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The Wachowski family home could not be more different than the apartment he shares with Stone. There are obvious differences—like the size of each abode and the number of occupants within. But more than that, the energy of each home is entirely different. His and Stone’s apartment is quiet and well-kept; the loudest it gets are when the nightmares ravage one of them, or if Stone watches a telenovela with a bottle of wine in hand. More often than not, the only sounds in the apartment are Stone tinkering with his inventions, the soft hum of classical music, and the putter of the city outside their door.
In contrast, the Wachowski family home makes Shadow’s ears ache. Everything feels heavier and warmer here, in ways both good and bad. Everything is louder too, despite how their home is tucked away from the bustling center of Green Hills. If it’s not explosions and shouting coming from the fox’s garage, it’s the echidna tumbling off the roof after an ill-fated attempt at yoga. That’s to say nothing of Sonic’s incessant chatter, buzzing like a bee everywhere Shadow goes.
Shadow knows his own lungs are anomalous, with an increased capacity means he needs less oxygen to thrive—and he’s beginning to suspect Sonic might have similar powers if only through sheer force of will.
“Aaaand you’ve totally tuned out,” Sonic says as he falls onto the couch beside Shadow with a put-upon huff. “C’mon, I’ve been dying to show you these!”
“If you think I only just now checked out of your inane rambling, I have unfortunate news for you, hedgehog.” Even so, Shadow tilts his head to look at what Sonic’s brought to the living room. The blue hedgehog dumps a myriad of thin plastic cases over their laps, along with two pairs of headphones and a player.
“You know what CDs are, right?”
Shadow nods. He vaguely remembers them. The scientists experimenting on him were often on the cutting edge of technology, so while he was put into stasis before many cornerstones of pop culture, he still has some idea of them. He vividly recalls one of the scientists, a kinder woman with voluminous curls who didn’t last long at the facility, giving Maria a disc for some new-fangled band. They always preferred the record player, despite the way it would skip and its constant need for flipping, but the gesture was nice regardless.
“Great, okay.” Sonic passes one of the sets of headphones to Shadow and mimes popping them into his ears. Shadow does if only to see Sonic’s small, sheepish grin. He continues, “You strike me like a classic rock kind of guy. Or, ooh, maybe death metal!” Sonic begins handing CDs to him seemingly without rhyme or reason. Every movement and word is muffled by the headphones in his ears, until suddenly his entire head is full of nothing but noiseloudexplosiondrumbursts-
Shadow doesn’t realize he’s snarling until Ozzy jumps awake beneath them, growling once before wandering off with a whimper. He blinks into awareness and recognizes the uncomfortable feeling of his chaos energy spiking along his quills, down his spine, out to his fingertips.
“Uh,” Sonic says. In one hand is the CD player, in the other is the end of Shadow’s headphones. “Okay, maybe not death metal, huh?”
“Boys,” Mr. Wachowski’s voice comes from the hallway, “do you know why Ozzy just came running scared?”
“Sorry dad!” Sonic hollers. “Just a misunderstanding!”
Mr. Wachowski appears in the doorway anyway, leaning against the jamb. “No one’s hurt?” His eyes flick to Shadow—not accusingly, but with concern. Something else Shadow is still getting used to, something he doesn’t quite know how to trust. Can’t believe he even deserves it after everything that happened.
“No,” Shadow says when he realizes both Sonic and his father are watching him expectantly. “Sonic was attempting to show me…death metal.”
Mr. Wachowski snorts. “Not your style, huh? Don’t worry, not mine either.” He shakes his head as he wanders into the living room, running his hand over Sonic’s quills affectionately. For Shadow, he just offers a polite nod. Yet another novel thing: others respecting his boundaries. Sonic is the only one who touches him, the only one Shadow doesn’t mind touching him, and the others are more than happy to abide.
“Uh, yeah, cuz all you listen to is old people music.” Despite the teasing, Sonic leans into Mr. Wachowski’s touch like an overly affectionate cat. “Shadow definitely has way better taste than you, dad, sorry. He knows how to ride a motorcycle.”
“How are you so sure I don’t how to do that?”
“Are you saying you’ve been hiding secret motorcycle superpowers from me this entire time?” Sonic gapes at his dad. “ So uncool.” Sonic nudges at Shadow’s shoulder playfully, then holds up another CD. “Maybe grunge will be more your style.”
Shadow can only shrug.
“You could always askShadow what kind of music he likes,” Mr. Wachowski remarks as he gathers a few stray bits of clutter around the living room. All of them from Sonic, various wrappers and an empty soda can or two. “Maybe you could ask him to show you how to clean up your messes, too.”
