Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grian was laying on his back, staring up at the man above him. Scar. Disheveled and breathing hard. His shirt was off, Grian couldn't remember when that had happened. They made eye contact, Scars green eyes shining with mischief. He smirks, his lips quirking to the side. Grian loved that smile. 

He’d dreamed of it nightly. 

Scar leaned down, Grian felt his face flush. He could feel the man's hot breath against his ear, he shifted slightly to expose his neck. He desperately wanted the man to kiss him there. 

Scar huffed out a laugh, "You're such a cute guy, you know that?” he asked. 

Grian could feel himself still, something so off about the way he said such seemingly innocent words. The way he put emphasis on cute guy, it could just be his brain playing tricks on him. 

How did he know? 

He opened his eyes again—when had he closed them? Hotguy was leaning over him, the smile on his lips was no longer sweet, no longer gentle and mischievous. His eyes obscured by an orange and cyan visor. 

Grian felt himself panic. 

His chest rising and falling so fast from his rushed hurried breathing. His heart fluttered in his chest like a bird desperately trying to escape its cage after a nightmare. His wrists were pinned above his head, he couldn't reach for his guns. He couldn't defend himself. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything. 

Hotguy leaned down, pressing their chests together, Grian desperately tried to scooch himself further into the hard cement, no longer was it a soft bed. His wings crushed beneath his and the hero’s weight. 

Hotguy grinned at him. “Cant escape now can you, little birdie?” 

His wings twitched. 

Grian tried to say something, some comeback, a joke. Some clever lines to deflect his fear and to heal his ego. 

Nothing happened, only a croaking noise escaped from his throat. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked. Clearly taking too much pleasure in taking down his nemesis, the vigilante he’d hunted for weeks. 

Hotguy gathered both of Grian’s wrists in one hand, using the other to gently brush his cheek. He felt his pinna twitch. Hotguy huffed a laugh, not unlike the one Scar had moments before. 

His hand trailed down Grian's face, trailing feather-light touches down his neck and settling just above his heart. 

“I wonder…” Hotguy trailed off, “are you as beautiful as I imagine you, under that mask?” 

His hand reached up. 

Grian felt his breath quicken. 

No no no. 

He’d be arrested for this. 

He’d lose his job and his friends and spend the rest of his life rotting in the special cells beneath the hero headquarters 

Vigilantes are illegal 

Just as illegal as villains are. 

Helping people lends you no favor when done outside the confines of the law, when done out from under the thumb of the elite. 

“You know birdie,” he says, "I could pull a few strings for you…” 

He’d offered this before. 

A job. 

Working for the hero corp. 

Grian had always said no. 

He’d spent the majority of his life under that woman's thumb. He wasn't going back now. 

Hotguy must've seen it in his eyes. “The answer never changes, huh?” 

Grian didn't say anything. He couldn't. 

“It really is a shame, Grian,” he says as he pulls off the mask and Grian wakes up.

It was dark in his room when he woke up drenched in sweat. 

He was still breathing heavily from the nightmare. 

He sat up, looking out his large window at the city outside. The lights of the streetlamps below, and the skyscrapers in the distance were more than enough to see by. More than enough to clog the sky and obscure the stars. 

He didn’t mind living in the capital city the majority of the time, his job was good and it paid for a large enough apartment. His friends were close. He had people he could save, things to do to keep him from insanity. The pollution was one thing though. The over indulgent culture, the litter in the streets and the lights in the night. 

Nothing about this place was natural. 

He pulled off the oversized shirt he slept in—at one point it had been Scar’s. He’d spilled a drink on himself at a group hangout and Scar hadn’t hesitated to pull off his own faded graphic tee for Grian to pull on. He’d attempted to give it back the next week, but Scar had waved him off and continued laughing with Cleo. 

He pulled on the black spandex body suit of Cuteguy’s. It was a habit of his, hiding pieces of his costume underneath his everyday clothes. Easier to change into his suit when he didn’t have to get half-naked to do so. He pulled a grey hoodie and plaid pajama pants over the suit, nights at this time of year were a little chilly. 

He tied his sneakers and headed out the door, needing some fresh air. He wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Normally at this time of night he’d pull on his frilly shorts and grab his guns, but he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable after such a dream, the thought of his wings exposed for all to see, for someone to find. He couldn't handle it. 

He walked without a destination, wandering the streets, unknowingly heading deeper into the downtown. Away from the apartments and towards the skyscrapers. 

He knew the city was dangerous at night. Knew it better than most civilians. Being one of the “dangerous villains” that wandered the streets himself. He looked up, half expecting to see himself leaping from rooftop to rooftop, diving and flying through the buildings. 

Dangerous his ass. 

It was hard to associate himself, the tired architecture professor, with the energetic and confident Cuteguy. Couldn't imagine how his friends would react, the thought would be so absurd they’d laugh. Mumbo knew, of course, being the one to create his guns. The twin pistols, pink and covered in bows. 

He scoffed to himself, remembering the way they’d both been covered in redstone, testing out the guns with giggles. 

He kept walking. 

He stopped at a convenience store a few blocks later for an ice cream bar and can of coffee, only realizing he’d forgotten both his phone and his wallet at home once he’d put his spoils on the counter and rang them up. The young cashier stared at him dead-eyed, he chuckled nervously. “I'll go, uh, put these-” their eyes drifted over his shoulder and widened. 

