Archive of Our Own

On a whim, Shadow teaches himself how to play guitar.

The dulcet tones of the second-hand acoustic lull his sister to sleep. In the interest of alleviating pressure for medical bills, Shadow takes to scalping on street corners.

When Maria dies, he smashes it. Hatred and rage swirl, leading him to make a number of bad decisions Shadow doesn’t necessarily regret, but he doesn’t look back upon those days fondly either.

Bewildered and betrayed, he finds himself standing in a music shop. The weather is moody, serving as the perfect backdrop for him to fire off a riff in the back room made for shoppers to try instruments before they buy.

The owner of a local bar ducks inside to escape the rain, marveling at his talent. “If you aren’t busy, you should play at my place tonight.”

Shadow declines, hiding his face in a sleeve as he slinks into the storm. Rouge refuses to give up, though, determined to get him onstage or die trying.

After weeks of persistence, he sighs. “I can’t afford a payment plan,” Shadow grunts, crimson eyes glued to the glossy guitar he’d taken to strumming every other Saturday.

“You can have my old one,” the clerk says, starry-eyed and overeager. “I’ve always been better at the piano.”

Rouge claps her hands together. “Fate has a funny way of tying up loose ends.”

He snorts, amused despite himself. It’s true that the ordeal feels serendipitous.

Shadow has been playing at Rouge’s place for the better part of a year when she flops on the bar, expression forlorn. “As much as it pains me to give up an asset, I have to ask, why are you still here?”

He lifts an eyebrow. The tips are excellent. Lucrative, even—having steady income is a godsend. His family had gone damn-near bankrupt trying to save their sole birth child. As much as they tried to pretend his Mobian nature posed no problems, it had been easier to extricate himself.

Only in the past six months has he been able to lease property and put a roof over his head. When Rouge discovered that Shadow kept his guitar at the bar because he flopped in the projects, she all but dragged his sorry ass to her place. However, Shadow made it abundantly clear that he would leave as soon as he could.

Crimson eyes flick to her, mindlessly holding out a paw. It is with a groan that she lets him bum a cigarette, the two of them lighting up in silence. “Is that your roundabout way of telling me to piss off?”

Rouge tweaks his snout, smiling as he sneezes. “No. This is my roundabout way of telling you to find an agent.”

What started off as a weekend routine has become a nightly routine. On the rare evenings when Shadow called out, the crowd booed his stand-ins. The band is hodgepodge, but Shadow is clearly the star, skilled enough for a career outside of this dump.

He takes offense to the term. Rouge waves him off. “It’s my place. I can call it whatever I want.”

If she wanted to target high-rollers, the rent would go through the roof. As it stands, Rouge is happy playing patsy, doing the dirty work that a lot of proprietors don’t want to do. Her propensity to house vagabonds who pass along hush money doesn’t hurt.

After a stiff drag, she leans back. “I’ll be honest, doll, it wasn’t my idea.”

Shadow snorts. “Figures.”

Rouge reaches into her bra, pulling out a business card. It’s damp but legible, the printed contact information of someone from such-and-such record label.

“This Rose character keeps badgerin’ me,” she grouses, not nearly as upset as she sounds; she has always been fond of strong-willed women. “Says she’s got an opportunity too big to miss. The problem is, you don’t have an album to your name. Signing an unknown is a no-go.”

It’s Shadow’s turn to exhale, gaze distant. “I’m not interested.”

Rouge laughs, affectionately jabbing a digit into his tuft. “I told her that, and you know what she said?” Shadow shakes his head. “I’m going to send someone who will change his mind.”

“Unlikely.”

“I told her that too.”

Shadow huffs. “She seems awfully confident.”

“Guess we’ll see if that confidence was misplaced next month.”

When Rouge described Rose, this isn’t what Shadow envisioned. Stubborn, steadfast, self-assured—he pictured someone middle-aged and stern, a pink-furred hedgehog in a business suit or something. Rose looks to be in her late thirties, barely starting to lose color in her quills.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shadow,” Rose says, squeezing his paw with enough force for him to stifle a wince. “I hope you don’t mind our crew crashing your set.”

Shadow shrugs; he has never paid attention to the creatures he plays with. Most of them are flash-pan artists who do music on the side, well-aware that they’re never going to break out. He does the job to the best of his ability. The serious ones work hard to measure up.

“Crew,” he drawls, drinking in the humans and creatures flitting about the stage. They’re all nondescript, dressed in crisp uniforms. “Where’s the band?”

“They’ll show up for rehearsal,” Rose assures him, frowning a bit.

Her expression tells Shadow everything he needs to know: someone in the group is a troublemaker. More and more, Shadow finds himself sticking to his guns—nothing about this evening is going to move the needle.

Most of them thirty minutes before call, although the drummer gripes under his breath about blue nuisances. Their keyboardist and bassist are similarly exhausted, chugging coffee like it’s going out of style.

Mic check comes and goes. When Shadow glances at the floor, Rose is pacing, clutching her palm pilot like she’s considering throwing it out of a window.

“He’ll be here,” Knuckles grunts, toying with the snare to keep himself busy.

Heroically, Shadow refrains from snapping his fangs. With sixty seconds to spare, a hedgehog with a case slung over his shoulder swings into the bar, hugging Rose’s shoulder with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Ames. I overslept.”

“I’m aware,” she hisses, tugging on his ear. “You’re late.”

“On time,” he sing-songs, pointing to his wristwatch. Hurriedly, he climbs onto the platform, introducing himself to Shadow.

Shadow unfeelingly smacks Sonic’s paw away, but Sonic doesn’t mind. It is with a cheeky grin that he tunes his guitar and starts the count, singing a song Shadow knows well enough to keep up. He practiced relentlessly in the weeks leading up to the performance, not because he cared about making a good impression but because he wanted to humiliate whomever Rose planned to send his way.

Admittedly, in the booth, the band sounded damn good. Live performances are a different beast. Sonic manages to not only meet the bar, but surpass it, throwing in clever, creative riffs to surpass Shadow. Challenging him. Off-key on his own, he forces Shadow to harmonize, smirking right before he belts his heart out.

His voice is impressive. The tech, familiar with Sonic’s preferences, keeps the volume low to keep him from blowing the mic out, pausing for a break and a gulp of water four songs deep.

“You’re pretty good,” Sonic says, beaming. “Shadow, was it?”

