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Lomedy hates Flame.
It's more of an understatement than an exaggeration, because there's no word on earth that can describe the full range of emotions and feelings he feels for this idiot.
He hates him, every part of him—his title, his swords, his costume, originally stolen from a niche hero, his face, too ingrained in his head, his lips, always curling into a smile when he steps onto the battlefield or when Lomedy tries to make him laugh, his laughter when Lomedy succeeds, his hands, always squeezing tighter, stronger, more securely, his blindfold, his eyes, which he had seen only a couple of times, his scars, his ego, his sword, his strength and capabilities, his cups that are still lying around his house, which he can't seem to either return or break, his jacket that he borrowed years ago and never returned,
he hates Flame.
He hates the way the keychain on his keys jingles, the one he bought along with another, dumber one that Flame kept, he hates their photograph, which still lies in the left cabinet of his desk, he hates the same questions from friends and his mother: "Have you made up yet?"
Lomedy hates everything about FlameFrags. Every bit of him that remains in his memory, every recollection, every thing that is connected with him.
He had long ago learned to switch the channels that broadcast news, he had left the public pages associated with heroes and villains, and had learned to close the news feed faster than he was mentioned. And still. Still, he runs into the Immortal Demon again and again. Into Fragger and any nicknames he has that they laughed about together in the kitchen while making pancakes.
They see each other all the time. Near his friends' dorm, near the university, on the subway, in stores, everywhere. Lomedy quickens his pace as soon as he spots anything even remotely resembling him—and still manages to glance at him.
He stares sheepishly, moving further away when Flame doesn't notice.
He hates Flame. A simple truth, carved into the shell of his brain hemispheres. Flame knows this, and Flame surprisingly respects his decision—he's barely interacted with him since. And that's nice.
(If you don't take into account how Lomedy almost hopes for that damn message with only one word "sorry". If you don’t take into account how they again and again find themselves in the same subway car, and almost glare at each other, and how Lomedy runs away bashfully as soon as Flame opens his mouth , no matter if he's talking to someone or...Or just anything.)
Lomedy is more than happy with Flame not speaking to him. He's extremely insistent that it stay that way. He hopes Flame will disappear from his life entirely. Forever.
"I want him to disappear," he mutters under his breath.
Flame is a bad person. He doesn't know how to treat anyone well—he doesn't know how to be gentle, calm, humane. The only thing he's capable of is making bad decisions, letting everyone around him down. Even his soulmate abandoned him, no matter what happened between them. Flame is incapable of love for more than a few minutes a day. His heart burns, but not with anything worthy.
Flame is a lost cause. Too self-assured, too driven, too selfish to have anyone by his side. Flame isn't what Lomedy needs, and Lomedy isn't what Flame needs.
Flame doesn't need anyone at all. He's a lone wolf. He doesn't like to let people get close, but if he gets a chance, he immediately clings to them, believes every word, is in no hurry to doubt, too naive for someone who is someone so terrible.
Lomedy needs Flame painfully. It's a shameful admission, but his heart aches even now.
Lomedy was alone. He didn't feel alive while holding onto memories of it; every time he looked at their photo on his desk, every time he walked past the bakeries they went to after school, every time he returned to his grave, expecting something to change. That at some point he would appear on the periphery, wave his hand and they would talk again. That he will smile again, and every problem in Lomedy's heart will become smaller and more insignificant.
Lomedy did what he had to do. He did what was necessary. He continued to exist because he probably wanted, just out of spite, to know that he was right.
Lomedy didn't feel alive. Not once in these long months.
So when Fragger, the most powerful villain in recent years, first appeared in his apartment by breaking a window, Lomedy was obsessively thinking that it would be better if he killed him.
He still begged him not to touch him. He did the same with God, reciting every prayer he knew in the minutes Flame was doing his business
Flame occupied his room. His room, tidy and cleared of his things, where Lomedy stayed at night when it became unbearable.
Lomedy didn't try to get him out and didn't try to call 911 because he knew it won't end well. And then Flame dealt with Spongs. And even though Flame insists he doesn't need friends or anyone else, he leaves behind the little money he spends on rent.
And then they somehow became friends.
Lomedy went to Flame at the first call, helped set up a new shelter and carried out the least illegal missions. They went to those same bakeries, Lomedy learnt Flame's taste preferences—in fact, this guy can eat anything, and Lomedy selected his favorite dishes based on the longest "mmm" and the amount of toppings.