“Dad,” Sonic whines, “don’t you have some dorky parent stuff to do?”
“Doing it right now, bud.” Even so, Mr. Wachowski does leave them be, his whistling fading as he strolls into the kitchen.
“He’s so embarrassing,” Sonic says, tone sweet and flustered. “Sorry.”
Shadow shakes his head minutely. “Don’t apologize.”
Sonic chews his bottom lip and looks like he wants to say more. In the end, he picks up another CD that proclaims CREED in the top left corner, with what looks like a drowning golem on the cover. “Okay, grunge. What do you know about Seattle in the 80s?”
Shadow rolls his eyes and settles in for yet another lesson on something he’s missed in the last fifty years.
Sonic never does ask him what type of music he likes, but in fairness Shadow never offers up the information either. It’s easier this way. Shadow can’t bring himself to remember the music he actually enjoyed before, because every song is entwined with memories of Maria. And those memories still ache, churning his stomach and stinging his eyes; it’s simpler for Shadow to sit through Sonic’s rambling than think about the soundtrack of his painfully limited time with his sister.
Shadow finds he doesn’t mind grunge music, especially the slower songs. More melodious but still…clumsy. There’s something raw about them that he appreciates. He lets Sonic show him a few other death metal albums but they all overwhelm him, regardless of the actual volume or anything else about the music. Classic rock bores him, while country music grates on his ears; he’s neutral about most of the other genres, though he’s increasingly aware of Sonic’s disappointment the longer they go without finding something Shadow actually likes.
Shadow doesn’t hear a song he even knows until he’s wandering through the Wachowski home one weekend afternoon. Sonic and his brothers are in the backyard roughhousing, and Mrs. Wachowski has settled in with a book in the living room. As Shadow wanders by, she gives him a smile and a nod that he returns still a little uneasily. He’s not used to the easy acceptance, the utter lack of tension in the home. It’s as bizarre here as it is living with Stone—perhaps worse here, because everyone in this family is so frustratingly, endearingly earnest.
Shadow is still ruminating on his newfound life when a familiar string of chords catches his ear. He follows the sound upstairs, a place in the home he’s seldom gone since Mr. Wachowski declared a ‘no closed doors yes Sonic that means the attic door too’ rule once Shadow became a regular visitor. Sometimes he and Sonic will retreat upstairs to read or for Sonic to show what he’s learned on his guitar recently, but more often than not they end up in the kitchen or the yard. Shadow doesn’t mind it, but the unfamiliarity makes it harder to find the sound luring him in.
Eventually, he does locate it—at the very end of the hall, past what he knows is the boys’ bathroom if only for how its littered with signs of the three brothers. Just beside a window, a door is ajar and the soft, enticing music spills out into the hallway. Shadow pushes at the door, quiet and careful, until he can see Mr. Wachowski bent over something, looking pleased and frustrated in equal measure. When he rises, hands on his hips and back turned to Shadow, the hedgehog spots what the man has been tinkering with.
His inhale must be louder than he realizes, because Mr. Wachowski quickly turns toward the door with a surprised noise of his own. “Oh, hey Shadow.”
Shadow nods stiffly. “Mr. Wachowski.” He doesn’t move from the doorway. He knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, and even if he had he knows perfectly well that the Wachowskis are not the vengeful type. Still, he holds himself inert, barely daring to breathe while the music plays on.
“You can call me Tom, y’know.”
“I know.”
Mr. Wachowski lets out a disbelieving laugh. It’s a conversation they’ve had many times since Shadow became a regular guest at their home. He shakes his head and shrugs. “Okay, good.” He turns back to the record player, still puttering along, and shakes his head again. “It keeps skipping and I can’t figure out why.”
Shadow creeps inside until he stands beside Mr. Wachowski; sure enough, the melodic croon of Bobby Hatfield cuts out and resumes seconds later. “Your needle weight isn’t set correctly,” Shadow comments when it happens a second time. His gaze watches the needle, catches the exact moment the improper weight sends the needle skittering across the vinyl.
“You don’t say.” Mr. Wachowski makes no move to fix the weight, even under Shadow’s glare. “I’m a little out of my depth,” he admits, “this belonged to my grandad and I haven’t used it since he was still alive. Even when we moved it out here from storage I never bothered getting it set up.”
Shadow takes the unspoken invitation and moves forward. He kills the power just long enough to tinker with the settings. He adjusts the weight and the calibration of the turntable before turning the player back on. This time, the song fills the room more clearly and without skipping.