Shadow is about to reply when Sonic rips off his shirt, rather brusquely mopping up his own sweat. He grimaces, lips pursed.

“Do you do solos?”

“Sometimes.”

Sonic laughs. “Boring answer.”

Shadow’s eyebrows twitch. “You are the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.”

“And yet I have three platinum singles to my name,” Sonic taunts, leaning in entirely too close, smug demeanor pissing Shadow off like nothing else. “Being annoying pays the bills.”

It is simultaneously the best and worst jam session Shadow has ever participated in. He finds himself panting despite the fact that he only provided backup vocals, resisting the urge to smash his guitar over Sonic’s head.

Knuckles claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome aboard.”

For the first time in a long time, the focus is on someone else and Shadow has complicated feelings about it. Sonic’s personality sucks, but he is undeniably talented. When he works, he works hard. He’s just flippant about wasting other creatures’ time.

After the show, Sonic fucks off to the bar, chatting up strangers. He disappears in a matter of minutes. Their keyboardist, Gadget, explains that this is typical.

“A womanizing wannabe rockstar? How cliché could he be?” Shadow mutters.

“The wannabe part is uncalled for,” Rose says, smacking him with enough force to straighten his spines.

“The assumption that he only targets women is also false,” Knuckles adds, arms gruffly folded over his chest.

There’s an edge to his tone that reeks of humiliation. Shadow can’t help but wonder if Sonic made a pass at his drummer once upon a time ago.

She brings a claw to her lips to shut the boys up. Obediently, something akin to a hush falls—they’re inches away from a throng of people, after all.

“He’s our highest-selling new artist,” Rose explains, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “The higher-ups need him to pick a band name so they can strong-arm him into recording an LP, but as you can see, Sonic is…” For a moment, she trails off, unable to come up with a suitable description. “We could leave him alone and let him burn out, but I think that would be a shame.” At the end of her tirade, she looks to Shadow, paws on her hips. “Don’t you?”

Shadow grimaces. He doesn’t like what she’s implying. “I’m not going to babysit him.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Of course not. You’re going to serve as his narrative foil.”

Put like that, it sounds promising. “What, like his rival?”

She nods, eyes bright. “The kids’ll eat it up. A flirty jock versus a broody goth? We’ll own the summer.”

Shadow fails to see what aesthetic choice has to do with making good music, but it’s true that the foundations are covered. As far as tracks and lyrics are concerned, Rose has organized a good team—she needs one last creature to pull it together.

“Why me?” He asks, curious. Surely, an agent like Rose had contacts. Choosing a bar shill seems like a last-ditch effort.

Rose smiles. “Most people in this industry kiss ass. You’re good enough to keep up with him and you don’t put up pretenses.”

Fair enough, Shadow thinks, shaking her paw when she holds it out.

Rouge and Shadow talk it over, drafting an agreeable list of terms. He doesn’t expect to get everything—hell, he’d be lucky to get a quarter of it—but two of the items are non-negotiable. Assuming Rose concedes, he’ll accept the contract-to-hire.

Rose reads over it with a huffy, breathless chuckle. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She reaches into her bag to pull out paperwork. Silently, she adds an addendum, stapling his list to the sheaf. She marks X’s for his signature, holding out an ink pad for his pawprint. “Sign here, here, here, and here.”

Deflated because his asks were so paltry they warranted all of two seconds of thought, he scowls.

In the end, what’s done is done. The first item on his list is admittedly the easiest to address: studio sessions with Sonic are to be booked posthaste. They need time to draft lyrics and compose, but the best work is done in closed-off rooms with instruments nearby.

They can cobble together a cohesive story later.

Rose’s effortless acceptance is understandable in the wake of their fifth late-night stint, what with Barry begging off at ten and Knuckles leaving in a huff at eleven. The engineer kicks them out at one a.m. claiming heat exhaustion despite the fact that the A/C is cranked up ridiculously high to protect the equipment.

Sunnily, Sonic slings his bag over his shoulder. “I feel like shit. Wanna go get pancakes?”

Reflexively, Shadow punches him. “Aren’t you sick of eating junk food?”

He hums, holding up a paw to cover a yawn. “Sure, but decent restaurants close at ten.”

Shadow despises the prospect of inviting Sonic over for the brazenly domestic purpose of sharing a meal, but the carton in his pocket is empty and the idea of sticky, syrupy garbage in his gullet after hours of picking at drafts makes him want to commit an act of violence. He pivots on his heel with a grunt for Sonic to follow suit, walking the six blocks it takes to get to his place.

For once, Sonic is quiet, which isn’t rare so much as it is unusual. Normally, Sonic hums even when he isn’t talking, smothered by silence. “Everything alright?”

“Hm?”

“It’s just,” Shadow stops and then starts. “Y’know.”

Sonic smiles. “It’s late.”

“Obviously.”

Emerald eyes roll. “Some of us do sleep.”

Shadow pauses, mulling over that admittance. After a beat, he pulls out his keys, turning left so sharply Sonic nearly crashes into him. He catches himself at the last moment, blearily swiping at his eyes.

Inside, Sonic picks at a salad until he falls asleep; clearly, he wasn’t kidding about being exhausted. Shadow has never seen him so still, motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest.

Shadow smokes on the balcony so as not to stain the furniture. They’ve made progress, serious progress, more than he expected to make in such a short period of time. It’s true that he didn’t expect this sort of dedication from the man who chased skirts minutes after a set, but he doesn’t know why; no one with three hit singles could be a slouch.

Afterwards, he cradles Sonic long enough to put him on the couch, groggily retreating to the bedroom.

In the morning, Shadow wakes up to the smell of toast. He refuses to ask how Sonic went to the store without a key—he would rather not know.

“How do you take your eggs?” Sonic asks, placing tomatoes over french bread with some sort of balsamic glaze.

“Doesn’t matter,” he grunts.

“Aww, c’mon, everyone has a preference.”

“Not me.”

“Spoilsport.”

In the end, Sonic serves them scrambled with bruschetta, slurping at a cup of coffee that is more milk than anything else.

They’re most of the way through the meal when Sonic says, “That stuff’s terrible for your throat.”

Shadow pauses, struggling to figure out what the hell Sonic is on about. Belatedly, it occurs to him that Sonic is talking about his smoking habit. “I thought you were asleep.”

A peach-colored claw points to an ashtray. Shadow snorts. Well-played.

“You’re supposed to be the lead,” he quips, stabbing a chunk of sausage with a fork.

