Work Text:
It starts with a single petal.
Soft and round, shaped like a perfect teardrop; red as fresh blood.
Shadow stares down at the thing in his hand, not sure what to make of it. He's offended, he thinks, by the betrayal. He'd promised himself this wouldn't happen. He'd been so sure.
He curls his fingers over the petal and crushes it in his palm. He drops it to the ground, a scrap of crumpled crimson, and tells himself it means nothing.
He can feel them growing inside him. Every day the pressure is more difficult to ignore. He ignores it anyway.
It's just a few flowers. They don't mean anything. This is a momentary lapse, that's all. He just needs to keep looking forward, take care not to feed them with useless daydreaming, and they'll wither soon enough.
He's careful not to let anyone see the petals.
He's been coughing them up more often as of late. He tells himself that it's a good sign; his body is purging itself of the loathesome blooms, ridding itself of a pestilence he did not ask for.
It's a difficult hope to cling to when he's curled over a trashcan, hacking and wheezing as the painful tickle in his throat works slowly upward. He sucks in a breath, narrow and whistling around the blockage in his throat, and immediately coughs it out again when it only aggravates his bruised throat.
He squeezes his eyes shut, curls his claws so tight around the rim of his can that he hears the cheap plastic crack. He lets out another explosive cough, and something thumps gently, wetly, in the bucket.
He doesn't want to look. He does so anyway.
It's a rosebud, only just beginning to open. Crimson petals cling tightly to each other, wrapped in a tight spiral.
It's not as large as he thought it would be. It certainly felt bigger, coming up.
He buries it at the bottom of the kitchen trash, beneath the rest of the rubbish.
There's a constant tickle in his throat, these days, every moment laden with the threat of another petal working its way out of him. He hasn't coughed up another whole flower yet, something he is reluctantly grateful for. He tells himself that perhaps that bud was the last, and all these petals are only the remnants. He just has to keep it hidden a little longer, stay quiet until he figures out how to quash these wretched feelings once and for all, and soon enough he'll be free of this plague.
He brushes off Rouge's concerns when she ineveitably raises them. It's a bruise to his pride when she does. He thought he'd been subtler than that, but she proves as observant as ever. It's part of why he likes her, she's clever.
It's difficult to enjoy the justification of his good taste in companions when her talents are leveled at him.
She tries to guess what's wrong, and of course she doesn't come close. The truth is a ludicrous prospect; the fact that she seems to think so too provides little comfort.
It's easier to breathe around Sonic.
He'd thought it wouldve been the other way around; avoided him for as long as he was able, desperate to hide his weakness. But Sonic's always had a knack for tracking him down, and today proves no exception.
They race. Sonic wins. Shadow expresses the expected annoyance, but secretly he's pleased; he's surprised he was able to keep up at all. He's always a little short of breath lately, not enough room in his lungs to breath as deep as he used to.
Afterward, he hangs around while Sonic talks about nothing in particular. He talks about his brother, and his friends, and Eggman’s latest schemes.
Shadow doesn't offer much response, but Sonic doesn't seem to mind. He talks, and Shadow listens, and for the first time in a long time he breathes deep.
She catches him out eventually.
They're at a function, one of Rouge's little galas that she attends as an excuse to stake out her next target, and Shadow is there as backup.
She's talking to an elderly shrew draped in jewels, oohing and aahing and generally schmoozing. She always knows just what to say; she's got the old lady wrapped around her finger.
Shadow, with nothing else to do except keep an eye on her from a respectable distance, wonders how the words come to her so easily. She's brimming with confidence, able to say the most outlandish things without ever batting an eye, and yet every time he imagines himself expressing his own deepest, wildest desires…
A familiar sensation rouses him from his musings and he quietly excuses himself.
Rouge finds him in the bathroom. He didn't even hear her picking the lock; he's too busy bent over the toilet, retching, as petals cascade from his mouth.
Her hand settles between his shoulder blades, mindful of his quills as she rubs soothing circles into his back. A shudder ripples through him and he hacks up another mouthful of petals, clinging to the roof of his mouth, slick with blood when he finally manages to spit them out.
"Oh, honey," she murmurs, "Why didn't you tell me?"
He shakes his head as he coughs up a final petal. That was the last one, for now; he can feel it, the way his throat convulses around nothing, the way the ache in his chest fades into momentary relief.