He could feel something cold pressed against the back of his neck. Something metal. The gun cocked with a loud click. “Give me everything in that register,” a low, even voice came from behind him. Grian’s heart was pounding. “Or,” the man continued, jabbing him in the back with the gun, “you’ll have to scrape his brains off the walls.” 

The cashier said nothing. He could see the way their eyes darted nervously and how their hands shook, they were terrified too. Grian had been in this situation plenty, guns were pointed at him regularly. 

Never like this. 

Never as a civilian, never without a way to defend himself. He swallowed around a lump in his throat. The cashier opened the register, movements slow, worried. They started gathering the bills out, ones, fives, tens, twenties. They set them on the counter, making a second of eye contact with Grian, then with the man behind him. 

“Bag it,” the man ordered, “and get me a pack of reds while you’re at it.”

They did. Compliant, but clearly nervous to turn their back on the intruder. Grian wondered if they’d be able to afford therapy for the incident. He wondered if something like this had happened often. The doorbell sounded. A too cheery ding for the situation they’d all found themselves in, the cashier turned around, relief clear in their eyes. 

“I’d recommend you drop that gun,” a smooth, husky voice sounded. 

Grian felt the gun raise to the back of his head, “you take another step and he gets it,” the man said. 

“It would be the last thing you did,” Hotguy responded. 

“I’ve got nothing to live for,” he said, “but I'm sure he does.” Grian felt a hand on his waist as the man grabbed him, turning him around to face the hero. Putting him in between the robber and the hero. A human meat shield. The embrace was casual, arm around his waist. Loose. Grian could escape it easily had it not been for the gun now held beneath his chin. “Look him in the eyes as he dies.” 

It was the first time Grian had been so close to the hero, Cuteguy suit or no. A yard or two maximum. Separated by bargain bin boxes advertising deals on pringles and m&m’s. There was a bow held loosely in the man's grasp, half raised, arrow pressed but not drawn. 

“Bullets are a lot faster than drawing a bow,” he claimed smugly, his voice so close to Grian’s ear. 

Hotguy looked to be at a loss, he had no idea what to do. 

How helpful. The pride and joy of the emerald soldiers, can't stop a simple robbery. 

Grian was going to die here. Hostage situation gone wrong. His death would be reported on, criticizing the hero’s. His friends and coworkers would miss him, Scar would never find out Grian had loved him. 

Not that he would have, had Grian lived. 

“Feed my cats for me,” he said, to Hotguy. “I don’t have a roommate, so I’m sure they’ll go hungry in the morning.” 

“I-” Hotguy started. Grian cut him off.

“I’m not getting out of this,” he said. “I mean, our favorite robber here seems pretty determined, and he’s got nothing to live for, right? There's nothing you could do.” 

It was stupid, idiotic. He was going to die like this. Adrenaline running through his veins. The man behind him was uncertain, he’d never taken a life before. He may be desperate, but he was still human. 

Hadn’t stooped to these lows before. 

Suddenly every nerve in Grian's body was on fire. He was being electrocuted. The man behind him dropped the gun, Grian stumbled forward, on his hands and knees. His vision was swimming, he was gasping for air like a drowned man. He didn't cry out, at least. Still had his dignity in front of the hero. 

His arms were weak, he was so tired. It was easier to let them relax, to fall forward. He rolled onto his side, watching as the hero rushed forward and handcuffed the robber. The gun kicked away. 

The cashier was in tears, clearly having a panic attack. Their hair standing upright and their eyes glowing electric blue. An elemental mutant then. That's what had happened. 

Grian chuckled to himself. The hero had done nothing. 

He felt like he’d won. 

Hotguy was leaning over him now, the orange and cyan visor obscuring his eyes. He was clearly saying something, but Grian’s vision was swimming. He couldn't care less what the man had to say to him. 

He preemptively mourned the hospital bills. 

Grian came to a few seconds later, he was being propped up by Hotguy and the man was looking down at him with what seemed like concern. He scoffed inwardly. 

“You should drink something,” he said, holding an uncapped bottle of water. Grian raised his hand and took it. His throat was dry, was all. He didn’t feel good about taking the hero’s advice, letting him be helped to feed the man's ego. 

He sat up further, pulling out of Hotguy’s arms, strong and warm and covered in muscles. It made him uncomfortable to be trapped in such an embrace, thinking of his dream. He looked around him, the cashier sitting on the ground hugging their knees, the robbed handcuffed and unconscious. Hotguy kneeling next to him. 

Grian did his best to stand up, using one of the bargain boxes to balance himself. 

“Hey!-” Hotguy said, surprised. He rose as well. “You shouldn’t be standing, you’re hurt.” 

“I’m fine,” Grian replied. 

“No you’re-” Hotguy tried, Grian cut him off. 

“I’m fine. I’ve gotta get home,” he said.

“You’re hurt!” Hotguy exclaimed, “You passed out! You need medical attention for godsakes.” 

“I’m fine,” Grian reiterated. He knew he’d long since healed from whatever damage the shock had done. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“We need your witness report…” Hotguy tried. 

“Am I being arrested?” he asked. 