“You literally composed a duet yesterday,” Sonic drawls, unimpressed.

Shadow falters, taken aback. It had been a throwaway track, described as an homage when pressed. He’s stunned Sonic managed to read between the lines so thoroughly. “It wasn’t for you.”

“Pity. It was heartfelt.”

You don’t know the half of it, Shadow thinks, lowering his utensils. “It doesn’t even fit with the theme.”

Sonic huffs. “What theme?”

“Battle of the bands.”

“…Let me guess. Amy’s pitch?” When recognition doesn’t dawn, Sonic sighs, flippantly waving a paw. “Rose, y’know, Amy Rose. Talent scout, agent, producer, blah, blah.”

Shadow frowns. “Are the two of you close?”

Unable to help himself, Sonic leans forward, poking his bandmate’s snout. “In what sense?”

Disgusted, Shadow rolls his eyes, determined to keep the conversation aboveboard. “She’s aiming for dichotomy. Darkness and light. Pop mixed with heavy hits.”

“Damn. If I had known, I would’ve made it a rock opera.”

Which is precisely why Rose told him and not Sonic, or so Shadow assumes. “We can make the last song an epic.”

Sonic beams, green eyes crinkled. “I like the way you think.”

They wind up scribbling at the table, debris splashing on their notebooks. By the time they make it back to the studio, they’ve got the first four minutes laid out. The remaining eight will have to wait.

“Glad to see you two getting along,” Knuckles mutters, genuinely enthused despite his tone.

“What can I say,” Sonic says, tuning his guitar, “I’m a lovable guy.”

Their photoshoots are exhausting and their music video recording sessions push the limits of patience, but they escape relatively unscathed at some point early in the spring and are then relieved of their duties for three months.

Sonic fucks off to the other side of the country. “If you call, he’ll come running,” Knuckles grunts, “but don’t call him unless it’s an emergency.”

Shadow grimaces. “How many times have you interrupted him having sex?”

For a creature who’s already red, he manages to turn an even darker color. Muzzle flushed, expression embarrassed, the answer is clearly too many.

Marketing efforts pick up after the radio release, summoning Sonic like a demon. He settles into his role all too easily, teasing his bandmates to high hell. Shadow means to play it cool, mostly keeping to himself, but Sonic is infuriating when he wants to be, using top-tier observation skills for evil.

Sonic pushes buttons; Shadow snarls. Dressed in angelic pastels in contrast to Shadow’s gloomy hues—blue and gold versus black and red—they generate buzz immediately, selling merchandise faster than CDs.

As Rose hoped, Strike Twice obliterates the competition. They sit at the top of the charts for months, miraculously managing to edge out pop stars.

It’s the beginning of a new era for rock, or so the headlines say.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Five years.

In half a decade, Shadow’s world has flipped upside down, going from being a pessimistic creature struggling to make ends meet to having international celebrity status.

With two record-breaking albums under his belt and an equal number of tours concluded, a third is a given. They’re off-schedule at the moment, which means Shadow has to smooth down his quills, disguising himself with sunglasses.

He dodges questions when people say that his voice sounds familiar, slinging himself over his bike without engaging. He’s cagey until he arrives at a cemetery, flowers bundled in his paws.

Per the terms of his contract, Shadow is allowed to visit whenever he wants. He finds jet travel wasteful and annoying besides; it’s bumpy, loud, and hard on the instruments.

Most of the time, he meditates, unsure whether Maria is watching over him or not. Every once in a while, he plays for her, letting his claws form chords automatically.

For whatever reason, Shadow decides to tell her about the most recent conversation he and Sonic had.

To call it a conversation is an overstatement—it was a shouting match.

There was a period of time where Shadow lost himself in drugs and Sonic lost himself in gambling, but they had since come clean. This doesn’t mean that everyone else has forgiven them for the era filled with mishaps, however; they nearly ruined all of their careers.

Somehow, it is Sonic’s fault that Shadow likes to drink alone when he’s melancholy and it’s Shadow’s fault that Sonic’s sex addiction has become a problem.

“Grow up,” Shadow snarled.

“Pot, meet kettle. The broody bastard schtick might’ve been cute before, but now you look pathetic.”

“At least I know how to keep it in my pants.”

“Obviously—since you never get laid,” Sonic snapped.

Rose had been the one to pull them apart, dismissing them to separate corners like toddlers. She called them childish, rightfully so.

She encouraged them to do some soul-searching in the interim. If they wanted to stay relevant, they needed to do something different.

“Maybe we should drop the competitive narrative,” she murmured, biting well-manicured nails to the quick. “I think it’s time, don’t you?”

Shadow sighs, placing a paw on Maria’s headstone. He misses her the most in moments like this, recalling her gentle features. Sonic isn’t that bad, she would have said, tender to the core.

It’s true, Sonic isn’t that bad. Aside from the pesky habits that Shadow takes issue with, he’s a nice guy. He has a younger sibling he’s cagey about and Shadow can’t fault him for that—their lives are puzzle pieces for the masses to glue together as they please.

He doesn’t know what drives Sonic to work so hard, what happened to make him so addicted to the warmth of others. Shadow isn’t in the habit of assuming the best, but there’s no reason to assume the worst.

It’s entirely possible that this is just who Sonic is. If so, he needs to make peace with that.

<< Clear your schedule this Friday.

>> rude much?

Annoyed, Shadow refrains from flinging his phone at a tree. It is with gritted teeth that he tries again. I’m going to kill you.

>> lol, whatever dude. fine. i’ll be at your place around 12.

It isn’t the fifth or even the fifteenth time Sonic has been to his place.

Shadow upgraded from an apartment to a condominium with enhanced security features when it became obvious that the band was going to work out and he desperately needed privacy. Sonic had gotten caught outside of his place, once, and certain fans had gone rabid over it, but there was nothing to say.

Sonic may be a loose bastard, but he has never done anything untoward. On some level, Shadow is insulted—Sonic seems to hit on every creature with a pulse. On another, it would disrupt work. Don’t shit where you eat and all that.

The sun is high in the sky when Sonic lets himself in, saluting the cameras. The alarm beeps until Shadow turns it off, watching the mannerless moron kick his hindpaws onto the table.

He hands Sonic a mug before he takes a seat, launching into the conversation without delay. “We’re doing a duet.”

Sonic coughs, banging on his chest to open airflow, grabbing tissues to get coffee out of his fur. “Whatever happened to exchanging pleasantries?”

