There are many things Nine finds familiar. The taste of smog on his tongue. The dark of the sky hanging over his head on those rare occasions that he wanders to the surface. The ringing of trembling metal and the echo it makes when the trains rush past the hovel he calls home. The sound of his tails tapping along the ground as he moves, the weight of them against his back, the push and pull of the nerves he's laced through the metal appendages— and into himself. The gravely sound of the fox's own voice, echoing inside his skull and the empty air that surrounds him, constantly.
The feeling of his own company, and the stillness of being alone. He didn't need anyone else, never needed anyone else. Ever since he was small Nine had fought against the misery of this city alone. Fended for himself. It was silly to expect anyone else to care, to struggle, to work for someone that wasn't themself. For something unnatural, unwanted.
Cruelty was a constant the young fox had grown intimately familiar with. The one faithful companion for as long as he could remember.
He had whined and cried and begged for something else. For some hero to come to his side. Some fantasy that would swoop in and save miserable little Miles Prower from the cold reality of this city. Years of time and energy and tears wasted on pathetic, meaningless self pity.
But eventually he had understood, eventually the boy known as Miles cried himself dry and from what remained, Nine rose. Stood tall to take up the fight he had been too weak to face before. To take back what every single self-serving jackass in this dead end metropolis had ripped from him over and over.
To make sure that no one ever made the mistake of laying their hands on him again.
Until that frustrating, overly friendly and painfully vibrant blue hedgehog broke into his lab. Grabbed Nine by the shoulder as if he had any right to the fox. Like his ratty, tattered gloves carried a permit entitling his presence in Nine's home, his personal if it wasn't the first brush of contact Nine had faced in more years than he could keep distinct. As if it wasn't the only benign touch he could remember, as if the young fox wasn't waiting for the closed fist or the harsh ripping pull when those clumsy and clueless fingers took hold, spun him about.
For one horrifying second this body was no longer his own. For one breath he was frozen still, heart rammed into his throat, thoughts screeching in a tiny and broken voice full of a fear he hasn't felt since before Nine came to be.
And then there was that name again, that dreadful nickname that all of his tormentors had used. Tails . Falling from his mouth so easily, so naturally. Another creep who thought he could toy with Nine. Saw him as nothing more than a plaything. That was what brought the fight back to him, had him snarling and lashing out with the quick strikes he'd honed over the years.
Reminded Nine of who he was.
The brutality of his own body, the burn of his anger, the rush of knowing his own power. The hurt he can inflict. These things were familiar.
Sonic wasn't.
His words, his stories, the nigh effortless optimism and friendliness he seemed to leak worse than the worn out pipes in Nine's walls. The light that clung to the hedgehog, shined from inside him. A sun burning in the middle of a bleak metal cage.
Bright enough that, despite himself, despite the truths Nine knew as completely as his own tails— he couldn't help but think just for a moment, that Sonic could burn through the bars. Might be that sweeping beacon of hope that pathetic little Miles had always cried out for.
He knew it was a foolish thought. Hopeless, worthless, as much of a waste of time as whining and begging were.
And yet, the idea that Sonic could reach out with those easy touches, those entitled hands, and snag the impossible. Could cradle it in the bed of his fingers. It slips past all of Nine's reason and knowledge and settles inside that little voice that fills the vacancy left by his dreams— whispers with possibilities. Chances. Percentages that don't make sense but still linger with a weight he can't shake off.
The pounds of it mounting with each casual little brush of the hedgehog's body against his own. Thoughtless like it were normal, as easy as the grins he gives, the breaths of thick air Nine finds himself catching when his gaze falls too long on the brilliantly blue blur.
Maybe. Unlikely. Possible. Not-insignificant.
A could be dream. A wish answered with a question. The weakly flickering flame of hope.
Of home.