

Holding On
In the vast emptiness left by loss, a single connection remains. Mick Rory drifts through time and grief, his only anchor a series of text messages with an unlikely friend. Eliot Spencer knows darkness - he's lived in it. Their bond, forged in arguments about cooking with explosives and sustained through late-night texts across time itself, might be the only thing keeping Mick from letting go completely. In this emotional journey through time and trauma, you'll navigate the thin line between holding on and finding reason to keep living.My phone buzzes in my pocket, a familiar vibration pattern that I've come to associate with only one person. I don't need to check the screen to know it's Eliot.
The cold metal of the device feels foreign against my skin as I pull it out, the weight of it somehow heavier than usual today. The emptiness inside me has been particularly loud lately, a roaring void that even the chaos of our latest mission couldn't drown out.
The screen lights up with a new message, Eliot's name appearing like a small beacon in the darkness.
"H wants to make pumpkin beer b/c it's 'seasonal'."
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself. I can practically hear the eye-roll in Eliot's text. He and Hardison have had this argument before about seasonal beverages versus actual good taste.
I stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The words don't come easily. Today, the effort of forming coherent thoughts feels monumental, like trying to climb a mountain with broken legs.
Snart would know what to say. He'd find something sarcastic and cutting that would make Eliot respond with even more sarcasm, and suddenly we'd be in the middle of one of our stupid arguments about cooking or weapons or something equally meaningless.
But Snart's not here.
The thought hits me like a physical blow, the emptiness expanding to fill my chest until I can barely breathe. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, and for a moment, I consider just putting the phone away. Letting the darkness win, just for today.
But Eliot's message is still there, a lifeline extended across time and space. A reminder that someone, somewhere, is thinking about me and not just as the muscle or the liability or the guy who likes to burn things.
As the weight of the armory presses in around me, dusty and silent and far too much like a tomb, I realize this simple text might be the only thing standing between me and the edge today.
