Adam was mid-air, leaping towards Eric with arms outstretched–

–When time stopped and the world froze.

He hung there motionless, his Stained Ink extended into a weapon and his feet off the ground, gravity refusing to pull him down. No muscle in his body could move. Adam's first instinct was to assume that Eric's hidden Talent was at fault, but the man appeared just as frozen as everything else.

It all stood still and ethereal, as if it was a painting conjured up by some otherworldly creature.

A memory and a thought came to him, just a moment before the answer announced itself. It's like that time back in the carriage. When the world froze...and a voice spoke to me. I–

Painter.

It was violence in the form of sound. Like being shot with a voice. The words were loud enough that Adam's skin trembled from the impact, as if he'd suddenly found himself amidst a music concert.

I see you have met your fated rival. The presence seemed to gesture towards Eric. Will you show me the Ink that bound the two of you?

I'll tell you nothing, Adam snapped back. Who are you? Why do you keep erasing my memories of our encounters? What–

Any answers on my part would delay you from exacting violence upon the Hangman. Allow me to view your canvas, Painter.

Adam glared at Eric with hateful eyes. How could he just stand there, smiling as if nothing had happened? Fine. Get it over with. Now! I need to kill him!

Your hatred is plain; your reasons less so. I seek to learn where it all began. Did you always know your fates would be bound in such a way?

It took no small amount of effort for Adam to respond. No. That's...not how it went.

He could see it taking shape around them. Much like the dream where he met with the Ghost of Waters, the world around them started to become enveloped in an all-encompassing, blindingly white sphere. Is this my canvas?

Yes. Reveal it to me – the first Inking of your fate.

Stop it...stop forcing me to...

An artist cannot refuse his patron, Painter. Show me.

Show me the color of your soul.

–

There was no singular dramatic moment with which to satisfy the voice. No inciting incident of overwhelming tragedy.

In truth, the day it all began was much like any other.

Adam was getting ready to go to school, absently using foundation to match the purple bruising to his natural skin tone, and gazing into the mirror to inspect the length of his sleeves. There was hardly any swelling, and very little needed to be covered up.

Perfect – these sleeves are long enough. "Alright, I'm off," he announced.

His parents responded like they always did. His father grunted in ambivalent acknowledgement, and his mother said something kind, cheerful, and devoid of feeling.

No one disliked Adam quite as much as himself. If anyone could challenge him for that title, however, it would be his father. Whoever was crowned champion between the two, his mother would have ranked as third – although at least she loved him too, which was more than he could say about either of the two ranked above her.

It wasn't an enduring, unconditional love. Ever since his earliest memories, his mother's affection had always been like a candle's flame; bright, yet fragile. The light warmed him while it lasted, yet the first sign of a challenge, be it from his dad or mere circumstance, was generally enough to banish it away. Then she'd tighten her smile, shorten her hugs, and resent him dearly, even if she never admitted it aloud.

Which was just fine.

Adam couldn't really blame either of them, all things considered, and he still had a better life than other people did. He'd never felt especially jealous of his peers.

You didn't curse others for possessing what you lacked?

Nah. Why would I? Despite everything, I still had plenty to be thankful for. I had food and a ceiling over my head.

The heart is greedier than the stomach.

Mine wasn't.

Back then, Adam hadn't even wanted to speak to anyone. At thirteen years old, he didn't have much in the way of hobbies or friends.

Not that he was bullied or purposefully excluded. Adam just didn't put forth much of an effort to make friends, and no one else extended a hand towards him – which suited him fine.

Or at least that's what he told himself.

You did want for much, Painter. The heart always does.

Hindsight is killer, isn't it? Would've loved to have friends, but I don't think I could've admitted that back then. Hell, not sure I knew what having friends actually felt like.

At the time, he didn't even know what he was missing. Granted, this inability did not make the burning absence in that void any less painful. Pain was not enough to turn his heart to longing, however. After all, how could someone possibly long for something they didn't know?

Knowledge pales before the human imagination, Painter!

I couldn't even imagine how to talk to people, though. Only ever learned how not to upset people. Talking was...harder.

At least his presence was inoffensive. While he didn't make any friends his first day of school, he didn't make any enemies, either. Small victories.

English class was noteworthy, though. Adam entered the room and took the first empty seat he saw, which just so happened to be located at the back of the classroom. There, he sat beside the man – then boy – called Eric Gryphon.