The frame on the table was replaced with another one. A newly purchased one, with silly stickers on the sides, with a photograph behind the glass; they are at one of the sleepovers, Ashen is lying on Flame's chest, licking his chin, while he smiles brightly and seems to laugh, ruffling his fur, Lomedy is sitting nearby with Melody is on his laps. Smiling like he hadn't smiled in a long time.
Lomedy showed him the grave. Flame brought flowers there with him.
Lomedy was no longer lonely. This feeling settled in the heart reliably, firmly, insatiably, constantly present. It's not gentle and not at all like Lomedy imagined and dreamed of, all burning and growing, but... Lomedy was okay with it. More than okay.
Lomedy loved and was loved, even if Flame showed it terribly. Lomedy no longer waited for him on the periphery. Lomedy moved on.
The ghosts trip him up.
First one, then another, and history repeats itself; Flame will die, just like him, and Lomedy will be left alone.
Flame will die doing this because you can't win one battle without triggering the next ten.
And Flame's death troubles Lomedy more than his blood-stained hands as he bandages his wounds and screams, tearing his throat, asking him to be careful, trying to get him not to do any of the things he was doing.
This is not happening.
One morning, Lomedy woke up and lost everything he'd ever had. Flame maimed more than a thousand people with dozens of deaths. All after he swore, promised, after Lomedy begged him.
It still happened. And this is not something that can be forgotten, this is not something that can be covered up; it happened. One cannot close one's eyes to this whole pile of people who became dead bodies in a field where they were not bothered to be buried in decent graves.
Flame is a killer on such a grand scale that the next time Lomedy came at his call, a lump lodged in his throat. His hands trembled, clutching the sleeves of his sweater, and Lomedy said everything that was on his mind.
He still helped him, and because of that, he was caught by one of the most progressive heroes of the last months. He was threatened, robbed and almost killed.
Flame saved him and said more shit than he can imagine. Lomedy again told him everything he thought and disappeared—cut off all contact, hid, leaving Flame with nothing.
Fragger wasn't on him, he didn't care. As always.
And everything should be fine.
The ghost is still tripping him up.
He pinches the bridge of his nose when he sees him at his door. Once again. Why does he always end up in situations like this?
At first, he wants to ignore him. He doesn't care, he doesn't care about this idiot—he can do whatever he wants, he doesn't give a freak. Flame can die everywhere, it's not Lomedy's problem anymore.
"I don't care," Lomedy says to himself. He opens the peephole again: Flame. Breathing, alive, looking down, hunched over. He lowers his gaze and looks at his slippers. It takes two seconds for Flame to take a step back, and Lomedy, in a hurry, opens the door. "Bro. What are you doin' here? I told you not to come here."
It's stupid that he feels safe enough next to the murderer of a thousand people when instead of holding the door handle to close it as quickly as possible, he leans against the door frame, lazily looking at Flame's appearance.
A dull stare, a fallen blindfold, stupid eyes averted in any direction but his, and a bitten lip. As proud as ever, perhaps?
"Hey," Flame doesn't really look awkward—Lomedy thinks he has no shame at all. "Um. Can I like...spend the night here? Like, anywhere, I don't care, even on the floor, I just... Like... I really need it."
"Bro, no, I'm not letting you in my house, we already talked about this—"
Flame interrupts him mid-sentence, frowning, "I have nowhere to go. Bro, please, I—I'll leave as soon as the morning comes."
"What do you mean you have nowhere to go, the heck? You have your own apartment, dumbass."
"I—Lomedy, please. I won't be difficult." Lomedy looks at him again with an uncertain gaze, and now he notices more. Flame, overall, looks a little unwell, with his pants tied around his thigh and a slumped look. There's a familiar, sick feeling in his stomach that comes every time he thinks about Flame more than his disappointment.
"Okay. Okay, come in, but!" In general, this 'but' is not important, because he has already moved away from the door, turning on the light in the corridor, but Flame is still standing on the porch. "No problems from you. If someone comes after you, I—I don't know what I'll do to you, bro, I swear—"
"Yea, sure, okay. Gotcha."
And then everything is going to the bottom.
Despite the fact that Flame is strong, stronger than everyone he knows, any hero or villain in this city, he is simply terrible at literally everything that does not count as fighting. He doesn't know how to plant plants, doesn't know how to distribute his strength while doing ordinary things, and only recently learned the difference between the modes on a washing machine. Although he is good at cooking. Lomedy gives it to him.
He looks very pathetic as he tries to bandage the wound. His hands constantly flail in different directions, even though they are undamaged. He bites his lip constantly, exhales heavily and painfully, pressing the same bandage over and over again in his bathroom, when Lomedy, unable to bear this performance, comes inside and sits down in front of him.
"Give that to me."
