Kyle was nervous. Dick might not have been the Worldâs Greatest Detective â his family liked to point out that, in spite of his training, he probably wouldnât even make it into the top ten â but he could read body langauge easily enough, and Kyleâs wasnât exactly subtle. He was trying to mask it, to be sure, trying to come off as relaxed in a way that he definitely wasnât, but Dick could see the frayed nerves underneath.
And it wasnât as if he didnât know why. Thereâd been a blackout, a being of rage and anger and everything bad all rolled into one package wearing Kyleâs face. It had terrorized the city, and maybe parts of it had been him. Maybe it was hard not to blame yourself for that. Maybe most of the people who saw him were a lot less willing to give Kyle a break than Dick was.Â
âAlways do,â Dick joked, trying for a lighter tone because it was what he always did, because it made it a little easier to breathe. He expected Kyle to take him up on his offer, to tell him he wanted to talk about anything else, but he didnât. And Dick was pleasantly surprised at that. His smiled, gave a nod that was meant to be encouraging, let his eyes stay glued to Kyleâs.
Glancing to the couch, he nodded again and settled onto the cushion. âYou donât have to explain anything you donât want to, but⊠Iâd rather hear it from you than from somebody else. You know?â
     Kyle managed a bit of a genuine laugh, still held tight by the breaths he somehow couldnât catch. But Dick Grayson had made him laugh, the son of a bitch. âYeah, well... Probably better that you missed this one, dude, it was not a good look for me.â Even so, he was about to pour his guts out to the guy who was somehow thoughtful enough to come to his shitty Greenwich apartment just to make sure he was still alive. (More than alive, Kyle thought to himself. Not quite death-proofed but more than alive somehow.)Â
     Another heavy sigh closed his color-changing eyes. How was he going to word this when he hadnât been able to do it with his comrades in green arms? He wondered if someone without powers, without the chance to have them, could really understand. But thatâs not what it was about, was it? No one was going to understand but him, not fully anyways. Sympathy and empathy were the only two things he could count on, if that at all. Heâd just have to keep an eye on that subdued aura circling the head of his friend.
     Alright, Rayner. Deep breath. You can do this.
      âItâs uh... Itâs better to tell someone. You know, in case someone starts an online Lantern hate forum-â His own way of making light fell flat on a croaked throat, clearing it with a bit of a rough cough before continued, leaning forward to stare at the stained carpet, busying his hands with the white ring. âThereâs... Thereâs this character I made as a kid, you know, when I was kind of this angsty tot. I remember the first time I drew him, total Saturday Morning big bad lookinâ guy. He was kind of my vent character, I guess. When I felt pissed off and powerless, I always drew him making my problems disappear. Self inflicted art therapy.â His hands stilled as he watched them fiddle, a white pen forming in his grip. âEventually, I gave him a name, and a real purpose, when I saw that there were superheroes among us. He was the conqueror of the universe, no one could stop him... So he was Oblivion.âÂ
     Sitting back up, staring at the air, he brought the constructed pen up and started to draw. White lines turned to reds, turned to oranges and yellows. âWhen I first got the ring, I rarely took it off. I didnât want to lose it. Thatâs totally dumb, I know, but... But I guess in my sleep, I kind of... Manifested a construct I never really knew about. My sleeping subconscious made a thing out of all these emotions Iâd kept hidden and... And bottled up inside me.â The helmet, the large curled horns, the menacing glare and shadowed snarl. Everything shaded in the fiery colors at the front of the emotional spectrum. âWe met, we clashed, I trapped him in the same subconscious he was birthed from.â Waving a hand through the sketch suspended in mid air, the thin tendrils dared to wrap around his fingers, stain them like the acrylics he worked with so often. âI thought he was contained... But it was just too easy to bring him out again.â