and Sonic’d left Angel Island all that time ago.

Even then, he’d known Knuckles was probably just humoring him, but Tails hadn’t realized until now that he’d had the naïve audacity to assume he’d appreciated the gesture.

“He needs to be alone for a while.”

He’d said it with a finality he didn’t deserve-as if anyone could tell him what his brother needed better than he already knew from the years he’d spent right there next to him.

But Knuckles’d had that look on his face Sonic used to tease him for, his favorite expression etched from stones of his home that he always wore when he’d made up his mind on something.

Finding weakness in structural integrity was Tails’ forte though, if nothing else.

“It’s not his fault you gave up on him. Hasn’t he been alone enough already?”

The screw head at last snaps off.

He remembered Knuckles just…standing there, as exposed and raw as the jagged piece of metal waiting to be pried from its embedded place by a good pair of pliers.  

“That’s why he’s going to need you when he returns.”

He’d been so sheepish it was uncanny, reminding him of the only other time Knuckles had been subtly willing to admit he was in over his head.

Things fell apart way too easily, he thinks as the entire panel he’d been removing clatters to the floor, his apparently vital load-bearing screw finally removed with a strained tug.

There’s little satisfaction in it: now he’s just left with a hole and a headache.

The burden Knuckles’ hand placed upon him removed itself, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to chide himself for looking up to him.

Be that as it may, the pain that resided there within his weary eyes matched his own.

“Tails, you’re old enough now to understand. Sometimes our best just isn’t enough…I was doing what I thought would best honor his memory.”

The way in which he’d seemed to sidestep the inescapable truth had incensed him. 

Sonic was never even dead in the first place, and Knuckles expected him to believe himself more mature for worshiping a ghost instead of finding the corpse, as if it ever had anything to do with age in the first place.

No, he was still old enough to know what was coming when his friends had asked him to “be brave” for them, and yet, still young enough to sit in Knuckles’ lap, bundled up in Amy’s favorite scarf as they both tried to break the news as gently to him as they could.

He’d recognized that same fragile tone he’d once never thought a tough guy like Knuckles could have-like if he spoke too loud or too fast, he’d get startled and bolt.

But he knows what grief sounds like. He recognizes it like an old friend because it was his first.

No one but Sonic actually knows that he wasn’t very good at making friends, because his second one was so awesome he became his family too.

“…I didn’t get to say goodbye…”

The words peter out on his lips with the dying flame of his anger, knowing the longer he stopped himself from feeding it the colder he’d become, but there’s something so stupid about lecturing Knuckles of all people about goodbyes that he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

“No one is ever prepared to, when the time comes. It’s one of the hardest things you’ll ever learn.”

Knuckles allowed the silence to smother the rest of the smoldering embers that remained, and only when he’d been sure just the memory of its absence was left would he dare to give him a playful nudge that merely knocked him further off balance.

“For now, we just have to be thankful that he never seems to get the hint.”

The echidna forced a laugh as he looked to the horizon, but it rang as hollow and rattled the air more mechanically than the barren framework of the Tornado with its protective panels sheared off.

Before either could acknowledge it, he’d been dragged away, suddenly hoisted atop Knuckles’ shoulder in that way he’d used to beg him for when he was much younger and lighter than he is now.

Back then, he’d felt so close to the stars on those rare occasions in which his sturdy new friend would begrudgingly allow him to scale upwards to perch on his shoulders…

The world used to be beautiful until it all went dark.

The everlasting buzz of the flickering artificial lights made a poor substitute for the gentle twinkle of the stars, and only served as a haunting melody he still heard over the roar of chaos and exploding metal to the effect he still panics when he could finally see them again, mistaking them at first for distant missiles.

But he would survive, nevertheless.

It’s the only thing he’s good at anymore because it’s the one thing Sonic never needed to teach him.

Still, that didn’t mean he’d rather be apart from him.

These days everyone found it so hard to admit that Sonic was their engine, exposed and cast aside and the whole machine won’t work without him there.

And it was his job, as the mechanic of the group, to maintain him.

He’d failed.

The anger only drove him forward forever, like if he stopped moving for a second it’d be a grave disrespect to the spirit of his brother he tried so hard to embody.

So he kept fighting, even with no one behind him.

He’d vowed then, creeping away from everything he had left in the dead of night, not to return without Sonic.

He tore every bot apart with his bare hands for spare circuits and smashed anything seared in red paint with that horrendously twisted grin until he stained it red himself.   

As the days wore on, the leads only frayed at their edges, but he’d grasped onto them with an unwavering grip, just as always.

No one ever looked for him.

He isn’t surprised. It wasn’t like Knuckles or Amy to understand the difference between fighting for the planet and salvaging it.

While he loves his friends dearly, it was probably just something they’d never truly get without traveling as much as he and Sonic had back then. 

Subtlety and moderation weren’t Sonic’s strong suits, and by proxy, neither were his, because to them, there was no big picture, and no one solitary bastion of home to defend, because it was all home.

Every bit of it. So long as they were together the world was safe.

But he’d done alright for himself all alone, in spite of the circumstances.

Only out there, in the middle of it all did he truly feel like he was making a difference; the residual flames from a homemade explosive licking his face, the shower of eggtech transmitter metal clattering to the shoddy concrete patches beneath his feet, the weeds that poked through at the first hint of real rain unmarred with unwanted chemical byproducts…

He saw it all-things he would have never seen had Knuckles and Amy continued to usher him away from the comm feed every time he restored its capabilities because Gaia forbid he be corrupted; that was all children were good for in a war-their innocence.

Never mind the fact that his friends were barely older than he was, and he’d been by their side through everything.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Maybe they felt they owed it to Sonic to protect him, but he owed it to Sonic to keep fighting against the injustice of it all, just as he’d learned from him when he was way smaller and a lot more idealistic than he was now.    

Who would he be without him?

…

Who was he without him…?

He doesn’t remember, everything was…chaos…

Chaos-

It takes him about two minutes to realize he’s slurping down air where the coffee should have been. 

He spends about another thirty seconds attempting to lick what little sustaining droplets of caffeine remained at the bottom of his empty mug before he gives up, grateful Sonic isn’t awake to see him reduced to this.  

He fits right in with the mountain of warped metal, rusted screws that hadn’t been replaced since they first tasted the salt of Westside’s seawater, and the litter of spare parts, candy cellophane stuck to a slick of leaking fluid on the floor, and crumpled old unfinished blueprints that surround the dismantled Tornado. 

…It looks like a tornado’s been through here.

