Sticks and stones

Ruìsāng fought back the visceral urge to abandon everything and storm the mansion Alastor had mentioned. The thought of his best friend in such distress ignited a fury within him so intense, he felt it could rouse Yveltal from its slumber with its raw intensity.

Yet, he recognized this wasn’t the moment for reckoning. Alastor’s well-being had to be his priority. So, with a heart burdened by promises of retribution, Ruìsāng steered his car away from the fallen city. The oppressive hush in the vehicle was broken only by the rhythmic thudding of his heart and the faint creak of leather as his white-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set in a tight line.



Upon arriving at his building, Ruìsāng inhaled deeply, the cool night air mingling with the faint city scents, steadying the storm within him. Anger clung to him with a suffocating embrace, nudging him towards rash action. But not today. Today, he would master it, locking it away for a time when its fire could be harnessed.

Walking beside Alastor, Ruìsāng’s silence was a protective veil, his words held back for fear they might cut too deeply. He sensed Alastor understood his rage was not meant for him – he always understood – yet that understanding was a fragile bridge he dared not strain. Above all, Ruìsāng sought to be what Alastor needed, desperate to hold his friend close.

When Alastor tentatively voiced a question, Ruìsāng responded with a shake of his head. Every fibre of his being urged him to demand answers, to shake the truth from Alastor, but he restrained himself as they ascended the stairs to his first-floor apartment.

“We cannot,” he replied softly, yet with a firmness that left no room for avoidance. “If you don’t speak now, you may never. I can’t let that happen,” he added, his voice steady, tinged with a warmth meant to thaw the ice of fear.

Unlocking his apartment door, he gestured for Alastor to enter. Ruìsāng was resolute in his mission to shield Alastor. They would unravel the events of the day, no matter the time it took, ensuring that Alastor didn’t lose himself to the same darkness that Ruìsāng knew all too well.

Urgency propelled the other forward. A fleeting moment of confusion crossed Ruìsāng's face, but the subsequent noise from the bathroom quickly explained the haste, prompting a resigned sigh from Ruìsāng. It was clear that whatever had transpired had been terrible, leaving its mark on his friend. Alastor had always been well composed, and witnessing him otherwise was not something Ruìsāng had anticipated or wished to see.

Shedding his coat and discarding his shoes, Ruìsāng moved to the kitchen with a sense of purpose, fetching a glass of water and preparing a bucket as a precautionary measure. With these in hand, he positioned the bucket near the couch, then approached Alastor with a mix of concern and determination. Gently kneeling beside him, Ruìsāng's expression softened.

“Can you drink some water?” he offered, extending the glass towards Alastor with the hope of providing some relief. His instinct was to bombard him with inquiries, to dissect the events leading up to this moment, but he restrained himself. Now was not the time for an interrogation.

Ruìsāng's gaze lingered on the ground beneath them as Alastor sipped the water— a moment of silence. He fought the urge to lash out, to unleash the fury simmering within at anyone foolish enough to have crossed him. Yet, he restrained himself. This anger, he decided, would remain his own. The last thing he wanted was to instil further fear in Alastor.

When Alastor voiced his thanks, a gentle sigh escaped Ruìsāng's lips, his nod slow, heavy with unspoken thoughts. He remained silent, awaiting the next words, which when spoken, carved lines of concern across his brow. He felt ill-equipped for this role, the confidant. And yet, fate seemed adamant in casting him as such, repeatedly throwing him into the deep end of turmoil. Perhaps it was time to embrace this, to learn the art of being someone's anchor.

“You've got to keep looking forward, make sure this never happens again,” he advised, his voice a mix of resignation and resolve, a soft shrug accompanying his words. Trauma was an old acquaintance, its shadow long and familiar. “Tell me what happened. Don't bury it,” he urged, his eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in a plea for honesty.

Alastor's plea for Ruìsāng not to hate him halted the air between them. Ruìsāng's eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief shimmering through. “As if hating you was ever an option,” he countered, a gentle reminder. No matter the misstep, Ruìsāng's forgiveness was a given, a testament to Alastor's place in his heart.

Alastor's confession, however, tangled Ruìsāng in confusion. The story was fragmented — something about not being forced to yet doing it, food, and a girl's involvement. Alastor had partaken in something, that much Ruìsāng gathered, yet the problem eluded him. He sifted through Alastor's words, seeking clarity but finding none.

“She was the…” Ruìsāng repeated softly, a prompt for Alastor to fill the gaps..

As Ruìsāng processed Alastor's words, a familiar sense of confusion took hold, a sensation he was no stranger to, often finding himself pondering over phrases and their meanings. However, Alastor's casual mention of the girl being his ‘meal’ nudged Ruìsāng into a state of extreme confusion, his curiosity piqued as he leaned back, his gaze sharpening on his friend.

In his mind, Ruìsāng initially interpreted the comment through a metaphorical lens, suspecting Alastor was alluding to a regrettable sexual encounter, something not entirely unheard of. The notion of Alastor choosing Shadowfell of all places for such an intimate thing baffled Ruìsāng, especially considering his own advances had been denied in the past.

However, Alastor's previous choice of the word ‘food’ twisted the context into something much worse. His expression darkened, a mix of confusion and dawning horror.

“She was the food? They—” he echoed, voice trailing off as he grappled with the implication. The leap from an expression of regret to the literal consumption was jarring. The idea that they were veering into the realm of actual cannibalism—a topic usually reserved for bad movies—was unthinkable. “Arceus, Alas…”

Caught off guard by the magnitude of Alastor's ordeal, Ruìsāng was struck with a chilling realisation far beyond anything he could have anticipated. The absence of laughter, the grave tone in Alastor's voice as he recounted the events, laid a heavy weight upon Ruìsāng's heart. Hearing how Alastor had witnessed the fate of the girl he'd consumed, and how close he came to sharing a similar destiny, clenched Ruìsāng's jaw tight with tension.

“She helped you,” Ruìsāng pieced together, finding a sliver of solace in the grim narrative. “Listen, Alas, you’ll pull through this. It’s not on you—you couldn’t have known,” he offered in reassurance, though the fragments of Alastor's story left a haunting echo. With a gentle sigh, Ruìsāng extended a hand, hesitating only momentarily, ready to withdraw should his touch be unwelcome on Alastor's shoulder.

“I won’t let them harm anyone else, understood?” he vowed, his voice carrying a firm promise. In Ruìsāng's mind, he was already plotting retribution, determined to ensure that the perpetrators would confront a terror far surpassing their own misdeeds.

In response to Ruìsāng’s words, Alastor offered no resistance, his plea merely for Ruìsāng’s caution—to safeguard himself from harm, or something even graver. Ruìsāng harboured a response, an acknowledgment of having already encountered the depths of something worse, yet he chose silence over sharing this burden, sparing Alastor additional worry. He offered a simple, earnest vow in return. “I promise.” It was an agreement that he would not broach the subject of his actions further. Their mutual understanding was clear: such incidents would not be repeated.

“What can I do to help?” Ruìsāng then inquired. Whether Alastor sought solitude, an escape from confrontation by staying here, resting, or even getting high, Ruìsāng was prepared to accommodate. Their conversation had reached its end, both acutely aware that no words or actions could alter their present circumstances.