If Ekko ever imagined going back to the Last Drop, it was nothing like this. Back where he belongs, the pub he used to revere as a second home is a swamp - tacky techno blaring too loud to think, shimmer-ed up junkies, and a million people who want to kill him.

Here, it's just as warm and welcoming as he remembers it. Here, his friends are alive, his family, you. Here, the music is something he could dance to, and here, he could. People pat him on the back as they pass, congratulations for some competition he won't be around to attend. The lights are calm, he's safe, he's warm, he's happy. He can't stay here, won't be there to see the rest of his life play out like it should've, no, he's going back to where everything went wrong, to save who he has left.

Heimerdinger sent him away just as he was reaching the midpoint of his device, the one to send him back to the "right" timeline. Told him to 'enjoy the time he has'. What the fuck?

Why should he? What's the point? Why get attached to this beautiful, perfect home he can't stay in? Why get caught up in what could've been, the people who could've left? Why is he dressed up for this party, celebrating something he won't get to do?

He catches a glimpse of you, threading your way through the crowd. Your eyes are on him.

Oh.

The merest moment of your face, barely a flash, and he's risen from his seat, wandering shoulder-first through people who love him. How he loves you. To think, seven years have passed, and even your own death couldn't stop him loving you. He was twelve with a puppy crush, now he's nineteen and helplessly, pathetically devoted to you - or, at least, the version of you who lived. You're taller, you've filled out where you used to be small, your features fit your face differently. Your smile still turns his stomach over, just meeting your eyes fills his chest with something.

A moth to your flame, like always, he follows. His eyes dart through faces, watching for yours. One dance, he'll allow himself. Maybe another. One night, that's it.