Still, much as he tries to pretend there’s a method to his madness, his efforts to return the empty mug to the designated ‘empty mug’ shelf he’s got going only resulted in another unwarranted blow to the forehead as he slips forward, crashing into his workbench face first. 

The ceramic mug shattered to pieces as it hits the floor, taking a slice at his cheek when he lands awkwardly on a wayward shard, and all he can think as he collects himself there on the floor is to listen intently for any sign of a disturbance in the other room. 

When he’s in the clear, he throws a towel over the spill and promises his purpling forehead that his future self will take care of it eventually. His head already pounded anyways from withdrawal but it wasn’t as if he’d broken anything. 

Everything was fine. He was just…

“...just…tired, little buddy…that’s all. You all worry so much-!”

He remembers how casual of a proclamation Sonic made it out to be as he’d limped to his doorstep in what was the first time he’d seen him in weeks, flanked on either side by Knuckles and Amy, both making no secret of the way they literally had to drag him here.   

He’d been less than pleased to see either of them, since they’d practically barred him from participating in any restoration efforts, denying him any opportunity he’d so desperately needed to make it up to everyone because it was clear in the way most looked at him that they hadn’t forgiven him.  

He hadn’t meant to abandon anyone but he didn’t deserve this.

Instead, they’d abandoned him to his own thoughts-(an enemy far more invasive than Eggman could ever be)-under the guise of a well-deserved rest for doing absolutely nothing. 

He couldn’t help but think Sonic wouldn’t really come back after that, but here he was, wanting nothing more than to pick up where they’d left off and leave the memories of it all in the dust just as always. 

How could he refuse that? 

…

He spins the propeller of the Tornado before he removes it because he missed what it felt like to embrace the rushing air through his fur, but before long it slows and stagnates, just like everything else.  

…Even his big brother. 

It started out fine, and he’d watched in amusement as his heart silently ached for the dramatic display Sonic put on for them all, hobbling to the couch, flopping down, and waxing poetic about the nature of mortality, all while Knuckles groaned and Amy tried really hard not to laugh. 

He’d looked awfully banged up, though no worse than he’d normally seen him. Sonic had always said that it wasn’t an adventure without a few souvenirs, and by the looks of it, he’d acquired quite a few in the time he’d been away.

His body had been adorned with bruises and cuts and welts of all shapes and sizes, though they may well have been medals, the way his brother loved to boast about them, wearing them with all the pride of a military general. 

He was built for this , he’d told himself. 

Even when he noticed how large splotches of his left leg were at least two shades darker than his right, the knee contorted and strained as if he’d landed on it wrong. 

Sonic never mentioned it, let alone complained about it, simply fell back onto the cushions, laid both arms behind his head and ‘bashfully’ asked for his leftovers in the fridge as if they hadn’t been rotten for months and thrown out weeks ago. 

“What? No dinner, Tails? And after such a tough day at work-!” He’d begun to tease, until Knuckles’d cut him off. 

“Sonic hurled himself down a cliff in the middle of a badnik clearout.”

“I-You what…?” 

“Hey-! You say it like I did it on purpose or something-!” He remembered how quickly Sonic’d sat up at that, but only looked at him, as if to reassure him before he had time to process what had just been said. 

“Of course not,” Amy held her hands up between the two of them before refocusing her attention on him, “Tails, it’s just that Sonic needs a place to rest for a little while. Can you do that?”

“Can I?” He’d shot back before he could think better of it. 

Amy’s expression grew from tired to grim as he’d watched her empty hands reflexively coil around a hammer that wasn’t there. 

“It’s my job, isn’t it?” He’d finished, shoving something frozen into the microwave. 

“Tails-” Knuckles began, but it was his turn to be interrupted.

“Awww,” Sonic joked, too distracted by the enticing scent of mediocre microwaved hotdogs after months without them to understand where this was going, “Missed you too, little bro…”

Resolve came crumbling away faster than the crappy buns he pulled from the pantry and no one said anything after that.  

It had taken a minute for her to convince him to step away into his workshop with her while Knuckles tried in vain to figure out how the microwave worked himself, because it took some time to remember that the only good reason he had to be mad at his friends was if they were mad at him. 

Amy’d just looked worn, as if she’d been all stretched out and trying for just as long to keep it all together like the gaskets he kept forgetting to replace. 

It was almost like Sonic had no self-preservation instincts whatsoever, he remembered her lamenting even though it wasn’t new information to either of them.

He also remembered trying his hardest not to take it personally to learn Sonic hadn’t been that far from him after all, apparently forgoing their reunion in favor of scrapping bots or whatever other mundane assignment the Restoration could use him for…

That was Sonic, though. He was always there when he was needed. 

Still, if he was allowed to be selfish about something, his bitterness was rooted in the feeling that the more people that needed him the less he seemed to remember that he needed him, too. 

But his big brother’s hurt. So he’s not allowed to be selfish. 

They should have paid closer attention, Amy’d explained, that they’d been secretly hoping Sonic’s tendency to run off and do his own thing in the middle of a battle was a sign of normalcy returning. The restoration of the status quo.

Then he’d ‘done his own thing’ and run off a cliff, following a bot he’d probably mistaken for one of their own in the heat of it, only realizing his mistake about halfway down the plunge and far too late to do anything but batter himself upon the jagged rocks until he’d sort of broken his fall with a knee. 

“It’s not like him to be so careless…” She’d said, face so contorted with worry that he doesn’t have the heart to tell her then that she was wrong. 

He knows from experience. 

“We’re just worried about him…that’s all-”

The screw he’s been unscrewing for two minutes rotates in place endlessly but his fingers never ease off the drill.

She should have quit while she was ahead. 

“We were really worried for both of you until you came back.”

He remembered the way the atmosphere shifted, and the workshop suddenly felt smaller than it was meant to. She’d probably meant to corner him there, and he had to hand it to her, she’d grown a great deal since he’d seen her last, strategizing and scheming as war and survival both demanded of her. 

Only problem was, he wasn’t four anymore. 

He’d left her there to help Knuckles with the microwave. 

Still, he honored their wishes and looked after Sonic in spite of his brother’s constant protests, since they sort of fulfilled his in a way, now that he was back home where he belonged. 

It wasn’t something he was supposed to have to think about. 

But then the nightmares began. 

The first time it’s laughed off, relayed back to him as he helps Sonic back up onto the couch with a striking flair that came naturally to Sonic’s storytelling. 

Every time after that he’s too busy pretending not to notice the way Sonic flinches, digging into the dark circles around his eyes with his fingers and staring blankly through him until he finally registers that he’s standing in front of him. 

