The world is ending in a cataclysm of dragon fire and Sting finds himself running.
Around him the lively town is drowning in chaos and despair, people running for safety like crazed cattle, wizards bellowing their spells through the darkness and the black shapes of dragons hanging dreadfully in the sky above them like some kind of nightmarish, unlit moons.
Right behind him the heavy footfalls of Scissor Runner are a constant reminder that his pursuer isn't tiring as he crushes buildings and whole streets with mighty talons.
But it's not the those talons, Sting's running from, neither the dragon itself, he is a dragon slayer after all. It's a weird premonition of upcoming dread that has him on edge and on the flight.
There's something wrong with the way the night smells, abhorrent, yet familiar. Like the dead body of a beloved person.
It's a sensation Sting had registered once or twice while the games where still on their way and relentlessly after all hell broke loose.
A scent achingly familiar at times, only to give off a sickening undertone all of a sudden that left him with shaking limbs and a feeling of grief churning deep within his guts.
Now with the smell getting stronger by the minute, the urge to be with his partner has bloomed in his chest and an inexplicable foreboding of mischief has sent him running in a frenzy.
Finding Rogue on his knees, clawing at his ears in despair does nothing to relief the fear cursing through his veins.
Then, in a gruesome moment of clarity he recognizes his friend as the source of the scent he'd been following unconsciously for the better part of the evening.
And yet, there is something off about the sensation, something that sits not quite right with Sting, but the scent carried on by an unfittingly gentle night breeze is unmistakably Rogue's.
Like a swarm of mosquitoes thoughts and questions flit through his tumbling mind, but Sting pushes them aside adamantly.
Right in front of him Rogue seems to be fighting for his very life with his hands feverishly trying to cover his ears and his shadows curling tentatively around him.
It's a literal shadow fight, although it lacks any artistry or entertainment and leaves the lonely spectator with bile rising in his already terror-constricted throat.
Sting falls to his knees heavily in front of the Shadow-Dragonslayer whilst gingerly reaching out to offer whatever comfort the other might take from the tender contact.
His attention is focused on Rogue and Rogue alone, forgotten are Scissor Runner hot at his heals and Levia hovering menacingly above them.
Hours later he'll find his knees scraped and bloodied, with lots of pointy pebbles buried deep within his flesh from his rash approach, but right now he doesn't bat an eye.
He is desperate, hurt and worried senseless about his friend and he just can't deal with this situation, but this is Rogue, who's looking like he's going to break any second, so Sting has to try.
He can hear his own voice boasting something about being teammates and the word "together" appears somewhere along the lines, but he can't for the life of him figure out just where exactly those words came from. Not the part of his brain currently screaming bloody murder at him in sheer panic, that much's for sure.
Still, he is kinda proud of how confident and reassuring his little speech turns out to be.
And he's even more relieved to see, he's getting though to Rogue, for the frantic look of raging white terror has suddenly left those ruby eyes and, even though he's still panting heavily, the shadow dragon accepts the silently offered hand and allows Sting to pull him up.
Right as they make contact, something akin to a storm boding static seems to spark from their joined hands, a scorching heat running through their veins, hearts and finally dissolving into the shattered ground.
When their fingers finally start to slide apart, the tingling afterimage of Rogues skin on his own leaves Sting with a dull feeling of loss and a craving for more. More of what, he wasn't all too sure, maybe if he thought about it a little longer he may figure it out, but not now, not when the world around them was ending.
So with all the courage he could muster, he faces his dreading doom with his head held high and a ferocious glint in his eyes.
And when Rogue turns to stand back to back with his brother in arms, the shimmer of relief still fresh in his eyes, as he leans heavily against him, Sting can't help but crack a smile.
Squinting over to Rogue, he finds his grin returned. Shaking and timid as it might be, Rogue's smile is still there and directed at Sting alone.
All of a sudden, something shifts like a wedged gear jerking back into place, and the two of them are completely in sync- a feeling similar to a Unison Raid and yet far greater than that.
The world stops around them, time stalls and in this moment frozen in a whirlwind of light and shadow they are invincible.
Sting knows it as if it is the most basic thing in the universe. With the other one by his side, he is unstoppable.
There is no need to look over to Rogue this time, for the Shadow Dragonslayer simply rests his head ever so slightly against Sting's. His black strands mingling with the white blond spikes are a beautiful sight to behold, as well as the dance of Shadow and Light, as their magic flares wildly around them.
In this second it's just the two of them secluded in their own bubble of raging magic power, silently vowing to keep the other one safe.
And then they fight.
When an eternity washed out in blood and sweat has passed and the dragons perished in a disgustingly beautiful explosion of golden light, the unsettling smell that had been haunting Sting's nostrils for hours peaked.