"It's nothing," he rasps, voice hoarse, throat sore. "It doesn't matter."
She stares at him, stricken, and asks if he knows what this is.
"It's a nuisance," he grumbles. He rises to his feet, shakes off her hand when she reaches out to support him. "A lapse in judgement, that's all. I'll be fine."
He shouldn't be seeking out Sonic the way that he is. He's supposed to be laying this little infatuation to rest, not feeding it. And yet, it's impossible to stay away.
Sonic's company puts the roses to bed, even if only for a little bit. The petals lie still, the blooms stay tightly curled in delicate buds, and the thorns— for there are thorns now, coiled in his lungs and rooting through his flesh —cease their constant scraping, allowing him a moment of blissful relief in which he might focus solely on the hedgehog beside him.
He doesn't seriously consider even for a moment confessing. He knows there would be no use. Sonic told him, long ago, that he wasn't cut out for that sort of thing. Never has been, never will be. He'd tried it once, for Amy's sake, and it was awful. Never again, he'd said.
Shadow knows Sonic would try it for him, too. That's why he can't say anything. It would be— selfish, unforgivably greedy of him, to ask for the one thing he knows Sonic cannot give.
So he stays silent, drinking in every word, every glance his way. He basks in the attention, and wishes so badly that it was enough. It would be so much easier if he could be content with only this, satisfied with what he's been given instead of wanting endlessly for more.
When Sonic leaves him, because Sonic always leaves eventually, Shadow does not. He lingers in the divot they've crushed into the grass, rolls over to lay where Sonic laid, and stays there until the scent fades and petals come crawling up his throat once more.
Rouge hounds him for answers. She's always been good at prying out secrets, especially his; he only regrets now that he let her get her claws so deep into him.
"It's nothing," he tells her for the umpteenth time when she asks for the hundredth. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."
"That's the problem!" she exclaims, frustration building to a boiling point. "Shadow, sweetie, you have to talk about it or it's just gonna get worse."
He suspects that she thinks it's about her. That's why she looks at him so earnestly, hope instead of pity; she doesn't realize just how grim his situation really is.
Sometimes it wishes it was her. It wouldn't be any easier to come to terms with, but at least she's never been shy about giving him what he wants.
"If you won't talk to me, what about Omega?" she suggests. "He won't say it, but I know he's worried too."
Omega, ever since Rouge told him something was going on, has insisted it doesn't concern him. He usually states this while staring intensely at Shadow's chest, almost certainly using that very handy, incredibly invasive x-ray feature of his to peer directly into Shadow's thicketed lungs.
"Omega wouldn't understand," Shadow spits, sullen. He doubts there's anyone who could truly grasp the reality of his situation. It's a one-sided trap he saw coming a million miles away, and yet he went and stumbled into it anyway.
"QUERY: WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE?"
"No, thank you."
Shadow does not want to see. He's been doing his best to ignore it, even as every day it gets a little more impossible to ignore.
Omega buzzes, static-crackle through his speakers. "YOU SHOULD BE AWARE THAT IT HAS PROGRESSED."
He knows. He can feel it; thorny vines punctured through his lungs in a dozen places, winding through his ribcage and making every movement an exercise in agony.
"I don't want to see it," he says, practiced patience. He's had to be very patient lately.
Omega stares down at him. There's that burst of static again, an emotional outburst that he can't, or won't, translate into words.
"FEIGNING IGNORANCE WILL NOT SAVE YOU."
That stings almost as badly as the thorns. "I didn't ask for your opinion," he snaps. "I'm dealing with it."
"ROUGE HAS EXPLAINED TO ME THE MECHANISMS OF THIS ILLNESS. THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY TO 'DEAL WITH IT.' QUERY: CONFESSION?"
Of course she did. It's not enough that she found him out, now Omega knows he's a lovesick fool, too.
"It's not that simple," he hisses. "The situation is… complicated."
"OPINION REJECTED: IT IS VERY SIMPLE. YOU MUST ADMIT TO YOUR BIOCHEMICAL WEAKNESS OR YOU WILL DIE."
"Death would be easier."
"YOU ARE SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG. YOU DO NOT CARE FOR WHAT IS EASY. YOU WILL DO WHAT IS NECESSARY."
