Randall Ascot was hunched over a desk at about eleven PM.
This wasn't terribly late for him, a man used to waiting late into the night for the chance to accomplish anything, or for anyone else in Monte d'Or, really. But both Henry and Angela had a long day, and for their sake, Randall had ushered them to bed without him. They both deserved all the rest they could get. He didn't know much about managing a city himself, but he imagined it was tough work. You have to keep an eye on everything at once. Maybe it was a little like farming. It would be nice to relate to everyone again.
Hung above the desk, just off to the left, was a forged copy of the Mask of Chaos. Why does he keep that there again?
The streets were remarkably quiet, likely because of the recent… ascension of most of the city, but it's fine. Randall Ascot is doing just fine in his quiet, dimly-lit office. He doesn't mind the dead silence, or the lack of another presence in the room. He's not tired. What he was initially planning he forgot entirely, but that's fine too. He'll just… sit here.
He can do that.
And then he changed his mind.
Trying not to meet the dead eyes of the mask on the wall, Randall shuffled away from his desk and out into the quiet halls of the Ledore estate. Or was it the Ascot estate? Either way people seemed to forget about poor Angela. His quiet footsteps echoed throughtout the home they shared, Angela, Henry, and him. He was alright with being the only one awake right now.
He walked until he reached the door his husband and wife were sleeping behind.
There wasn't a doubt in his mind they've both drifted off to sleep by now, and that's definitely fine. He hopes they're sleeping well, and, eventually, continues on his little journey.
His bare feet carried him over to the couch, and he let himself fall into it. It was soft, and everything around him was pretty. It was a little brighter in there, which was nice. Everything was nice. Randall took in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. This was all fine. Monte d'Or is a wonderful place, and he aught to love living here.
It's a shame he has to revel in such wonders on his own. Angela and Henry were both asleep. They went to bed hours ago, but now of all times, under the high ceiling and dying lights, realization struck.
Randall never bid them goodnight.
And suddenly he felt very lonely.
In spite of the desert outside, Randall felt cold. Why? A big, empty house could at least be warm. He hated places like this. There was just nothing, no matter where you looked. He grew up in a big room in a big house, and in an effort to make it more comfortable, he filled it with everything he could think of. Toys, equipment, nice rocks, weird things he found on the ground… every little thing felt more and more like home. It annoyed the hell out of his father, but that was just an added bonus. The Ascot household had been stuffy and pristine, but for every scribble he added to his walls, Randall's room became more and more his.
He didn't have that room anymore.
Relatively speaking, he had died. Being out of commission for eighteen years makes it hard to reclaim anything of your own, and so, after he'd settled out of his blind, vengeful rage, he was relocated to his new home in the manor.
Randall didn't belong here, and the blank walls and wide windows did their best to keep reminding him.
He felt so lonely.
He shouldn't be here.
Angela and Henry offered all they could. He didn't blame them for the emptiness of the damn house, or for anything else. They've done so much for everyone, and for him, for crazy old Randall. But what has he done?
He's nearly killed them all, that's what he's done. And he's sitting here feeling sorry for himself.
The world claimed to forgive him, but god, does it feel so insincere. How are they tolerating a failure like him? How do they live with someone who didn't think before rushing ahead and nearly breaking everything? He can't even remember what he stayed up for. He barely remembers how old he is. Everyone was doing just fine without him, so what good is he now?
Randall slowly took off his glasses and set them on the little coffee table.
Stupid glasses. He borrowed a pair years ago in hopes of looking cool, but, being the dumb person he is, he wore them until they stopped hurting his eyes. After years of something so stupid, he came to actually need them to see properly. He made himself nearsighted.
What of the man who drove him to revenge though? He was beautiful and terrible and Randall was an idiot to believe anything he said.
What sort of amnesiac trusts everything written in a sudden, stupid letter anyways?
Everything he did was wrong and he was wrong to believe even for a moment he deserved to stay here. His dark eyes had long since unfocused, and kept growing misty. Otherwise, Randall didn't move as he sat hunched over on the couch at about eleven PM.
He didn't notice the other person in the room until they sat down beside him.
Evidently they'd heard him pacing, because immediately to his right was Henry Ledore, close enough to be clearly seen. It seems no one was able to sleep well; after a quiet and concerned talk with Angela, Henry had volunteered to come check on him.
Randall didn't want to be caught like this, but at this point he didn't care. Letting his stupid tears finally run down his stupid face, he quietly leaned into his husband's shoulder and stayed there.
He stayed there and cried.
After ten, maybe twenty minutes, another warm presence appeared at his side. Angela was holding him in a gentle hug. No longer concerned with trying to put words to thoughts or feelings, Randall simply stayed there and sobbed, trembling and silent.
He stayed there until his tears ran dry and his energy burned out.
He stayed there until the warmth of his lovers lulled him into drowsiness.
He stayed there until his breath calmed down, and he was able to wish both of them goodnight.
Randall Ascot drifted to sleep long after eleven PM.