Even the largest smiles that followed after weren’t enough to fully hide it anymore. 

After a while he just stopped sleeping altogether, when he could manage it.

It wasn’t as though he could argue with him about it either, considering the overwhelming hypocrisy. 

Whenever the sun shined it only made him funnier-watching his cool, suave, undefeatable hero nearly eat it every time he tried to use the bathroom-loopily humming the choruses to songs they’d made up from back when they’d still slept outside to keep the silence at bay. 

It was less funny whenever he would try to kick his door down with his bad leg, angry with him for ‘pranking’ him about things that never made sense. 

“You totally…why do you keep calling for help if you don’t need it…?” Sonic’d groggily complained into him as he’d practically carried his brother back to rest upon the growing indent he’d left in the couch

He didn’t mind so much. It was nice to hold him for a change, given everything.  

He doesn’t need to understand him right now, so much as he owes it to him to return the favor.

That’s all that mattered. 

He’s here now to catch him when he falls. 

Even when in the suffocating stillness of the dark, where they both are too tired to acknowledge each others’ presence, he can still see that look in his eyes that hasn’t changed since he’d seen it last-right before he’d been shot out into space with that fake emerald to his death. 

(That was his fault, too.)

Sonic’ll be fine. He’s been through worse and always comes back no worse for wear, with the same goofy grin he’d admired since his youth practically stitched onto his face. 

This is just what growing up meant, right? 

He’d heard Vector and Eggman both complain tons about what it was to get old, like everything inevitably slows to a creaky halt and blows take ten times longer to recover from because they were both ancient machinery, by his standards. 

The concept’s harder to accept when it’s his machinery though. And while the Tornado may be old, he’s not ready to let go of it any time soon. 

Even with everything in scattered pieces in front of him he just can’t-

He’s seen it like this before, missile blasts and hardware failures and normal wear and tear have given him cause to dismantle his pride and joy plenty of times for this to have been an abnormal sight. 

So why is his stomach turning?

It’s over. 

All of it was over. But he finds no satisfaction, comfort, or even closure in it like he once did. 

Looking at all the pieces of himself strewn out haphazardly, the inescapable scent of grease on his skin that marked him as the culprit, that sickening feeling of betrayal that bubbles and starts to leak out of his eyes…

He feels stupid for cowering within the shadow of a memory he can’t ever return to. 

Why did he always ruin everything?

He chugs the last bit of a flat energy drink he’d left out days ago, crushing the can against his forehead like he’d watched Sonic do countless times, and the thought dissipates into pure pain; he’d forgotten he’d slammed it earlier. 

…He really hated being his future self. He wondered briefly between aches if his brother’s younger counterpart had been just as disappointed, in the short period they’d been reunited. 

There’s a commotion from upstairs that squeezes all of the carbonated sawdust straight out of his windpipe, crushing it closed as he chokes at the small whimper that follows, hardly audible if he hadn’t been listening acutely for it. 

The can clattered to the floor, left forgotten alongside his own pain with the rest of the garbage. 

“Hey! You okay-?” He calls up the stairs, ignoring his unsteady legs by lifting them off the ground altogether.

The hands of the clock, by contrast, sat firmly within the right side and he decided flying was probably much faster than tripping. 

It’s most likely nothing, and he’s good at pretending not to see the red embarrassment that flushes his brother’s cheeks each time he stumbles around in the dark like he can’t get away from it fast enough.  

Sonic’s never been afraid of the dark until now. 

The darkness brings a sense of restlessness that doesn’t exist in the daytime, when Sonic’s laughing and teasing him and whining about absolutely everything in a way that suggests he’s enjoying every minute of it. 

His earliest memories of him, even, are of himself curled so tightly within his brother’s shielding embrace that his night sky until he turned five was his favorite color of blue.  

When he reaches the top of the stairs he pauses to see Sonic on the floor, breathing just deeply enough that he catches the glints of broken glass that slowly rise and fall with his trembling shoulders. 

There’s something off-putting about it this time; there’s no jokes or even a sheepish glance in his direction, only the six months of silence compressed into a few seconds that put his brain in overdrive.

Sonic’s so gaunt and delicate he briefly checks the couch to verify that his silhouette sits still embedded within its cushions. 

Still.

Everything’s so unbearably still. 

His brother writhes on the ground like he’s trying to move but can’t-

It never goes away. It wasn’t fair. 

Is this what Knuckles meant?

His best wasn’t enough-but he still doesn’t feel like he’s ready to understand that.  

Sonic was strong, he could take it! He never let himself get knocked down! He just had to get up and-

Please just get up.

GET UP!

…But even though he’s right here , there’s nothing he can do but watch as the most important person to him in the entire universe succumbs to the prison of his tortured mind.  

His stupid knee…

“...you…weren’t supposed to follow…”

His blood freezes listening to Sonic mumble in a volume that was never meant for a voice like his. 

"...it's too dangerous here..."

He can’t help it, he lands quickly before him, and he catches a brief glimpse of a broken frame, shattered glass, and the old picture that had rested within clutched tightly to his brother’s chest. 

“Sonic…” He tries, gently. 

His older brother only tenses at what should have been the familiar sound of his name. 

He starts forward, bending to sweep the jagged glass away with the back of his hand.

“Let me help you-”

“DON’T TAKE HIM!” 

Sonic’s good leg connects with his stomach, and as the wind leaves him and he spills to the floor, he thinks maybe he should have actually eaten something earlier. 

Just another thing he should have probably seen coming, but it’s too late now to do anything but face the consequences of acting rashly around the very guy who’d instilled that recklessness in the first place. 

One good thing about Sonic’s lethargy is that it makes catching his breath much easier than it normally would have been. 

Still, he’s too old now to believe if he squeezes his eyes shut that it will all go away.

Rubbing at his damp eyes only made everything blurrier, to the effect he doesn’t even notice how Sonic creeps up on him until his vision finally cleared. 

It’s his turn to be disoriented, and he watches as his brother silently crawls across the floor to him, heaving as he does, almost as if the only bad decision either of them had made tonight was to spar indoors. 

He waits for him anyways.

But Sonic’s making that rare face he makes whenever he truly panics and his brain fails to catch up to the rest of him. 

They’re inches apart now. So close he can feel his brother’s shaky breath disturbing the small tufts on his matted cheeks. 

Foolishly, and with all the false confidence of a younger brother who’s victorious in most of these staring contests, he meets Sonic’s eyes thinking that somehow it would be just as easy to get what he wanted as it was then. 