For once, he's not particulary happy about being right. Of course Omega doesn't understand, he knew he wouldn't. But it occurs to him that maybe… maybe that's exactly what he needs. A truly impartial party to knock some sense into him, tell him how foolish he's being by letting his emotions get the best of him.
He opens his mouth to speak and hesitates. Almost immediately the vines inside him twist and he doubles over, convulsing, as a fluttering lump slides up his throat.
Cool metal settles on his shoulders, claws holding him steady. He puts a hand to his mouth and it comes away bloody; another wracking cough and a rose in full bloom drops into his palm, perfectly formed, dripping its color through his fingers.
He drops it to the floor and crushes it under his heel. He takes in a breath, weak and shallow, hardly any room for it within the mass of twisting thorns and leaves and petals inside him.
"It doesn't matter how I feel," and his next breath comes a little easier, "because I already know he doesn't feel the same."
Omega takes a moment to process this, indicator lights flicking rapidly between yellow and red. "QUERY: DOES IT MATTER TO YOU?"
The thorns shiver, waiting for his answer. "It does," he whispers. "It does matter to me. It's all I can think about."
The itch fades. The thorns recede. He waits, breath bated, wild hope hovering in his chest; but another moment passes and they retreat no further.
"I love him," he admits, for the first time out loud, to Omega's deafening silence. Although the confession brings him relief, it is not enough.
He knows it's a bad idea, but he can't stay away. When Sonic comes chasing after him, he lets himself be caught.
He realizes he's made a mistake the moment their gazes meet. The laughter fades from Sonic's eyes, whatever taunt he'd had readied as greeting dies on his tongue.
"Woah," he says as he approaches, "What happened to you?"
Shadow opens his mouth. For a brief, soaring moment he considers telling the truth. Then he thinks better of it, and what comes out is a gruff, "None of your business."
His heart pulses painfully in his chest. He can feel the thorns hooked in, digging deeper with each unwise beat.
For a moment he thinks he's escaped unscathed, the roses soothed enough by Sonic's presence that he can get away with so blatant a lie; and then he feels the tickle, creeping inexorable up his throat, and though he tries desperately to swallow it back down there's no use.
He coughs hoarsely, and drops to one knee. Sonic rushes forward, hands outstretched. Shadow bristles and glares until he backs off, hovers just out of reach while Shadow retches and chokes, until he spits out a mouthful of petals and a mangled rose, the petals withered and curling at the edges.
"Oh," says Sonic. "Oh, geez. Gotta admit, I wasn't expecting that."
"Shut up," Shadow rasps. He doesn't dare lie again, not to him, so he settles for a snippet of the truth instead. "I don't want to talk about it."
Nervous energy brings Sonic's narrow frame to life, feet tapping, fingers twitching, ears flicking forward as he offers his hand. Shadow takes it and the ache eases as Sonic pulls him to his feet, facial features softened with obvious concern, and for a moment he can let himself believe that it's what he wants it to be.
"Are you sure you don't wanna talk?" Sonic searches his face, and Shadow hopes he doesn't find anything written there. "I hear it's supposed to help, even if it's not to, yknow, them."
Shadow not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. Sonic doesn't know; of course he doesn't. How could he, when Shadow has been so careful not to let it slip? That's what the thorns are for, lodged in his throat, grown from the seeds of words that even now he doesn't dare speak.
"No," he whispers, barely audible over the rustle of leaves bunched in his lungs, "I don't."
Gone are the days when he hoped he could simply ignore it until it went away. The pain is constant, every breath is a battle, and every wheezy petal a reminder that he is in love and he is going to die for it.
Sometimes he lets himself imagine what might happen if he did confess. He allows himself to be swept away by sweet words and tender affirmations that he knows, he knows the real Sonic would never say.
It is during one of these daydreams that he feels a sharp pain in his chest, keener than any so far. He looks down just in time to see the skin split as a nubby root twists free and sends blood spraying out, dripping down his chest, staining white fur red.
He watches in a daze as it curls into a spiral tight against his skin, catching his fur and tangling it in the thorns. He can see them now, long and hooked, every bit as wicked as he thought they might be.
He can feel them moving inside him. He thought he would have choked on them long before they burst out of him, but evidently not; he can keep quiet for as long as he likes, but his flowers are determined to find the light.
