sweetpeasprite

Nicky has been waiting for this his whole life.

He's in the Ultra Ultimate division, and it was ridiculous how easy it was - a few roadblocks along the way, sure, but nothing he couldn't handle. He's defeated all the Great Sages, defeated the Supreme Sage, defeated his little aide, or whatever he was. He's watched their teams fall to his own easily, watched the bored expression on their faces turn to shock. None of them were expecting him to be like this - he doesn’t think they know who he is. He’s pretty sure they were only expecting the pure-hearted one to get past any of them. He's powerful, and he knows it. He can feel it coursing through his heart.

There's only one person who has ever defeated him at anything, and he's the last roadblock before he can finally get to the final. And Nicky's so excited for their battle - the first fight they'll be having without the antagonising parts - that he practically begs his father for something to impress him with. Something big, something that could win against anything, something that…

Something that is very hard to control. Something that kind of hurts Nicky's chest, if he breathes too hard.

Something he watches fall to the ground and dissipate in front of him.

To be fair to Nicky, it wasn't that bad of a loss. If he thinks about it for a second, he put up a very fair fight, one that Oliver struggled with a fair amount - but Nicky wasn't expecting himself to struggle at all. He was expecting to wipe Oliver off the coliseum's radar, expecting to go onto the next battle, the one that meant so much to him. He wasn't expecting any of this.

The crowd's roar is muffled in his ears. Everything feels as though it's through a foggy looking-glass, his chest tight and his hands shaking. The sandy floor of the coliseum is still whipping around him, disturbed by his familiar's fall. It's cold, suddenly - it's evening, and the sun has set, and Caraway is close enough to the Winter Isles, sure, but he hadn't felt it before.

Across the field, through cloudy vision, he watches Oliver grin wide, smiling as the muted sound of the crowd cheering his name reaches Nicky's ears. He looks ecstatic, like he’s never defeated Nicky before (like this isn’t the third time, and the one time that meant so much). But he looks across to meet Nicky's eyes, and Nicky supposes he sees something, because Oliver's face falls almost immediately. He looks so worried, all of a sudden, that Nicky's almost worried for him. He takes a shaky breath of freezing cold air, looks away, and starts to walk back towards the coliseum's lobby.

The door shuts behind him, and Oliver enters through his own door a few seconds later. There's a silence between them for a second, the only sound being the muffled crowd out in the cold. Nicky refuses to meet Oliver's eyes, staring at the floor in front of him instead.

"Nicky-" Oliver starts, a soft undertone to it.

"That-" Nicky starts at the same time, pausing, but continuing before Oliver can, "That was the best familiar I had." A tiny, shaky breath. "Not good," he mumbles under his breath, chastising himself. He’s not meant to be on the losing side here, he’s not meant to have tears in his eyes; he’s meant to be strong, in every way possible. He’s not really sure how he’s meant to keep going if he’s not. Not good enough. Not good enough, and there won’t be another chance.

"H-Hey, Nicky…" Oliver says hesitantly, and the concern in his voice overwhelms Nicky so much he almost starts crying then and there.

He looks up sharp, stands upright, meets Oliver's eyes. "Oh, Oliver-" His voice comes out far too loud, and through the fog of his mind, he sees Oliver flinch a little. "You don't have to worry about me, I don't have to be consoled. I'll be fine!" He's very convincing, if he says so himself. He swallows. "I-" his voice cracks a little, and he curses himself for it, "-I went into that battle thinking I was going to destroy you, but I suppose the exact opposite happened." He smiles a little. "Weird, right?"

Oliver smiles back, but his eyebrows are still furrowed. "Yeah."

There's another patch of quiet. Nicky's throat closes a little, but he breathes in and out, and it opens again as he wills himself to just not cry in front of Oliver. "Well…" he starts, "the next battle is your last. It's my dad."

"Your…?" Oliver blinks a few times, endearingly. "Wait, do you mean-"

"Mhm." Nicky smiles. "My full name's Nicky Gapollino. Surprise."

"Mr Gapollino?" Oliver says, eyes wide. "The… sponsor? He's your dad?"

Nicky nods. "That's the one. He gave me that familiar you just fought." He doesn't want to think about his father right now, if he's honest. He'll probably be seeing his disappointed face soon enough. He feels the block in his throat come back at that. "Some…" He swallows. Maybe he shouldn't be saying this, but his emotions get the better of him. "Some days I like to pretend the entire reason this coliseum exists is so I can battle my father." He watches Oliver's face fall again. "That's, uh-" he laughs a little, slightly wetly. "That's another reason why I really wanted to win. But-" he clenches his fingers into the arms of his jacket, "but I guess that's not happening."