“Why now?” Shadow asks, though he has a sneaking suspicion of the answer. He’s glad his back is to Mr. Wachowski now, lest the emotional twist of his face give him away.
“Just felt like listening to some of my old man music,” Mr. Wachowski says. Right on time, Sonic lets out a whooping holler from outside. He and his brothers laugh loudly and Ozzy barks in harmony with them. “What do you think? Better than the CDs Sonic’s been showing you?”
“You might as well ask if eating a fresh meal is more satisfying than eating garbage,” Shadow says, only half-exaggerating. His ears still ring with the latest metal album Sonic had been sure he’d somehow enjoy.
“If the racoons that keep breaking into the garage are anything to go by, eating garbage might be pretty great. I wouldn’t know.”
Shadow rolls his eyes. He lets the music wash over him, surprised to find it doesn’t hurt as badly as he expected. It still aches, yes. He can practically feel Maria’s hand in his, could nearly sneeze at the phantom sensation of her blonde hair tickling his nose. He can smell the popcorn she would make just perfectly and hear the grainy static of the miniscule television lighting up their blanket fort.
“I’m gonna go see what Maddie’s up to,” Mr. Wachowski says quietly, “you can stay up here as long as you like, Shadow.”
Shadow blinks, turning belatedly as the man’s words sink in. Mr. Wachowski only gives him a smile before slipping out into the hallway. He lets the door fall almost all the way shut, leaving Shadow comfortably secluded. As Shadow turns back to the record player, he spots a dusty box of vinyl records sitting beside it.
He knows he’s been duped, but he can’t bring himself to care. He settles into a suspiciously new beanbag tucked amongst the other junk in the guest bedroom-slash-storage space and tugs the box of records close.
He doesn’t tell Sonic about it, but suspects Mr. Wachowski mentioned something. Sonic never questions where Shadow disappears to sometimes during his visits; he also never complains, which is the impressive part. If Shadow wanders back downstairs after a while spent enjoying an album or two, Sonic only ever greets him with a blinding smile. Like Shadow’s happiness is his too, a thought almost more maddening than if Sonic was being a snooping nuisance.
He notices around his fourth time escaping to the guest bedroom that the room is changing. The clutter is lessening, and Mr. Wachowski has been making a suspicious number of trips to a local shop with donations loaded into his truck. The room is becoming less of an afterthought and something…inhabitable. Another beanbag joins the first, though it’s untouched and pristine since no one has dared to join Shadow’s listening parties yet. Steadily, the bookshelves against one wall are reorganized; the records find their way out of a box and onto a proper rack. And when Shadow takes some liberties with organizing them in a way that makes sense for his brain, he’s pleased to find Mr. Wachowski—or perhaps his wife—picks up on the method as the unpacking continues.
Distantly, he feels bad about not helping. Ostensibly, they’re doing this for him, which is mind-boggling in itself. For that same reason, he knows it’s best to let them set the pace. He simply makes it a point to voice his appreciation as often as he can without making things weirder than they already are. The Wachowskis always wave his gratitude off with small, secret smiles. Shadow has heard the tale of them arranging Sonic’s attic bedroom so many times he’s lost count, and something strange and giddy wriggles in his stomach over being shown the same treatment.
He’s lost in his thoughts a few weeks later, listening to the same record Mr. Wachowski had put on to lure him in, when the door finally creaks. Initially, he expects to see one of the parents, probably checking in on him with a reminder about lunch. Instead, he sees shimmering green eyes and a furrowed blue brow.
“Come in.”
Sonic hesitates before slipping inside, leaving the door open as per Mr. Wachowski’s rules. “Hey.”
Shadow nods in greeting.
“Lunch is almost ready.”
“Okay.” The smell of chili has been wafting up the stairs to him for the better part of an hour, so Shadow knew his reclusive break was coming to a close. “I’d like to listen to a few more songs, first.”
“Sure, no rush. It’s just chili dogs.” Sonic moves further into the bedroom, wide eyes taking in the surroundings. “Man, they’ve made a crazy amount of progress in here so far! This is so cool.”
Shadow swallows uneasily. “It’s very kind of them to make this space.” For me. He glances at the record player as the familiar, soothing warbles of Hatfield plays alongside the easy rhythm of the piano and guitar. He remembers dancing to this with Maria: tripping over his feet despite his usual speed and grace. She had teased him all the while but walked him through a simple box step until he stopped crushing her toes.