He sees now that he can’t look away…nothing’s that simple anymore. 

Tears are streaming down his brother’s face, and as if they weren’t unnatural enough, he swears in the darkness he can see a faint streak of red that glints within them, as if reflecting off light that wasn’t there. 

Before he knows for sure though, he’s diverted by a small exhale, and an equally harrowing silence, as realization seems to spread rapidly across Sonic’s expression like he’d just noticed his injuries. 

It’s not long before his brother crumbles himself, all but throwing his arms around his battered and caffeine-deprived frame, squeezing him desperately like he was liquifying through his fingers.

He’d thought maybe Sonic had finally come around, but the way grief and guilt continue to heavily coat his constant apologies, it became less of an emotional release and more of a frantic plea to everyone he’d ever known. 

Much as he vehemently denied it these days, he’s quite fluent in apologies; it’s not like he and his big brother ever needed words to communicate anyways. 

“...sorry…I’m-!” 

Don’t leave.

“Please…please forgive me… please ”

I tried my best.

“I’m-I can’t…I can’t breathe…”

You still love me, right?

Thoughts and emotions swirl relentlessly in his own head and all of his minor injuries he’d been ignoring for weeks ache and burn and sting and scream at him and he doesn’t know what to do-!

Then Sonic lets go and he can’t feel anything anymore but the empty and cold void he’d left when they parted. 

He’s eying the photo, handling it now with infinitely more tenderness than the creases and wrinkles suggested, and now that he’s close enough he can barely make out what it is.

It’s an old picture. One of the oldest they own, and that in it of itself is a miracle. Sonic must have super-glued it to his quills or something while they were traveling so he could cradle it now, trailing one of his quivering fingers over the memory he’s mourning. 

The optimism and determination radiate from his brother’s younger self, pictured pulling a bright-eyed and naive toddler in for an impromptu hug in front of the first model of the Tornado. 

The blurry red figure of Knuckles is visible too, his failed escape from the lens of the camera forever memorialized within the wooden frame he’d eventually come to provide them with, as a peace offering. 

It’s mesmerizing, the way it captures them. He couldn’t remember the last time Knuckles ran from something. He couldn’t remember the last time Sonic hadn’t taken it all in stride. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fought alongside his older brother against the world, together until the end. 

Sonic’s finger settles fondly upon the twin tails of his younger self, tiny bits of glass still embedded in his arms.

Then back up at what was supposed to be the little guy’s taller, though no less sleep-deprived husk. 

His brother leans forward, like he’d meant to verify something before apparently remembering his knee, and what had started as a pained grimace contorted into something far more sorrowful.

“...Tails…”  

The name he’d given him floats out of Sonic’s mouth in the most haunting way, not unlike the way they’d met all those years ago, or the way Knuckles had found him that day at the bottom of that chasm: broken, mangled, and terrified.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t catch you.”

His brother breaks again, wrapping his arms around him a second time despite the way the glass now sticks uncomfortably between them, attaching them together in a manner that almost makes him break himself.

The only thing that’s keeping him sane right now is the flare of anger at the faint realization that Amy probably knew all of this and didn’t bother to say anything to him aside from a vague, sideways comment about how he really shouldn’t color-code all his things yellow, if someday someone could possibly mistake it for- 

He’d thought then she was only patronizing him again. He realizes now she wasn’t looking out for him. 

But if she’d really been trying to look out for Sonic then they wouldn’t be here-

His best friend was hurting so badly-why couldn’t he take his pain away this time-?

He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s squeezing his brother back until Sonic cries out, tiny, serrated shards sticking out of his skin and into his in an unbreakable bond that’s never been this painful to acknowledge before now. 

Let go Tails. You have to let go now. 

The four-year-old in him can hear clearly in Sonic’s voice from all those times he’d nearly suffocated him during a thunderstorm. 

He doesn’t feel much older or less terrified now, if he’s honest. 

He wonders if Sonic ever felt this helpless back then, though he never showed it. 

Now that it’s painted so clearly across his withered face in a way he was probably never meant to see, it’s a small respite that Sonic really cared that much about him because he thought he’d outgrown being a burden years ago. 

His arms slowly shrink away, though Sonic doesn’t appear to notice, and only continues to cling onto him on the floor. 

Fighting his own exhaustion and tears back, he tries to think of what his brother would do in this situation, but nothing helps because he’s old enough now to know Sonic is still too young to be handling situations like this at all. 

Sonic’s just a few months shy of sixteen, much as they’d both love to forget that the ‘older’ part of ‘older brother’ is more a technicality than anything. 

He still owes everything to him. And that means he owes it to him now to try his best to return that favor, even if he fails. 

Even if there’s not much he can do for him anyways.

Everything was much harder when the storms were internal. 

Still, he thinks back on his brother’s method of comfort and tries not to read too deeply into emulating it. 

Back in the days where getting hurt never involved much more than a few painful lumps and the occasional broken bone, if they weren’t so lucky. 

Back when he was young enough to believe the silly little songs he’d made up were enough to make it all better because Sonic would stop grimacing long enough to laugh at the absurdity of them. 

But old as he gets, it’s still all he knows. 

Seeing that old photograph makes the hole in his chest widen with longing. 

So he pretends the stifling heat of the living room is from the flames of a crackling campfire, like Sonic’s heavy body draped over his was only him pretending to fall asleep on him to be annoying. 

He’ll just have to go without the harmony this time. 

Time passes steadily to the rhythm of Sonic’s slowing exhales as he picks all the small pieces of glass out of both of them, and to the sound of his gentle humming-hoping that his brother would come to his senses before he reaches the infamous ‘eggstronaut’ verse that sadly only got less ridiculous the more years that went by. 

It’s funny how they could ever look upon the stars in the sky and never feel as small within it all as they should have…

Still, he’s sure neither of them would really appreciate it, considering neither had fond memories of space anymore. 

It’s well after he adlibs that part when Sonic finally calms down enough to snort. 

His grasp on him weakens, pulling away to relieve the pressure on his throbbing knee to lie there on the floor on his back, and it’s clear he’s still disoriented by the way he settled into the carpet the way he would the grass.

Not necessarily better…but distracted at least. Wherever his addled mind had wandered to now, he sincerely hoped it was more peaceful.  

He took the opportunity to relieve his own numb appendages, standing uneasily to retrieve the first aid kit Sonic’d kept stocked for him in case of, in his words, “OSHA-violation mishaps”.

