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Night had well and truly settled over the city, leaving shadows inside of deeper ones. Lights winked off one by one as stores closed, people got into their cars and began to head home, hands tucked tight away from the cold, faces down to avoid striking any inconvenient last-minute conversations. The streets emptied, save for a long figure, folded in on itself, leaning against a wall.

It was a teenage boy. His legs were drawn up tight, arms wrapped around them, and his forehead pressed to the top. Probably some runaway or homeless child, the people would think, merely passing him by without a second glance.

That was fine. Grayson didn't want to be bothered.

His cell phone hung in his pocket, vibrating every once in a while as his brother fired off texts calling him a jackass and telling him to come home. In the garbled language of text messaging, Tristan tried to explain that their parents were worried, as if he needed to. Gray knew they were worried. He'd been out all night, again. At least this time he'd sent Tristan a brief, humorless text about it.

He didn't feel like going home. He didn't feel like getting looks that lasted just a little too long, seeing worry and relief wage constant war in his parents' eyes. He didn't feel like answering questions about where he'd been, when where he had been was hell, and someone had died. When he couldn't talk about it. Didn't want to talk about it.

God, didn't even want to remember it.

Footsteps were approaching, but he'd been sitting there for well over an hour, and he knew they would just continue by. He didn't care, anyway.

He'd rather be left alone.

Of course, the one time he wanted to be alone, the one soul who wouldn't turn away from someone in need would show up.

He curled his shoulders inward, wishing that there was somewhere to lean to aside from into a wall, and lifted his head. There was temper in his face, real temper - not something that Grayson generally indulged in, not the way he handled things. It was in his eyes, making them bright and hard, distracting the eye from the tear tracks going down his cheeks, disappearing under his chin. His mouth was a stubborn line, though that could have been simply from the sheer effort of keeping it from trembling.

He wasn't in any state of mind to be helped. He just wanted to mourn for the loss of a life that he hadn't been able to save.

But then the fire faded from his face, and something like horror dawned in his expression. Of all the people in the world, the one he wanted to see least was before him, kneeling, hands placed lightly on his shoulders. There was concern in his face, a gentleness to his voice that Grayson had never heard.

And if he'd known it was Grayson, had known why he was sitting on an abandoned street in the middle of the night with little more than a sweater on? Surely even Jude wouldn't have come.

They stared at one another, the silence stretching between them, before Grayson spoke.

"Jude." He didn't sound like himself even to his own ears; there was something strained in his tone. His voice was thick, further evidence of the angry, disappointed tears he'd already shed. "I'm -- I'll be fine."

And he shied to the side, because he couldn't move back. Chances were, Jude was still so disgusted with him that he'd take his words at face value and leave.

All for the better, really.

Grayson didn't the energy left to feel much of anything, and the irritation that swelled when Jude didn't leave was quickly replaced by something like weary acceptance. Jude would stay or he would go... what did it matter? He was tired. He was heartsick. He wanted to turn back the hands of time and make it so the night had never happened, but he couldn't do that.

All he could do was flash some useless light while a Negaverse lieutenant ripped out a man's starseed and fled with it.

His expression pinched, and he expelled a low breath, willing himself to keep it together. The last thing he needed was to start bawling on Jude - Jude, who Grayson barely knew but already owed a debt of his brother's life. Jude, who was so much more capable than him that it was almost laughable, except that he was sure if he started to laugh he would end up sobbing, and he didn't want that.

So, he stared at Jude for a while longer, and then he closed his eyes, dipped his head back. The wall was ice cold against the back of is head, but that was no different from anywhere else, really. He wanted to simply ignore the other man until he left, but even as he thought it, he dismissed it. That was low of him, and not what Jude deserved.

"I messed up, Jude." It was said so tiredly, and he eased his hands from their death grip around his knees, linked the edges of his fingers together instead. "That's all."

He could remember, not so very long ago, when Jude had handed over his henshin pen. Grayson had set it on the table before falling asleep, and Jude had taken it back. It was ironic that he felt like doing a similar thing when he had been so horrified to be on the receiving end of it before.

He didn't, though. He just sat there, shivering, wishing that Jude would spare himself the effort and simply leave before he was much more disappointed in Grayson than could ever be repaired.

