A/N: Usually I don't dabble in angst, so when I do, it all comes pouring out. Happy ending, though. English isn't my first language, so please notify me if you come across any spelling or grammar mistakes. Enjoy!

He turned the knob and with his usual breakneck speed pulled his hand back, just in time for the cold water droplets to miss. Now came the waiting, and he despised that. He tapped his bare foot against the cold marble floor and crossed his arms, keeping his keen eyes focused on the droplets to check for steam.

Even in such a luxurious house, the water had to warm up. Waiting, waiting, always waiting, one of the worst things in the history of Earth. And Mobius. Back home he didn't often have the luxury of hot water whenever he took a shower, and that was one thing he was going to miss when they got home.

Steam made the glass walls of the cubicle look like a splotched children's painting, but at least it meant the water was warm. Hot, even, he thought when he held his hand palm up under the stream. With a grimace he leaned forward and bore the sting of too hot water for a little while until he turned the knob from red to blue.

Funny, that, he mused. Back home yellow was the color for 'hot' and green meant 'cold'. He kept his hand under the shower until it hit a pleasant temperature and then stepped under it in one smooth move, pulling the door of the cubicle shut.

With his back to the showerhead he counted down until the water soaked through his water-repellent fur. His quills were so densely packed it took a full four seconds before the water finally hit his skin. He shivered when the water ran down his scalp and dripped down his arms, making him look like a fountain.

He stared at the floor and saw the muck and grime flow towards the drain, slowing to a crawl if his feet stood in the way. It was mesmerizing to watch the little grains of sand flow in the streaming water, heaping up at his feet before another tiny current took them and hurled them down the dark, unforgiving drain.

A tiny trickle of red joined the sand, and as he jostled the quills at his back the trickle grew. A just-healed scratch opened up under the water's hot embrace. He hadn't even noticed he had gotten the scratch, though by the size of the trickle, or rather, stream, it was a sizable one.

He knew he was going to feel it in the morning, but for now the hot shower calmed his frayed nerves and sore knees.

The grime kept on coming, as if his quills had started a dust museum. He bent over forward and shook like he saw one of those dogs do, spraying dirt-water on the glass walls of the cubicle in a failed post-modern scribble about the relativity of life or something similarly vague. The sand grains slowly began their descent amidst the water, and he watched them roll down from his low vantage point.

Even more vigorous than his shaking he started rubbing his hands through his quills, relieving them of the clotted blood and who knows what else tangled up in them. He accidentally stung himself a few times, but it made this situation all the more real. It had happened, the pain confirmed it.

With a burning scalp he finally stood upright and took a long breath through his nose, rubbing the water from his eyes.

His abandoned shoes and gloves looked filthy in the spotless bathroom. But not as filthy as they should be. They were too clean, too … clinical to have accompanied him through that. He should run through the mud, get them as dirty as possible, maybe that would make him feel better about the whole situation. Maybe he should just run.

But he stood in this cubicle, washing away the last physical remains of the whole situation, and he wanted to step out of the shower. There should be a reminder, something in the tangible world which reminded him of him. But he also wanted to be rid of the smell of blood and space, if that had a scent.

So he kept on standing under the shower head, his head bowed, his back slumped against the wall. He knew he'd bounce back, he always did. In his case, not only time but also speed healed all wounds. But for the moment, right after it had happened, he knew he was entitled to some reflection on it, some weird twisted form of grief before he skipped through the stages and hurried towards acceptance.

It was hard to breathe with his nose continually invaded by water and water running by his mouth, but still he kept his head bowed. The cleaned wound on his back stung, but slowly the pain faded. He couldn't decide if he wanted it to go.

With every breath the need, the urge, the tickle to run away from it all grew. He recognized the feeling, he had felt it hundreds upon thousands of time. When he it came, he dropped everything he held dear and ran. Unless he couldn't, but even then he found a way. This time he slumped lower, until finally he sat down, the floor warm from the steaming water, his head on his knees.

With all the burnings in his body faded by the heat of the water he felt a new burning coming up, tickling his throat and making the shower blurrier. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. The water flowing down the drain was saltier.