Small cuts and scrapes are covered by bandages with plenty enough to spare that he finally places one over his own cheek while he has the strength to handle it. 

All the while Sonic lets him tend to everything-something he’d longed for forever just to be able to prove he could do it but now that he has, he’s too drained to make anything out of something so bittersweet. 

When he’s finished, he’s sure to put on another pot of coffee. 

His brother’s since managed to sit himself up, and he carefully maneuvers around the broken glass to lift him back up onto the couch. Though before he can position himself properly, Sonic’s reaching for him again. 

His own wounds are still open but…he really can’t help it.

He found himself in Sonic’s arms again because he knew what it was to go without. 

“...you’re so…warm…” his brother mumbles into his shoulder, and while he has no clue what he meant by that, it seemed to provide Sonic a great deal of comfort so he doesn’t question it. 

He just sits there as the two sway back and forth on the floor, his shredded and calloused hands careful to avoid the spiky or tender parts as he holds him until he’s asleep again. 

Or the coffee’s ready. Whichever happens last. 

Probably long after the coffee’s gone tepid, his brother finally dozes off. 

He tries not to think about how he’s lighter now than the day they met when he carefully carries him up and back to the couch. 

The photograph is still wedged between his brother’s fingers as he draws the warmest blanket he could find over him because Sonic always had a subconscious habit of giving absolutely everything of himself always, even when he physically can’t anymore. 

He’s careful not to wrap him too tightly; lack of consciousness wasn’t enough to still the exceedingly active part of Sonic’s brain that positively loathed confinement, of which he’d learned the hard way. 

Looking down at his brother’s crumpled and tear-stained form as he restlessly fidgets in frustration, it’s a sight so heartbreakingly authentic that violently strips the shine of youthful defiance from his eyes.

He wants to scream at the injustice of it all, wondering when evil changed from such a laughable, petty and childish thing that would go away at the end of a good battle to a malicious, invasive, and cruel war that lingered within them well after victory and stained all things they held dear with its insidious mark even still. 

It’s so hard to listen to Sonic’s ragged breathing.

But we won, didn’t we? 

It wasn’t enough. 

Maybe for the restoration, Sonic’s contribution was invaluable and forever enshrined in the freedom that would follow.

But they didn’t know their borrowed hope, inspiration, optimism…they were stealing parts of his brother he couldn’t get back. 

And they’d never know it. At least not if Sonic had anything to say about it…to him it was just part of it.  

How could he let this happen? 

A pause ensues, then as cautiously as he can, he slides the picture out from Sonic’s feeble grasp.

It’s genuinely frightening how little he sees himself in it anymore. 

He barely remembers how he felt, but there’s a palpable strength in it that he misses. They used to be so invincible…their love for one another only solidified in their recklessness because they were just kids who didn’t understand how unsustainable it all was. 

Back when he’d seen people change for the better, like Knuckles. For the first time he saw strangers as friends to make instead of definitive threats because he’s gained so much so fast he never thought he could lose any of it. 

That hug in the image he held so close to his tired eyes felt like a promise then. Everything was going to be okay, so long as they supported one another.  

The hug he shared with his brother moments ago felt like a desperate plea, more like clinging to each other as they both plummeted down, dragging each other so far into denial in the name of protection that they’re now more willfully dependent on one another than they were at four and eleven. 

…It isn’t a comforting thought, that Sonic loved him enough to watch him die in his nightmares. 

He hated not understanding the full scope of what his brother endured but he doesn’t want to know, because he only knows if he’d been the one to rescue him that day, looking as scarce and frail as he does now, neither of them would have likely made it out of there in one piece. 

Sonic deserved more than that. 

He’s still jealous someone was there for him when he couldn’t be, much as he hates himself for it-

Sonic’s image smiled regardless of the dim, nearly hidden bruises that speckled his little body, still grinning widely in spite of the way they probably ached with a toddler pressed up against them.

Nothing ever truly changed, did it?  

Let go, Tails.  

…And with a deep breath he does. 

It’s too late for this kind of defeatist thinking anyways, not when he’d got a plane to rebuild before sunrise. 

He’ll unpack that one with the rest of the high stacks of junk he keeps hoarding eventually. 

For now, he grabs a dustpan, a broom, and a cold slice of pizza with his teeth, plopping it down on a paper plate to shove it in the microwave.

(He’s fresh out of mugs.)

He swept up what remained of the broken glass, stopping only to race to the microwave to hit the button just before the loud series of beeps woke Sonic up again. 

He might be able to fix up the frame with some glue and get away with it, he thinks as his stomach rejoices at the gift of lukewarm bean juice and leftovers.

Coffee and pizza are a terrible combination, as it turns out. At this point it wasn’t so much about the taste as it was filling the sickening emptiness with something- anything at all.   

The only thing that really does the trick though is seeing his brother sleeping soundly again. 

He knows by tomorrow morning he’ll have nothing to say about it, choosing instead to half tease-half scold him for brewing a pot of coffee at 2 in the morning with that same easy disposition he clung to until his fingers bled.

And if he’s a good little brother he’ll buy it, because it was a lie worth believing in. 

Armed with an entire pot of coffee in one hand and a crumpled picture in the other, he plods back over to Sonic’s resting place, and takes a swig before carefully burying the photo beneath his brother’s pillow. 

He pleads silently as he did then, watching the younger form of his brother disappear into danger with his own Sonic that the little guy’d somehow be able to protect his future self while he still could from all the things he’d yet to face himself. 

Thankfully, he didn’t stir. 

Walking back downstairs wasn’t the respite he’d been hoping for either; he’s simply moved from one mess he’s made to the next. 

It’s difficult, seeing all the pieces splayed out, discarded without care because he’d been too angry then to understand he was essentially ripping himself apart. 

One piece-a wing-sits propped up against the wall, permanently scuffed from where his brother’s sneakers had worn themselves in well before they’d both left Westside beyond the horizon. 

The engine he’d modified from the defunct Cyclone mech rested near the scrapped shell of what was once its home, having stripped it all for parts and left it to rot under a tarp because he couldn’t stand to look at it, when the guilt and grief that came with it were as raw as the unsoldered metal. 

(He still didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.)  

Sifting through the plane’s panels, he finds one third of Sonic’s name in dirty white paint against an even lumpier matte red, globbed on by the bucketful to ungracefully conceal the still visible lines of the twin-tails logo underneath. 

He remembers when he’d first thought to cover them all.

Sonic had prodded at him for weeks on end with barely disguised lectures about self-confidence and all that…and while the sentiment hadn’t been entirely unwarranted, he just couldn’t tell him the truth. 