Shadow sneers, pitching his voice higher to mock his bandmate. “Good afternoon. Nice weather we’re having today. We’re doing a duet.”

“I’m noticing that you didn’t ask for my opinion,” he grouses, attempting a fresh, surly sip. “Nor did you say please.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Shadow snarls, jabbing a claw into Sonic’s chest.

Silence lulls, loaded and thick. Sonic’s expression verges on vulnerable. “Did Amy twist your arm?”

“Yes and no.”

Bitterly, Sonic laughs. “I’m gettin’ real sick and tired of those cop-out responses.”

Shadow bares his fangs, hissing before he continues. “When will you learn to appreciate nuance?”

“At this rate, never.”

“Rose may have influenced me, but it’s a matter of time before ennui starts to affect the work and I know that’s not what you want.” Crimson eyes cut to the side. “Do you trust me?”

Sonic frowns. The answer is obvious, or it should be. The countless hours they’ve spent together, the empire they’ve built—he’s not the type of creature to put effort and energy into something soulless. “Why do you ask?”

Shadow grits his teeth, tearing away to stare into the middle distance. Blue ribbons dance behind his eyes when he closes them, followed by heart monitors and trailing IV tubes.

“When I was seventeen,” Shadow says, voice barely above a whisper, “my sister died.”

Respectfully, Sonic says nothing. His response is so unexpected, Shadow winds up curling his digits, startled when Sonic gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“It was a rare disease. Debilitating. They say that your relatives come out of the woodwork when you get famous to demand money, but that wasn’t the case for me.” Shadow musters a wry smile. “If anything, they’ve worked harder to cut ties.”

Whether his foster parents considered his career unwholesome or whether they considered themselves above crawling to him for him, he doesn’t know nor does he care.

“You played for her,” Sonic assumes.

Shadow nods.

There’s a noise that reads like a curse, syllables unintelligible. In the end, glossy green eyes focus on him, fangs gnawing at his lower lip. As soon as he gathers his thoughts, Sonic speaks. Softly. “Grief is strange, isn’t it? Mourning things you didn’t get to have.”

He jostles his legs, restless and aching with it. For a sharp, stunning moment, Shadow thinks Sonic is going to cry. He pulls himself together though, inhaling sharply.

“My little brother is a genius, y’know? I deluded myself into thinking he was still a kid who needed my help, but I just wanted to be wanted.”

A lull falls. Sonic dispels the tension with a theatrical sigh. “If we’re going the dark and depressing route this album, it’s all you.”

Shadow snorts. “As if you haven’t written your fair share of gut-wrenching lines.”

Snarkily, Sonic fires off a quip. “Ah, yes. Throw away the fevers and façades of yesteryear—who could forget such classical stylings?”

“I was referring to pretty words might amuse you, but the truth will consume you and you know it.”

“I could’ve been talking about one of my exes.”

“You weren’t.”

Before Sonic can respond with something immature, Shadow glares at him, doubling down. Deflated, Sonic groans. “Let’s pretend this heart-to-heart never happened.”

“Agreed.”

They’re due to run the lyrics past the rest of the band in ten minutes and Sonic is nowhere to be found, ostensibly fucking some floozy in their car.

Irritated despite himself, Shadow goes prowling until he finds the vehicle, banging on the window. Caught mid-thrust, Sonic is irritable. Hastily, he finishes, tucking himself into his pants with a scowl. “You’ve interrupted me so many times, I’m starting to think you have some sort of fetish. Warn a guy if you wanna watch.”

Enraged, Shadow kicks him in the calf. Sonic doesn’t do him the favor of reacting, accustomed to his outbursts.

“Either you’re a voyeur or you’re jealous. Which is it?”

“Neither,” Shadow snarls.

In the interest of pushing Shadow’s buttons, Sonic smirks, tweaking his tail. Shadow bristles, swiping a second too soon to make contact.

Sonic dips into the restroom to wash his paws, yawning as he steps into the booth. Mindlessly, Shadow passes him a sugary sweet coffee.

It’s such a thoughtful gesture that Sonic finds himself at a loss for words. He snaps himself out of it a moment later, tuning his guitar whilst shooting the shit with Gadget and Barry. Knuckles bangs on the drums with enough ferocity to kick everyone’s sorry asses into gear.

As per usual, Sonic swoops into the song first, stealing the spotlight.

When Shadow enters moments later, loud and unabashed, everyone but Sonic is taken aback. Stubborn to a fault and terribly proud, Shadow sticks to his own code of ethics: if you’re going to do something, do it right. No longer is he the supporting vocalist—right now, he is the secondary lead, making amends the only way he knows how.

They sing a song for their siblings, separated by death and circumstance. They sing songs about fame and fortune and failure, about cliques falling apart, about bonds that are too powerful to break. It’s an album about fixing broken bridges. Facing the future.

It’s tragic, and beautiful. The room is awash with tears. Sonic hurries to pass out tissues, lightening the mood. “Aww, c’mon. Save the waterworks for after the awards roll in.”

Knuckles punches him. Sonic hisses; coming from a guy who boxes recreationally, the hit hurts. “If you ever need to talk—”

“I’m fine,” Sonic insists, talking a little too fast.

It is with a pointed stare and a furrowed brow that Knuckles drops the subject.

“Sit still,” Shadow snaps, sick and tired of flashbulbs.

“I’m trying,” Sonic mutters, tilting his head in accordance with the photographer’s instructions. “How about you try holding this pose and see how it goes?”

Breaking away from being playful, tongue-in-cheek rivals, they’re provocative, a good boy and a bad boy getting too close for comfort.

Before the shoot, Shadow told Sonic he would castrate him if he got hard. Sonic groaned. “Cut me some slack,” he said, muzzle rosy—the plan included suspiciously lewd contact.

With his makeup done and the outfit styled as-intended, Shadow gruffly pivoted on his heel. “Whatever. It’s not like I hold any appeal to you,” he said, leaving Sonic gaping in shock.

It is hardly the time or place for conversation, but Sonic is directed to bury his snout in Shadow’s abdomen, giving him the opportunity to speak without getting caught. “Who told you that?”

He grunts to let Sonic know he’s listening, claws seductively curled under his chin.

“That you’re not my type,” Sonic clarifies.

Shadow resists the urge to roll his eyes. As soon as they’re granted a reprieve, he replies. “I know how to take a hint.”

