authors note(s): i have no idea what the fuck i'm doing. i thought it would be fun to write a thing based on another thing, so here i am. here from ao3, so i'm a bit unfamiliar with the tagging system; if anyone reads this, it would be wonderful if you could suggest tags i should add.

tw: bad unedited writing

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Aspen Ven wakes up, head pounding. He stays unmoving for a few seconds, bleary eyes staring out into nowhere. There's empty bottles strewn across the floor, his room unusually disorganized. He blinks, once, twice, the brush of his knuckles across the bed an anchor back to reality.

Then it all comes rushing back, and he can't help but wish he'd never woken up.

His parents. Gone. Both of them, in one night. Gone, just like that, and he didn't do a single thing to help them. Hell, he didn't even know until he saw it in the papers, and what kind of hero does that make him? What kind of hero can't save their very own parents?

There is a stinging in the back of his eyes, a lump in his throat that just won't go down no matter what he does. They're dead, dead, forever dead, he'll never get to see them smile or hug them again or watch their faces crinkle in pride. Pride he wouldn't have deserved anyways, because he let them die. Because despite all the power he has at his fingertips he couldn't save two people, his two most important people in the world-

Aspen buries his face in one hand and presses the other against his shaking chest. Claws at the hoodie across his ribs, fingers curling and uncurling, presses dull nails into the edges of his eyes and lets the pain ground him. If his Ma were here she would tug him into her side and wrap her arms around his shoulders, tell him everything would be fine, but she's not and that's his fault. 

The humming noise builds, from the back of his head and growing stronger, a familiar warmth pulsing throughout his fingertips. He presses it down, pushes it back, before he slips up and hurts himself. It's hard, this time, harder then usual, and Aspen can't help but think that maybe someone else would have been better off with his power.

Someone else who helps people, actually helps people, someone who makes real change in the world and can save his own family. Someone who doesn't go home after an interview and cry into the sink, someone who can control the power he'd been gifted from birth. It was just luck that he'd been born with it, plain luck that had gotten him this far at all. He didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve the life he had. The man shudders, curling in on himself, tugging at his sleeves as he rolls over and-

His shoulder hits the floor, hard, as he tumbles off his bed, blanket still tangled around his body. A dry sob wrenches itself out of his throat before he pushes any possible others down. It didn't even hurt that much, he shouldn't be crying. He's a hero, he needs to pull himself together and move on. He shouldn't be wasting time like this, curled up and useless on the floor.

Aspen pushes himself into a standing position, shaking hands peeling the blanket off, and pushes his thoughts into the back of his head. His mouth is dry and now his shoulder's aching, but he still stumbles over to the window and opens the curtains. A lance of pain shoots through his skull at the light, and he immediately closes it back up. The hero blinks a few times in an attempt to get rid of his swimming vision. It doesn't work, unfortunately, and he resorts to pressing his forehead against the wall.

It's a cool relief for a few seconds before it's not much of a relief at all. He shifts back into a standing position and lets himself stop for a bit, close his eyes and feel the hang of his shoulders, think about what he will do next and how he will move on except he doesn't want to-

No. No. That's selfish. He needs to leave it behind him, needs to put his emotions aside and keep doing what he does because it's all he can do. He needs to, needs to go to his base and get costumed up and patrol like he's supposed to, help the few people he can, beat up villains and keep the city safe.

Except he doesn't want to.

That's not right. He should want to. Should be excited to do this, glad to use his power for something good for once. So he thinks about all the people out there who might need him to help, think of faces smiling in gratitude, thinks of crowds of people pressing up to him, a cacophony of noise.

It doesn't work, not as well as he wanted it to. But if he can't help people, he'd be wasting his potential, wasting his gift. Aspen brushes locks of frayed hair out of his face, dusts imaginary particles off his hoodie, and ignores the various pains over his body. It's not bad enough for him to need medicine, he's okay enough to go out there and fight. So he pushes open his door, walks into his kitchen,

And catches direct sight of the newspaper lying on the dinner table.

His world blurs, and his knees buckle.

"Family of Lightspear found dead this afternoon," it says in big, bold letters.

And by god, it hurt. It hurt no less than it did seventeen hours ago in a muffled dusk. His head rings, pain battering against the back of his eyelids, each and every breath catching in his throat. There's a wet warmth against his hands pressed up to his eyes. The world feels like it's spinning, or was that just his head? He can't breathe. Everything hurts. All he can think about is how they are gone and dead and he could have stopped it.

A knock jerks him out of his thoughts. Two solid raps on his front door. The press. Of fucking course they would manage to catch him at the worst moment possible. He can imagine the clickbait headers already, "Famous hero looking like a wet cat" or something like that. Aspen takes several deep breaths, forcing his thoughts away from... what they were before, and tries to stand up.

The moment he shifts into an upright position a wave of nausea rushes through his body, and he lowers himself to the ground again. Fuck. He can't do this. He doesn't want to do this. But he needs to.

The knocks come again, louder this time. The hero, because he's a hero that's what he's should be, stands up. Runs a hand over his face, shoves down the everything he's not supposed to be feeling, and tries to shuffle to the door.

Another wave of feeling rushes through him, and his foot simply slips. The world sways. He's too slow to catch himself.

His head hits a corner of the table. Aspen Ven's world goes dark.

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author's note(s): ok status update. i can't find the user who asked me to write this ahahahaha

apologies for the inconsistent characterization, possibly incorrect portrayal of grief, and most likely repetitive usage of words (i'm too tired to read over this)

please comment so i feel like i didn't spend my time on nothing because the person who wanted this is now gone and i have no way of contacting them due to the fact that i forgot their username. since theyre gone iguess i also have no reason to continue this so