It was a precarious thing, wishing.

Before he knew it, he was modeling everything to resemble what the world looked like when there was only enough room for the both of them, despite the fact he can hardly fit in himself anymore. 

Sonic seemed touched by the nostalgia regardless, oblivious to the way it was meant to protect him in that nonsensical, childish sense that feared change so much he’d rather pretend a shoddy paint job would be enough to keep the world from turning. 

He’d seen it stop before. Just beyond the space colony’s thick panes of glass, where his brother hurtled out and died in front of it.  

(In front of him.)

… Sonic even had the audacity to comment about a tiny burn on his own arm from where the explosion had licked him, as if the gnarled scar that came with escaping the razing flames of certain death could be covered with the same bandages he once used to tenderly place over the scraped knees of a toddler. 

He just couldn’t bear to lose him again.

Maybe that was why he’d refused to admit hurling himself in front of Sonic wasn’t actually a sign of his own maturity, because he’d been pretty successful at diverting the blows meant for his brother until recently. 

He hardly remembered the chill of the beam Eggman shot through him at his stupid amusement park. He barely thought about the restrictive ache of the metal that confined him on the Lost Hex.

As far as he was concerned, such sacrifices were just part of the deal now that it was clear he’s rubbing elbows with the planet’s only hope. It was imperative that Sonic survived regardless, but he’d do anything anyway if it meant they’d be smiling and laughing with each other afterwards. 

But then he couldn’t. The last thing he saw before getting knocked out himself was his brother’s defeated form lying motionless on the ground.

He awoke trampled and alone, his precious formula ripped to shreds with the rest of the city he’d failed to protect. 

It was truly so difficult without him.  

Even after he’d found his own way to the resistance, it was obvious his friends were as relieved to see him as they were too anxious to admit that they’d hoped Sonic would’ve been right behind him. 

Promises to find him slowly whittled away to wishful promises that his brother was probably fine, wherever he was, and eventually in time, those too would erode away into empty promises to avenge him.

He slurps coffee directly from the pot again as he gathers up the panels, and not dissimilar to the way he’d walked out on the resistance, he’s left to put the pieces back together with a bitter taste that lingered his mouth. 

A metallic taste soon overpowers it when he scoops up crooked rivets and stripped screws in an attempt to patch up what he’d damaged with what he had left. 

There was something about being left alone with his thoughts that brought all of his forgotten scars and anger bubbling to the surface. 

He’d never meant to hurt anyone.  

With Sonic gone he’d really thought he could be a decent substitute, in the process failing to remember that most of his brother’s recklessness only succeeded whenever it could be kept in check. 

In the end, he’d only managed to destroy everything he could get his hands on, perhaps in a style not as flashy as a spindash, but it got the job done. 

It was all Eggman trash anyhow, he really didn’t think anyone would mind if it disappeared. 

But he couldn’t stop himself, and he knew it. 

It wasn’t long before stray bots and surveillance tech wasn’t enough. 

He started hitting harder- bigger. 

Made his own bombs to take out the larger targets: mechs, munition reserves, military strongholds-

He had an obligation to wipe every trace of Eggman off of his planet until Sonic returned and he wasn’t going to back down. He was going to fight to survive like he always had, long before he’d ever known anything or anyone else.

Sonic was going to be so proud of the person he’d become-  

One too many buildings detonated on his command. 

The shrieking sound of protesting metal rung in his ears even now, as he hammers the rivets back into place. 

Then actual screaming. 

He didn’t know there’d been anyone inside. 

Members of the resistance poured out of the collapsing structure, some taking their chances to leap out the windows on the upper floors as the base of the fortress sank into the concrete.

He’d only stayed out of sight long enough to make sure everyone was alive, but it’s months until he can process what else he’d overheard. 

No one suspected him. Everyone thought Eggman had set a trap for them and it made him physically sick to think about potentially culling his opposition for him, even by accident. 

All of the intel that was inside had been destroyed too. 

At the time he didn’t care. To him, it was just as ruined as the rest of the world. 

What’s worse is that he didn’t remember feeling all that remorseful at the time; he’d had something invaluable taken from him, too. 

Nothing was fair. That was enough to absolve him for a while.

A countless number of explosions and dismantled robots later, he happened to spot another large one amid the rubble, laughing to himself about how stupid the poor thing had to be to have stood so close to the blast radius. 

It’d been scorched, but he could absolutely recognize the definitive yellow and red scheme under that layer of black soot that cataclysmically failed to conceal its origins. 

Pieces of it were scattered around the barren area where he’d assumed backup would have been both there’s little else but broken rocks and silence. 

Seemed even Eggman didn’t bother with him. 

Its chest plate had been blown off, and with it, he’d assumed, the main board-once he’d gutted the rest of it to find little else of value but a handful of wires and a long dead battery…which was odd. 

He should have just scavenged and went on his way but he’d been so tired of running, especially when he couldn’t outrun a creeping feeling that caused his blood to run cold for the first time in a while. 

Paranoia drove him to dig through the wreckage in a panicked frenzy, only to slowly pry a metallic scrap out so tightly that the jagged edges cut through his skin and confirmed his worst fears. 

His widened eyes fearfully traced the familiar red symbol emblazoned on it. 

Awareness hit him then like a truck-the resistance had sent Omega out weeks before to scout an area overrun with badniks-a task he’d seemed overly enthusiastic about at the time.

He never returned. Rouge was worried sick, though she never mentioned it, he could just tell-

He was holding what was essentially Omega’s beating heart in his own hands, the wires he’d ripped along with it still coiled around his fingers until he dropped it on the ground out of shock.

He doesn’t really remember anything else about that moment.  

Just all the crying he never did until then. And an indescribable amount of guilt and sorrow. 

He wasn’t okay. He was never okay. Everyone just grew up too fast for him to keep up, and he’d hurt his friends without meaning to but the damage had been done. 

His hands feel over the painted lumps of the now flush panels, fresh screws holding them together with a copious layer of pleading. 

His eyes droop until he pours what’s left of another energy drink into the coffee pot and swirls it around, chugging it before his taste buds can catch up. 

It’s disgusting. 

He’s disgusting. 

But he really just wanted to fix one thing. 

One thing, out of all the stuff he’d broken, just to prove he wasn’t irredeemable. 

If he could fix Omega up in the middle of an emotional breakdown, he could do this. 

It didn’t even really help much anyways…even at the pinnacle of his exhaustion, his tools all out of their box and littered on the ground, Omega still wouldn’t power up. 