“No? What-” 

“Then I'll take my leave,” Grian headed to the door. “Thank you for your service,” he said, sarcastically. Dropping into a slight bow. 

The door dinged as he opened it, and it swung shut behind him. The hero unable to chase, unable to leave behind the captured criminal. Grian could see him staring at him, from the corner of his eye, through the large windows. He turns the corner around the building and passes out of sight. Walking a few blocks out of the way, to an alley he’s sure doesn't have cameras, trading his pajama pants and sweatshirt for laced up pink shorts and long fingerless gloves. 

His wings unfold from his back and he takes off to the top of the buildings, deciding to fly his way home, rather than risk another Hotguy encounter on the way back. 

At least, in this form he could run. 

As a civilian, the hero would insist on taking him to the hospital, at best he’d walk him home. 

Cuteguy soared through the air, diving and rolling. Pausing his flight to run and jump across rooftops. Trustfalls and near misses. 

It was euphoric. 

He reached his apartment building in no time, mourning the loss of his flight, he considered going on, patrolling for the rest of the night. Then he caught a glimpse of the sky, lighting up. Dawn had arrived. It’d almost be time for him to be waking for work. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

He spared a glance behind him, sure that Hotguy would be right on his trail. 

There was no one. 

Grian ducked down into the alleyway next to his building. Hiding behind a dumpster as he reversed the transformation, mourning the loss of his wings. 

He wasn't tired, he’d gone for longer with less. He felt good as—not, new, just good as average. He entered the passcode into his door and stepped in. 

As dark as he’d left it, though the sky outside was slowly lightening. It wasn't long before the sun would pass over the horizon and start shining off the windows across from him. He started the coffee machine and fed his cats. 

Pearl and Maui crawling out of the dark from wherever they’d been hiding to rub up against his legs meowing at him to put their bowls down. He chuckled, Maui had started attempting to climb up his pant legs, claws digging through the fabric into his skin. 

He set their bowls on the ground, Pearl sniffed at both but didn't bother fighting her brother over the bowl he’d chosen. Grian sighed, running a hand through his hair and opening the fridge. Looking for his own breakfast. 

His university job paid well, and he enjoyed it. But between that and his vigilante work he didn’t have much time to himself, not enough to cook three meals for himself daily. He settled on the three-day-old mushroom pizza he’d had in his fridge. Reheating the last two slices, he’d have to throw it out soon if not. 

He watched it spin around through the small glowing window in his microwave, the grease popping and crackling. He knew from experience that if he were to open it now and pull it out, it’d still be freezing cold. He waited the full minute and a half before pulling it out. It was soggy and the cheese was a bit rubbery, but it was edible. He ate it as fast as he could, and could feel it settling wrong in his stomach. 

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushed the taste off his teeth, tired eyes, messy shaggy hair. He looked every bit he expected himself to, the complete opposite of his alter ego. 

In his room he buttoned up a white collared shirt and threw his regular red sweater over it, pulling on a pair of glasses that did nothing but worsen his vision—something so sharp it gave him a headache sometimes. 

He pulled on his messenger bag and headed out the door, saying goodbye to both his cats before shutting and locking it. He slumped against it for just a minute. 

A tap on the shoulder jolted him from his thoughts, looking over to see his cousin, Jimmy. Grian smiled at the man. “Mornin’ Tim,” he said. 

“Rough night?” he asked in return. 

Grian made a noncommittal noise and pushed off the door. They walked to Jimmy's car—Grian didn’t have one of his own, and he’d never gotten the chance to learn how to drive. He preferred to walk if he needed to get somewhere, to fly if he needed to hurry. 

He pulled his seatbelt over himself and slumped back, Jimmy started the car. 

It was a short walk to the university, 25 minutes if you hurried. It was only 7 by car. Grian felt it pass by in seconds, the turns and stops taking up the majority of the time. It took Jimmy a second to find a parking space. 

“Thanks Tim,” he said, stepping out of the car. 

He could feel the man’s eyes on him as he started walking, could feel his mind probing his own, searching for something. Grian passed along a thought of him complaining about the essays he’d graded last night—something that hadn’t happened at all—to get his cousin off his back. 

Jimmy accepted it as an answer, of course. 

Not because he was an idiot, but because he had no reason not to believe Grian. It was his own thoughts after all, what reason would he have to lie? He wasn’t even sure if Jimmy was aware Grian could feel the nudges. 

He didn't feel bad for lying to the man. 

They stopped by the break room, the unofficial meeting place for their circle of friends. Where they’d all stop before moving onto their respective classes. Grian glanced around the room, a bit of hope in his chest before he sighed and went to get the coffee. 

Jimmy snickered next to him, all too aware of his crush on one of his coworkers, before leaving to head to his office. He never usually stuck around, claiming to have more work than Grian did, “just teaching classes like you do.” 

Scar rolled into the room a few minutes later, looking as great as he always did. Grian downed the rest of his coffee and smiled at the man, Scar looked at him for a second, something unreadable in his eyes. Then it dropped and he beamed at him, raising a hand to wave. Grian blamed the warmth on his face on the cup of coffee he’d just finished. 

Cleo walked over to talk to the man about something, stealing his attention from Grian. 