"Bro? Hello?" The bandages end up in Lomedy's hands, and he almost wants to cry because the wound is dry, still bleeding, and not treated in any way. "Ya told me not to get too close to you—Ouch!"
"Yea, yea, whatever, shut up."
Lomedy doesn't shut up himself. Flame responds to his every word.
Because he always does. And Lomedy, for some reason, actually listens to it. Every stupid excuse, every lie, every word he says, almost thinking that it's good to hear him again—alive, still here, first of all—but wakes up from his thoughts when Flame groans in pain.
He's a liar. He's a killer who doesn't follow anyone's rules or requests but his own, and he doesn't care about anyone but himself—his ego is all he is and is all he has, and Flame doesn't exist without titles and competitions. Flame is an appalling, awful person who stole the lives of thousands of defenseless and innocent people.
And then Flame winces in pain as Lomedy treats his wound, and he can't do anything but blow on it. As if it would help anything, as if the pain from this wound would go away as quickly as the scraped knees of childhood.
"Bro. That's not how it works." Lomedy doesn't look up, but he knows Flame is smiling, and he even knows how—there's one dimple that's appeared on his left cheek, and it looks a little weak because he's still in pain.
"Oh my god, can you shut up?" A smile touches his lips, and Lomedy knows it's almost the end.
"Who beat you up so badly anyway?" He drops it completely by accident when they're already sitting in the kitchen—Flame looks half-dead, glued to the table. His hair is a mess.
"Mmm. Nothing's new, I guess, nothing's new, just like this whole month.." The problem is that this entire month—and a little more, to be honest, exactly 3 montha and a half, a total of 107 days, not that Lomedy counted—Lomedy has no idea what's going on in Flame's life.
He hums, as if he understands, because Flame is half-dead, and asking him anything else is pointless. Instead, he sits down across from him, looking at him again.
He doesn't trust him. His shoulders are tense, his palms are gripping the edge of the table so tightly that he could easily move it if it moved, his lips are pursed every time he turns his back or doesn't hear something.
He's not afraid of Flame, not anymore. It was perhaps the first year of their acquaintance—maybe a little less, maybe more, it doesn’t matter—Lomedy stopped being the one who was afraid of an explosion or an angry look.
First of all, when you are around strong people, you begin to realize your insignificance as an independent and self-sufficient being. It becomes unsafe everywhere around powerful people—assassins, mercenaries, and ordinary little thieves are always nearby; danger lurks at every step, around every corner. Strong people are dangerous in all cases except when they take you under their wing. Powerful, all-encompassing, obscuring all else. Under the guidance of power, the notion of fear is lost, and a feeling of constant adrenaline, possibility, and immortality emerges.
Lomedy is not a strong man at all. Not powerful, not deadly—all these concepts are distant, unclear to him, and don't define him at all as a person. He's weak—he's not a hero, not a villain, not a vigilante.
Lomedy is Lomedy, and Lomedy was alone. Hares are not rabbits, and yet Lomedy cannot be left alone. Everything was mixed up in his head: the same constant actions imprinted on the cerebral cortex, Spongs and repairing the farm, scraping his fingertips until they bled, the subtle taste of food, Calluses on his hands from gripping tools too tightly. Fear of loneliness, shadows turning into silhouettes in the house, guilt. The feeling of lava bubbling at his feet, burns on his ankles, humility.
Lomedy is a weak man, but he's not a coward. He may be soft-hearted, but he's not so stupid as to trust too much.
Despite the fact that it is absolutely obvious that Flame trusts him enough to almost fall asleep in front of him, to open his back, to show the wound, to simply appear on his doorstep, Lomedy does not believe or trust him.
Flame trusts and hopes, and Lomedy has to repeat to himself once again that he hates him, that he is a bad person, covered in layers of someone else's blood, who enjoys killing to keep from melting and allowing him to stay for as long as he needs.
"Are you sleepin'?"
Flame takes a proud twenty-four seconds to respond. Lomey feels like a jerk as he counts down the time in his head. "Maybe?" He mutters, his cheek still pressed to the table, not looking at him
"You can take the b—the sofa. I guess."
Lomedy is an idiot. Stupid, dumb, disgusting. "...Thanks, bro."
Flame appears to be dizzy when he stands up, as he pauses for a second, though it could be that he is simply realizing his reality. And then he actually lies down on the couch. Melody hisses when his head gets too close to the pillow she was lying on, and Flame mutters something under his breath.
Lomedy is an idiot.