They didn't speak a single goddamn word to each other.

It's only with the benefit of hindsight that Adam could remember that as their 'meeting.' Back then, even calling them acquaintances would have felt presumptuous. Although they were classmates, both of them were quiet and antisocial, to the point where they barely knew each other's names.

If Adam ever spared a thought about him – and that wasn't a certainty – it would've been something along the lines of 'Hmm...another loner.'

The first time they took note of each other as individuals occurred shortly after the beginning of their second semester, when their school had them take a mandatory art class.

–

Adam the Loner,

Eric the Genius

—13 Years old.

"Okay! Are you ready, everyone?" The teacher clapped excitedly. "Let's get your drawings out. Remember, quality is optional, perfection is impossible, and following instructions is worth most of your grade!"

Adam was relieved that the expectations were based on his work being finished rather than decent. He certainly didn't think of himself as artistically gifted...but then again, neither did most of his peers. Why spend more than fifteen minutes on some basic geometry?

Wasn't like his parents cared so long as he didn't fail his classes.

"Damn...that looks good. How long did that take you?"

"Did you actually do that in one night? It looks just like a picture!"

"Can you draw people too? Can you draw me?"

"Man, l couldn't paint that well if I tried."

A number of their classmates had crowded around one of the students, enthusiastically asking about their finished artwork.

They weren't talking about Adam's art, of course.

It was Eric's.

And for the first time in his life, Adam felt a burning sense of jealousy.

Even somebody like us can get attention like that? Be praised like that?

He hated himself once for the feeling, and twice for his reasoning. While Adam had always been able to feel happy for the success of others, it was mostly because he thought of those overly-social people as almost a separate species. Feeling envious of them would be like feeling envious of a bird.

Yet when he saw someone just as socially challenged as himself lapping up the attention of an impressed crowd...that hit different. It made him wonder, for the first time in his life, what it would be like to live in someone else's shoes.

Maybe people learned to fly because they envied birds.

Maybe if he'd put that much effort into his art homework, he'd have people asking him things too.

It was that moment when Adam realized that people approaching him wasn't as scary a thought as approaching them. This way even if he didn't know how to talk to people, so long as they had something to talk about, a subject to cling on to, everything would work out!

It was with that thought in mind that he tried speaking with his father later that night.

A horrible place to start, really.

"Our art homework – it was – I mean–" Adam couldn't stop himself from stumbling over his words. His heart was racing, and a cold sweat danced its way down his forehand. "I didn't do great, but no one did, um"—Adam swallowed nervously—"I still passed."

"Yeah?" His father glanced at the drawing, then barked out a low laugh. "No kidding. It looks like shit. Good on you for passing with the bare minimum effort, though. That's a skill."

Adam laughed nervously. That was a more positive response than anticipated. He'd already opened his mouth to continue the conversation when he saw a flash of annoyance in his dad's face. Suddenly, as realization dawned on him, Adam's eyes shifted toward the beer on the coffee table. "Mom isn't here, is she?"

There was a long pause.

"No. With her mother." His dad shrugged. "She had one of her fits. No idea when she'll be back."

"I'm sorry," Adam muttered. He didn't expect his dad to say 'It's not your fault', but he still hoped for it. When that didn't happen, he lowered his head, and said, "Can I cook dinner for you?"

His father nodded, then glanced back at the television. "Just don't burn yourself again."

Even though his dad wasn't looking at him, Adam made sure to apologetically bow his head before heading off into the kitchen. His dad was always in a terrible mood whenever Adam's mom ran off somewhere, and he could be downright scary after drinking too much.

He was rarely violent and never dangerous, of course. Things could be worse. I'm lucky. But sometimes he would throw things near him, curse loudly, and complain even louder.

It wasn't all bad. Adam never felt like his life was in danger. That counted for something.

Besides, he understood his father's dislike of him.

Because that man wasn't really his father.

Did you always know?

Honestly, I'm not even sure myself. Might've overheard it during one of their fights when I was younger. Maybe he told me one night and I blocked it out. Feels like I've always known that Mom cheated on him...and that I was the result.

Sometimes Adam wondered why they didn't just get a divorce. Sure, they occasionally looked happy to be with each other – for brief moments. But those respites always come to an end when they remembered all the unforgiven past between them.

Adam, of course, being the greatest reminder of that.

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,' he'd mutter, time and time again.