He tried not to mind too much, Cleo was much closer to Scar than he was. She was his friend, Grian was an acquaintance. His coworker. He sighed, deeply, before gathering his things and heading to his lecture hall. His class didn’t start for another hour, but he didn’t get a chance to use the excuse sitting on his tongue. 

Nobody noticed him go. 

He wished he could take a page out of Cuteguy’s book, his ability to light up a room. The flirting that most anyone would fall for. Instead he was stuck, depressed and pining. He didn’t have any chance in hell to get with Scar, and yet, he couldn't give up. 

He dreamt of the man almost nightly, some less wholesome than others. He felt a bit guilty for the way he thought of his fellow architecture professor. His feelings clearly weren’t reciprocated, and it would probably make the man uncomfortable to know the dreams Grian thought up. 

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up whatever style he’d cobbled together that morning.

Chapter Text

He ended class fifteen minutes early that afternoon. He'd been out of it all day, catching himself slipping during the lecture, daydreaming about this and that. Flying, Scar, the things he’d say to Hotguy when he saw him next, flirting with Scar, Scar, Scar, Scar. 

Grian was terribly, hopelessly in love with the man. And it seemed to get worse every time he saw him. 

He’d thought it was jealousy when he’d first realized. The man was everything he wasn't, handsome, confident, charismatic. His students loved him, he was passionate about his subject and seemed to love to teach. 

Grian didn’t miss the conversations about how his students would have rathered to get Scar as their teacher. 

By the time he’d opened his eyes and realized he’d fallen so hard he’d lost hope of ever climbing back out. Convincing himself he was content to pine from afar, that nothing was ever going to happen. He was fine with that, really. He was. 

A knock on his open doorframe drew him from his thoughts, his head whipped up. 

Scar. 

Leaning against the doorframe with his cane, a strange look on his face. 

“Hey,” Grian started, “did you need something.” 

Scar hesitated for a minute, “I was…” he swallowed, “I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee with me?”

Grian jolted, “what?” he asked, in disbelief. 

“Well–I, uh,” Scar stuttered, “you just seemed down this morning, I wanted to make sure you were okay, is all. You don't have to if you don’t want to, don't worry about it.” He turned as if to leave, Grian stopped him.

“No! I’d love to,” he said, “give me a second to gather my things.” 

He saw Scar nod from the corner of his eye. Grian hastily shoved papers into his bag, the essays he’d had his students put on his desk before letting them leave for the day. He’d have to grade those tonight, before he went out as Cuteguy. 

He threw his bag over his shoulder and rushed to meet Scar at the door, the man looked solemn, this wasn't at all how Grian imagined their first date would go. Was it even a date? Friends went out for coffee together all the time. 

Were they friends? 

Scar was looking at him like that again, something unreadable in his eyes, something Grian had no clue how to decipher. He couldn't imagine it was any good. 

“So,” he started, trying to contain his giddiness, “where to?”

Scar smiled at him, like a mask slotting into place. His eyes shown, “I have to pick up my chair first. I walked here because I wanted to stretch my legs, but it’s not the best of days for me.”

Grian suddenly felt extremely guilty that his lecture hall was in the basement, the one floor without an elevator to take him to it. “Scar you shouldn’t hurt yourself for me,” he chided. 

“Not my fault there's no elevator to this level,” Scar grumbled. 

“You could have texted me?” Grian offered. 

“Well,” Scar starts, "you're right—wait no you're not,” Scar stops for a second, leaning against the wall and pulling out his phone. “Exactly!” he says, showing Grian his phone screen. 

“What am I looking at here,” he asked. 

“A tragic lack of ‘Grian’ in my contacts,” he said, triumphantly. 

“Are you,” Grian asked, seeing his opportunity, “asking for my number?” 

“Yes of course I am!” Scar replied. 

“First a coffee date? Now my number?” Grian said, “you’re being rather forward.” He wasn’t quite sure what had come over him, a desperation perhaps, to grasp this chance before it could slip through his fingers. Teasing the man had felt so familiar, almost like it was night time and he was dancing around the roof with his favorite super-human boy toy. 

“I—what, no that’s not—sorry I,” Scar spluttered, the tips of his pointy ears darkening. 

Grian chuckled, “I know Scar, I'm just teasing you.” He tried to keep the hurt from slipping through into his voice, but even he could hear it. Scar’s face fell, but it was back to normal just as fast. Grian grabbed the phone from the man and entered his contact information. 

“We should get going,” Grian said, "I have a long night of papers ahead of me.” 

He turned and started walking without making sure Scar was following. He wasn’t walking as fast as he would have to get out of such a situation, out of respect for the man following behind him, but he wasn’t walking as slowly as he had before. 

Grian felt like an idiot. Teasing his coworker like that, he had no right to make the man uncomfortable like he did. 

I—what, no that’s not—sorry I–, he’d said. Of course that’s not how he’d meant it, not how he meant the coffee. And it's normal for coworkers to exchange numbers, it didn’t mean anything. He tried to not let it sour his mood, it was his fault really, for getting his hopes up. 

They made it to the steps, Grian was torn between offering help to the man and terrified of overstepping. “Do you–” he started, Scar cut him off. 

“Would you mind carrying this up the stairs for me?” he asked, holding out his cane. 