Almost suggested we go back to his room, as if nothing had happened. As if it was just one of those sleepovers when they’d roam the streets until dawn, doing nothing—or whatever happened to cross their minds—and then end up at his place, likely battered along the way(sometimes just from falling off the strangest things while trying to do parkour) and collapsing onto one another in his bed, which, of course, didn't have room for two. It seemed like everything was fine between them and Flame still fell asleep next to him, with his back pressed against the wall, always fell asleep only after Lomedy did, waking up only during the afternoon.
This is stupid. This whole situation is absurd and completely stupid, and it's none of his business what's going on in Flame's life or who beat him up. It's none of his business that he hasn't learned to bandage his own wounds, even when working solo. FlameFrags no longer concerns him.
He is a huge liar.
He realizes this when Melody circles his feet, and he stays up all night, periodically checking Flame's temperature—difficult to determine, knowing that his normal state is a slightly higher that for everybody else,— layering bandages on his thigh again and again until it no longer soaked the bandages with blood.
Lomedy is a weak person, without principles and a single thought in his head.
His eyes shouldn't be watering, there shouldn't be a lump forming—he shouldn't feel like this. It's wrong. To feel like this, to miss someone who did terrible things on their own. He was lying to him, his best friend—or at least he thought he was his best friend—that he was going to reform, that it was self-defense, and all that other bullshit Flame had been telling him all this time. It's a weird train of thought. Flame is more of a bad friend to him than a bad person.
Flame is a horrible person. Flame is someone who killed innocent people with his own hands simply because he could.
Lomedy still presses his forehead against his palm, pursing his lips and holding back tears.
Lomedy is the only one who knows what will happen next, what will ultimately happen to Flame. Lomedy knows because the same thing happened to him.
Flame will die, disappear, running after the title and his ego as if his life depended on it. His life depends on how many breaths he takes per minute and how well he eats, and he just can't understand that. He thinks that nothing and no one can get him, that he is truly immortal.
Just like he did.
Everything in his chest was tightening. Someone took it, got inside, peeled off the skin and flesh, pressed their palms to the ribs and squeezed smoothly, smoothly, almost like gentle stroking, if not for the force applied to it. There was no climax—the pressure didn't stop, didn't increase. It froze at the midpoint, not allowing him to take a deep breath, not allowing him to be distracted from his thoughts, not allowing him to forget about itself, holding it in its shackles, not finishing what it had started. His diaphragm tightens, his sides ache, as if he had been running for a long time without the proper breathing that Tyler had tried to teach him.
There was a lump in his throat—like food, heavy, unswallowable. He wanted to spit, cough up, threw up; nausea came with saliva, but instead there was dryness in the mouth, pressing against the palate, like sand against a body heated by the sun.
His eyes burned. Tears wouldn't come.
Lomedy pressed himself against the cold wall, feeling goosebumps run along his very nerves, descending in bundles of nerves; his vertebrae painfully met the concrete. His knees buckled, and he didn't refuse them, sliding down.
He was afraid to lower his eyes. Fear overtook his fingers, reproachfully, painfully piercing them, like tiny electric shocks. He took a deep breath, swallowing, finally giving in, looking at the skin.
The phrase, written in a sloppy handwriting, slightly tilted to the side, located in an otherwise obvious place, was in place. It was worn, stretched out, and looked very much like the scribbles of a child who was in a hurry. "I'll be ok" extended across the back of the hand.
The phrase was in place.
His chest ached. A brief moment of calm and peace came over his chest, like a stone falling from the very edge, and then his ribs squeezed his heart. Anxiety crept up behind him, touching his heart with cold fingers. He sniffled loudly, looking down again, his hand shaking as he prepared to write sentence. The pen left a few ink marks on his hand.
Lomedy didn't know what to write. He pressed the pen to his skin. His thoughts scattered, one way and another, and all that remained was his frantically beating heart, beating a frantic rhythm against his ribcage. The ink left a thick mark where he hadn't pressed hard enough, and for a second it hurt—barely noticeable compared to what was happening to his head—and he jerked it away.
His fingers were still shaking. He took another breath. Heavy, as if he were inhaling more carbon dioxide than oxygen; the exhalation seemed shorter and faster.
come back. Lomedy wrote this in a sloppy hand, without the care he usually put into his messages. He waited a second. Another.
His heart started beating louder in his ears.
He closed his eyes and squinted. It's all a dream. It's all a dream, and it's all okay, it's all good, he can handle it, after all, they were in a mafia prison together, and they both felt the burning lava melting their legs, and they both experienced the sensation of tissue being torn apart by the cutting blows of the sword; they both felt their hearts stop beating for a second and then come back with sparks before their eyes and in their heads, and they felt it all, and there was no guarantee that it would end today. It is their notes from childhood: uneven watercolor blots, charcoal creations on the leg, henna on the shoulder, funny jokes, late-night “how are you?” when one didn’t want to leave the room, and
It couldn't just end that day. They couldn't take him from him, right?