He walks to the couch, uncaring of the trail he leaves smeared in his footsteps. He collapses there; and the moment he sinks into the cushions, he knows he will not be getting up again.
Rouge finds him that evening when she returns home. She flicks on the light and sees the trail of blood, freezes, then follows it with her eyes until she spots Shadow lying still and silent.
"Shadow!" she exclaims, rushing to him in a flurry of wings. She looks him over, sees the tangle torn through his chest, the weeping roots trailing down his skin and winding tight through the upholstery. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize… I thought you had more time."
"I apologize for the mess," he says stiffly. "It's going to stain."
"Oh, for the love of— I don't give a shit about the stains! This isn't the first time you've bled all over my floor, and it's not going to be the last, either. Got that?"
He averts his gaze and stays quiet. She bites her lip, looks at him for a long while, then finally stirs herself and says, "Don't move. I'm calling Omega."
Omega asks if he would like to see the x-rays. He doesn't, but Rouge insists he looks anyway.
"It's not pretty," she says as she hands him the printout. "If it were anyone else they'd be dead by now."
She's right, it's not pretty. It's beautiful.
The roses have filled his lungs with swollen blooms, petals creeping up his trachea and nectar sweetening every shallow, rasping breath. The brambles knitted through his ribcage have filled every gap and now splay themselves across the underside of his pelt, growing in elegant, swirling patterns.
He puts a hand to his chest, near to where the skin is split. He can feel them through his fur, thick wooden veins raising his skin.
He looks at the x-ray again. They're curled tightest around his heart. The organ isn't visible on the scan, so deeply is it entombed, but he can still feel it. He can feel every suffocated, desperate beat, stubbornly pumping his blood through his body so that the vines might soak it up and squeeze him tighter.
"YOU MUST CONFESS," Omega tells him. His optical lenses shine bright, gleaming red, devoid of emotion. Static undercuts his words. "YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME."
"Just tell us who it is," Rouge begs. She never begs, not like she really means it. He hates that she's resorted to it now. "We'll bring them here. Whatever it takes."
He would be here in an instant, if Shadow let them ask. If he knew there was a way he could help. He's good like that, selfless.
He's too good for Shadow. He can't do that to him. Can't put that on his shoulders, the weight of Shadow's failings. He already does so much.
He spits up a petal. It's dripping with blood. He twirls it between his fingers and says nothing.
Amy comes to see him. Rouge must have told her about what's happening. It makes sense; she's the nearest thing they have to an expert. She loves love, in all its forms, even the ugly ones.
She hardly balks at seeing him. She blinks, eyes going wide when she sees the state she's in, and then she plasters over the shock with a smile.
"Hi, Shadow."
It's difficult to speak. The thorns are in his mouth now, delicate green-slivered strands that wind around his tongue and keep it still.
He's always liked Amy. She's pleasant company, kind, especially to those who don't deserve it.
"Hello," he whispers, tastes blood sharp and bright between his teeth.
He's taken up the entire couch by now, his brambles gladly spreading to occupy whatever space he doesn't, so she perches on the arm by his head and looks down at him.
"These have been growing for a while," she says. She doesn't say it like she's judging; just stating a fact.
"Months."
She makes a sympathetic noise. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts."
The way she says it… "You do?" he rasps.
She nods. "I've had them too."
"For Sonic?"
"No, it was before I met him. There was this girl… I didn't understand what I was feeling for the longest time, and when I finally put it together I just didn't know how to tell her. I grew lavender. I still have some of the flowers."
"What… did she say?"
"She was willing to try. We weren't very good together, though." Amy smiles sadly. "She was so sweet to me."
She runs a finger along one of the brambles, mindful of the thorns. They're heavy with buds now, and she touches the fattest of them.
"Roses, huh? They're not common. You must really love him."
"I do." He realizes a moment later that he never told her anything about who it is; but then he sees the way she's looking at him with such understanding, and he realizes he never had to.
"I can't tell him," he insists with a burst of sudden fervor. She loves him too. Surely she'll understand.
"Oh, Shadow." She reaches down and takes his paws in hers. "That's how you got in this whole mess to begin with. He won't hold it against you, you know."