“Oh! Yeah of course, I don't mind at all," Grian told him. Scar smiled at him gratefully and gripped the stairway railing with both hands. They made it to the top where his wheelchair was waiting, Grian handed him his cane and he slotted it in the back of the chair. 

Scar shot Grian a grin and said “shall we?” 

Grian resolved himself to an evening of wallowing, he’d just enjoy it in the moment. They set off through the building towards the front entrance, the only one with a wheelchair ramp—Grian wondered what the man was supposed to do in the event of a fire. 

“You know…” Scar trailed off. 

“Yeah?” Grian asked him. 

“You can always talk to me if you need to,” he said, carefully. “Or anyone here, if you don’t feel comfortable with me. We care about you G, we don't want to see you hurt.” 

“We?” 

“Our coworkers,” Scar amended. 

Grian looked at the man beside him for a second, "I don't know what you mean.” 

Scar paused his wheeling, he looked up at Grian. Just a second of eye contact, Grian normally would’ve melted by this point. But he felt detached, like he was watching the scene play out from behind a television screen. 

“Okay,” Scar said, though he clearly didn’t believe the man. “I just wanted to let you know okay? We’re here for you.”

“That’s sweet,” Grian said, walking again. Heading towards the cafe across the street from the campus—it was a prime location, he was sure it got a lot of business from the students and professors alike. 

They didn’t talk, and Scar must’ve noticed Grian’s discomfort. There was nothing but the sound of the birds and the click-click-click of Scar’s wheels rolling over the divots in the sidewalk. 

“I’m just a little stressed is all,” Grian offered, hating the way the silence made him feel like the man was judging him. “Not sleeping as much as I should.”

Scar forced a chuckle, "I thought being a professor would be so much easier than being a student,” he said. “But it’s just like I'm going through uni over and over again. Exam season is just as stressful when I have to plan out the questions and grade them all.”

“Yeah,” Grian agreed. Though that wasn’t the reason he was as stressed as he was. 

“Would you mind helping me across the street?” Scar asked him, “the pedestrian button always times out before I can make it across and…” 

“No, I don't mind at all,” Grian answered. 

“Thank you,” Scar smiled at him, “I hate feeling like I'm an inconvenience to all the drivers, taking as long as I do.”

“Youre never an inconvenience to anyone,” Grian hopped to his defense, “if anyone ever makes you feel like that, they’re wrong.” 

Scar chuckled, “thanks Grian, I appreciate it.” 

They didn’t talk about anything of importance after that, Scar told him about his cat Jellie, and Grian told Scar about the cats he had at home himself. It was the longest conversation Grian had ever had with the man, which was more than a little pathetic. 

“You a major sweet tooth?” Scar asked him, waving at Grian's frappe. 

Grian itched the back of his neck sheepishly, “I promise I'm not this childish when it comes to tea.” 

Scar laughed, looking down at his vanilla latte. The barista had done a cat design, Grian noted the way he drank it carefully to avoid messing up its little face. It was cute. 

Scar’s watch made a strange beeping noise and he stiffened. 

“Something wrong?” Grian asked him. 

Scar waved him off, “no no it’s just getting late and I told my friend I'd come over for a game night. He’s bugging me about it.” Scar downed the last of his latte, the cat disappearing into the bottom of the cup. 

He unlocked the breaks on his wheelchair and started to back up, “Scar?” Grian asked, the man looked up. “I had fun.” 

“I’m glad,” he replies, still hurrying off. It made Grian feel really disappointed. 

“You have,” Grian gestured to his upper lip. “A new moustache.”

Scar looked shocked for a second before wiping his lips off with his sleeve. 

Grian watched him leave, forlorn. The stubborn bit of hope building in his chest since they’d entered the coffee shop dissipated, leaving him empty inside. They weren't even friends, just acquaintances from work. Grian had just worried him with his needless angst. 

He ran a hand through his hair and stood up, taking Scar’s empty mug to the counter and leaving with his half empty frappe. The thought of drinking any more made him sick, but he wasn’t one to waste a free drink. Let alone one from Scar. 

The bells above the door dinged as he left the building, stepping out into the surprisingly warm February afternoon. It was a pleasant temperature, but he could feel the world warming. Spring unfreezing, blooming into the blistering heat of summer. 

He started the walk home, from this side of campus it would be about 45 minutes. Not that he minded much, he needed to get a walk off after the mess of a day he’d had. He stifled a groan, thinking about how badly he’d fucked it up. 

He looked straight up into the blue sky. 

He itched to stretch his wings and fly under the sun like that. To feel the wind through his hair and feathers. Hotguy shot a grappling arrow and sliced through his view of the sky. 

That was why he didn’t shed the sweater and dive between clouds. 

Grian kept walking. 

He’d walked almost to his apartment before being stopped—he’d seen the figure standing on the roof out of the corner of his eye, he just hoped ignoring him would get the man to leave him alone. 

They were standing in the shadows of the tall buildings around them, making the time seem hours later. Grian stared at the hero blankly. 

Hotguy grinned at him. 

“Hello there,” he said, voice smooth and Grian swore he heard a hint of flirtation in it, “and what is such a lovely man doing walking around so late?” 

“It’s only seven.” 

