Hey.

It's one of those days.

It was one of those days.

One of those days where the image of Beacon's ruins wouldn't leave their minds.

When they could see every injury, wound, loss, defeat, and death with perfect clarity.

On days like this, Jaune would leave their camp site. With Crocea Mors in hand, he'd find a clearing and swing it with all his might. Pyrrha's voice would ring with crystal clarity through the clearing, giving sound advice to Jaune as he trained. Her voice would be perfect - full of life, hope, joy, and love. Love that would never have the chance to grow again.

For her voice would remain that way, immortalized in his scroll. Jaune could yell, hurl insults to the heavens, and swing until his arms would give up on their own. His voice reduced to nothing but a hoarse whisper. His dried tears staining his cheeks, flushed with anger and regret. Nothing. His grief would go ignored, his prayers left unanswered.

Pyrrha Nikos would forever remain his guiding voice, his helping hand, his guardian angel. But Jaune Arc would never again experience the warmth of her presence; her dreams would live through him, instead of her witnessing them come to fruition herself.

She would remain always as that voice in his head, and the ache in his heart.

When dawn breaks, Ruby would find him a broken man, passed out on the ground. His sword inches away from his grip, and Pyrrha's teachings dying out in the light.

The flames of his anger would die out in the night, leaving nothing but ashes and promises that died on his lips. At times, it seemed the wildfire within Jaune would be the one to end him, not the flames of Cinder.

On days like this, Ren would retreat within himself. He would ignore every prompt. Brush off any attempt of conversation. He'd bring out his father's dagger, studying it under the shade of a tree. Nora would be standing off to the side, unable to reach him.

His eyes would dull and his grip would tighten. A telltale sign of his semblance flowing through him. Nora knew why. She'd seen it happen more than enough times in their travels together.

He was numbing himself.

Words dying on Nora's tongue, the same way Ren's turbulent emotions would die in his chest.

He never yelled. Never grimaced. Never complained. Instead he would seethe in quiet rage, remorse and pain swallowing him whole until his semblance would inevitably push them away.

The next day, he would appear fine. His words would have their dry bite again, and his wisdom would flow as easily as water from a spring. But Nora knew. She knew all too well.

His power would never get rid of the poison that grew in his heart. Only set it aside, far enough away from him that he had no need to confront it again.

But he would need to, eventually.

On days like this, Mercury Black would leave and Taiyang would be left alone with his confused daughter. The young man had promised to stay by her side, help her process the loss of her limb. He would know how.

He'd always known.

But on days such as this, lunch would be a somber affair, as the three would sit and eat in relative silence. Yang's eyes would be downcast, stealing glances at the stump of her arm. She'd lost it in defense of Beacon. In defense of Blake.

In defense of Adam.

Against a furious Sienna and her deranged lieutenant, she stood to fend them off while Adam lay unconscious and Blake wounded.

The three of them had been rescued by Sun and Neptune, to their fortune.

Now here she lay, depressed and traumatized. Mercury on most days did his best to pull her through; for her to settle into her new normal. Yang, in her usual hard-headedness would refuse his help. But Mercury was as stubborn as he was sarcastic.

But there were days when Taiyang could feel his eyes on them. When Yang would crack a smile at her father's jokes, when Taiyang would continue to coax out the dormant dragon in his daughter.

On those days, Taiyang would be reminded of Marcus Black. He knew of his past. He knew of the abuse.

Mercury would scowl, bite back with a scathing remark. He'd leave Yang on the edge of anger and grief, her hair ablaze and her eyes on the edge of tears. His envy would bleed out, his pain would ache.

Mercury Black hated the love between father and daughter. He had no experience in dealing with such. He had no reference to compare it to.

Only the anger in his eyes. Only the abuse in his memories.

Hours later, he'd return from the forest and apologize. Yang's fire burned bright, but it also burned quickly. She would forgive him right then and there on the spot.

But it was never so simple. Never with Mercury.

On those days, Adam Taurus would explode. On a charter stuck with Sun and Blake, he would find his temper tested at every turn.

Ugly emotions would rise up from the depths of his mind.

His envy.

His possessiveness.

His rage.

His hunger.

Adam was prone to lashing out, and his mood only worsened whenever he saw the intimacy between the two. Memories would flash across his face - promises broken, a love that died with his obsession. He had hoped they would reconcile. Hoped they'd find one another again.

In the back of his mind, he imagined they would reunite. She'd see his change. She'd see his improvement.

Instead, they settled to be friends instead.

When they returned to Menagerie, he held his tongue against Ghira and Kali's suspicions. Their vow to never forgive him. To never trust him again.

Blake and Sun vouched for him, but it never mattered.

When the Fang attacked, he looked them dead in the eye as they accused him of betrayal. Of abandoning the cause.

Wilt begged to cut them down. His blade would cut through them easily enough, but he held his hand.

His wrath was reserved elsewhere. Wilt could whisper her sweet songs of revenge - Adam ignored it all easily enough.

But his mind would not be silenced. Away from his friends, away from his new home, he found his urges harder to keep at bay.

His demons would whisper. They would yell.

They always did.

On those days, four young men would recall the loss of their youth. The loss of their joy.

The arrow.

The dagger.

The abuse.

The brand.

The heartbreak.

The numbness.

The envy.

The rage.

They were not alone. But it felt that way. It almost always did.

On those days, a young man was consumed by the flames of regret. His first friend, his first love reduced to nothing but a memory.

On those days, a young man would recall his world falling apart. Torn from the embrace of his loving family, thrust into the world at such a tender age.

On those days, a young man would recall the taste of his father's fist against his face. The torment and abuse worming its way into his heart and into his mind.

On those days, a young man would feel the heat of the mark against his face. He tasted blood. His heart begged for more to be spilled. He would keep his demons at bay.

On those days, they were alone. Alone in their grief. Alone in their despair.

So very alone.

Please stay safe.