"Don't go."

Oz gripped onto the black fabric of Gilbert's coat, his chin turned down, leaving messily-clumped locks of golden hair covering most of his face. "Please, Gil." He mumbled the words so quietly, voice almost breaking at the childish nickname he had given him what supposedly was ten years before.

Why was this what he had returned to? Oz could still remember the bright, juvenile smile that his companion had donned just yesterday—at least to him—and how his eyes lit up whenever he suggested they play silly games like hide and seek or even tag (he had to admit that Gilbert had never been good at that game, though). He could still feel the sweaty palms that Gilbert had when holding his hand, how girlish his scream was whenever he encountered a cat, and how reliant he was on his master.

But that wasn't now. The Abyss has chewed Oz and spit him back out ten years later—a world where he had almost indefinitely been forgotten.

"Please," the smaller boy whispered, hands beginning to tremble from how tightly he gripped the coat between his fingers, holding onto the last bit of home that he had left; the last person who could still remember him and cared for him.

Maybe things would be different if they had grown together.

Gilbert tugged his coat away from Oz, though his gentleness was still present within him; he couldn't hurt his master—his former master. His own pride wouldn't allow that. "I—forgive me, Oz..."

His one voice was much deeper now; much more mature than Oz remembered. He was stronger, more mature, and less reliant.

He didn't need a master anymore, did he?

"I've made Oscar aware of the situation," the older started once more, letting a sigh escape; the way his posture was exuded that he wasn't going to just give in to Oz's wishes and whims anymore. "You'll be picked up from my apartment tonight. You...don't have much to pack, do you?"

The most Oz could do was shake his head. What was he supposed to say in this? He couldn't do much more than beg, scream, or cry. And he was already down two.

But neither would do much—Gilbert was independent now. What could he do about that?

Absolutely nothing.

"G-Gil, I—"

"Please be ready by then."

Gilbert fixed the gloves on his hands after going silent; he didn't want to say much more. He couldn't. Leading Oz on would just hurt him more, and bluntly explaining that he just stopped caring somewhere between the years would make things worse. It was better to leave everything unsaid.

It was better.