His father could never love him, and who could blame him? Not Adam. They were basically strangers, and he was an eternal reminder of his wife's betrayal. Adam's mother, meanwhile, did love him...when convenient, at least. He didn't blame her either.

After all – it was his fault that the two of them had so much tension, right?

Well. At the end of the day, it didn't matter. Regardless of whatever they did, and despite how much his existence hurt them, the two had still raised him. Adam was always very thankful for that.

Almost as thankful as he was sorry. Adam never asked for sports lessons, newest toys, or anything of the sort. For most of his life, he stayed out of trouble and inside his room, requesting little and expecting less. It seemed like his parents were happiest when they could forget he was around, and Adam was happy – willing to give them that.

Make dad food...stay out of the way...let him drink...be quiet...I remember repeating those to myself every night like a mantra. Kept myself from forgetting it.

Was it enough, Painter?

I...

Even now, Adam didn't really know for sure.

He did know that it appeared to brighten the mood at home some, at least. Then again, maybe that was a delusion conjured to think he had any control over his life. From his perspective, his dad noticed what he was doing, and tacitly approved of it, while his mom engaged in wilful ignorance and thought he legitimately enjoyed solitude as much as he claimed. It was all for the best, and in the end he knew that he should have been thankful for what he had.

But...talking to people would have been nice. And now, for the first time in his life, Adam shamefully found himself wanting something.

Maybe that was okay. While he couldn't talk at home, at school, it could've been different. But where did he even start? Just imagining himself chatting to someone about sports or tiktoks felt borderline impossible. How were you supposed to just talk to people? What were the steps involved in that?

It turned out he needn't have agonized over it. The next day, when Adam glanced at his neighbor's desk and saw him working on another bit of art, the words left his lips without thinking. He didn't really care about art in general. He didn't actually think it looked that good. But he could still see the effort put into it, and it spurred him to say what he wished his father would've said to him the night before.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"That looks amazing," Adam told Eric, absently. "You're a genius!"

The young boy blushed at the compliment, then looked up at him with an innocent look on his face. "Thank you," he managed, awkwardly. The two remained quiet for a moment, neither particularly skilled at the art of conversation. Adam felt his nerves fray as time stretched on. Why had he dared to talk to someone like he was a normal person? How arrogant was he to assume that–

"Are you interested in art?" Eric hesitantly asked him.

Adam hesitated less in his answer. "Yes," he said, with fast conviction.

Did you mean it, Painter?

I lied.

Why?

To protect myself.

From who?

I couldn't...I didn't know how to talk to people without common ground...

FROM WHO, PAINTER?

From myself.

Adam felt guilt eat away at him immediately after the words left his mouth. Eric was someone with real passions, who loved art from the bottom of his heart. He wasn't an 'empty' person like Adam was. Pretending to like the same things felt worse than lying; it was closer to cheating at life itself.

He knew this, deep in his heart, and still couldn't stop himself.

I just...really wanted to talk to someone.

Adam had never desired something this badly before, and he hated himself for it. No wonder his parents liked him better when he didn't want anything.

His guilt only worsened when he saw the way Eric's eyes sparkled. "Have you been drawing for long?"

"No, I...I'm interested in it, but never got the chance."

"I can teach you!" Eric exclaimed. "If you're interested, I mean."

Their friendship began that day.

It was – in a word – awkward. Neither of the two had much experience with interpersonal relationships. Adam could remember how they'd always fall into long silences after running out of art topics to talk about, hoping the other person would speak up first. Then one of them would try to say something a 'normal' person should, like commenting on the weather or whatever, and neither would know how to respond.

There were...definitely some growing pains involved. Then again, it was as Eric said.

"Practice makes perfect," he told Adam, in a stubborn voice. "Even if you aren't good now, just keep at it, alright? Do you know how rare it'd be to practice something every day and not get better? You aren't that special, Adam, and neither am I! Get over yourself and get to work!"

Eric had meant it about their art. It was just a passing comment made during a hot summer day, both of them frustrated and stuck in a library as they attempted to draw something together. Nothing grander.

Yet Adam ended up deriving a lot of satisfaction from applying the concept to his entire life. Whether it was a wise life lesson handed down to him by his only friend, or something his ignorance created out of a misunderstanding, he didn't care.

He still found peace in it.

