"Move on."
Is that what he said? Truly? Did those two words truly emerge from his mouth? He shook his head in disbelief, trying in vain to dismiss the scene constantly replaying in his head. He knew what he said, he knew who he said it to—but he failed to admit it. He couldn't. Admitting it would tear him apart, forging the base for a new, self-hatred that would last decades.
Fuel's pace slowed, his head on a loose swivel as he glanced around the darkened forest. The night was still young, but the Sunshine Forest was no longer kind to the nightly strolls he once oh-so-adored. Nighttime became dangerous, a time where the monsters left their dens to prey on the weak and terrorize the strong. His first—and hopefully last encounter with a grated yammonster left a permanent fear of the once-beloved woods in Fuel's heart.
So why, then, did his feet carry him off the path home?
He passed by Isaac's house, stopping only when he reached the hot spring nestled within the thicket of trees. It is—well, rather, was a common rest stop for woodland travelers. But it's been seldom visited these days—what with people staying out of the beast-ridden forest altogether. Amazingly, no chimeras nested here, rendering it free from the grip of danger. Whether it was knowledge of that fact or otherwise, the sight of the spring nevertheless eased Fuel's mind. He felt safe… protected. A feeling he hadn't felt since childhood.
He made a quick decision to linger, but reassured himself that he wouldn't stay for long. Frankly, all he wanted to do was go to bed, and forget all about what happened today. Of course, that was a task easier said than done. Had it been anyone else, Fuel would've dismissed the topic already, but it had been Lucas who received those words. Lucas, who had been through so much already, forced to hear those dreadful words uttered no less by one of his childhood friends.
"It was an accident," he said to himself. "I didn't mean to."
They came out swiftly, as quickly as one would swat a fly. He had been having a rough day, is all. He was just tired, exhausted—he was in no mood or condition to comfort his friend. Surely Lucas would understand that.
"You really messed up big time, huh?"
Fuel stopped. He had heard a voice, that much was certain, but who's? It was undeniably foreign, yet… familiar. Yes, it carried that heavy feeling of intimacy. He knew that voice all too well. He glanced into the hot spring, staring at his reflection in the water.
"It was a mistake."
"Oh, but you didn't have to rub it in." The image shook his head. "He's been through so much."
Fuel frowned. He knew that, better than most in Tazmily. Three years has passed since Hinawa's death and yet still the wounds hadn't fully healed. And like the rest of the villagers, he didn't know how to cope properly. The others all found their ways; most of them jumped at the chance to bury that sorrow, giving everything they had over to the Pigmasks and their Happy Boxes, all in exchange for a chance to ignore that terrible hole in their chest. It wasn't that easy for some. For those few like Fuel, who—whether willingly or otherwise—refused the Happy Boxes outright, the price was a hollow feeling that lingered and persisted.
The constant lightning strikes didn't help either.
"You lashed out at him," the reflection explained. "It felt good, right? To blame someone."
Fuel remained silent, averting his gaze so as to not stare at his image in the water.
"You're making it sound worse than it was…"
"Somehow I doubt that. He's sensitive, Fuel, you think saying things like that is gonna help?"
It was his own worst critic, his most terrifying nightmare. It was the self.
His reflection wasn't ready to relent. "Oh, don't worry, though. Everyone agrees with you. That family was nothing but trouble. Fassad said so! What was it, again? They're "bad luck?" Hell, I'd say so. Especially that Claus kid… didn't you listen to Dad?"
"Claus…" Fuel croaked. "Don't say…"
"Don't say what? Claus? Why do you care? He's dead, he went and got himself killed, the idiot. Some people just don't have common sense."
He had uprooted his own memories. Painful memories, but memories all the same. Three years of work, burying almost half of his childhood into his subconscious was forcefully dug up and exposed, laid bare for him to review. Blurry recalls, perhaps, but there was always that one vivid constant; a certain redhead, always in that same, blue shirt. He stuck out like a sore thumb, his bright colors more than highlighting his colorful personality. He was energetic, he was courageous, he was…
"Reckless! He was insane!" his reflection exclaimed, finishing his thoughts. "He was… just… stupid! What idiot grabs a knife and tries to kill a Drago? And does it alone, too?!"
If only he had known… if only he had known his plan.
The water's image stilled, it's tone becoming somber. "Oh, but you did know, didn't you? You saw him, didn't you? You… you let him go."
"No, I… there wasn't anything I could do," Fuel muttered hastily. "What was I supposed to say to him?"
"Move on."
Fuel clenched his fists. "W-What kind of a friend are you… what kind of a person are you…?!"
"It's your fault he's dead," the image chastised. "You stood there and watched him walk right towards his death. You're just… pathetic! You sit on the sidelines, you don't do anything to help! You're just… you're just in the background! A minor character! You're worthless!"
"There wasn't anything I could…" Fuel repeated to himself, his own words failing him.
"You're disappointing him, you know. He'd want you to take care of his brother and look what you said to him. You're heartless! You're useless…"
By now, the tears were streaming down his face. They fell into the spring's water, sending ripples through it. Three years of bottled emotional stress, erupting from his seemingly-stoic demeanor. Whether it be through malice or empathy, his own voice relented, the chastisements concluded. The words left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, buzzing furiously within his head.
"I… I could've…"
There was nothing he could've done. No words he could have uttered. He knew that, deep down, yet he hated himself. For failing to try, for failing to do something, anything that could've saved his friend's life. Yet when Claus sets his mind on something, who could stop him, truly? Hinawa? Maybe. But she was gone—long gone. It had been the missing mother that truly affected the twins, driving them both off into two opposite extremes, desperate to find something that'd help them cope. A missing mother was what connected Fuel to the two, more than any other villager. It's why he could sympathize—it's why the loss hurt him more than the others.
There was a rustle in the trees, the crunching of leaves under feet. Fuel glanced at the path leading further into the Sunshine Forest. Who was it? Who was it?
It was a boy named Claus.
The world's on fire, Fuel.
No, we didn't start it. But we can't stop it, either.
Everything's changing, for better or for worse…
It's every man for himself in this forest of flames.
One shot based entirely on a prompt from r/FanFiction; Mirror Monologue.