He's found out that the almighty Flash is a Millennial. Eobard doesn't know whether this information makes him love or hate him more.
Eobard's great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a Millennial. Possibly a Gen-Xer. Maybe a Hipster? Or, no, was it Hippie? Modern curricula tends to paint the late 1900's in broad strokes of psychedelics, the Internet, and climate change; the various names of counter-culture through the ages are better left to the history buffs and trivia nerds.
In any case, the revelation makes Eobard think of the Flash alternately as a decrepit old man or as a floundering child. Neither interpretation has a practical use. The Flash is ageless. Much like their ongoing rivalry, he is immutable, eternal.
Speaking of relative maturity, this thing between them has left its infancy behind, and they've come to properly recognize one another as mutual arch-nemeses. This isn't child's play anymore. This is the forge in which their mettles run like quicksilver, each clash between them sending sparks flying as though from Hephaestus' hammer, guided by the Fates to see their future legends struck into unflinching steel.
Eobard's been pushing himself, working every available angle to boost his speed, and his ego swells every time he catches the Flash off guard. Suddenly the titan of his childhood doesn't seem impossibly out of reach. Every time Eobard runs, it takes longer for the Flash to catch him. Every time the Flash runs, Eobard's sure that this time he'll be able to overtake him.
The fly in Eobard's gravy is the fact that although he's certainly getting faster, the Flash is just as certainly losing speed. They're getting lost in this muddled middle ground as they race towards each other through time, reaching the point where cause and effect intersect, objectivity and perspective warping like an M. C. Escher design.
They wind up in an abandoned warehouse (one of the Flash's favorite venues, Eobard's noted), squaring off in a gentleman's agreement while they each pause for breath. This Flash is different than the one Eobard's used to, slower for one, but also more subdued, less recklessly confident. His attacks are more careful and he does everything in his power to keep his defenses locked up tight. This is a Flash who is used to fighting tooth and nail to come out on top. This Flash sees the Reverse Flash as an equal, if not his better.
Eobard can see it in those dark, guarded eyes that the Flash is just as weary of all this as he is. Just as sick of the temporal contortions they're forced into, following in the footsteps of their future selves only to end up right where they started. Here we go 'round the mulberry bush….
The Flash is hanging (provocatively? Surely he doesn't realize what a sight he is.) from a wall of chain link, his arms stretched over his head with his fingers hooked into the loops. He's waiting for Eobard to dust himself off and climb out of a pile of splintered wooden pallets so they can go again. It's all very familiar, intimate even. They do this by rote.
Eobard can't help but chuckle as he gets to his feet, seeing out of the corner of his eye that the unwarranted sound has instantly put the other on edge. He can't wait to find out what he'll do to make this Flash so wary of him.
Maybe it's something like this: Eobard puts an arm behind his back, bowing graciously to his partner. Then he assumes a proper ballroom promenade position and begins a solo waltz amidst the wreckage.
Two or three bars in, he hears the tell-tale jangle of chain link as the Flash shifts, undoubtedly preparing for what he believes will be round two. Eobard turns to look at him and then executes a precise set of spot turns that would make Gene Kelly weep from envy.
The Flash flinches when Eobard whips a hand his direction. "Care to dance?"
"There is something seriously wrong with you," the Flash says.
Despite the uncivil brush off, Eobard decides not to rescind the offer. He remains stock still, arm extended, his glee increasing in exact proportion to the Flash's discomfort.
"You realize what this all is, don't you? You must. You must. This routine we have, it's all laid out for us, isn't it? Somebody's painted the steps on the ground and we're just," he breaks his pose, dancing a cha-cha with a lurid swing of his hips, "following along."
He offers his hand again.
The Flash scoffs, unimpressed. "I thought you were joking about the drinks, but now you want to dance? What's next, Thawne, roses?"
Eobard's brain short-circuits. When he reboots, he realizes exactly what is happening. Has happened. Will happen.
His put-on airs fizzle out as he tenses with fed-up rage. Petulantly, he lashes a boot out at a shard of wood. He watches it go clattering across the warehouse floor. The Flash watches him.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," he hisses, fist striking an invisible target as he rounds on the Flash, "We're nothing more than some double-helix self-fulfilling prophecy. None of our choices actually belong to us. Nothing we do, or think, or say actually matters. How can you stand it?"
The Flash grits his teeth, moving from foot to foot in that way he does when he's got more energy than he knows what to do with. "You're wrong. You're insane. I decide my own future."
The words come caustic, bitter, dripping with acid. "No you don't."
The Flash's jaw doesn't stop working, that nervous energy still rolls from foot to foot. But he holds his ground as Eobard stalks forward, testing the limits of the boundaries between them.
Eobard can feel it in every fiber of him, that this is the point at which they converge, cause and effect colliding into one impossible reality. Before and after this moment, they'll just be ghosts chasing shadows - but for as long as this moment lasts, the two of them teeter on the bleeding edge of Now, the first moment that either of them have really experienced together for the first time.
"When I was a kid, I idolized you," he explains, scowling. "I loved the very idea of you. Until the day you showed up and spilled the beans on my future. We've been trapped in this dance ever since, and do we even know why? Look back, Flash, can you find a single good reason as to why we hate each other other than 'because we do?' Because my guess is, one day this will all start because I'll show up on younger you's doorstep to return the favor. Am I right?"
Against all odds, this overly cautious Flash has let him get closer than Eobard would have thought possible. By the time he finishes his piece, Eobard's come face to face with his nemesis, whose dark, guarded eyes burn in the dusty warehouse light. Eobard pushes the final envelope, raising his arms to loop in the chain link over the Flash's head, caging him.
After a taut, heavy moment, the Flash gives his answer by phasing a step backwards through the fencing.
Eobard falls forward into the space the Flash has vacated, but doesn't follow him through. They just look at each other through the links. The Flash and his Reverse.
"You and I," Eobard adds, quiet in the aftermath of unraveling tension, "we were never asked to choose how we feel about each other, were we?"
"You know what, I'm done. I'm done for today." The Flash shrugs, verging on helpless. "Can we maybe put a pin in this conversation and come back to it, I don't know, never?"
He's struggling not to be swayed, but it's obvious that Eobard's words have found enough footing to root. Point in fact: Eobard's not bleeding on the ground. The Flash doubts his purpose enough not to follow through on the evening's regularly scheduled beatdown. It's only a matter of time, now.
Eobard leans his head against the barrier between them, peeping through a link with one eye. "Fine. Have it your way. Go and try to live your own special snowflake life. Try to stop time from happening. When you change your mind - and let me tell you right now that you will - come find me. I'm sorry to inform you in advance that there won't be any roses. Although, for future reference, would you like roses? It's a relevant question, I promise."
The Flash is shaking his head, waiting politely for Eobard's parting rant to wind down. He passes a hand over his mouth, pulling at his narrow chin - Eobard can't be certain, but there's a good chance he's wiping that once-familiar stupid grin off his face. Then he's gone in a crackle of golden light before he can further incriminate himself.
Eobard licks his lips, tasting ozone. "So no roses."
