(no subject)
The bus doors open and it's your arch nemesis. He's grown taller and less awkward, somehow, but you recognize his face. Stubble decorates his chin. He's forgone the black sorcerer robes for a t-shirt that's been washed too many times. He smells like cheap cologne. He used to smell of blood and smoke. Of sweat, gathered from days hunting through the woods for you. Of magic, raw against his fingertips. You still carry the scar against the side of your neck. When you walk past him to take a seat, he doesn't give you a single glance.
Someone sits next to you. His shoulders are heavy with regret, his hands calloused with scars. He's a ghost. He has been for a long time. You remember the anger, the coldness in his voice, but you could never forget how small he looked when it all fell apart. Still just a boy inside. Immortality is a heavy burden. When the bus moves, his head tilts forward, but his eyes stare straight ahead of him. You say nothing to him. There was never anything that could be said.
You remember once, a long time ago, when a boy knocked against your window for the first time in years. Actually, he wasn't a boy anymore. He'd grown taller too, his jaw more rigid, his shoulders broad. But his grin was the same.
(That, you realize now, is probably why you always had a slight weakness for darker skin.)
He still wore paint on his face. Still strapped his sword to his back, daggers along his belt, ready to be drawn. You can see him now, barely a shadow in the trees. He probably still hunts daily. Still flings himself off waterfalls and break through the surface laughing. Those were the days, huh?
Come back to us, he'd said. Come have adventures with us again. Didn't we have fun all those times? Didn't we feel invincible?
Yes. Yes, we did.
Come back. Don't you want to come back?
Yes. You do.
But.
You'd smiled and shook your head.
You had to make new adventures now.