What was the point of doing anything anymore if his best was never good enough?

He’d lost everything…his brother, his hope, his mind…

He just wanted it all to stop. 

In that moment he’s afraid again in a way he hasn’t been in four years. 

And whilst suffocating within the grip of fear and despair, Chaos graciously appears to answer his desolate prayers.

He’d been stunned at first…it was surreal to see after so long…

He remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on it, blissfully unaware of how catastrophic those seeds of self-doubt it planted within him would grow so abundantly in the flood waters it wrought. 

Entire cities were brought to their knees and it’s the first time he saw up close how dangerously brazen Eggman was becoming, increasing the number of spectators and potential victims in what had once been a sacred game just between them. 

It’s the first time he remembered seeing Sonic falter at the sheer magnitude of it all, now that the battleground was brought to them, and they were left to hold the ruins all together on top of everything where they’d never paid any mind to the collateral damage before since it was usually Eggman’s. 

Everyone… watching …the world was a lot bigger than they thought it was, when previously unknown inhabitants began to recognize them in the cities he couldn’t help but feel trapped within sometimes as they stayed longer and longer in them.

The pressure was immense. So much so that he never stopped feeling it after that. 

He’d stared into Chaos as it stood there, waiting. 

He saw all the things he hates reflected back at him.

Though he seethed with anger at having to mourn all over again, it rendered him numb. He begged his body to move, to throw something, to fight back like he promised Sonic he would- 

But he knew it was just as useless as trying to keep the sun from setting. 

He just couldn’t do it anymore. 

In what could have been his last moments, he’d cried out for his brother, finally accepting every bit of his age that he failed miserably to make up for. 

He wanted to see Sonic again more than anything…

The universe, like him, has a very wry sense of humor. 

At first, he thought he’d completely lost it.

But minutes later, Chaos was gone and… he’s …still there, whole and alive and blissfully unaware of who or where he was meant to be. 

The younger Sonic had tilted his head in confusion at the sight of him sitting there in a mess of emotions and machine parts. 

And for a while they only blinked at each other until a small, reassuring smile curled onto the counterpart’s face. 

He’d looked around too, waiting for a face that wasn’t coming. 

He couldn’t- how was he supposed to-?

It didn’t matter. 

A tiny spark of hope ignited within him. 

It felt like they’d just met for the first time all over again. 

Though he wasn’t his Tails anymore, and the little Sonic was three-quarters his size, it didn’t stop him from reaching out for him anyways. 

His brother’s counterpart was rather eager to see him, to help him up, and even more confused to have found himself wrapped up in a hug that should have probably crushed him. 

Only when Sonic had to tap on his arm with an entire palm did he let go.

What’s happening, big guy? He’d signed, finally managing to process the wasteland he’d just stumbled into. 

Not that he looked all that worried, in fact-there’d been a sort of excitement at the prospect of a new adventure just behind those eyes that shined so brightly amid the darkness…again, he just couldn’t help himself. 

Probably because he was too strung out to do it anymore. 

I’ll explain, but it isn’t safe here. 

His own signing was fairly rusty, but it seemed to have gotten the point across, despite the way Sonic lightly snickered at his expense. 

Sonic’s smile tapered off into a smirk as he rubbed his nose and stretched, and while he watched him, a sense of euphoria washed over him at finally being able to pretend that everything could be normal again. 

Whatever he’d been planning to do before, he’d left beside the still form of Omega behind them. 

Every thought left his head when Sonic took the lead because war had melted his brain into a mold he thought he’d discarded after so long without the simplicity he’d found himself still fruitlessly chasing. 

He didn’t care much…everything was already pointless. 

Until he discovered that his own Sonic had refused to die. 

And everything tangles around itself like sparking, live wires on a board again. 

He puts down the soldering iron. 

The fuselage is finished. 

It’s not the best job, if he’s honest. He’d have a better chance keeping it all together with a roll of duct tape. 

But it holds, ever so slightly. 

At three in the morning, he considers it a marginal victory. 

There are bent and beaten fixtures he notices of course, and though he should probably replace them at some point, he can’t bring himself to do it. 

They’d been there for him to keep him safe when he was just learning to fly…abandoning them for probably safer options felt like unfathomable betrayal. 

…Sonic always teased him for personifying the Tornado, though he had to know that part of his admiration stemmed from the way his brother’s spirit was practically infused into it, in his eyes. 

It was his plane in the first place, after all.

…Maybe that’s why he’d been so convinced then that Sonic must have felt as though he’d been forsaken. 

Of course, the moment he’d discovered his own Sonic was alive, his thoughts never quieted until he saw him in that HQ building for himself. 

Surprised and confused looks came from every direction but he blotted it all out and flew headfirst into what he’d hoped love when it endured felt like. 

But he’s just cold. 

Unbearably so, to the point where he didn’t even land when his brother tried to wrap his arms around him from his place on the ground. 

He felt…wrong. Nothing like the warm energy that still radiated off of the little Sonic just behind him. 

Knowing what he knows now, it’s heartless and selfish of him to have pulled away, but his Sonic appeared just as eager then to have cut the awkward pleasantries and get to business. 

Seemed as though once Sonic returned he was suddenly valuable again…and though it wasn’t his brother’s fault, it only made him more keenly aware of his reputation as one broken half of a set. 

Allegations that were increasingly difficult to deny.

His Sonic spoke openly and constantly with the person who’d rescued him like they’d known each other all their lives and it hurt. 

“Tails, can you handle this?”

Everyone had stared at them both, the room rife with tension and a secret that everyone but either Sonic seemed to know. 

The chemical plant had intel. Until then he’d been accidentally destroying all the intel. 

Perfect fit. 

He remembered wishing he didn’t care what they thought, but if even Sonic didn’t believe in him anymore…

He’d answered before anyone had the chance to prove otherwise. 

“Got it. I’ll take Sonic-” He watched his weary brother mentally work himself up before attempting to stand. 

“I mean the…other Sonic-” He’d spat out lamely, and tried to justify it then with the older Sonic’s poor condition.  

Truthfully, he just couldn’t face him yet. 

He didn’t know if he was angry, sad, relieved, or a madman or simply a big baby…and with the little guy he didn’t have to face it on top of the war still very much raging. 

He hadn’t realized until it was all over how much of a toll it had taken on his big brother to watch him run off with a version of himself he could never have back. 

It wasn’t as freeing an experience as he’d hoped for, watching the young Sonic slam into things and get lost in a maze he once knew by heart. 

But he took secret solace in watching him fall and get right back up. 