Another pause. The crowd is quieter now, but still audible, soft murmurs above the stone silence between the two of them. Oliver reaches a hand out slightly, offering something. "Nicky…" he says, softly, regretful.

Nicky steps back, away from him. "Good luck, Oliver." Oliver's blurry now, from the tears in his eyes, and his voice is horribly choked. "I'll be cheering you on, alright?"

He's turning to walk away before Oliver can mumble a "thanks".

He has to force himself not to run down the hallway. He knows that Oliver is watching him walk away, can feel his worried eyes burning a hole in the back of his coat. His boots click across the stone floors, carrying him forward even as his brain clocks out, not knowing where he's going or what he's going to do. He just wants away, he wants to be alone, he wants to be somewhere that isn't in front of Oliver so he can figure out how to get rid of these emotions. And what he's going to do with the rest of his life. What he's going to do, period.

He turns the corner, and he's out of Oliver's view. He stumbles a little, considering sinking to the floor there and then, but forces himself to keep going. He takes a breath - more of a gasp - and furiously scrubs away a tear that manages to escape from his eye. Everything has suddenly started coming at him so much faster, the air seemingly thin as he starts to take quicker breaths, speed up the pace of his footsteps, curl in on himself a little more. He barely even knows where he's going, just that it's somewhere people can't find him.

He hates that this corridor seems so long. It feels like it’s stretching for miles, that every step he takes is so tiny. Maybe he’s just slowing down. He wants to run, he wants to hide, but he can’t get his feet to move fast enough to get him there, as if there’s chains on his ankles trying to drag him down to sink to the floor and sob into his arms. He wants to collapse somewhere, preferably somewhere soft, and just try to figure out what to do - and how his father is going to react. He doesn’t even know how he’s going to react, but he doesn’t think it’s going to be good.

A door clicks open a few feet away from him, and he stops walking, stops breathing. Nicky watches the feet of the person coming through instead of their face, but then realises who it is and looks up, startled.

His father shuts the door behind him, then turns to where Nicky is and starts walking down the hall.

It's awful, how slow time can become in these moments. How seconds pass, but then loop back around and seem to pass again. How it feels like his dad walks for an hour, maybe two, before reaching him. Nicky looks up as he passes by, knowing how terrible he looks, face and glasses wet with tears, trying his best to straighten his back. His father doesn't stop walking. He barely even glances down.

Nicky waits with bated breath for him to turn around. For his boots to stop tapping on the floor, for him to say how disappointed he is. For him to say anything at all, really. Or even just… acknowledge he's there. Tell him to stop crying, keep your chin up, it's not the end of the world. Anything that isn’t nothing at all. That’s worse than being screamed at.

Nicky listens to the footsteps echo on the floor behind him, getting fainter, and despite the muffled crowd still around him, he's never felt so alone in his life.

He breathes in shakily, more tears spilling over that he doesn't bother to scrub at this time. He snivels, an awful noise that he half wants someone to hear, but covers his mouth and nose with his hand to stifle it anyway.

And then he bolts down the corridor to the locker room.

He throws open the door maybe a little too hard, with it banging on the wall and almost tearing itself off its hinges, and thanks whatever gods are out there that the room is empty. The only fights scheduled for today are for the Ultra Ultimate division - and all the sages are up in the stands, about to watch the next match. They've done their job - there's no reason for them to be in here. He isn’t sure if he’s glad or not. Nicky limps over to the wall of lockers, bangs the back of his head against it, sinks to the floor, and curls up into a ball.

It's quiet, now. The crowd is barely a murmur through the thick walls, the only other sounds being the buzz of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling - and Nicky's sniffles. It's colder here than it was in the lobby, though. Nicky supposes that makes sense, as the chill from the tiled floor seeps through his trousers. The quiet is nice. It lets him try not to panic about what he's going to do with himself.

He tries, he really does, to sort his thoughts out. To put them into little boxes, to figure out how he's going to deal with them. But the boxes aren't taped together properly, and they keep falling apart, and as soon as he thinks he's put one thing aside he starts panicking about it again. There's just… so much. He thought this was what he was destined for. He thought he was going to be the one to fight the Wizard King. He's been told stories his entire life about how his father fought the Wizard King, and how he sealed him away, and how he's going to break the seal soon, and Nicky is so powerful, he's so strong, and surely he can defeat the Wizard King?

He wonders if his father knows that he thought that. He wonders if his father ever thought that. Maybe he did, before Oliver came along and made himself known.

Nicky really wants to be done with feeling bitter about Oliver.

