He doesn't know how long he stays out.

The winds are howling at an almost violent level, the trees creaking as they sway dangerously from side to side. Some of them crack and snap, on the verge of splintering, and leaves whip through the dark air like thin, razor sharp shards in the night. The sky overhead is a mottled gray black, churning with shades of the deepest blue, and the torrential downpour is almost deafening. There are no cars visible on the blackened pavement, all the storefronts and buildings shrouded in shadows, everyone simply huddling inside, waiting to ride out the storm.

Celsus is not waiting, nor indoors.

He's still outside, though no longer at the decrepit, dilapidated theme park. Instead, he's wandering around the Destiny City park, his cape barely visible in the onslaught of rain and wind. His hair is free about his face, sticking wetly to his cheeks and neck, glasses murky and fogged - but he keeps moving. He doesn't stop until he finds a tree to lean against, something enormous and gnarled and obviously staying exactly where it is, in spite of the chaos around it. Celsus sinks down to sit at the base of it, soaked through to the bone and shivering, though he hardly seems to care.

The side of his face is throbbing, aching. There is blood streaked across it, matted in his hair, the cuts on his jaw and cheek stinging with pain at every movement. Dimly Celsus is aware he should probably go to a hospital; his eyes can't quite focus properly, and all he wants to do is go to sleep, but he can't, won't. The rest of his body is in agony, like he's just been run over by a semi-truck.

Or attacked by a Negaverse general.

Celsus hardly takes notice of any of these things, however. Instead, he puts his forehead in his hands, bent over and hunched, his shoulders so tense they're almost sharp to the touch beneath his sodden uniform, which feels drenched and heavy.

He couldn't save Tolliver.

The thought keeps running through his head like a mantra, over and over again, until he can think of nothing else. He couldn't save Tolliver, couldn't save the one person in the world he would have died for without a thought, without any hesitation at all. Instead, he watched Eurydike go running - instead he watched Eurydike reaching Tolliver and carrying him to safety.

Eurydike, who had saved Tolliver before this.

Eurydike, who was always saving Tolliver.

Eurydike, who could what Celsus could not - protect Tolliver.

Celsus' fingers slide up, tangle in the wet strands of his hair and grip so tightly that his bruised knuckles are white with it, stark against his skin. Around him, the storm is rising in its intensity, blinding in its passion, and still he stays, huddled beneath the tree.

His own howl of misery joins in the sound of the wind.

When he gets back to his loft, he drips water onto the carpet, but doesn't seem to notice. Powered down, his glamour stripped away, Fritz slogs to the bathroom without a second glance anywhere else. He turns the water on almost scalding hot, sheds his clothes, and steps inside, letting the heat soak his already damp skin. His fingers close on the washcloth, and he is desperate to get the blood and the grime and the dirt off, desperate to get everything off. He scrubs at his skin until its reddened, until everything is stinging and smarting, until he's almost rubbed raw with it. Fritz ignores the mild pain, ignores everything else except getting clean.

He's not aware of how much time he spends in the there. When he finally feels as though he's rubbed away the last of the blood, Fritz steps out and dries off. He ignores his expression in the mirror as he fixes bandages to his cheek, averting his eyes from the bruises and the reddened skin, and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

When he's done, he dresses in his pajamas and steps into the living room, standing there silently as he looks around.

And suddenly everything is dirty. Fritz has always been a neat freak, particular about what he wants, about what he likes and dislikes - but suddenly everything seems so very, very unclean. How could he have let it get this far? How could he have lived in this pigsty of a place? He has to clean it, he has to get rid of everything that's dirty, or messy, or unclean.

Fritz cleans until daybreak, until his body can't move anymore, until he is beyond exhausted, beyond pain.

Beyond thinking at all.