They never talked about it.

Terrorsaur had found Waspintor still curled against the side of the building, sitting next to the stoop like a lost puppy. He'd given the smaller man a fleeting questioning look, but, too high on the euphoria caused by the brink of fame, didn't say anything. Instead, he hauled Waspinator up by his elbow and dusted him off, tossing an arm over his shoulder to lead him home.

Waspinator had shrugged the arm off and hunched in on himself, but still Terrorsaur didn't ask. There was too much to think about and the selfish redhead almost instantly forgot anything was even off about his partner.

It went on for a couple days like this, Terrorsaur lost somewhere in the world of the famous and artsy, traveling between the fantasy of riches and the reality of the fact that people thought he was over-the-moon for flighty little Waspinator. That, and he was on the phone with Fiona often, discussing the possibility of another show, travel, and other such things.

And through it all, Waspinator existed in his own personal hell, moping when left to his own devices, going all twitchy if he caught Terrorsaur watching him with a particular, thoughtful gaze, scowling when Terrorsaur's phone rang and the ring tone gave the caller away as Fiona. Suffocating; he was suddenly suffocating. Or drowning and the apartment was suddenly too small; he didn't know what to do.

And it all came to a head one Sunday afternoon, when Fiona showed up at the door, looking to talk to Terrorsaur in person.

The redhead had answered, lighting up at the prospect of taking the next step to becoming famous. Waspinator had appeared behind him in the hall, staring at both of them as if not really seeing them and then…

He just started walking.

He walked past Terrorsaur, barefoot and out the door. Past Fiona, who might have been greeting him; her mouth was moving but his mind was whirling too fast to hear her. Terrorsaur was calling to him, but he didn't pay attention, just kept moving.

Past children on the sidewalk, in the street, calling him to play. Past mothers asking him to watch the children; past row houses with peeling paint, big flashy cars, garbage in gutters.

He didn't notice the scenery change, as he wandered from one neighborhood to the other. Didn't notice as dilapidated row houses gave way to Cape Cods and ranches, as cars became smaller and more sensible, lawns larger and greener.

His phone rang incessantly, the bouncy, cheerful tune of "Fireflies" floating from his pocket. He ignored that, too, knowing damn well who it was calling and not wanting to talk.

He ignored everything; everything but this sudden need to be free, to feel the wind, to cycle fresh air, to get out and just be.

And when he finally paused, glancing around, he found himself in an unfamiliar, neatly-kept neighborhood, where the streets were quiet and the only people he saw were older women in jogging suits who looked at him funny because he had no shoes and was ignoring his phone.

This was when he started to cry, when he realized he was lost; when he realized his life had -again- gone to slag. Suddenly, his face was damp, breath coming in big, gulping sobs. Everything was so fragged up and he had no idea what to do or where he was or anything and the only thing left to do was sink to the ground and cry his little heart out, face buried in his hands.