Hotguy looked surprised for a second, caught off guard. “I suppose you're right, I’m used to much later nights. I must’ve been distracted by your radiance.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Not a big fan then,” he said, looking disappointed. How full of himself. 

“Not particularly a fan of cops,” Grian answered. 

Hotguy’s expression darkened, “you got something to hide then birdie?” he asked, and Grian stilled. “You’re awfully flighty.” 

“No,” he answered, carefully, “just a college professor and architecture consultant.” 

Hotguy grinned, like a cat who'd caught a mouse. “Then why don’t you let me carry your bag for you, dear citizen? The university is an awful walk from here, you’ve been coming such a long way.” 

There was nothing in Grian’s bag that could incriminate him, refusing to give it up would make him more suspicious. He wasn’t sure what the laws were on superheroes arresting civilians, but one glance around the alley they were in made him realize there weren’t any cameras anywhere. 

For the second time today he was trapped with no way out. 

He kept his breathing careful, shrugged the bag off his shoulder and handed it to the hero. 

Hotguy’s face lit up, like a child receiving a birthday present. “Well then, Grian, let's get going!” 

Grian stilled. 

“I didn’t tell you my name,” he said, carefully. 

There was just a tick of silence where he could swear he felt the anxiety radiating off the man in front of him. The hero grinned devilishly, “you think I wouldn’t look into you?” 

How much did he know? 

“The cameras at the 11/7 were really clear, it's nice really, got a nice look at your face. A shame they only installed them with all the robberies, I can think of plenty of places that would benefit from surveillance.” 

Grian wondered if that was a threat somehow. 

“We really should be on our way,” Hotguy said, "I'd hate to keep your cats waiting.” 

He spun around in a circle, about to offer Grian his hand to take as if he were a prince when he stilled. Papers were raining down around them, fluttering to the dirty alley street. He looked sheepish as he looked around, Grian had never seen the man look like that. 

“I—” Grian looked around as well, eyes settling on the paper that had landed on their feet between them. “YOU!” he shouted, “Those were my student’s papers!”

Hotguy looked almost apologetic. 

“Well,” Grian asked, “what are you waiting for?” 

Hotguy gave a nervous chuckle, “uh…” 

Grian glared at the man, “pick them up.” 

The hero choked out a faux-cheerful, “yes ma’am,” and got on his knees to gather the papers. 

It almost gave Grian whiplash, the way the hero had gone from downright terrifying to an almost-cowardly man on his knees. If he weren’t so against everything the man stood for he’d find it amusing. 

As it was, the man had only served to be an inconvenience. 

“Give me my bag back,” he told Hotguy once all the papers were back in the bag, Hotguy complied; and he started walking in the direction of his apartment. Not bothering to see if the hero followed him, he knew if he looked back he’d see the man trailing behind. Awkward in the way he seemed to be planning what to say. 

Grian relished the feeling, any time he could make the hero uncomfortable he enjoyed. Especially when the hero had tormented him as much as he had.

“Shouldn’t you have somewhere to be,” he asked. 

“Helping civilians is my job,” he replied.

“Helping,” Grian scoffed, “right.”

The hero behind him was acting like a scolded child, something Grian had never seen from him before. Did he truly feel bad? There wasn’t a reason for the man to be afraid of Grian as a civilian, and when he was Cuteguy he only seemed to spur the man on. 

“This is my building,” he said, turning around to look at the hero. 

“Have a lovely night, Grian,” Hotguy said, bowing deeply and spreading his arms. “Try not to be held at gunpoint tonight,” he said it sarcastically, but Grian could feel some sort of concern oozing off him. 

“I will do everything in my power to do the opposite,” Grian called, entering the code into the building keypad. 

He was waiting for a response, but when he turned around the hero was nowhere to be seen. He’d been left alone for the second time today. 

He should feel a relief with the knowledge that he was safe, that the hero was gone. 

But he only felt a prickling sense of disappointment in his chest. 

How pathetic. 

It wasn’t the first time Grian considered finding a teacher's assistant to pawn the grading work off onto. It wouldn't be the last, but this time he was certainly considering it. He stole a glance out his window, staring off into the blank darkness of the night sky. 

He longed to be out there flying across rooftops and saving civilians, but he had essays he needed to grade. And sleep to get. 

He’d hardly gotten any the night before, and it wasn’t like it was illegal for him to go out after work tomorrow. 

Well, it was incredibly illegal for him to go out in the day. But it wasn't any moreso than it was for him to be out at night, besides, Hotguy generally stuck to the darkness as well. It’d give him some time to be. 

He imagined feeling the sun on his back as he soared and turned his attention back to the essay on his desk. 

It was only supposed to be a short prompt, but this student had a way of overachieving, clearly showing passion in the subject he taught. It was nice to know he had at least one person listening to him, even if it meant the inconvenience of reading through all their work. 

That would be something he’d miss, if he pawned his work off. This connection with his students, he liked the way he could feel each one's personality bleeding through their writing style, trying as they might to remain academic. 

He marked off a few grammatical errors, but the overall structure was perfect and the opinion they were trying to persuade was something he agreed upon himself. He wondered if choosing a topic he had bias on was unprofessional, but he doubted he’d let himself mark off a perfectly good essay just because he disagreed with the points. 