His head was still pounding. He is still alive, he is fine, just like he'd promised, and it is all a lie.
lie-lie-lie-lie
Lomedy opened his eyes, looking at his palm.
There was clear skin, freckles, Melody's bites, and no phrase, no idiotic ink embedded in the skin, no charcoal, no watercolors, no crayons, nothing at all and—nothing, nothing, nothing.
He couldn't feel his fingertips. He sniffled loudly, writing something else out. And something else, and something else, until there was no more room on his hand, until he moved on to the other, until his head rang as if he had been hit with a mace again.
He was actually hit with a mace. The sensation of his skull being broken was phantom, familiar but not his, much less noticeable if it were him, but he felt it. He heard a screeching and squealing in his ears, and felt how we was losing strength. He felt something in his soul being torn apart, lost, dissipated—
And just like that.
His soulmate died.
He died. This wasn't a dream, he ceased to exist. It was all true: fundamental, hard, cruel, wrong, and it shouldn't have existed. It should never have happened. Never, never, never.
A chill ran through his body as Lomedy tried to feel anything on the other side. "Please, please, please..." He whispered under his breath, pressing his lips together, feeling his teeth sink into his flesh. Tears blurred his vision and rolled down his cheeks. The pen slipped from his hand; he folded his palms in a pleading gesture, repeating the same thing over and over.
His prayer was quiet, halting, constantly interrupted; the words of old prayers flashed through his head like a suddenly recalled memory. There were still sparks before his eyes—yellow, green, something in between, switching between each other like fireworks. He muttered, whispered, faltered, sniffled, muttered again; the plea flew from his lips faster than Lomedy realized the words.
"Please."
His head was splitting. Cold, disgusting shivers ran through his body, like ants. Lomedy twitched, unclenching his palms.
He disappeared.
He disappeared, leaving behind only one reminder, showing itself as coal on the back of his hand. He disappeared from a blow to the temple, where Lomedy's heart was pulsating loudly, reverberating throughout the skull, penetrating into the tissue, into the cerebral cortex itself.
His heart ached. It felt like a part of him was being torn away, like something was breaking—it was transmitting its impulses to his head, a deafening thud, as if trying to kill him.
Lomedy curled up into a ball, hiding his face in his knees. His fingers clenched the back of his hand, feeling the velvet disappear beneath the imprints—taking away the last of his remaining self.
No one is immortal. Lomedy definitely knows. They are all living beings, and so is Flame—Flame will die without noticing one lucky swing of the sword. But he doesn't listen. Of course he doesn't listen, he never listened to him—every warning, every request and plea was ignored or forgotten as quickly as their short-lived friendship.
Flame will disappear, and Lomedy just needs to come to terms with it.
"Please," he still begs. "Please."
When the tears subside, Lomedy searches through his contacts for the best doctor who could help Flame in the morning. Lomedy is not a doctor. Lomedy is an ordinary hare without any superpowers or skills, studying to be an agronomist. He hardly knows the rules of first aid, which go deeper than a dislocation.
At some point he falls asleep; when the sun was already starting to rise, Melody was purring in his lap, Flame was sniffling under his nose, and everything was telling him that it was time to sleep.
He wakes up at 7:30 a.m. His phone is at two percent, and his alarm is ringing almost right next to his cheek, on the couch.
The first thing he notices is that Flame is gone. No blanket, no dent, no physical reminder that he was actually here. The blanket lies behind him, as if it had slipped off his shoulders.
Lomedy frowns. He should be glad Flame kept his word, that he left as soon as morning came.
He... Maybe he's sad that he didn't wait just a little longer to see him off. To maybe check his wounds one more time and be convinced once again that he hates him. To make sure he's still alive and breathing, and not just gone. That he's still here.
Instead, he sees a message on his phone.
212-xxx-xxxx
Thank you bro
Lomedy feels like he's about to rant and rave. He stares at his phone screen for a minute, two, three, almost half an hour.
Lomedy
bro we're not even in ny
where did u get this phone
The answer comes ridiculously quickly.
212-xxx-xxxx
IDK bro
i stole someones
Lomedy bangs his head against the sofa.
Today at 11:02 AM, Fragger's accomplice was arrested in his apartment. Lomedy ***** claimed responsibility for all crimes committed by FlameFrags. The individual faces life imprisonment without parole.