Sonic barks out a laugh. “No, you really don’t.” Uncaring of the fact that they’re in a public location and their bandmates are busy preparing for their own slog, Sonic grabs Shadow by the chin, grip stunningly firm. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to—”

Rose shouts, all-too-conveniently dragging Sonic away by the elbow, pushing him in front of a crowd of radio executives. “Who do you want to interview with first? Do you consider this album more pop, rock, or alternative?”

He bends down to whisper, cheery grin masking irritation. “I’m onto you.”

“Save it for the stage, hot shot,” she retorts, brandishing a similarly plasticine smile.

For months, Sonic fights against red tape. Jet-lagged and exhausted, it is all he can do to grate on his agent’s nerves, pissing Rose off to the point of contention.

Eventually, he decides that the best thing to do is take the words literally. If Amy wants him to channel his frustrations into the music, he will do just that.

“I’m going to try something different tonight,” Sonic says, fidgeting with his in-ear monitors at rehearsal.

Knuckles complains, but then, that’s nothing new. He settles in with his drum set as soon as he’s said his piece, tapping out a beat.

Shadow, too, is nonplussed. Sonic goes off-script every other performance. If anything, the premeditated announcement is odd. “I thought you had a personal policy against doing drugs.”

“M’not on anything.”

“Except your ADHD meds?” Barry asks, baselessly hopeful.

“Sure,” Sonic says, which is code for definitely not. Exasperated groans hit his ears. “Anyways, the point is, it’s gonna be a great show.”

Bracing themselves for a bumpy ride, they breeze through the sound check without effort.

They’re the headliners, obviously, greeting a warmed-up crowd with open arms. Shadow features heavily in this set, but Sonic is still the band’s frontrunner, conversationally chatty and charismatic in a way few could emulate.

Sonic rips his mic off of the stand before the instrumental interlude where Knuckles and the rest of the crew get to show off, guitar thrown to the side. It’s his spare, not his favorite, and Shadow has been suspicious ever since he whipped it out. Following Sonic’s lead, Shadow slides into a version of Lament that is dangerously close to becoming acoustic.

All of Sonic’s improvised lines rhyme, but the connotations are far from familial. Love and loss are still present, but now lust has entered the fray. Shadow has half a mind to ask Sonic what the hell he thinks he’s doing when Sonic grabs him by the hips and crashes their mouths together.

Stunned silence is followed by uproarious cheering. The audience claps, yells, and wolf-whistles so loudly, the rest of the band gets sidelined.

Afterwards, Sonic pulls away, glazed. He tapers off with hoarse vocals, but Shadow refuses to let him off the hook, dragging him in for a second, filthier kiss filled with tongue and teeth.

The lights go down. Sonic is shirtless and it’s a good thing—Shadow aches to grab him by the nonexistent collar and strangle him. “That was your big plan? Was that some sort of publicity stunt?”

“Definitely not. As a matter of fact, as soon as Amy finds out about this, she’s gonna kill me.”

“Not if I kill you first.”

“True.”

It’s difficult to call the lull that falls silence with the concert raging on. They have five minutes to get their shit together before a tech summons them, emerging for the second act.

“For what it’s worth,” Sonic says, speaking at a volume that would normally be considered polite, but currently barely passes as audible, “I meant it.”

He means to walk away, leaving Shadow stewing in his juices. Sonic does shit like this sometimes, obfuscating the truth to protect himself. Which line are they supposed to cross? Are they coworkers with benefits or more?

“This isn’t over,” Shadow snarls, stomping on stage early. The audience is bewildered by a ferocious roar and an equally unprompted solo.

Sonic attempts to wrest the reins back, but it’s too late—the train is off the rails. It’s all that the rest of the band can do to ride the wave.

When the crowd demands an encore, they give them two bonus songs, mopping up their sweat after the curtains close.

Shadow slams Sonic into a wall, itching for a hit. Any drug would do, but right this minute, he would pay an exorbitant amount of money for a blunt. “I bet you think you're so fucking clever.”

“No risk, no reward,” Sonic says, expression defiant.

“Is this tour a joke to you?”

Abruptly, Sonic shifts, flipping Shadow around like Shadow isn’t denser than him. In Sonic’s defense, he’s not weak, it’s just that he prefers jogging to lifting weights and Shadow is easy to rile up. For the purposes of this entanglement, he knows Shadow too well; pressure applied to the back of Shadow’s knees makes him bristle.

Sonic tightens his hold, paws clamped around Shadow’s arms. He breathes hot on Shadow’s ears, bizarrely intense. “The dates are set in stone and cancellations would cost the venues too much money—most of our shows are already sold out.”

It would be simple to dial it up a notch, extracting pained hisses. Instead, Sonic releases him, studying the steady rise and fall of Shadow’s chest. He’s rumpled. Unkempt. Unfocused.

“I’m usually better at this.”

“Compartmentalizing?”

“Mm.”

Shadow sighs, exhausted all of the sudden. “How did you expect me to react?”

“I assumed you were gonna punch me, but if you’re looking for the optimistic answer, I was hoping you would ride my fa—”

On cue, Shadow decks him, waiting for blood to stream from Sonic’s nostrils before he walks away.

For all that Sonic and Shadow are on the outs—Knuckles’ description, not theirs—the rest of the tour goes smoothly. A certain portion of their fanbase arrives with signboards, begging for extravagant displays, but they play it safe, if only because Rose would yell at Sonic about his unscrupulous behavior otherwise.

They’re on break for two weeks and the paparazzi is infuriatingly persistent, buzzing like flies as Rose ducks into a multi-storied building. Someone on the security team ushers Shadow in minutes later, giving them space to talk.

She folds her paws neatly, spine straight. “If you want to press charges, I understand.”

Shadow balks, offended. “I’m not going to do that.”

Relieved, Rose sighs, slumping in her chair. “Thank god. If you want to hit him again, arrangements can be made.”

“Is that a common request?”

“No.” It is with a frown that she turns to him, green eyes glossy with emotion. “Sonic has a knack for finding casual partners.”

“Well then, what’s got you so worked up?”

For several seconds, she examines him. Eventually, she drags a paw down her face. “He has what it takes. You don’t.”

“What if he’s serious?”

Rose blinks at him incredulously. “Shadow, you can’t honestly think—”

“When it comes to shit that really matters, he uses humor to deflect,” Shadow explains, tone terse. With arms folded over his chest, he continues. “He’s been strange ever since he kissed me, and something he said piqued my curiosity. Is it true that you’ve been keeping us separated?”