The White Dragonslayer turns harshly into the direction it comes from, where his eyes only meet a wasteland of rubble and the smoking remains of the Eclipse Gate.
The scent becomes unbearably strong until every fiber of he being screams in torment, then it vanishes completely.
At the back of his mind, a black emptiness seems to spread and while his blurring gaze is still fixed on a tiny track of golden sparks ascending into the night sky, his knees give out.
The heavy fall he's expecting, never comes and moments later Sting blinks back into awareness, to find himself supported by Rogue's arms around his waist.
He is hit by a wave of the familiar scent of strong tea and cedar.
This time it's right, nothing nauseatingly twisted and horribly warped accompanies the sensation, just a feeling of belonging, that rapidly spreads throughout Sting's entire body, leaving him heavy and weak.
For a moment his eyes find Rogue's worried gaze staring down at him, then they flutter shut and he gives in to the wave of drowsiness washing over his mind.
He dully feels arms flexing around him, a muted voice calling out to him, but the darkness lures him in.
When Sting comes to his whole body is aching, as if a dragon actually had stepped on him, but the unsettling feeling is gone.
A soothing aura surrounds him like a blanket as his head rests comfortably in Rogue's lap.
Pale fingers card gently through his unruly hair, tracing the line of the old scar right across his eyebrow and coming to a fleeting halt at his temple to push some stray strands out of his eyes.
The touches are calming and Sting's juggled mind craves more of the comforting closeness he had denied himself for years, so he turns his head and buries his face in Rogue's bandaged abdomen, quietly nuzzling into the stained fabric.
There is a little yelp of surprise at the sudden contact that startles Sting fully awake and leaves his cheeks burning a brilliant crimson.
" Ah... I... I was just..." he splutters unable to get the mess of words wheeling around in his head into any intelligible sentence.
"It's fine, you just startled me, is all." Comes a quiet answer. "You ok? What happened? One second you seem no worse for wear, then you spaced out and collapsed out of the blue."
There is a good amount of concern laced into Rogue's low voice and Sting feels sorry for worrying him and even worse for not really having any plausible answer.
The menacing scent, this sudden feeling of dread and the abrupt lack of them all- he wouldn't trouble Rogue with any of those things, not after he had found him in such a state of distress earlier.
His head snaps up at this thought.
"Throw that one right back atcha! What was wrong with you earlier? You looked, like you had totally lost it. I mean, you were down on your knees, clawing at your ears! Right in front of a fucking dragon, for heavens sake!"
Sting can hear his voice rising, even knows it won't do any good, but the sole memory of the scene makes him anxious, and that he just can't deal with.
"'m sorry. I don't really know what went wrong. Guess I just kinda panicked." Rogue's gaze is fixed on the ground, dark bangs hiding his eyes. His voice seems hollow and his feet are far from stable, as he gets up and turns away.
"Thanks for showing up just in time. I mean it. Think you can walk?" Sting doesn't answer but staggers to his feet, gladly accepting the helping hand offered by his friend. He can tell, Rogue's not being honest, but there are more pressing matters at hand. The time for talking would come, and then they would talk, so for now seeking shelter and treating their injuries comes first.
Rogue seems to agree with him on that one.
"Let's get you home and your wounds cleaned up," he mumbles "You definitely need some rest." He's suddenly swaying dangerously, weariness obviously catching up, and has to lean against a crumbling wall for support.
"Not until we've taken care of your wounds, too!" Though Sting can feel exhaustion descending upon his beaten bones, he still offers his shoulder in silence and is surprised when Rogue complies without a single word of protest.
While guiding his companion through the destroyed streets, they come across several people, that had been cheering them on only hours ago.
Some of them are frantically digging in the piles of debris that had been happy homes this morning.
Many of them are crying, desperately calling out for someone they might have lost in the chaos some wailing as they find gruesome reassurance between the rubble.
But a handful is just wandering around, like lost children, eyes empty and wide, as they cannot comprehend what they had just witnessed.
A certain woman comes their way, her hair matted with blood and grime, dress torn and she stares them directly in the eye. She comes closer with swaying steps and looks at Rogue in wide-eyed wonder before she whispers a single word and is on her way.
"Mischief."
It hangs heavily in the air above their heads, like a judgment. A conviction.
He can feel Rogue's silent form quivering against his side and can't think of anything to do, but fasten his grip around the bandaged waist and take comfort from a raven haired head suddenly coming to rest on his shoulder.
As they make their painfully slow way back to safety, normality, the dust settles in the sky and reveals the bony face of the moon, as it hangs silently above this closing stage of tragedy.
Neither of them realizes, that their fingers are still intertwined and each is mindlessly caressing the other one's palm.