It was getting late when he’d finished, almost three am. 

He’d gotten ready for bed then, following his extensive routine, one he couldn't afford to complete most nights, choosing instead to just fall into bed. He preened his wings, readjusting misplaced feathers and breaking a few of the keratin sheaths—the itching had been bothering him for days, careful to make sure all the crumbs landed in the bathtub where he could clean it later. 

He’d have to redye his feathers soon, with new black ones growing in and the dye fading out. 

It was molting season, meaning he was shedding feathers like hair and new ones were growing in slowly. He wasn’t a big fan of the spring for this reason, his avian instincts running wild and his hormones messing up his thinking. 

He’d told a few friends it was seasonal depression, but he knew the reality was his body desperately wanted a mate—someone to hold in his nest and preen his wings for him. The lack of such a presence next to him felt so wrong, even though he’d never had someone like that to miss. 

His relationship with BigB in college was short, stilted and cut short before he could spill all his secrets. 

He hated it, the way he was. 

The only thing left of his father his mother couldn’t erase. 

She’d been able to hide it, stamp it down until it was nothing. But short of cutting each strand of him open and swapping out the pieces, she couldn’t change his DNA. 

Neither could he. 

He couldn’t erase her from his cells. From his skin, the color of his eyes—obsidian black, though not as cold as hers. “Like a bird’s,” Mumbo had told him once, before he learned what his friend was. 

Like a bird’s, not like hers. 

He knew mumbo meant it as an observation, maybe a compliment. But it had brought him such comfort, that someone could look into his eyes and not see his mother. That he could be seen as a person. 

He worked on the small pinnae on his head, it was a little harder to work through when he couldn't see what he was doing. But he’d had enough experience preening himself all his life to work through it. They took less time than his wings, but he found the process to be more annoying. Flighty little things, always twitching, reacting to his emotions. 

He had far less control over them than he had his larger wings. 

His shoulder hurt by the time he’d finished, tired of bending into awkward positions to take care of his wings—he again wished he had someone to help him with such a task. 

For a second he imagined Scar, shirtless and humming some tune or another as he worked his steady hands through Grian's wings. 

It were these small fantasies, the domestic ones that always made his pining worse. The sexual attraction was one thing, his coworker was hot, it was normal for anyone to have such thoughts about whatever person they fancied. 

He knew it was just hormones and an irrational human brain planting those images in his head. 

But the wholesome ones? Nights he stayed up dreaming about Scar cooking him dinner, or them cuddling on the couch watching a show together, one of Grian's wings strewn over the man's shoulder like a blanket. 

It was those that hurt the most. 

The ones he knew were unobtainable, so far out of his grasp that his heart hurt just thinking of them. 

Grian shook his head to clear it, pinnae fluttering, energetic and clearly glad they were allowed to be expressive. He gathered the keratin and the soft pink feathers out of the bottom of the bathtub and stuffed him in a bag to hide under the sink. 

He’d burn them at some point, couldn't risk dropping them into the bathroom trashcan in the event his house was searched. 

Couldn’t risk stretching his wings in his apartment, not with the windows so large. Couldn't risk sleeping so exposed, not when a fire could rip through the building and catch him off guard. 

The bathroom it was, too small for him to stretch his wings in any meaningful way. One side was small enough that he could touch both walls with his arms. 

His mother may have been the worst thing to happen to him, but at least she’d managed to hide his heritage from the government. And herself. 

Grian knew the laws on hybrids and mutants, treated as though they were less than human for things they couldn’t control. 

Discrimination laws paraded around as “equality”. It was illegal for anyone to do something a normal human couldn’t, powers suppressed and differences smoothed over. 

It should have been impossible for Grian to fly. His wings should have been bound as a child, never to grow large enough to support himself. His flight feathers should’ve been clipped—a temporary solution to the problem, so long as parents signed their child off into government servitude the second they turned eighteen. 

Most parents chose to bind their child's wings, or worse, cut them off and never tell them of their sins. 

Grian’s mother was powerful enough to erase all evidence of him off the earth—something that proved challenging once he’d escaped her, legally dead and without an identity. It took some time before he was able to illegally obtain identification. 

He began the painful process of inverting his wings back into the pocket dimensions his mother had lovingly sewn into his back, to allow them to hide from her. His body had never quite accepted the unwanted holes in his back and the sides of his head, it was excruciating on the worst of days. 

It was the only thing he thanked her for.

Chapter Text

Scar was waiting by the door when he’d made it to the break room, “hey Grian!” he called cheerfully, Grian was taken aback. “I’ve got something for you,” he grinned. 

“Oh yeah?” Grian asked, mind racing on what it could possibly be. 

“Hold your hand out,” he ordered, Grian complied. Scar dropped something into his hand, and when he opened his eyes he saw a little pink baggie of chocolates and other assorted candies. Grian could feel himself blushing. 

“Oh,” he said, “Scar, this is—”

“Happy Valentine's Day, Grian!” he beamed up at the man. 

Grian didn’t know how to respond, he could feel himself melting into a puddle. How many times had he imagined this? 

“Oh!” Scar called, and Grian’s eyes snapped to the man, but Scar was looking elsewhere. Somewhere behind Grian. “Jimmy! I don't see you in here often.” 