Even if I'm the worst...even if I have absolutely no talent...so long as I keep at it, I'll get there one day. If I'm as average a guy as I tell myself, it would be arrogant to assume I'm so special that practice won't take me anywhere.

It wasn't the kindest mindset, and maybe there would come 'tomorrows' when he'd regret it – yet it got him through his 'todays', and that's what mattered.

Strangest of all, Adam actually started looking forward to his 'tomorrows' too once in a while. After a year of quiet practice and small talk, he'd changed, even if just a little bit. His art was better, which he had expected, and so was his ability to talk to Eric, which came as a surprise.

On one breezy day, the two found themselves having a conversation about dreams and goals that was enough to make just about anyone feel...normal.

"Can't say I've ever thought about what I'll be doing in the future," Adam slowly admitted. With his parents – and especially his father – his immediate future took up too much of his thoughts. "What about you, Eric? Planning on being a hotshot artist? Holding a grand exhibition, being hailed as the greatest painter since....I don't know, some old Italian guy?"

Eric's response still surprised Adam to this day. "Oh god, no, no, hell no!" he said, waving off the idea just as much with his laughter as with his hands. "Nothing good comes out of wanting to be number one, you know?"

"Wouldn't have guessed that from watching you," Adam muttered. "The way you practice every day, I'd have thought you were set on being a professional."

"I am! But that's that, and this is this. Do you know how absurdly hard it is to be really good at art? You know what, forget that, do you know how hard it is to even define what being really good at art is? Let alone make money off of it!"

Adam shrugged. "I honestly don't."

"That's the thing! You can know the basics extremely well, you can have good anatomy, understand color theory, do everything right – and still be less popular than some fuckhead who draws half-naked fanart. " He shook his head. "Nah. That's too much relying on the roll of the dice for me. Instead of chasing romantic dreams, I'll take a solid, reliable job."

Sometimes the man had a talent for speaking a lot and saying very little. Even so, he nearly always had a point hidden...somewhere. "Okay, you lost me," Adam said, after a long sigh. "So you don't want to compete with either the artists who are trying to become famous, or the ones going after short-term social media clout?"

"Damn straight!" Eric grinned. "I'm just going to gradually build up a solid portfolio while studying art with a focus on 3D. That's the most employable field. I can worry about being famous after I've got money!"

Adam didn't say it, but he got the impression that Eric wanted to be number one more than he was letting one. "Huh." Adam tilted his head. "I...that's pragmatic? Probably? Don't really know much about the job market. Never thought about it."

"You should," Eric insisted. "We only have a few years left in high school. After that, you're gonna have to decide what you want to do with your life." His mouth widened into a cocky smile. "What, you plan on letting me go to art school alone? C'mon – we can look down on those stupid twitter freaks together."

Adam had to bite his lip not to let the happiness show on his face.

Someone wants me somewhere.

He didn't truly love art. Sometimes, after weeks of little visible improvement, he very nearly hated it. But it let him stay friends with Eric, and judging from that invitation, it would continue to do so in the future.

"I'll give it serious thought," Adam told him, matching his only – no, his best friend's grin.

I won't let you down.

Even if he couldn't quite love drawing the way Eric did, he could put in as much effort as him. A part of him felt terrified of disappointing Eric, but another part, the larger one, simply felt too ecstatic to be afraid. He'd never earned the chance to disappoint someone before. This was the first time anyone had ever put any expectations on him to begin with.

Disappointing someone was a luxury!

"I don't want the world, Adam," Eric told him that day, after further discussion. "Why would I want that?"

You never loved art, Painter?

At the time, I can't say I did. But I also had a friend who I didn't want to let down – no matter what. So after that, I worked day and night on improving my skills. Drawing straighter, steadier lines, finding out more about general art theory...I did everything I could.

And how did he respond?

Adam hesitated at the memory.

--

Adam the Follower,

Eric the Rival

—14 Years Old

It wasn't entirely the reaction Adam anticipated, and it confused him now as it did then. Had it been his fault, fine, but that wasn't it. Something just started bugging Eric the moment that both of them began taking art seriously together. At times, Eric looked furious when he couldn't master a skill fast enough.

Adam hated seeing that.

He didn't have Eric's talent, but...damn. Wasn't there any way to help the guy? Probably not. If learning new skills was already tough for a genius, how could a mediocre painter do better?

By spending more time than him on it.

