I think this is my first truly Hurt No Comfort fic... Maybe I will keep the deadly part of my username in after all...

Anyways, this is a part of an Aegis Swap AU that I've been thinking about recently (literally half my brain is always thinking about Xenoblade at any given time lol). I will not be turning it into something like TFIYTD. I already have that and NG+ to deal with on top of my classes (There's this one type of class {usually across two or three semesters} that all music majors have to take that is like the AP of our major. I'm already dying please send help-). Will I turn this into a series? Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see.

Trigger Warning: Mild Suicidal Ideation.

Also, we got an Unreliable Narrator.

Rex's footsteps echoing loudly off the walls around him, adding to the cacophony of noise in the cavern. The dark, humid atmosphere of the Crucible still chilled him to the bone. He kicked some dust up as he traveled, watching in boredom as it glittered a bright green. He scowled, a growl in the back of his throat. He fucking hated that specific color green.

The ache of loss in his chest drove him forward, making him take one step forward and another and another without his permission. He didn't know why his body thought going to the Crucible was a brilliant idea. There was nothing there; the old version of Malos' sword disappeared when he touched it. The only thing that could possibly be worth his time was the supposed Salvaging point that Zeke's father had told him about. But he wasn't here to salvage. Oh no. If anything, he was here on personal matters.

It was so different, walking without his friends. It was quiet. Too quiet. He didn't hear the easy banter between Nia and Dromarch. He didn't hear the heated arguments between Zeke and Mòrag. He didn't hear the snarky quips from Gramps and the playful voice of Poppi. (And he didn't hear Malos' soothing voice as he hovered around the group like a mother Tirkin. But he wasn't going to think about the Aegis anymore. Not any longer than he had to, anyways). He carefully climbed down the side of the pathway near the area when they had fought the Phantom Addam's. He technically could just march forward into the deepest part through the archway and jump across the fallen stairs. However, the last thing he needed was a broken bone when he had no blades with him. (Somewhere, deep inside his tumultuous heart, underneath all the betrayal and hurt and grief, he kind of felt bad that he left Roc behind in Fonsett to do this. But at the same time, Roc couldn't understand. He wouldn't understand. And Rex wasn't going to look at, much less trust another blade the same way ever again. Not after Malos abandoned him for the third and most likely final time-)

He shook his head, trying to ignore the stab of emotion rushing through his body. He walked into the deepest section, immediately struck by the charged yet calm atmosphere. It reminded him of the Pratorium, in a way. It could just be the high ether concentration in the area, of course. But he always felt like he was being watched by someone here. Like there was a presence of some sort; ghost, spirit, or otherwise.

"Hello Addam," He said softly, walking up the stairs. "It's… been not too long, hasn't it? I was just here several days ago haha."

There was no response. He wasn't expecting one, in all honesty. He smiled awkwardly. "Thank you for the advice. You really save our skins out there. For one battle, at least. I now find myself in a different little conundrum. One that I don't even think you could have foreseen."

He paused, taking a deep breath. Ether filled his lungs uncomfortably. "Did you feel this way too, Addam? When he sealed himself away?" He asked softly, gazing at the chiseled backdrop behind the pedestal. It was a beautiful depiction of the Leftherian seal; what it was meant exactly, he didn't know. Probably something dating all the back to Torna, the country. "Did you feel this ache of loneliness that won't leave you alone, even in dreams…? Do you feel the phantom feeling of his fingers against your skin, like I do…?"

"I… I thought I was worthy…" Rex murmured, his voice threatening to crack. "I thought that maybe, just maybe, I was good enough to wield the Aegis. To be like you. That I could actually do something to change the world for the better."

The dark purple crystal on his chest shimmered brightly in the darkness, taunting him. "I guess not. I guess it was just a pipe dream, in the end."

The ache seeped further into his body, seizing his lungs and heart. Tears raced down his face without his permission, his vision blurring. His legs collapsed out from under him, falling to the ground. "I'm just a measly Salvager from Leftheria. You are, were, a prince. I don't know why I ever thought I could be like you. That I could ever be worthy of someone as powerful and complicated and beautifully messy as the Aegis."

"I should have stayed dead. I should have stayed dead when… when Jin stabbed me," Rex bit out, his entire body shaking with longing. Longing for what would never come to be. "I shouldn't be here. Everyone always had to save my arse. Nia, especially. But Mòrag and Zeke and Tora saved me from the consequences to my own stupidity more times than I can count."

"Malos…. He carries so much grief from his time in Torna. I only have bits and pieces, here and there. Most of your history has been lost to time. To the Pratorium. I tried, Addam. I tried to carry the grief that plagued his heart…" Rex trailed off, mucus draining down his throat. He sniffled. "I'm still trying. But he doesn't respond. I'm not good enough. I guess that's one of those hard life lessons, yeah? You can never be strong enough or good enough to heal everyone. Sometimes, they have to be the ones who pick themselves off the ground and stand up on their own. And if they don't want to… well, you can lead a Ponio to water but you can't make them drink."

Their connection as Driver and blade was so weak. Weaker than when they had first resonated. Malos was probably already at the World Tree right now, trying to defeat Mythra (Pyra? Pneuma?) once and for all. He reached out through the remains of their bond one last time. One last chance to see if his grief was blinding him to any semblance of communication.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

A blood curdling scream torn out of Rex's lungs, dissolving into gut-wrenching weepings as pain erupted in his heart. He doubled over, barely darting out his arms in time to prevent himself from face planting. He grasped at the ground, broken shards of glass cutting into his skin, drawing blood. He barely registered it, the cloud of emotions swirling in his chest so overwhelming

"...why…? What did I do wrong…? Why am I not worthy…?" He questioned, his voice growing louder progressively louder. The air rushing against his trachea felt like sandpaper, irritating and painful. "Is dying not enough? Is uprooting my entire life not enough? Answer me, Addam: why am I not good enough? Why am I not good enough?! What did I do wrong?"

The only sounds that echoed through the cavern were the sounds of his erratic breathing and movement. Rex frowned bitterly, breathing rapid and shallow, his mind numb. "Of course. Of course you wouldn't have an answer. Nobody ever could give me the answers I wanted. Not even my friends."

He turned himself over (or rather, fell over) onto his back, staring up at the degrading ceiling. He raised a palm up, flexing and unflexing it, vision blurring at the way his salvaging uniform glittered purple under the dim light. A glaring reminder. He closed his eyes, hand falling onto his chest. "I guess I'll never know, will I….? Gramps was right; I never should have taken that contract in Argentum. My life would sure be a hell of a lot better than it is now."

Had Rex kept his eyes open, then perhaps he would have noticed the phantom figure watching him with a sad sort of intrigue.

For context, since it's not explicitly stated, Malos warped Rex away to Fonsett from the Cliffs as they fell since Malos is selfish, overly protective, and self sacrificing. (And having one little heart to heart isn't going to undo five hundred years of self confidence issues and other mental health nonsense, especially in the middle of a battle.)