Guiltily, she averts her gaze. “Sexually? Yes.”

“For our own good, I suppose.”

Rose leaps out of her chair with a furrowed brow, jabbing a claw into his chest tuft. “Believe it or not, being Sonic’s friend is more important to me than being his agent. I worry about him getting his heart broken just as much as you. Band flings rarely work out.”

With a huff, Shadow pivots on his heel. “Good thing I don’t have what it takes to keep it casual.”

He hears Sonic stumbling through the apartment long before he opens the door, wearing underwear and precious little else. “Do you know what time it is?”

Rather than answering the rhetorical question, he elbows Sonic out of the way, fearlessly striding inside.

“Hi, Sonic, it’s been a while. I’ve missed you—”

Shadow cuts off Sonic’s performative monologue cold, drinking in his startled, muffled gasp. He strokes Sonic’s spines until he topples over, winded, color bleeding through the thin patch of fur on his chest. “If I had known that shutting you up would be this easy, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

Drowsy and dazed, Sonic grabs him by the hips, enchanted by the sweet sound Shadow lets out. “Hardly fair. You basically choked me.”

“Keep talking and I might.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Sonic groans, claws curling as Shadow cups his cockslit.

Shadow snarls as Sonic pins him. “Relax,” Sonic murmurs, stroking Shadow’s thighs until he stops fidgeting, mouth warm against clothing he has every intention of removing. “Tug all you want. I like it rough.”

A derogatory snort drifts through Sonic’s ears. “Is there anything you don’t like?”

“The list is short.”

He unfastens Shadow’s trousers, working off his underwear with drool pooling. Shadow is hissing by the time Sonic massages his seam, teasing him open. Shadow is sensitive, damp before Sonic works in his tongue.

The tightness of Shadow’s cunt is enough to make Sonic delirious; he moans. He never thought he would have this. Understanding. Acceptance. Somebody who gets it, who gets him, and wants to have sex all the same. No façade. Minimal banter. Just two hedgehogs getting down and dirty, giving into something they’ve been skirting around for years.

Discomfited by the fact that Sonic has been servicing him exclusively, Shadow shoves, swallowing at the sight of Sonic’s bulge. Following his eyeline and the furrow in his brow, Sonic says, “You don’t have to,” but it’s too late—Shadow’s mouth is open, sharp fangs gleaming.

Sonic claps a paw over his mouth to keep from whining, claws mauling tile to refrain from bucking his hips and fucking Shadow’s throat raw. “Coward,” Shadow rasps, leaking all over the floor.

“I called myself being nice.”

“Don’t bother.”

Granted permission, Sonic allows himself to unspool further, deep enough to make Shadow sputter. Tears spring to his eyes, but his expression is rosy. It’s messing Sonic up. How am I supposed to sleep tonight?

Ultimately, Sonic decides that this is a problem for the future. He ensures that Shadow is still conscious when he pulls out, luridly stiff, dragging his bandmate into his lap. “You good for this?”

Unable to form words, Shadow grunts, bracing himself. Sonic has already penetrated him twice, but nothing compares to the heat of Sonic nibbling at him whilst nestled between his folds, struggling to stay focused when all Shadow wants is more, damn-near sobbing for it.

“You feel amazing,” Sonic whines, lashes fluttering. Shadow can tell he means it—he feels full, too full; the sensation puts a hitch in his breath. “God, I’ve wanted this for so long. I swear I’m gonna quit if I wake up and this was all a dream.”

Shadow bites his arm to prove that this is reality, pointing to the blood. “I’ll hunt you for sport if you quit.”

He licks his lips, amused. “Not exactly helping the cause.”

“Rose would be upset.”

“Let’s stop talking about this.”

If they’re doing this, they’re going to do it right, and anything Shadow does, he does wholeheartedly. No holds barred. No stones left unturned.

It takes a herculean amount of effort when Shadow would like nothing more than to flop over like a ragdoll, but he grits his teeth and sits up, collapsing in Sonic’s lap, shoving his cock right back into the mess he made, face to face with the bane of his existence.

“I don’t think so. You can run, but you can’t hide. Not from me.” Sonic hisses, equal parts aroused and annoyed. “Rose wants you. I want you. What you want is to make amends.”

It is with a snap that Sonic rocks into him, verging on upset. “Drop it, now.”

Shadow spits in his face. “Or what?”

He snarls as Sonic thrusts, pain and pleasure warring for dominance. Shadow shudders, driving his claws into Sonic’s shoulders.

The afterglow is more melancholic than it is blissful, both of them knee-deep in contemplation. Shadow slaps Sonic without force. “Call your brother,” he says. While he’s still alive, is implied.

Shadow is no stranger to abduction attempts, but this one is particularly inadequate. A fox accosts him on the street, bartering information with the end goal of getting Shadow alone. “Piss off, kid,” he snarls, turning up his coat collar, walking faster.

Stubbornly, the fox clings to him, entreating Shadow to wait. “I just wanna talk to my brother. Please?”

Shadow stalls, squinting suspiciously. He’s young, an adolescent or thereabouts. The species differential makes him wary, but Sonic’s siblings are typically Sonic’s fans; it was unusual for them to approach him. “What’s your name?”

“Tails.”

There are no easy questions to ask, nothing Shadow can do to simplify the process. Assuming Sonic didn’t blow him off, he reached out last month. “It hasn’t been that long. Why come to me?”

Tails huffs. “Have you ever tried to corner Sonic when he doesn’t want to talk?”

“Avoidant bastard.”

Despite himself, the fox laughs. “Not a very nice thing to say.”

“He has done absolutely nothing to earn my courtesy.”

Shadow tells Tails to keep up. For once, luck is on his side. He stalks through the streets without recognition, arriving at Sonic’s apartment without anyone on his ass.

They haven’t made anything official, but as far as their fans are concerned, their relationship is an open secret. Sonic, eternal shit-stirrer, finds this hilarious. Shadow doesn’t care.

“Why do you even have a phone if you’re never gonna—” Sonic freezes in place. “Err. Uhh. Hi.”

Tails shifts his weight, looking for all the world like a lonely child. “Can I come in?”

For some godforsaken reason, Sonic looks to Shadow. Shadow snorts, pushing the fox through the doorway. “I hate you,” Sonic whispers, tapping his hindpaws so rapidly Shadow thinks he’s going to burn a hole through the floor.