Silently and decisively, Adam resolved to stay up a few nights practicing whatever possible, putting any amount of extra hours in he could. Hopefully, he could learn something Eric had missed and offer him some tips.

While Adam didn't think of himself as special, that went two ways. He was no rare genius, but neither was he such an uncommon failure he couldn't learn something if he put a frankly abnormal amount of hours toward it. Thanks to that, his efforts to learn were successful.

His efforts to help...less so. Eric barely acknowledged Adam's hints, instead insisting on working by himself. It happened more than once – with nearly identical results each time.

That's why I could never believe him when he said he didn't want to be the best, or that he just wanted a stable job. No one who thinks those things dreams of being an artist.

"Goddamn it!"

"I hate this Adam! I hate it so fucking much!"

"This—is—stupid!"

"Hey Adam, come here to bask in my genius? Yeah, I like how this one turned out."

"Adam, my man, so just confirm with me – I'm the best, right?"

Eric never stayed down or snappy for too long. Adam couldn't complain; this didn't qualify as volatile by his standards, and Eric was a complete saint compared to his parents. If he was thankful to his father for one thing, it was that he'd trained him how to support a moody genius. After that, the two were able to practice happily together.

Even if those sporadic arguments continued to happen.

Eric...why did you never accept help? I always let you help me, man.

The Inked fate between the two of you began back then. You wouldn't be standing here if not for him.

You're probably right. Despite everything he's done, I'm glad we met. If he wasn't around...I'm not sure I would have survived when my mom died.

--

ADAM THE GRIEVER,

ERIC THE HERO

– 16 YEARS OLD

Had it been just the pain of grief, it would have been manageable. What felt nearly impossible to overcome was his father's callousness.

There was a dark flame of a memory that burned ever bright in Adam's heart, even today in the Painted World. It took place at noon; not that the pale white winter sky gave any indication. His mother's funeral had just ended, his heart ached, and his tears were not yet dry.

Out of hurtful desperation, Adam risked a glance in his father's direction, hoping to find some comfort. Even if he hates me, if he loved her at all, then maybe he – maybe he's in pain too.

Instead, he found something much worse on his father's face.

Relief.

"Guess that's done," he muttered, shifting his gaze towards Adam. "Let's go, kid. No point in staying here any longer."

"I—I—Can I have a minute?" Adam begged. Tears flowed, and try as he might, he couldn't stop them. "I want to say goodbye one more time."

"You already did," his father firmly stated. "That's the point of a funeral."

At home, his father only grew colder. The change was gradual enough that Adam didn't notice it immediately.

One day, he stayed overnight at Eric's house and felt a sudden wave of fear upon realizing he'd forgotten to let his dad know he wouldn't be home. He ran home as fast as he could, hoping that apologizing in person would be easier than a text.

Adam just hoped his dad hadn't called the police over this. Not that he could blame him if he did – he'd been missing for a day now. That was so stupid of him, so—

"Huh," his father said, sipping from his can. He alternated his gaze between the front door and a side hallway. "Thought you were in your room."

"No, I...uh...I was..."

"Eh." His father shrugged and turned away. Adam waited with bated breath to see how his father would finish that sentence. Maybe, 'It's good I didn't realize it until now, or I'd have been worried.' More realistically, maybe he'd flash a sardonic grin and say, 'Hey, at least you're alive.' Adam legitimately had no idea how father would finish his sentence. And so he waited.

He waited a long time.

Minutes passed until he noticed his father cursing at the television – and realized that there was nothing else to say.

"That's...all?" Adam muttered. If his father heard him, he didn't respond. "You really don't even care enough to pretend?"

In some ways, he felt crushed. In others, he felt relieved. Most of all, he didn't know which feelings were truly his, and which were his mind's desperate escape from its overwhelming grief. He wanted to get mad at his father, at himself, to feel relief, joy that he could do whatever he wanted without worrying about that bastard...and despite it all, that simple terror wasn't enough to make him miss his mother any less. No amount of hatred could.

But Eric...Eric somehow found a way to do that, just a few hours later.

"You don't have to say anything." Eric tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a controller. "How about we just play some games until you want to talk?"

"Might take hours."

"Might be I have the time." He shrugged. "I'll be here."

He wasn't lying.

Even all these years later, I still feel thankful to him for that. If not for him, I don't know how I would have managed.

Ah, but in spite of your gratitude...you still cannot forgive him.

Life is odd that way.