It should have been inspiring. It was the kind of speech Grayson had secretly always hoped for, the words he'd been aching to hear without even knowing he needed them. Coming from Jude, from anyone, they should have validated him, bolstered him, made him feel like he could rise above the failure and the sorrow and carry on. Maybe if he was a different person, a better person, he could do so. Maybe he would be able to, in time.

Life was full of a lot of maybes.

While Jude's speech did some of that, it wasn't quite enough to take the shadow off his heart. Perhaps if he felt he deserved the speech, it would have made it through the grief and guilt, but he didn't. Even when Jude sliced his hand, linked theirs together, mixed their blood, he felt like it was all a farce.

Leo.

How happy he'd been to remember.

How little he felt like he was worth the title, now.

Still, he kept it to himself. His mourning would be quiet, private, both for the unknown man and himself. Jude was here to help -- wanted to help -- was helping. He didn't have to be.

That thought made Grayson's hand tighten on his, his head pounding as tears he fought desperately to hold back slid down his cheeks. He brought his free hand up, curled it over his face, a meager attempt to hide the evidence of his shame and misery.

He hadn't thought he had any more tears in him. He was realizing, now, that there were always more tears. There was always more sorrow.

"The Zodiac..." It was a rough whisper, barely recognizable as his voice. He had to take a quick breath, then another, to control his breathing, keep himself from breaking into the kind of disquieted sobs that took more time to dispel than he cared to expend.

He wasn't looking at him. Probably couldn't.

But he was still holding onto Jude's hand.

"I'll do better next time." The words scratched his throat. "You're right. You're right, Jude."

And then he had to pause again, because he'd already embarrassed himself enough.

Despite himself -- perhaps even in spite of himself -- Grayson felt a little better. Not much, but enough that he was able to take a few shallow breaths, reign in his misery enough to keep from bawling openly in front of Jude. After all the effort he'd put forth to try to make him feel better, that would probably be the most ungrateful thing he could manage. After all, it would look like Jude's assistance had meant nothing, and it would be awkward for both of them. So, when Jude punched him in the arm, he forced himself to smile. He tried to laugh, though it came across as a thick, choked noise more than anything.

It was still better than nothing.

"Okay, Jude." He squeezed his hand one more time, the only way he could think to express his gratitude without further embarrassing them both, and broke their grip. His hand bled, and it hurt, but it was a nice distraction from the steady ache in his heart.

He wiped his hand on his pantleg, drew the back of the other across his cheeks to smear the tears away. Man up, he said. A small voice in the back of Grayson's mind chanted that it was easier said than done, but that voice was one he struggled with daily to subdue. It wasn't the time to feel sorry for himself, or give up before the battle was truly over.

So, he opened his eyes, and he smiled. He braced his hands atop his knees, took a moment before he stood. It was cold, and his body ached from the temperature and the battle he'd had, but he was, at least, standing.

Ironically, the punch to the arm hadn't sunken his spirits further; it was so normal, so expected of Jude, that he didn't mind it for once. "Thank you. I know... I know that I won't be able to save everyone. I'm just going to need a little time to recover from knowing that, and experiencing it."

He fell silent, not really eager to talk about his feelings beyond that point. Despite being so open with many things, Grayson was often surprisingly close-mouthed about himself, especially when it came to talking to Jude. After all, he was certain Jude didn't want to hear it, and if possible, he didn't want make himself anymore distasteful to his teammate.

Because he felt awkward, he looked down at his hands, noted the wound in the one that had been joined with Jude's. He'd need to get home, and get that bandaged. "Er..."

God, this was awkward. "I think I'll go home, then. I'm going to be pretty useless for the rest of the night anyway," he added. Though his tone was light, there was a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Better leave patrolling to the ones who have had rest."

He was talking an abnormal amount, actually. It must have been because he was still troubled and trying hard not to show it.

It was clearly beyond awkward for the both of them. Grayson wasn't sure what it was about Jude that made things exponentially more uncomfortable than if it had been anyone else, but it was true that as the other turned away, he was relieved. He sincerely appreciated what Jude had done, but he was more than eager to go home, take a long shower, and collapse into bed. Thank whatever Gods there were that he didn't have school or work in the morning.

"Right. Good night." Because he lived in the opposite direction, he turned, hunching his shoulders inward as he went. It was still cold, and he could feel it, but it was true that he felt a little bit better.

It would probably be a long time before he was able to close his eyes and not see Uranophane's face, but he would have to learn to live with that.

He would just have to.