Shadow looks to Sonic now, who’s making a great show of exploring the room while his green gaze darts over to Shadow over and over. Shadow heaves himself off the beanbag and, after a moment’s hesitation, holds out a hand to Sonic. Sonic beelines to him but doesn’t take his hand.
“Uh,” Sonic says sheepishly. He looks hopeful and scared and confused all at once, and Shadow simply finds himself endeared to the blue fool. So Shadow reaches out and takes Sonic’s hand, tugging him close enough to curl his other hand around Sonic’s hip. “Woah!”
“Just follow my lead,” Shadow mumbles as he recalls Maria’s lessons all those years ago. “Unless you think you can’t keep up.”
“Oh,” Sonic’s face screws up tight and pink at the taunt, “you’re on!”
Shadow only smirks as he guides Sonic through the same steps he memorized decades ago. Much like he couldn’t help cataloguing the differences between his apartment with Stone and the Wachowski home, he can’t help but compare Sonic to Maria. She was taller than Shadow then, which makes his and Sonic’s matching height a strange marvel. Sonic’s less clumsy than Shadow was, too, though that’s likely thanks to being raised by humans rather than experimented on by them. Sonic smells like dirt and fresh-cut grass where Maria constantly smelled of medicines and the steely walls of the blacksite they called home.
Most notably, Shadow never wanted to kiss Maria the way he finds he wants to kiss Sonic.
It’s not the first time the thought’s crossed his mind—that happened when Mrs. Wachowski insisted on Say Anything for movie night, and all Shadow could think about was how warm and comfortable it was with Sonic pressed against his side. Since then, it’s been a simmering thought that plagues him only when it’s most inconvenient. Like when they’re sparring. Humiliatingly, it often happens when Sonic’s running his mouth while eating, which is far too grotesque a sight for Shadow to enjoy it so much.
The thought doesn’t scare him, not exactly. He ponders it as he and Sonic dance through promises like “I’ll be coming home, wait for me.” His heart pounds embarrassingly fast and as Hatfield asks, “are you still mine?” Shadow is the one who trips over his own feet.
Sonic catches him with an arm around his back, dipping him back until his quills nearly brush the floor. It can’t be more than a second, but for the two of them it passes like an eon. Shadow can feel his muzzle heating as Sonic’s gaze flits down to his mouth, and something like disappointment slams into him as Sonic hurries to right them both. Sonic’s hands don’t leave Shadow’s body right away, though the blue hedgehog is clearly panicking a little. He’s shaking as one song melts into the next, his gaze flickering from Shadow’s face to the record player to anywhere else in the room. Shadow smiles and, despite the nervous ache in his own chest, leans forward.
Sonic’s eyes widen almost comically large but he tilts his head obediently as Shadow gets closer; his arms wind around Shadow’s shoulders instead, and Shadow grips Sonic’s hips almost bruisingly tight. Then they’re kissing, blue sparks meeting amber lightning as sensation lights up Shadow’s every nerve. It’s like swallowing a flame and Shadow suddenly feels starved for it.
He presses in closer, hungrily, and Sonic whines into the kiss. His arms tighten around Shadow’s shoulders and drag him closer still. They break apart just long enough to gasp for air before colliding again. Shadow can taste the sticky cola Sonic had earlier; Sonic’s shaky noises rattle Shadow’s teeth as they open their mouths to each other, tongues sliding together and noses bumping.
Shadow would gladly keep going if not for the awkward cough at the door that has them springing apart. Sonic goes stumbling back and ultimately trips over the second beanbag, disappearing behind a box of junk yet to be moved. Shadow, in turn, freezes as he turns toward the door feeling uncomfortably like a deer in headlights.
Mr. Wachowski stands in the open doorway, a tight hand curled around the doorknob.
Shadow knows, just as he did weeks ago, that he hasn’t done anything wrong. The door was open, so no rules have been broken. Just as he’s certain the Wachowski’s have been sprucing up this room for Shadow’s shake, he’s certain they’ve been expecting something like this to happen ever since Shadow turned up on their porch. It’s only half as humiliating as he expects—the sting is probably dampened because he knows the Wachowskis are better people than most everyone Shadow has met in life.
“Hey boys,” Mr. Wachowski drawls as Sonic climbs to his feet nervously. “Lunch is ready. We didn’t wanna start without you both.”
“Th-thanks dad,” Sonic says, voice cracking before he clears his throat. Shadow covers his snort with a cough of his own, rubbing at his mouth to hide his amusement. “We’ll be down in a sec.”
