Aftermath

Ruìsāng struggled to keep his focus on the road. Alastor was in the one place they’d been warned against since childhood. Shadowfell. Even Ruìsāng had steered clear of the place, for reasons glaringly obvious. The tales of Sanctum City paled in comparison to this place, yet here he was, drawn inexorably towards it, as if the cursed mark etched upon his chest resonated with Shadowfell’s own sinister heartbeat.

As Ruìsāng’s car sped over the silent highway, a peculiar sensation crept over him. It was as if an unseen force, a tether of sorts, was pulling him closer, tugging insistently at the very core of his being.

Leaving the highway’s relative familiarity, he navigated through the decaying streets of Shadowfell. Here, the sensation intensified. This time, it wasn’t pressure against his chest – it was as though the mark sought release, yearning to unfurl itself into the shroud of the night, almost… as if it was home.

Navigating became a game of intuition as the GPS lost its use between crumbled and debris-laden streets. Ruìsāng clung to Alastor’s voice on the other end of the line, knowing that as long as he kept talking, Alastor was safe. Finally – he saw Alastor, enshrouded in a faint, ethereal glow.

Without hesitation, Ruìsāng killed the engine mid-motion, his car halting abruptly before his friend. He bolted out and seized Alastor by the shoulders, demanding to know, “What happened?”

His eyes flashed with a dangerous promise – someone, somewhere, was about to feel the full force of his wrath if anyone had been foolish enough to lay a single finger on this man.

The sight of Alastor shaken up, was something Ruìsāng had never wanted to see. A visceral protectiveness ignited within him, that familiar rage burning bright, desiring nothing more than to hurl the world into disarray, to confront and dismantle whoever dared touch his friend. In this cruel, unforgiving world, Alastor’s well-being was his anchor; without him, Ruìsāng would simply not exist. He’d never had a family, or friends, even. He simply had… Alastor.

As Alastor’s words spilled out – about a mansion, a girl who was nice, but then wasn’t – Ruìsāng's fury found focus. Every detail Alastor uttered, from tunnels to a mention of Pokémon, etched a deeper sense of foreboding into him. Whatever happened, it wasn’t good.

Ruìsāng’s hands moved up and cupped Alastor’s face, one hand wrapped in bandages, the other bare. His red eyes searched Alastor’s, seeking answers, seeking to understand the depth of what had transpired.

“Did she touch you? Did she – or anyone else – hurt you? Because I swear to fucking Arceus, Alas,” his voice was a low growl. He was ready to be Alastor’s sanctuary, to stay by his side through the night.

And then, come morning, he would return. And if anyone had touched him, he’d make sure it would be their last time touching anyone.

Ruìsāng felt the weight of Alastor's hand atop his own, yet it was the fury within him that held his full attention. Anger was a familiar terrain, a landscape he could navigate with eyes closed. It was a shield against the world, but worry – worry was a different beast. It clung to him with a merciless grip, paralysing him with the need to find and confront whoever dared to threaten what was precious to him. Maybe he was monstrous in his vengeance, but for Alastor, he’d embrace that darkness without a second thought.

Alastor, in stark contrast, remained calm. He assured that no harm had come to him physically, but Ruìsāng’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. He searched Alastor’s face for any sign of deceit, for any hidden wound. Then those words slipped from Alastor’s lips – Even if I didn’t deserve it.

“You fool,” Ruìsāng's voice was a hiss as he gave Alastor a shake, demanding his full attention. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” he demanded, he begged. He needed Alastor to understand the importance he held, to realise that his survival was a necessity, regardless of the cost. To Ruìsāng, the world outside of this could crumble and burn.

At Alastor's attempt to shift the focus onto him, Ruìsāng scoffed and withdrew his hands, his demeanour firm. “Focus, Alas. It doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “I need to know what happened to you. Now, or in your studio, or even at my place, I do not care,” he stated. He was poised on the edge of action, ready to unleash his fury upon the world if it meant avenging his friend.

As Alastor said those words, claiming he didn't deserve salvation, Ruìsāng felt as though the very earth was crumbling beneath him. The notion that there could be a world, a life without Alastor was unfathomable. Alastor was interwoven into the very fabric of his existence; every thread of Ruìsāng’s being was inextricably linked with his friend’s. Alastor was not just a part of his life; he was the lifeblood of it. To imagine a reality devoid of him was akin to imagining his own undoing.

Alastor's plea to leave struck a chord deep within Ruìsāng’s heart. Without a moment's hesitation, he reached out and pulled the other into a protective embrace. As he buried his face in the crook of Alastor’s neck, a wave of relief washed over him. In his arms, Alastor was safe, tangible, real. Nothing, Ruìsāng vowed silently, would ever be allowed to take that away from him.

“Yeah,” Ruìsāng finally whispered. Reluctantly, he loosened his hold, tapping Alastor’s arm gently. “Get in the car. Where do you want to go?” he asked, his gaze shifting to the vehicle. Inside, a black Vulpix peered out with curious eyes, quickly scampering to the back. Ruìsāng was ready to take Alastor anywhere, to the ends of the earth if need be.

Facing each other, Ruìsāng and Alastor were a study in contrasts, shaped by vastly different pasts. Ruìsāng’s childhood was filled with trauma, devoid of genuine joy or carefree moments. His youth was marred by burdens too heavy for a child, burdens that only grew and threatened to crush him as he aged. Alastor, in stark contrast, had grown under the nurturing wings of loving parents, his life untouched by the kind of harrowing loss and guilt that had been Ruìsāng’s constant companions.

In the presence of anyone else, Ruìsāng might have felt a pang of envy, a gnawing guilt residing in the void where his heart should beat. But with Alastor, it was different. He believed Alastor deserved every bit of happiness and protection he had known. Ruìsāng never wished for that to change; the fact that Alastor was here, alive, and capable of smiling was a testament that something pure and good still thrived in this world.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Ruìsāng didn’t need to start the car, never having turned it off. Alastor voiced he wanted to avoid his parents' place, so Ruìsāng nodded in understanding. Usually, his studio would be the go-to sanctuary, but with his mother away until January – as was her habit every December – his own home offered a rare refuge.

“Then let’s go to my place,” Ruìsāng decided, his voice carrying a tone of finality. He would notify Alastor’s mother to ease any worries. Methodically, he marked their current location on his map and switched off the GPS, pressing down on the gas pedal.