"I knew… he didn't want it. And I tried… I tried not to. But I couldn't… I can't…"
"Shh, it's okay, I know. He's hard not to love."
"I tried," he repeats. "I really did."
"Stop trying," she urges, soft. "It doesn't do anyone any good to pretend it away. Let your heart feel what it wants to feel."
A low keen slips through his teeth as the thorns shift, digging in as his heart shies away. "It hurts," he gasps.
"It's going to hurt, I'm so sorry. But you have to feel it, Shadow. You have to let it out, or it'll come out anyway, and it'll be… messy." Her gaze flicks down, to the bloody hole in his chest.
Her hands are warm and firm around his. He squeezes a little, and she squeezes back. "I didn't… want this to happen," he whispers.
"No one ever does. We can't choose who we love. We just have to let it happen and do the best we can."
A moment passes, silent, except for the steady drip-drip of blood staining the carpet.
"Will you tell me about it?"
He's quiet for a long moment, considering. "Will it… help?"
"It might. You… you've got it really bad, Shadow. Most people don't… survive to see this stage. You have to be careful; you need to be honest, whatever it is you want to say."
For a moment he's tempted to lie. Dig his heels in, hasten the growth and get this whole ordeal over with. At the moment he thinks it, though, the brambles wrapped around his heart shift and the pain is so bright and blinding that his vision goes blank.
When he comes back to himself he's wheezing, a petal stuck in his throat, and the blood leaking faster down his side. Amy leans over him with an expression of deep concern, that fades as he gets his breathing under control and shifts into frustration instead.
"Whatever that was, don't do it again," she says sternly. "You can't trick the flowers. They're part of you."
"I know," he mutters. Then, louder, "If… if I tell you, you'll keep it secret. Won't you?"
"Of course," she says instantly. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
So he tells her everything.
Amy goes to get Sonic.
He asked her to. She told him to be sure, really sure, before she went and fetched him, and he told her he was.
In truth, he wasn't sure, and still isn't. The roses haven't punished him for the lie, though, so he supposes that on some level he must be.
Rouge and Omega were reluctant to leave, but he insisted. He can't have them here for this. They care for him too deeply, and if this doesn't work… well, he'd rather they not be here to see what happens.
He doesn't want Sonic to see it either, but there's no getting around that. He has to be present if there's any chance of Shadow getting out of this alive.
He's feeling better. He still can't sit up; he's bound too tightly for that, rooted to the couch. But the thorns aren't quite so tight around his aching heart, and he can breathe a little easier. Amy was right. It did help.
Hopefully she's right about this part, too.
A knock at the door. Quick, rhythmic. "Come in," Shadow calls, as loudly as he can.
The door cracks open, and Sonic steps inside.
He lets out a low whistle when he sees Shadow. "Yikes. Ames told me it was bad, but I didn't realize it was this bad." His gaze flicks to Shadow's chest, gaping open, and his steps falter. "Does it hurt?"
"Immensely."
"I'm sorry." He steps closer, even now with the end of the couch.
His eyes are the same shade of green as the leaves sprouting between the thorns. Shadow hadn't realized that until this moment, caught in that bright, keen gaze.
"Did Amy tell you… why I wanted you?"
"She just said I needed to come see you, as soon as I could."
So she kept her promise, then. Not that it matters; Shadow can see in his face that Sonic knows very well why he's here.
He's antsy, not sure where to look. He fidgets with his gloves, pulling first at one hem and then the other. He doesn't want to be here, not for this. But he came anyway, because he knew he was needed. Because Shadow needed him.
The fattest of the buds blushes deeper, outer petals shivering as they begin to lift away from each other.
Sonic comes to Shadow's end of the couch and drops to his knees so they're face-to-face. He puts one hand on the cushion, in the dwindling empty space between brambles, and the other on Shadow's shoulder.
"You know what I'm going to say," Shadow murmurs, a last-ditch effort to get out of saying it.
Sonic swallows. "Pretty sure, yeah. I'd like to hear it from you, though."
"I…"
Sonic's never been known for patience. Even now— especially now —Shadow half-expects him to start cracking jokes, looking for levity even in such a serious situation. It's just what he does.
Not this time. He remains quiet, just looking at Shadow, waiting.
"I love you."
