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In the end, he's still awake. At midnight, the Grey curls like a cool, iridescent shawl around the city, shimmering and deadly, like silk and shells and cigarette smoke. He's perched at the top of the tower, waiting for someone who'll never come. Just like every other night.
The stars sparkle tauntingly. They'd begun to appear in the aftermath of the Battle, one by one blinking back into view, pinpricks in the dark cloth. The world feels less brilliant, though. Coated in a thick layer of ash and dust, colours smeared together to create a dull smattering of browns and greys.
Is it possible to have everything you ever wanted for only a second? Did he have her, know her, care for her in the way that truly mattered for only a moment? Is it selfish to wish for more?
That electric blue, her eyes, her eyes, her eyes, blue and then pink, wide and then narrow, sparking with vitriol and venom and then soft enough to ruin him.
That night when they had danced. Speakers pounding music so hard that he could feel the vibrations in his throat. The sheen of the leather of her jacket in the neon lights, the pale of her dress, like a butterfly's wings, fluttering and twirling. She (but not truly her, never actually just her) had kissed him. Stars, just like these ones, stars and fireworks and something almost blinding in its light. That sour pang of knowing that it wasn't true. Loving her anyway, because it was still her, and he just couldn't help it. He was her's, always.
He feels a thousand years old. He feels like a little kid. Dodging through alleys, the warm callouses of a familiar hand on his hair, the rumble of a groaning city. Then the hiss of spray cans, the cold metal of his mask, the clammy handle of his creation. Four seconds to save lifetimes.
She'd let him drag paint over her cheeks, vibrant lines painfully identical to ones from years before. The fuzz of her cut hair under his fingers, marvelling at her warmth. Her delicate smile, porcelain and ivory. She had teased him when he'd been hesitant to wear the shirt she'd made him. It still smells like her. Her laughter, ringing like bells and crying like carrion birds.
(He'll never forget it, watching her blow herself up over and over, light and blood and flesh the recurring impulse.)
She, always she, rendering him moth to a flame, irrevocably magnetised to her metal. She, the breath in his lungs and the electricity in his spine. This love will never leave him. A phantom, handprints on his heart. The stars blur into spirals and smears, molten iron rolling across his cheeks, salt stinging like a brand. He's tired.
Familiar footsteps after what feels like decades, heavy and firm. A large palm on his back, burning.
"Come on, Ekko," Scar murmurs, "time to go home."
He decides, on the trek back home, that it was worth it. Time, though he has so little of it, will slowly seal the gaping wound. Like branches stretching towards the sky, moss over the damp of a log, reeds across a riverbed. This metallic bitterness on his tongue will turn into a sweet honeydew, mellow and nostalgic. There's a future racing ahead of him, a city to be rebuilt, a people to care for. A life to be lived.
His love has taught him enough perseverance and compassion to lift mountains. Not everyone gets to know joy and pain so intimately. He's changed, shaped like a winding stream, each experience and memory gushing water over the bed and banks of his person. What he has is not her, but it's something good and true. That's more than enough.
(He'll still look for her in every crowd, climb the tower again and again to wait. But things get better, happier. It's worth it. It doesn't end him. Only lets him grow.)