Mr. Wachowski nods. “Door stays open, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Shadow speaks at the same time Sonic whines-
“Dad!” Sonic covers his face with his hands. “Don’t you have some other kids to embarrass to death?”
“I do, but none of them just got their first boyfriend.” Mr. Wachowski glances at Shadow meaningfully. There’s no contempt in those icy blue eyes. There’s never been. Even when Shadow turned up with nothing but apologies, Mr. Wachowski looked at him like he was someone beyond just the sum of his actions. Right now, with the amused grin on his face and a soft laugh underscoring his words, Mr. Wachowski maybe even looks a little proud. Rather than leaving them be, he slips into the guest room too.
“Dad!”
“Five minutes, bud. Let me do my Dadly Duties and then we’ll do lunch and I’ll leave you guys alone, okay?”
Sonic groans but nods. Shadow realizes they’re both watching him, then, and he hurries to nod too.
“Just promise me that if you guys ever need anything, you’ll come to me or Maddie, okay? Even if it’s weird, or embarrassing, or gross. Maybe especially then. We just want you boys to be safe and happy. We’ll always do whatever we can to help. Understood?”
Sonic’s annoyance, which was playful at best, evaporates entirely. He takes off in a blur to hug Mr. Wachowski around the waist before zipping back to Shadow. “Understood,” he says, still pink in the cheeks but looking pleased about it.
Again, the focus falls to Shadow. “Understood,” he echoes. He doesn’t say how grateful he is—for Mr. Wachowski to trust him with this, to trust him at all despite their history. He thinks it’s heard regardless.
“Door rule doesn’t change,” Mr. Wachowski says as he starts to leave. “And we’re gonna have to set some ground rules if you guys decide to start going on dates, but for now, there are some chili dogs calling our names.” At the door, he stops and turns back to them. “You’ve got five minutes, then I’m sending Knux up here to pry you two apart.”
Shadow and Sonic stay identically still as Mr. Wachowski’s steps descend down to the foyer; only once his chatter joins the rest in the kitchen do the hedgehogs glance at each other. Sonic looks shy now, especially without the music of the Righteous Brothers to distract them both. Again, Shadow steps forward. He reaches out and snags Sonic’s hand in his own, interlocking their fingers.
“Oh,” Sonic lets the word out in a shaky exhale. “Yeah?”
Shadow rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he answers Sonic nonsensical not-question. He tugs Sonic in for another kiss, one sweeter more chaste than before. Even that would be easy to lose himself in, and the temptation is surely there. He can feel Sonic’s own eagerness pouring into the kiss and overflowing into energy spikes that dance along their quills.
When the kiss breaks, both of them with slightly swollen lips and deeply flushed faces, Shadow finally starts pulling Sonic toward the door. They stop first at the top of the stairs as the conversation in the kitchen quiets unsubtly. Every creak of the stairs fires like a gunshot until Sonic and Shadow can step into the dining room where the rest of the Wachowskis await.
Immediately, four sets of eyes fall on their interlocked hands. The fox’s jaw drops open and his eyes practically bulge out of his head, while Mrs. Wachowski has a hand over her chest and looks vaguely like she might cry. The echidna, meanwhile, begins to cheer which…is the opposite of what Shadow would’ve expected from the warrior.
“Wade will be thrilled to learn he has lost our wager!” The echidna slaps his burly fists together, pleased. “I am now twenty dollars richer!”
Sonic’s embarrassment clearly goes up in smoke in exchange for his incredulity. “Wait a minute, have you been making bets with Wade about us?” As he zips over to the table to his usual seat, he drags Shadow along with him. No one comments on how they scoot their chairs closer together, or how they don’t unlink their entwined hands despite the messy nature of the chili dogs. All attention is on the echidna’s apparent gambling ring that the entire Green Hills PD is in on, save for Mr. Wachowski himself.
Shadow lets the warmth of the conversation wash over him, anchored by Sonic’s grip on his hand and the lingering taste of Sonic on his lips. He’s comfortably adrift in it all until he recognizes the feeling of two green eyes piercing the side of his head. Shadow turns to Sonic as Tails dazzles the others with chatter about his latest invention. Sonic’s dopey grin is interrupted as he speaks.
“What song was that, anyway?”
Shadow can practically hear it as he stares at Sonic; it’s been so long since he had a song stuck in his head, rather than venomous words or heavy memories bogging him down, he forgot what it felt like. He likes it. He likes this.
“It was old man music,” Shadow says with a shrug, “you wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh come on!”