Regret (Jarlo)

He pulls the large hood further over his messy hair, drawing his legs closer to himself.

The lights are switched off.

The shades are drawn.

And he curls deeper into Arlo's ridiculously plush armchair.

...

Seriously, he swears he's sinking deeper and deeper with each passing hour.

He cradles the bag of cookies he swiped from the kitchen to his chest, and eats one after the other.

...

Arlo's going to kill him for getting crumbs on his chair.

...

Who cares.

As soon as he woke up he knew it'd be a bad day. The sun had pierced his closed lids, and he turned over... right off the side of the bed and whacked his chin on his night stand.

Cursing, he picked himself up and dragged himself through getting ready for school. But as he sluggishly went about his morning routine, he found himself thinking about his past; his sins.

He'd stared at the mirror. The monster had stared back.

School quickly became out of the question. He didn't want to see the faces of the people he'd hurt. Beaten. Sent to the hospital.

The monster sent him a wry grin. Why do you even go back at all?

He doesn't know. Maybe to grasp some semblance of a normal high school life. Or to beg for forgiveness by trying to rejoin the commu—

Forgiveness. The monster laughed, amber eyes glittering. That's rich.

He knows.

Twice now it's happened. It's a miracle you're not in prison right now.

He knows.

You don't deserve a normal life. Friends. Family. The monster grinned. Love.

He tore away from the mirror. It laughed at his back.

He shed his uniform and slipped on his favorite hoodie and sweatpants. Then he grabbed his phone and walked out the door, heading in the opposite direction of the school.

Now he's here. In Arlo's apartment. Powering through his stash of snacks and wasting away in his own self-pity. He... couldn't stay in his own dorm. Not in this state.

His phone had been going off like crazy, thanks to Arlo no doubt. He turned it off hours ago.

He stuffs another cookie in his mouth, staring at the painting on the wall opposite of him. It looks expensive... in that particular way that expensive things look useless, and are only sold because the buyer has nothing better to spend their money on.

It's a plain canvas with a few strokes of paint, varying shades of golds and reds.

Red.

Red, dripping down his stifling collared shirt, gushing from the gaping wounds in his body, dried and caked under claw-tipped fingers, power thrumming under his skin, RAGE—

He closes his eyes. Takes a shuddering breath.

You loved it.

He doesn't deny it.

Then the door swings open, and he jumps, eyes wide. Seeing who it is, his heart beats faster and he angles away.

"John. Where have you been?"

He doesn't answer.

Arlo walks in and closes the door behind him. "I've been calling you."

He stares at his knees. Arlo's watching him; he can feel it. If he were to look up, he's sure he'd see those brilliant sapphires taking in every detail. Drawing conclusions.

He waits.

Rather than ripping into him for ignoring him, Arlo strolls over and sits at the foot of the armchair. Then he quietly asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

John slouches further. He doesn't know what to say. He'd nearly killed Arlo in his rampage to become King. And now they're together.

It's only a matter of time before he hates you like everyone else.

He swallows. "I'm... sorry I... got crumbs on your chair."

"It's alright." Arlo's voice is full of nothing but patience. It makes his heart ache.

"And I'm sorry I almost killed you. I could've—" A sob escapes him, and Arlo takes his hand as his breaths turn ragged.

"Breathe, mon chéri."

The familiar pet name helps ease his mind, and he grips Arlo's hand tighter. Arlo squeezes back. Then he says, "I've forgiven you for that. Months ago."

"I-I know." He finally looks at Arlo. The care in his eyes nearly makes him look away again. "It's just... hard to believe that I have... this." He squeezes Arlo's hand again.

His foot crushing Arlo's head against the blood-stained pavement, unholy glee burning in his bones as he stood proud before his new subjects—

He yanks his hand back, tucking it in the warmth of his chest.

"John," Arlo's thumb strokes his cheek. He's surprised; they aren't normally this tender with each other. He... doesn't hate it. "I'm done being angry. All that bitterness doesn't help progression. And you've progressed. Beautifully," he adds.

The months after his excursion were a mess. He'd been taken away again and Keon was somehow worse than the last time. Downright cruel. Reminding him that he's nothing. That he doesn't deserve to be King. Replaying his brutality over and over. And over. Until he broke. Until he agreed.

He still has flashbacks.

When he returned he'd been quiet; subdued. No one touched him, but their whispers and glares were enough. He was a wraith in the hallways; a mimicry of who he was when he first came, but... silent. His power was shoved deep, deep down and locked away. No wit or clever words or joy. He just... was.

He'd accepted that he would be alone for the rest of high school. He deserves it. He doesn't want to hurt anyone else.

A hollow shell. That's what he became.

Then Arlo, of all people, spoke to him. He'd been mocking at first, but John hadn't responded. He continued to tease and prod at John, for weeks. Still, he didn't respond.

Finally Arlo yanked him in an empty classroom.

"What's with you?" The sapphire eyes glow with rage.

John stares at them. They're... pretty. Especially when he's angry.

He snaps his gaze away, looking at the carpeted floor. It's dull in comparison.

"You're too quiet. Too despondent. It's worrying the students."

Worrying them? They should be thankful that he's become nothing. Or maybe he's always been nothing; it just took all this to figure it out.

"Say something!" Arlo yells. It echoes in the empty silence.

He slowly meets Arlo's piercing gaze. "What do you want me to say?"

Arlo blinks, seemingly shocked that he listened. He continues. "Sorry doesn't cover what I've done. I come back to this school every day, seeing everyone I've pummeled. Sometimes I don't recognize them... because their face isn't disfigured." A wry grin graces his lips. "But everyone recognizes me."

Arlo is quiet. Speechless.

"So what do I say to them? 'Please forgive me?' 'I'm sorry I sent you to the hospital?' 'Do you want to be friends?'" He spits the last word. Then shakes his head. "No. They deserve better than my pathetic groveling."

He glares at Arlo. "So excuse me if I'm keeping to myself. Enjoy it. And enjoy the rest of your school year before you graduate." He strides to the door as he mutters, "Must be nice."

He's nearly at the door when, "John."

He stops. He doesn't know why.

"You've changed."

Has he? It's more like he's gotten a large dose of reality.

"There was no other option." Then he walks out the door.

Arlo was considerably kinder after that. Despite him being unresponsive, Arlo occasionally walked him to class, talked to him during lunch, met him on the roof and sat with him in silence— little things. It was the continuous little kernels of support that had him warming to Arlo's presence.

It took months. Months for him to open up the barest amount. To let someone in again, let alone Arlo.

But Arlo was nothing if not patient. He became a quiet constant in his life. Appearing when he was questioned by anyone, student or faculty member. When he was hiding on the roof, or on the rare occasion where he let himself cry at school; he was there.

When he smiled again for the first time, when he laughed, when he dared touch his power again, Arlo was there.

And the care grew into something else. Something deeper.

It's shining in Arlo's eyes as he waits for a response.

"I..." He struggles to sort out his thoughts, to cling to one and talk about it. But they're rushing, slipping past his grasp. "...love you."

Pathetic. That's all he has to offer? He can't even sort out his feelings—

Arlo leans up and kisses him on the cheek. "C'mere." He gets his arms under John and pulls, bringing him down next to him. John curls into his side. Arlo slides his fingers under the hood and entangles them in his hair. "I love you too."

John grips his shirt, clinging to his lifeline. His love. And for that moment, in his arms, the monster is quiet.