He's not sure if he even wants to fight the Wizard King. Does he? He wants to help, he thinks, but maybe he's just taught himself to think that. He thinks that maybe he just wants the glory of it, to be one of, if not the strongest person in the world. Maybe he just likes winning. (Some part of him knows this isn't true. It almost sounds like Oliver. But he's not listening to that part, just now.) Oliver’s already defeated Shadar, for gods’ sakes! Does he really need to take on this as well? Nicky supposes he has to, if he’s the one who’s so powerful. Part of him feels bad for him, but most of him is sour about it.

How long has he even been in this world? Less than a year? That’s not fair. It’s such a childish thought, but it’s true. Nicky’s been training for this his whole life.

He heaves another sob into his arms. If he's not meant to do this, then… what in the gods' names is he meant to do? If he's not meant for anything, what does he do instead? And - he hates himself for thinking it, but - what would his father have him do instead? Surely he had him for a reason. You don't decide to have a child at a thousand years of age without some kind of motive. This is the only thing Nicky can think of! He hasn’t been told to be anything else! Surely he's meant to defeat the Wizard King. What the hell else is he supposed to do, become a fisherman? He doesn’t think his dad would approve of that. If he's not meant to be the one to defeat the Wizard King, then-

Then he supposes he's not meant to be anything.

It's really strange, the kind of cold calm that washes over him when he realises. He sniffles, looks up at the ceiling, the lights blinding him a little. Maybe he's just… nothing. Easily replaced. Maybe, in another world, he doesn't even exist, and absolutely nothing has changed. In another universe, maybe Oliver would have never even met him, and the Wizard King, or whatever villain there is there - maybe they’re defeated without him ever being mentioned once.

Then he guesses he doesn't really matter, does he? He guesses he never really did.

He stares at the wall across from him, feeling slightly numb. There are still tears slipping out of his eyes every so often, but he doesn't find it in himself to rub them away. He takes his glasses off, though - not that they can get any foggier. He bangs his head against the lockers behind him again, and closes his eyes. He's tired. Exhausted. He's been training for today for the last month. He supposes that was all for nothing, too. He wonders if Oliver had to do any training at all.

There's a bang from inside the locker beside him, and he jumps about a foot in the air, gasping for breath as he startles out of his state. He stares at it, tears stopping out of pure shock, and after a few seconds it sounds again. He blinks at it, and then frowns. That's his locker.

He fishes the key from his pocket and turns it in the lock. As soon as it's unlocked, the door slams itself open, almost taking Nicky's hand with it, and a certain pair of red horns shoves itself out, followed by a familiar snout. Nicky can't help but suppress a smile. Right. His creature cage is in there, with his personal familiars, considering the one his dad gave him takes up an entire cage by itself. His demoliceros stomps out onto the tile, shaking herself out before looking around. Upon finding Nicky, still curled up in a ball, she grunts, making her way over and nudging his hand with her head.

Nicky sniffles a little. "Hey, girl," he mumbles, running his hand over the back of her neck. She nudges her way in-between Nicky's legs and his chest, snuggling up as he tries his best to avoid her horns stabbing his face. She whines a little, and Nicky breathes an affectionate sigh. She’s been with him since the beginning - since his dad cast Form Familiar on him years and years ago.

"I know," he murmurs. "I'm okay. Promise." She pretty clearly doesn't believe him, giving him a look and then curling her tail around his legs, resting a hand on his knee. Nicky swallows back a few more tears. "Thanks," he mumbles. She snorts in response.

At least I have my familiars, Nicky thinks to himself, and then realises how sad that sounds. He’s never really had any friends (unless Oliver counts? Does Oliver count? He didn’t before, but does he count now?) but he supposes being the son of the weird rich guy who talks strange and who no one knows anything about will do that. That, and private tutoring. He’s been the youngest in his division practically since he entered the coliseum, as well - no adult wants to be the friend of the kid who keeps humiliating them.

But his demoliceros is here, at least. She’s very sweet. It’s strange, really - Nicky thought that familiars born from Form Familiar were meant to be reflections of their owners.

They stay there for a few more minutes, Nicky leaning his head against the locker with his eyes closed. Then, he rolls his head over to look at the door of the room. Oliver's match against his father has almost definitely already started. He said he'd cheer him on. (He wonders if he should cheer on his father instead, for a second.) (He decides he shouldn’t.)

He stretches his arms, gently pushing his demoliceros off of him in order to stand. "Right," he says, cleaning his glasses with his coat, and his demoliceros stands beside him. "Let's go see what Oliver's made of, hm?" She huffs an assent, and Nicky goes to splash water on his face at the sink, the cold of it waking him up and getting rid of the tear tracks.

He turns the tap off, dries his face with a paper towel the best he can, and looks at himself in the grimy little mirror on the wall. His eyes are still a little red, and he has to try his best to smooth down his hair, but he's presentable enough.

He takes a deep breath. Oliver had better win this, or all of this would have been for nothing.