The plant itself was evidence of the inevitability of change, but for a minute he took refuge in the immunity youth provided. 

They didn’t know what they had back then.

He wished he could tell his own younger counterpart to cherish it without tipping him off to how stagnant he was going to eventually become. 

Not when he’d been so hopeful about his future…he remembers feeling like that.

His younger self would probably tell him to get over it, and would’ve probably fixed the Tornado already somewhere in between the second energy drink and third pot of coffee. 

His younger self knew what it meant to survive. 

He lowers the engine gently into place, and it takes him a few tries to position it correctly, since it was technically a transplant. 

He’d been too far removed from his solitary days to think that bluntly anymore. Every decision he makes now is a cavalcade of consequences for everyone he cares about. 

They’re relying on him.

He’s both already and only eight. 

He remembers the way his toddler-self beamed at him, sizing him up in that way he used to do at strangers and being pleased with what he saw.

He’d looked at him like wayward children often did, as if growing two feet taller would fix every problem in the world without considering the weight he’d be crushed under only increases too. 

He’s still doing his best. 

That had to be enough for somebody.

He often forgets these days that his older brother isn’t the only part of the equation, even if he’s the only part that matters. 

…He knows Sonic will disagree, but if a total stranger could fight alongside him so flawlessly…

Didn’t that just make him obsolete…?

“There’s nothing the three of us can’t do together!” 

He knew Sonic was only trying to be encouraging, but forgot that he was on the other end of the communicator. 

Up until that moment, he’d kept the feed going so he could fixate on something other than the impending dread. 

The poignancy of his words slapped him awake, shaking him out of an illusion of his own he’d been busy crafting and into the nightmare still going on around him. 

He should have been up there with them. But he’d stood there instead, on the fringes of the battlefield, too anxious to do anything but wait. 

Everything’s over before he had a chance to realize his mistake, but it slammed into him tenfold when the Sonics descended and only the younger Sonic ran to check on him. 

Minutes after that he was gone again. 

He really hoped he’d gotten what he came for. 

“Cheer up, Tails. I’m sure we’ll run into him again.” 

Sonic didn’t seem to believe his own words, but he gave him a gentle cuff on the shoulder to solidify it somehow. 

At the time he’d thought his brother was disappointed in him for running after a fading shadow, considering it was the last time they’d spoken until he showed up at his door. 

But at some point he realized between dragging his annoying brother back to bed for the first time and holding him in a puddle of broken glass on the floor that Sonic probably missed himself more than anyone.  

It kills him inside because he knows it’s the only thing he’ll never be able to fix; accepting that was just part of growing up too, even if it’s the part no one ever warned him about. 

Maybe when they’re both a little older they’ll understand why the world they lived to protect watched them nearly destroy themselves. 

Right now, it was just too big. A mathematical impossibility he’d be staring at for months if not years on end until he could even begin to unravel its secrets. 

Right now he has to focus on what he can fix. 

…Sort of…his hands are shaking with all the caffeine coursing through him at the moment and he almost places one wing on upside down because he’s too busy listening to his body scream at him to pass out already. 

But he pushes through, like always. 

He found himself again running his hands fondly across the small indents his brother had left there in the metal from digging his feet into it to keep his balance. 

He remembered the way Sonic’s tiny silhouette had engulfed him there in Westside’s sunrise, arms crossed and feet tapping against the wing’s surface as if he’s too impatient to sit and wait to start the rest of their lives. 

“Where are we going?” His little self hadn’t thought to ask him until way too late to divert course. 

Sonic had silently pointed off towards the horizon of waves that glittered in the growing sunlight. 

“Won’t we get lost?” He’d attempted to shout over the wind, but his newfound friend only laughed.

“Can’t get lost if the only way’s forward!” 

Then he’d smiled and laughed too, even though he didn’t know what he meant, because his life before Sonic was so devoid of direction and purpose he’d follow him in any direction he wanted to go. 

He gets it now. 

He’s old enough to find his own way, but… 

Without Sonic he’d still have been that same miserable, listless, and aimlessly wandering kid at four, at six, at eight-

He couldn’t help but be afraid of the paths he chooses for himself, since the bumpy road that led him there evaporated into the thick smoke of burning bridges and bombs he’d detonated along the way. 

The only way was forward. 

Believing in himself wasn’t the hard part. 

It’s forgiving himself when he lets everything slip through his fingers that gets more difficult the older he becomes. 

He’s on his own for that one. Guilt was a curse he’d inherited from the only family he had left. 

And just like the Tornado, he won’t stop until it’s back in one piece, even when he’s the reason it’s falling apart. 

The hours pass by slowly.

He felt less relief at completing his self-inflicted arduous task than he did at the distant glow of light that peeks out just over the trees. 

It’s over. 

At least until he does the whole thing all over again, because the planet keeps turning whether or not he’s ready for it. 

He trudges back up the steps, still wired from the empty pot of coffee he doesn’t bother to wash out, since it’ll give Sonic something to tease him about whenever he wakes up. 

He took the time to gingerly blot the small specks of dried blood off of his arms, and though he’s too out of it to wash himself off properly, he really didn’t want to frighten his brother with that familiar scent before he’s awake enough to process that he’s safe. 

It’ll probably be a few more hours until then. 

But he’s a workaholic at heart. He’s always moving on to the things that require his attention the most.

It was likely that wouldn’t change anytime soon, no matter how ‘mature’ or ‘too large to cram next to his big brother on the couch’ he gets. 

He can’t give up again, no matter what happens. 

Even if that means lying awake for as long as it takes, squished against Sonic on the couch and hoping the steady rise and fall of his chest would be enough to keep him sleeping peacefully. 

He can’t tell if he’s helping or hindering his brother’s healing process; just because he meant no harm didn’t mean he wasn’t causing any. 

Just wanted to let him know he wasn’t hurting alone. 

Knowing he was hurting would probably only hurt Sonic more, though. 

They were just wrapped around each other like that. They’ve always shared everything. 

He wondered for a painful moment if they were truly better off apart for that reason…

His brother groans in his sleep and it dismantled his thoughts immediately. 

He rubs a few gentle, consoling circles into his back like Sonic had done for him in the past, when he’d grown up with nightmares.

Despite everything, his brother is warm. 

So warm. Probably losing the war with his mind but fighting all the same. 

He wouldn’t abandon Sonic, not now, not ever. Especially when he needed him right now. 

The rest, he’ll figure it all out eventually. 

…

He prays his future self doesn’t look back with the same heaviness, and hate him for it.