DISCLAIMER: I am not of the owning of any of this.
—s—t—a—r—t—f—i—c—t—i—o—n—
Fuel sighed. This room was just not comfy.
Not that he was ungrateful, of course. On the contrary, he was reverent of Jackie, who had so graciously opened the doors of the Yado Inn to him and his dad in their time of need.
But the room smelled musty and weird, not quite homey, not quite used enough. The floor was hard and sometimes squeaked in weird places. The window didn't let in enough light. The lone chair in the corner of the room made his backside hurt after mere minutes of reclining. The light flickered in all the wrong places, made too many shadows. The walls didn't display any of the crayon drawings Fuel had made his father when he was younger. None of his toys were here. At night, when he and his dad shared the big bed in the center of the furthest wall, the mattress was too stiff, and he could never find that one magical position that enabled an easy slumber. It just didn't feel like home.
But, Fuel knew, that was to be expected. His father had promised him that he and a few of his friends would get to work on rebuilding their home soon. And even that home wouldn't be his home, for a time. His home was gone. But he had his father. He had his family. That was good enough.
And Fuel felt rather guilty, thinking that thought. Because he knew, Fuel knew, that he might've had it pretty bad, but Lucas and Flint had it even worse.
Their house was fine, located to the south of Tazmily's square rather than inside the forest, right in the path of the rouge flames. But their family had been downright torn apart. Hinawa, brutally killed by the weird, metal-looking Drago, and Claus, subsequently gone missing after rushing off to look for the aforementioned monstrosity, for revenge. Not a day had passed since then, those tragic few days ago, that Flint hadn't gone out to search for his missing son with Fuel's dad and Isaac, that Lucas hadn't spent holed up in the house bawling. Fuel had tried to visit him, to play, to talk, to try to cheer him up, but Lucas never seemed to respond. He was sick. He was heartsick, and that was a very dangerous kind of sickness.
Red and white shoes landed loudly on the ground as Fuel hopped off the not-quite-comfy bed. And on top of that, a mysterious peddler had arrived in town not a day after all these freak accidents. He seemed to go on about true happiness and how exactly to achieve it. After the things that had befallen him and Lucas, Fuel had thought about going to listen to one of his speeches, to figure out how to help Lucas and know this great secret, but his father had warned him that the man was just crazy and didn't have the power to change a thing. Fuel wasn't sure if that was fair. Other people had obtained those "happy boxes," and they all claimed it was relaxing and helpful. But Fuel wasn't a disobedient child. If his dad didn't think it to be a good idea, then it wasn't a good idea.
Carefully shutting the door behind him, Fuel walked down the hallway to the lobby, where Jackie was serving a drink to Bob, the man in the cowboy hat seated at the bar. He was determined to do something to help his friend, even if it took time. As far as Fuel knew, Flint was never there. It wasn't good for Lucas to be alone like that all the time. As he passed through another door, the Yado's main door, Fuel made up his mind. He would be there. He would be with Lucas. Because he himself didn't want to be alone. He knew what it was like, and he didn't like it, and was sure that deep down Lucas didn't like it either.
Fuel was all but sprinting down the path to the twins' house. As he approached said home, he noticed the empty doghouse sitting next to it. Not even Boney was with Lucas in his time of need.
Fuel knew better than to waste his time knocking; Lucas wouldn't answer. He reached up, put two fingers in the holes where the doorknob should have been, and pulled, opening the door wide enough to slip inside before pulling it back. One look around told him that nothing had changed since his last visit. The table was clear, the chairs perfectly pushed in. The sewing wheel to his right was just as Hinawa had left it, the last time she'd used it. The smaller of the two beds was quite lumpy, indicating the presence of a person. Towards this bed Fuel padded, just in case the boy was asleep.
Upon closer inspection, he was. His eyes were closed and relaxed, and his mouth was in a straight, neutral line as opposed to the shaky frown he had grown accustomed to wearing. His chest rose and fell slowly and steadily, his right arm tucked under his pillow and his body curled into a tight ball. Fuel stood there for a long time, mind blank, just happy that Lucas could get any sleep at all.
As if he'd jinxed it, Lucas' lips twitched for a few moments before his body began to shake. He buried his head into his pillow and moaned quietly, a defeated and pitiful sound, and Fuel didn't know what to say, if there was anything on earth that he could say to even slightly slow the flow of tears he heard more than saw. I'm sorry. He'd heard that so many times. Wanna play with me? Now was definitely not the time to ask that. Everything'll be okay. There was nothing to be had from such a lie, a promise that Fuel had no power to keep.
Lucas' face emerged then, instinctively looking up at the brunette hovering beside him, expression not surprised, not angry, but hopeless. Like there was nothing left for him to care about, or he knew he'd never be able to live with a great and terrible sin. A severe case of heartsickness. Fuel met his gaze.
And he thought, it may not be directly, and it may not be soon, but things are going to get worse.
—e—n—d—f—i—c—t—i—o—n —A/N: Short n' quick little drabble feat. Fuel. I'm playing through Mother 3 for the very first time, not on a computer. But no, I don't have a cartridge. -cry- But it's inspired me. I'm beginning Chapter 8 now. Wish me luck. I didn't cry at Hinawa's death like I did watching through...but I'm not so sure I can make it through the final boss without a few tissues. ANYWAY, hope you enjoyed. I have a few other drabble ideas that may or may not be written. Who knows. Ciao.