[This fic rather obviously takes place in the past. Spoilers for episode 169-173]
Past Parallels
Varon.
"You always run away." The words taunt him silently as he watches the flames curl higher, devouring everything by which he defines himself. Red bleeds gold bleeds blood, all awash in fury and a pain he finds he cannot put into words.
"You always run away."
Their faces stain his memory, that they have tainted his last recollection of the one person who ever made him feel safe blackens his thoughts, just as they have blackened his sanctuary to the point where it is dissolving into nothing more than ash. Sister Mary, who was always so warm and forgiving. Sister Mary, who had taken in a street rat and tried to teach him that there was more to living than simply being able to breathe from one day to the next.
Sister Mary, who was encased now in her own personal blackness, one that came with a handy zipper and interior lining.
She hated violence; it went against her code, her beliefs. He still cannot understand why someone so pure and loving would set up a church in such a desolate and hate filled place – he'd never understood, even when she tried to explain that it was those who were lost that needed to be found the most. You could never be lost, here. No-one was ever that lucky.
"You always run away."
He hadn't done anything when the thugs had threatened her. Had come close, but she had not allowed him to, not even when they had struck out at her. She shunned violence, even when it could have protected her.
Perhaps if he had fought on her behalf, those same thugs would not have come back later, and set the church – the church - on fire, destining all those inside it to a fiery tomb.
"Ashes to ashes," he whispers, a slightly hysterical tint to his voice. Ashes to ashes. Ashes to ashes to ashes to ashes to ashes. Dust has always clogged these streets, but it is ash that now stains the wind.
He can see them from here, their smirking faces as they take in the carnage that they have brought. Soot mars the jaw of one of their faces, and he finds himself fighting off the urge to be violently ill.
"I don't," he whispers as the voice in his head continues with its mantra. It is a recognisable lie, it feels like he has spent his whole life running. Running away from a foster family who cared little for a young, hurt child and more for the $120 a week they received for having him in their care, running away from the blind hate and negativity of the street.
Always running.
But not anymore.
There is nowhere left to run to.
As the flames taint the heavens, he lets go of his faith, he has no use for it where he is going. The journey he is about to embark on will not lead him to Sister Mary and her promised haven amongst the clouds and Gods' own. That he had ever embraced such ideals in the first place stuns him, there is only one way to survive the streets. There is only one way to survive, at all.
You have to abandon your soul.
He picks up the pipe at his feet as he watches the two thugs slip from the crowd, knowing well the side street they are about to enter. His body shakes as he realises just exactly what he is going to do, and for a moment his heart cries out for Sister Mary, and the safety she had always offered. But it is only for a moment. He cannot be a child forever.
"I'm not going to run any longer."
He follows them into their cursed alley. Soon, a sky that has begun to bleed red is joined by the wail of police sirens.
And the silent mew of a child's heart breaking.
Joey.
"You always run away!" Honda growls at the boy he is slowly beginning to see as his best friend. Anger burns in honey as Joey glares right back at him, daring him to repeat his words.
When has Honda ever disappointed?
"You. Always. Run. Away." Each word is punctuated as Honda sweeps dark eyes over his features. He can only imagine what Honda sees, as Joey hasn't looked in a mirror for days. Ragged features stained in purple and blue, he willingly bets. Joey knows that Honda forgives some of the bruises, knowing that they are not of Joey's own making. But the ones that do not belong to his father are the ones that annoy Honda, ones that started this whole argument in the first place.
He doesn't reply to Honda's accusations. Not in words. Instead, he wins the argument by simply ignoring the other boy, turning on sneaker-clad heels and leaving his friend behind the loud banging of the wooden door.
The gang expected him half an hour ago.
You always run away. The words echo tauntingly as he dashes through elongated side streets that were bourn in shadow and baptised in blood. He scoffs at the voice in his head, wondering again why he persists with his friendship with Honda, considering how little the boy seems to know him.
He ignores the dark voice that greets him as he arrives at the meeting place, nodding towards the small group that are a closer definition of family than the supposed example who is surely slouched unconscious on the couch at home. He listens half-heartedly as they talk of all the daring and fun things that they planning on today, wondering when 'daring' and 'fun' began to feel like drowning.
He cannot remember why he is here, anymore.
"You always run away," he whispers to himself, realisation dawning as they continue on with their violent thoughts and plans. Running away from his father, running away from responsibility.
Running away from hope.
He is not the brave adult that he always thought he was. He is nothing more than a scared child.
But one who is very good at running.
The cigarette in his hand burns lower, scolding delicate skin. He drops the bud to the ground, squashing it with the heel of his shoe.
"Ashes to ashes," he murmurs with a slightly ironic smile. The dying cigarette is not the only one who is about to be reduced to embers. He only hopes that a phoenix may rise in its place.
He turns then, much like he had done earlier, without a word. They call out to him, first in surprise, and then anger. They are not quite as stupid as many believe. The first hand spins him around, the next lands squarely in his ribs. Many more follow.
He doesn't care. Not as he finds it difficult to struggle to his feet after they are done and have merged back with the shadows, not as he starts his dizzy walk.
He doesn't run.
Not anymore.
He has found the place he's been running towards, all along.
It is dark by the time he reaches Honda's place, and part of him is grateful when his friend is the one who opens the door. Surprise and an anger that is no longer directed at Joey – at least for the moment – darkens Honda's face, and then confusion, as Joey smiles warmly through the pain, one hand resting heavily against the doorframe.
"I'm not going to run any longer." Comprehension dawns in his friend's eyes, and solid arms wrap themselves around his shoulders, pulling him close in a very unmanly hug that he would have protested if not for the fact it is becoming more and more difficult to stand on his own.
In more ways than one.
It is something he hopes he will never have to do again.
It is something that Honda has silently been promising him he'll never have to do again, right from the beginning. It's a promise that Joey thinks he'll finally take his friend up on.