“That’s nice,” Shadow mutters, nonplussed.

He watches Mr. Gift of Gab flounder, unable to find the words to say.

Shadow asks mild questions, genuinely curious.

Tails is nowhere near as reticent as Sonic, quick to tell Shadow that he’s a twenty-year old college graduate with two degrees. When Shadow raises an eyebrow, he sheepishly explains that he skipped grades in elementary school and he double-majored.

Furthermore, he goes on to explain that he’s working on a thesis in some subject Shadow couldn’t recite if he were paid to. All he knows is that it’s innovative. “Your parents must be very accepting.”

This comment, of all things, is what causes the fox to flinch. “I’m his legal guardian,” Sonic says, fierce and protective.

Children raising children—tale as old as time. “Must’ve been a hell of a court case.”

Sonic smiles humorlessly. “It was a pain in the ass, yeah.”

Shadow decides that he’s gathered enough pieces of the puzzle, excusing himself. Sonic chases him to the door, encircling Shadow’s wrist. “You don’t have to go.”

“You’re not going to talk to him if I stay.”

“M’not gonna talk to him if you leave either.”

“Sonic,” Shadow gripes.

He buries his face in Shadow’s shoulder. “I don’t have anything to say.”

It occurs to Shadow that Sonic trusts him. Sonic wants him there for moral support. The revelation makes him feel strange. Itchy, almost. “All of this without a single dinner date on record.”

“I’ll take you somewhere fancy soon,” Sonic says, nuzzling at him. “I’ll buy flowers ’n’ everything.”

“You better,” he snaps, jabbing a claw into Sonic’s chest.

Tails is the one to breach the subject some time later, waiting until after they’ve finished eating snacks to speak. “You said you’d always be there for me,” he murmurs, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

Automatically, Sonic reaches out. He stops himself before he makes contact, biting his bottom lip. “I know, buddy.”

“I needed you.”

Sonic falters. “You said—”

“I know what I said,” Tails snaps, voice cracking.

The silence that falls is so strained, Sonic cracks jokes until Tails stops crying. Tired from his trip and an emotional outburst, he falls asleep at the table, muzzle tacky when Sonic tucks him in.

They’re alone, in a manner of speaking, when Sonic flops in his lap. “Care to tell me what that was all about?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Shadow snorts. “Absolutely not.”

Sonic laughs humorlessly, burrowing into him. “It used to be the two of us against the world, y’know? Tails played with me when he was little. Piano, I mean. He was good at it, too. Really good.” Sonic sits up, pacing for a bit before he grabs his guitar, plucking aimlessly. “When it became obvious that music was my thing, he pulled away.” Sonic smiles somberly. “I didn’t mind. Growing up is complicated and I wasn’t exactly the easiest person to live with.”

Lawless and free-spirited, he had fallen ass-backwards into the perfect career.

“He kept badgering me about making a back-up plan, but I’m not built for school. I asked him what the real problem was.” Green eyes drift to the ceiling, claws furling and unfurling. “Everyone’s been talking shit about me for as long as I can remember. I didn’t care, but Tails took it personally. He believed in me when nobody else did until it got to be too much. No parents, no family, no friends—just a bunch of bullies and a deadbeat brother. The night I got the offer from Amy, I let Tails hit me until he threw up. He said he didn’t need me and he was right. I kept a roof over his head until he went to college, all expenses paid. Everything’s been right as rain since then.”

For five minutes, Shadow says nothing. He sips his tea, daydreaming about cigarettes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Wow. See if I ever tell you about my childhood again.”

He flicks Sonic in the forehead. “How old was he when this happened?”

“Thirteen, I think, but he’s always been mature for his age.”

“I take it back. You’re a fucking idiot.”

Annoyed, Sonic scowls. “I had a job when I was thirteen.”

“The average creature doesn’t live life at your pace. Teenagers don’t mean half of the shit they say.”

“You’re acting like I didn’t try. I get him birthday presents every year. I end calls the same way I always have.”

Stay safe. Let me know if you need anything.

“He’s here,” Shadow says, squeezing Sonic’s paw too tightly for comfort. “That counts for something.”

“I guess,” he mutters, plucking at strings until he gets bored.

The kitchen is fragrant at such an early hour that Shadow can’t help but wonder if Sonic bothered to close his eyes. It is with a yawn that he enters, coming face to face with the fox.

“Does Sonic still like protein scrambles?”

Shadow nods—he’s never seen Sonic turn down a meal, let alone one loaded with sausage and starch.

Quietly, he boots up the coffee maker, humming as the scent drifts through his snout. He feels marginally prepared for conversation with a mug in his paws, running his tongue over his teeth in anticipation.

Tails gathers all the ingredients in a bowl, waiting for butter to sizzle in the pan. “So, are you two…?”

Shadow waves lazily. “Labels are inconvenient.”

Politely, the fox hides a snort, or he attempts to. “You sound like Sonic.”

As much as the overlap irks Shadow, Tails makes a fair point. “We have known each other for five years.” Closer to six, now. The passage of time is strange. Shadow can’t decide if it feels like Maria was alive yesterday or a lifetime ago.

Tails’ ears flop, body language downcast. It’s impossible not to feel sorry for him, anxious and adorable as he is.

Unfortunately, Shadow isn’t the type to offer condolences. “I assume you listen to our music.”

“Of course.” A tentative smile takes over his face, eyes bright.

“What did you think?” Shadow asks, arms folded. He’s referring to Mercy May I in specific, but the question is open-ended enough for interpretation.

Tails opens his mouth. Closes it. His method of fidgeting is so similar to Sonic’s that Shadow finds himself fond, learning about his bandmate by proxy. “Like I screwed up.” He twirls a spatula, sighing heavily. “I was afraid Sonic would drop everything if I apologized and told him I missed the way things used to be.”

“I would’ve,” Sonic says, baggy-eyed and hoarse. He’s alert—as Shadow suspected, he hasn’t slept.

A beleaguered huff escapes. “See?”

Before Tails can make another salient point, Sonic pulls his little brother into his arms. He breathes in deeply. Shadow has never seen Sonic so emotional, shaking from the effort of swallowing back tears. Tails has no such reservations, sobbing openly.

Sonic rubs Tails’ back as he hiccups. “You’ve gotten so big. The pictures don’t do your height justice.”

“At least let me have something.”