When he walked out of the bathroom, they'd expect him to be his normal self, the cocky guy, always plowing through and forging new paths where no creature dare tread. His lil' buddy was as shaken up as he was, if not more, as was the human kid. They'd rely on him, more than usual, and he knew he could bear the burden. He always had and would do so in the foreseeable future.

But in this shower, in his private cubicle, he could sit down and let some things finally go free. He fought hard to keep his grief just to salt, because he knew pretty much everybody in the house would have his or her ears pointed towards the bathroom, waiting for a signal to burst in. He couldn't do that to them, watching their hero break. They'd understand, sure, but he didn't want them to. They didn't need to.

So he kept on sitting in the shower, feeling the water pound on his head and back until it tingled and he could no longer distinguish individual streams. It was like standing underneath a waterfall, the torrents charging at his skull like insane lions. A headache started taking shape. The pain came back. Yup, still real.

A lone stone sat on the sink, the white porcelain reflecting the green light emanating from it. It was the only tangible thing left, but in itself it didn't represent the lost frenemy. It represented power, bright golden power, and the way home.

For a brief moment homesickness caught his heart in a chilling grip and he pictured the lush forest of the Mystic Ruins, the exciting Green Hills and joyful Westopolis. He shook his head and flung water droplets from his quills and ears, trying to get rid of the mental pictures. Now, however, a new mental picture sprung up and bit into his mind, refusing to let go.

Him, seeing the startled faces of his friends disappear from view when the floor rose up. A second of freefalling and metal flashing past before he escaped the artificial gravity field. The strange planet looked beautiful from this vantage point, but he was too busy semi-panicking to take its beauty in. There was only one avenue of escape, but it was one that he couldn't control. Not yet, anyway, he thought, and he had gripped the glowing stone which now lay on the sink.

He had survived the trip back, but it wasn't a pleasant one. And immediately after he had fallen down on hands and knees his red friend had appeared and pulled him to his feet, saying something which didn't register at the moment.

The moment the brief thought that it was all over crossed his mind was the worst. In his world, even a brief moment lasted three lifetimes. At the rate he moved at any second was a split second, and he loved it. Except when thoughts of doom filled his head and clouded his positive attitude.

"But I survived. And he didn't," he said. It was the first thing he had said in a while, and it sounded good to hear his voice echo in the spacey bathroom.

"He didn't," he repeated, and once again let his head fall onto his knees. He didn't want to close his eyes, didn't want to relive the tiny second in which he freefell, with only one impossible option laid out to him. So he kept talking.

"But maybe…" he said, but he shook his head at himself. At that altitude, without the extra power, he was gone. Maybe a kid had wished upon him.

He barked out a laugh, not at all like his usual cocky laugh. He knew his friends were going to react to the sound, but somehow talking to himself made him feel better. It didn't make the situation any easier, but by letting the grit wash from his body he had flushed away some of the grief. The pain was real, it had happened, and now he had to deal. He had to be strong.

Thankfully, he knew how to do that just fine.

He got up, turned the shower off and listened to the sounds of dripping water. The whole bathroom was fogged up, and he hardly saw the other side of the cubicle. It was warm in the room, but even so, a cold draft from somewhere made him shiver. There was a reason he didn't like water, and taking a shower was as far as he would go.

He wondered if he also hadn't liked water. Sadly, he never got a chance to ask him.

A knock on the door.

"Sonic? Are you alright?" called the worried voice of Tails, and when Sonic answered it was in his usual voice. No trace of his little angst-attack.

"Yeah, be right out."

He grabbed a towel and vigorously rubbed himself dry until his skin glowed, and for a second Sonic swore he saw a golden sheen over his blue fur.

With a second's hesitation he grabbed the Chaos Emerald and for once left his shoes and gloves behind. Like him, they needed to be washed clean of Shadow's death.

"All done," announced Sonic when he stepped from the bathroom, a cloud of fog in his wake, curling around him like a ghost's embrace.

-FIN