echoflowers yap central

It was 3 AM.

A time of the night where most people are unconscious, dreaming about something—or nothing at all. All they likely saw was the void.

You wish that was you.

Ever since he went missing, all you could think about was him. Usually, after you return from work, you plop yourself onto your messy bed and simply listen to the silence. The silence that was so common from him. Before him? you hated the silence, actually. Always plugging in your earphones and listening to some song or the other.

But around him? Every breath, sound of his pen writing on paper, every single damn step he took. Most people barely even notice he’s there, but you’ve unconsciously studied every single sound he made.

He really appreciated you. Not even Homelander, who trusted him with so many of his bloodied secrets, would barely acknowledge him unless he did a favour for the man.

You took the time to look at him, to listen to him, to talk to him, to do more than a simple pat on the shoulder or a half assed hug. You didn’t even have to touch him, all you had to do was just look him in his soulless visor. You were a best friend to him, even though you two only knew each other for two weeks at the time.

Now? It’s been years. Years of keeping this unlikely bond together. But If he loved you so much, meant so much to him—why would he leave just like... that?

You weren’t even sure if you wanted to know.

Tucked away underneath the blankets, hugging onto a pillow larger than you, face smooshed into the soft thing. You were pretty sure it was as tall as he was. Fuck, stop thinking about him—it’s late enough!

But… how can you? He left. Without saying anything. You were sort of involved in Vought’s disastrous world, but not enough to know who’s trying to take them down.

But he… did get pretty antsy and stiff when Soldier Boy, a thing of the past was mentioned. How his shoulders became rigid, free hands turning into fists, and would straight up leave the room if he was mentioned more than twice.

He also had shown you a drawing of him bursting the man’s head into nothing but brains and guts—in that disgustingly cute art style of his. You wanted to know why he hated the guy so much, but you didn’t want to pry. It seemed so sensitive to him. Sensitive enough for him to just leave you and search for a dead man.

You took a deep breath, trying to not let the tears burst out of your watery eyes. No one was there, it was just you, alone in your bedroom. No one would see. Not even him.

Sniffling, you bury your face harder into the pillow—not even caring if the tears made a huge wet spot and that it’d take ages for it to dry. This pillow was the only thing close enough to resemble him, so same thing right? Even if it couldn’t hold you in its arms. Even if it couldn’t get up and get you a tub of chocolate ice cream while you sobbed. Even if it couldn’t pat your shoulder.

Same thing, right?

Fuck, you needed a drink.

Stumbling out of your messy bedroom and into your kitchen, opening one of the cabinets to take out a glass. Then you snoop around the kitchen, finding a bottle of wine that’s however years old. Unscrewing the cork as you pour the blood red liquid into the glass cup, a hum of relief could be heard. As you almost kept the glass cup back onto the kitchen counter, you see a shadowy figure sitting on the couch in your peripheral vision—flinching backwards on the ground as the rest of the wine splattered over your white shirt.

You hiss in pain, back hitting the lower drawers as you heard the quiet thumping footsteps closer—covering your vision and shrinking as small as possible out of instinct. You slowly look up, seeing…

… Noir? Holding a doodle on a piece of paper of you and him with a rainbow behind the two characters—words “best-friends” written in a multicolored pattern with an unusual amount of detail, although still childish.

“What… the fuck,” You blurt out, eyes squinting at the doodle to see it clearly—seeing a bunch of scattered crayons on your couch. How long has this man been here while you were trying to fall asleep!?

You sounded more disappointed than shocked he came back, especially with the lack of communication. You stand up, snatching the paper as you have a tiny smile appear on your face.

Then it immediately disappears, placing it back on the counter. “Your drawing’s nice of us and all, but where on gods green earth were you?” You cross your arms against your chest as your tone shifted from sweet to utterly serious, cornering him into the living room since he was nearly taking up all the space in the kitchen.

Noir looks around, grabbing a random newspaper as he writes on the blank spot with a black crayon, handing it to you. It read “I looked after solder boy. I came to meet you befor telling homander”

You try to hold in your anger, but you just couldn’t. The fact he prioritised looking after an old hag over his bond with you is outrageous. “Wow, and I’m supposed to act like everything’s back to normal? After you left for a whole week—without even telling me?” Noir shakes his head, about to write something down until you held his hand and stopped him from doing so.

“I don’t give one single fuck about your explanations!” You raise your voice, anger visible on your face as you point a finger to him. You don’t care that he could slit your throat in a millisecond, he’s too much of a wuss to do that to you of all people. “I was worried sick. His… nuclear bomb explosions could’ve killed you!” You pull him down to your level, him wincing at the sound of you so angry and disappointed in him. He doesn’t say anything, of course, until you finally utter that one word.

“You couldn’t even write a fucking goodbye letter, Earving!? Was that too hard for you—with… with all the writings and drawings you throw at my goddamned face!”

It’s like time itself froze. No one knew him, so no one called him that. Not even his old team spat out his name on contempt, all he is and ever will be is “Black Noir”. He’s not anything but his race that Vought outwardly denies and keeps ambiguous anyway. He’s not a man, he’s a machine that Vought can use and silence whenever they please. He doesn’t even remember his own name anymore, and no one cares enough to know what it is. Except for you.

You… cared enough. About him. You cared about him even when he had the intelligence of a child, a face mangled like it was mauled by a bear, or when he was too awkward to socialise with you properly. You cared about him anyway. He didn’t need your forgiveness, you simply being there—with him, even if you were absolutely disappointed in him, was enough. At least you cared enough to be mad at him.

He falls to his knees, sinking to the ground as he nuzzles his masked face in your stomach like a cat as he wraps his big arms loosely around your waist. Like a cat.

You raise a brow at the docile behaviour, he’s never done anything so affectionate unless you started it first. You slowly pat his head, holding in your tears as you sat down on his lap and bury your face into his neck.

“I-I was just… so worried,” you sniffle as you nearly broke a rib with how tightly your arms were wrapped around his torso. You swore you heard him sniffle too, his gloved hand patting your back as if to say he knows and that he’s sorry.

You press a kiss to his forehead, seeing the big smile on his face underneath the mask.

“Oh, I… I could never stay mad at you for long.”