“You’re amazing. Always have been, always will be. We have different skills, that’s all.”

“Dork.”

“And don’t you ever forget it.”

Shadow cuts the stove off and excuses himself, at peace with the air their reunion has taken on.

Shadow is hanging outside of the studio when Sonic arrives. The rest of the band isn’t coming—they weren’t invited. It’s to be a one-on-one jam session. A send-off, if need be. “Planning to quit and move overseas?”

Sonic rolls his eyes. “For a guy who’s only slept with me once, it sure seems like you’re in a hurry to be rid of me.”

“We have reservations next weekend,” he drawls, claws tapping against the façade. “Pass/fail assessment.”

“Brat.”

“I’m older than you.”

“Cranky old man,” Sonic quips.

Shadow kicks Sonic in the shin. “Not that much older.”

“Make up your mind.”

They check in with someone at the front desk who shows them to their room. It’s soundproof and calmly colored, the perfect backdrop for a private conversation.

Sonic tunes until he’s satisfied. “We made a plan of action. Sort of.”

“How ominous.”

He grants Sonic a stay of execution by tearing off a sick solo, borrowing a riff from one of his favorite bands, an oldie but a goodie recorded twenty years ago.

Sonic drifts into something that feels Latin, banging on the side of his guitar to keep time. Shadow picks up the bassline so Sonic can clap instead, humming and crooning.

In the lull, Sonic speaks. “More visits. Less evasion. That’s it.”

“Tails said he needed you.”

“I’m not good at giving advice.”

“He just needs someone to listen.”

Sonic smiles softly. “How’d you get so good at this?”

“Dead sister, remember?”

Picking up on the levity of Shadow’s tone, Sonic inches closer, pushing their noses together. “Did you two talk about boys?”

Shadow huffs, annoyed but in a breezy way. “Among other things.”

“Like what?”

“Space. Flowers.” After a beat, he says, “Music.” He stares at Sonic, or more accurately at Sonic’s lips. “Maria would have been fond of your voice.”

“Just my voice?”

He leans forward to nip at Sonic’s chin, breathing in close quarters for several seconds. “I refuse to stroke your ego.”

“Shame.”

All things considered, the kiss they share is tender. Sonic tilts his head, appetite voracious. There’s nothing comfortable to splay Shadow on, so they wind up grinding against each other instead, Sonic’s spines digging into the acoustic padding that lines the walls.

When they pull apart to breathe, Sonic pants. “Wanna move our date up?”

“Horny bastard.”

“Oh, please. Like you aren’t gagging for it.”

“Your hubris is going to be the death of you.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Shadow snaps his teeth instead of answering. Notably, this is not a no.

Sonic breaks away to make a call, struggling to focus with claws creeping up his shirt; Shadow is driving him crazy and he knows it. The hostess on the other side is quick to confirm that they’ll have a table ready for him. Star power has its uses.

“I hope you like azaleas,” Sonic says, using brute force of will to keep his dick retracted.

epilogue

It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon when Sonic announces that they’re taking a break.

“Please don’t tell me Shadow is pregnant,” Knuckles asks, distressed all of the sudden.

“Why was that your first assumption?”

For his part, Shadow sneers. “Do you take exception to the prospect, echidna?”

“Yes—but only because I keep telling this moron to bag it up,” he gripes, grabbing Sonic by the collar to shake him. “I promised Rouge that I would look out for you.”

“What happened to bros before hoes? I’m your best friend.”

“Can you please just answer the question?” In tandem, Sonic and Shadow say no. Relieved, Knuckles backs off. “Okay, if that’s not it, what gives?”

Sonic scowls. “I don’t wanna tell you anymore.”

Gruffly, Knuckles apologizes, going so far as to grovel, swearing some sort of quote-unquote warriors oath. Sonic lets the display go on for far too long, basking in Knuckles’ guilt. Eventually, Shadow smacks him.

Sonic meanders a bit, adding theatrical flourishes, but in the end the truth comes out: he wants to travel for a while, expanding horizons while he figures out what direction they’re going to take. “You’ll never guess who offered to join me,” he sing-songs, pinching Shadow’s hip.

Admittedly, they’ve been dating for much longer than anyone expected them to. With Sonic’s previous record being one month, Shadow’s year-long stint is unprecedented.

If anything, Knuckles being the designated sex diviner has become doubly embarrassing. Shadow is a hell of a lot better at covering his tracks than Sonic is. When he wants privacy, he gets it. The problem is, he allows Sonic to goad him into bouts of heavy petting before showtime. Despite all of the cantankerous shit had to say about punctuality before they got together, he succumbs without much fuss.

Knuckles orders a drink, mind crowded. “Nothin’ I can do to stop you. I hope you have a nice time.”

“We will,” Sonic says, snottily placing a paw on Shadow’s abdomen. “We might even come back with a surprise or two.”

In retaliation, Shadow bites him. “Dream on, asshole.”

Rose is the next creature they break the news to, and this time, the discussion is convoluted. Contract negotiations are a pain in the ass. A break could end their careers; there are hundreds of up-and-coming bands eager to steal their spot.

“If worse comes to worst, we’ll rebrand as a duo,” Sonic says, like it’s that simple.

Warily, Rose chortles. “Awfully big risk you’re taking.”

“Why play if you aren’t willing to bet everything?”

“Spoken like a true gambler.”

“Reformed,” he insists, expression mischievous.

They are cleared to leave the country three weeks later and they buy tickets as soon as they can feasibly make arrangements, certain where they’re starting but they don’t have concrete plans after that.

They mail their guitars ahead of time, lounging in first class. As soon as they’re outside, Sonic stretches his arms, starting to sing. Shadow isn’t surprised, per se, when Sonic swings him around, serenading him.

“What’s got your tail wagging, huh?” Shadow hums, infected by Sonic’s good humor.

“It’s a beautiful night and I’m with someone beautiful,” Sonic says, winking like the intolerable tease he is. “What’s not to like?”

Abruptly, Shadow belts out a low note—two could play at this game. “If you can’t pull a groundbreaking theme out of your ass, you’re going to have to get a job.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Effortlessly, Sonic harmonizes with him. Thunderous applause greets them when they finish. Several people offer them coins, but they scuttle away before they can draw attention, claws intertwined like teenagers on the run.

There’s nothing else he would rather do, no one else he would rather be with.

He reminds himself to send Rose a postcard.

Being proven wrong has never felt so good.