Only three words, and they sound so small. Sonic sucks in a breath through his teeth, sharp, and rocks back. Shadow closes his eyes and braces himself.
"I'm flattered," Sonic says, like he's trying to make a joke out of it, but falls flat. "Uh. I mean, that's— thanks for telling me."
"You don't… feel the same." He knows this. He's always known this. He needs to hear it anyway.
"…I don't. Sorry," and he sounds truly remorseful. "You're a great guy, Shads, and I like you a lot, but I don't love the way you want me to."
"No," Shadow says, finds it within him to speak more firmly as he realizes he needs to correct this, "I don't want you to love me."
"What? But I thought—"
"That's why I didn't want to tell you," Shadow says bitterly. "I knew it wouldn't… be any use. I didn't want to… change things between us."
Sonic squeezes his shoulder. "Nothing's gonna change. You're my favorite rival, y'know that? I don't care if you have a little crush." He smiles widely. "Like I said, I'm flattered, honest. You have good taste."
"A crush," Shadow repeats numbly. He lies here sprouting an entire garden from his flesh, rose upon bleeding rose born of the immense emotion he tried so hard for so long to keep locked away, and Sonic minimizes his passion to a crush.
"Er— sorry, is that insensitive? Like I said, I'm not good at this," Sonic says, apologetic. "I just meant— y'know, it happens. I'm still friends with Amy, aren't I?"
He's so kind. Even now, when Shadow has so blatantly disrepected him and his wishes, he offers forgiveness without a second thought. This, this is why Shadow can't help but love him.
"Hey, is that supposed to be happening?" Sonic points at the nearest bud, darkening rapidly to crimson as the petals begin to unfurl. Another follows suit, and another, and another, until the thorns are covered in blooms and a sweet, floral scent fills the air.
Shadow cups his hand around the largest rose, sprouting directly from the hole in his chest. "I'm… not sure," he admits. He clasps it firmly at the base and tugs. The stem snaps easily and slides free of his flesh with no pain.
"Woah. Weird." Sonic falls silent for a moment, but only a moment. "Is it rude to say they're kinda pretty?"
Shadow surprises himself by finding the strength to laugh. "I would hope you think so. I grew them for you, after all."
He offers the rose in his hand to Sonic, who accepts it without hesitation. The stem is wet with blood, but if he notices he doesn't care. He tucks it into his quills, just behind his ear, and says earnestly, "Thanks for telling me, Shads. I just wish you'd told me sooner, and we coulda avoided all this mess."
Shadow nods in agreement, even though he knows that without the flowers to force his hand, he'd be keeping the secret still.
The roses take some time to recede. Amy assures him that it's normal, especially for growth as extensive as his. They're able to prune the worst of it— Omega is very eager to help with that part —and Rouge extracts enough plant matter from his chest that she can then stitch the wound closed, but without going to the hospital (something Shadow refuses outright, under any circumstances) there's nothing else they can do except wait.
He's coughing up petals for weeks, even after the last of the thorns have withered. He's thoroughly sick of the taste of them by now; he's been known to enjoy a nice rose hip tea from time to time, but he digs through the cabinet until he finds the half-empty box and throws it in the trash without fanfare.
His… crush takes longer to fade. His heart still hurts a little, whenever he meets up with Sonic and that dizzying grin is directed his way. He still hangs on to his every word, numerous as they are, and sneaks long looks when he's distracted.
Amy tells him that's normal too. They meet regularly now, so she can check in and make sure he's not burying anything else that needs to come to light. He thinks she just enjoys finally having an ironclad excuse to trap him in social engagement. Not that he minds, much. She's certainly earned the privilege.
He asks her if the love will ever go away.
She looks away, out a nearby window and far into the distance. "It might," she says quietly. "But it might not. It's not so bad, if it doesn't." She turns back to him, something somber in her eyes, a sadness he feels reflected in his own. "I still love her, when I think of her. And I love him, too."
"It's hard not to," he murmurs. She nods.
"It will change," she promises. "Love is like grief; it gets softer with time, if you let it."
He's already wrapped in so much grief, for what he's lost, for what he's never had. He inhales sharp, shuddering, and stretches his hand across the table on impulse. Amy takes it in hers and squeezes, silent solace.
He tastes roses, in the back of his throat, and with sudden, solid certainty, he knows that he always will.