Grian looked behind him, his cousin standing behind him, holding a paper cup of free coffee. “Yeah,” Jimmy replied, “just had a rough night is all,” he held up the cup of coffee, “just stopped by for some of this.” 

“Well,” Scar said, beaming at Jimmy in the same way he’d done for Grian. Grian could feel his heart sinking. “I’m glad I caught you, I have something for you,” he rifled through the bag hanging off the arm of his chair. 

“No, no,” Jimmy started, “Scar you shouldn’t have.” 

Scar pulled out a little baggie almost identical to Grian's, he could feel the disappointment bloom. “I made you this.” 

“Awh,” Jimmy said, “this is adorable, thank you!” 

“Happy valentines day,” Scar answered. 

Jimmy looked at him for a second before opening his mouth to respond, Grian cut him off. “Well, Jimmy, we should head to your office. It’s getting a little late,” he looked over at Scar, his face as blank as he could manage, “nice seeing you Scar, have a good day.” 

“You too Grian!” Scar called as they turned to leave. 

Grian deflated the second they’d stepped into the hallway, all his hope came crashing down. Another thing that means nothing. Another thing he’d overreacted over. 

Jimmy snickered at him, “that was tragic,” he’d said. 

“I didn’t even know it was valentines dayyy,” Grian whined. 

“It’s not, that's tomorrow.” 

“Ah,” Grian answered. It made sense, neither him nor Scar worked Wednesdays. 

“You left before even getting your coffee,” Jimmy noticed. 

“I had to get out of there,” he replied. Slumping down into the armchair in Jimmy's office. 

“And it was your great escape plan?” 

“Exactly, thank you for your help.” 

“Anything for my brother.” 

“Cousin,” Grian corrected. 

Jimmy pouted, “doesn’t love me.” 

“Damn right I don't,” Grian said. 

Jimmy put a hand over his chest, “language!” he cried. “What’s your plan?” he asked Grian. 

“Wait here until I go to class. Go home. Die” 

“That’s in an hour,” Jimm complained. 

“Not my fault you insist on coming in so early,” Grian said, stealing his coffee off the desk. 

“Hey–!” Jimmy spluttered, trying to reach for the cup, Grian downed the rest of it and handed back a crumpled paper cup. “You little–” 

Grian stuck his tongue out, "I don't know how you can drink it like that,” he said.

“Like what? A normal person?” Jimmy accused, “my bad im not a child.” 

“Hey!” Grian said, “I'm two years older than you!”  

Jimmy looked at him, “we both kno—know what, yeah, keep telling yourself that.” 

Grian pouted exaggeratedly at him, earning him a “see who’s the child now,” from Jimmy. 

“I don’t know why I bother getting my hopes up,” Grian said, “everytime, it all means nothing.” 

Jimmy stopped typing on his keyboard, the room falling into an uncomfortable silence. He felt scrutinized. “With Scar?” he asked carefully. 

“Who else?” 

He didn’t look up from where he was picking at his nails, but he knew Jimmy was looking at him with pity. He could feel it burning him. 

He’d gotten past most of it, but there were some moments where Jimmy just looked at him with such sadness. Grian couldn’t handle it. 

Jimmy knew more about him than anyone, besides maybe Mumbo. He wasn’t sure if they were really comparable, keeping secrets from both. 

Jimmy looked like he didn’t know what to say. “You’ll find someone,” he settled on, “or they’ll find you. Everyone has a someone.” 

Grian pulled his knees to his chest—ignoring the fact his shoes were on his cousin's nice chair—and examined the strands of hair falling in front of his vision. His eyes landed on a strand of black, his hand coming up and tugging it out. 

It hurt a bit. But he didn’t do it on purpose. 

“Grian,” Jimmy warned, he’d clearly just watched what Grian had done. 

“Yeah, yeah, don't throw it on your floor, whatever,” he deflected.

“You know that wasn’t what I meant.” 

Grian groaned, leaning back and placing his feet back on the floor. “You’re terrible,” he replied. 

“For worrying about you?” 

“Yes,” Grian answered, “I'm not a child. I can take care of myself.” 

“Easy to forget that when you're so small,” Jimmy mumbled, though still loud enough for Grian to hear clearly. 

“Be nice to your elders,” Grian answered. 

“Three months is so much older,” Jimmy replied, sarcastically. 

Grian held up a finger, “two years,” he corrected, “two years and three months.” 

“Grian,” Jimmy said, “we’re alone. In my office. Who’s going to hear us?” 

“I dunno,” he replied, “could be bugged. Someone could be standing outside the door now listening to our conversation.” 

Jimmy shook his head, “you’re so paranoid.” 

“I have every reason to be,” more reason than you know, “ I'd appreciate it if you didn’t spill my secrets.” 

Jimmy waved him off, but he could tell the man felt a little bit guilty. 

“It’s getting late,” Grian said, standing up. 

“Grian, wait,” Jimmy said, but Grian was already heading out the door. 

He stopped on a rooftop to catch his breath. It wasn't strictly necessary, he was built for flight—both in the physical and the instinctual sense—and his lungs gave him more than enough oxygen to stay airborne; he loved the feeling of a flushed face and fast-breathing. ‘Fight or flight’ they say, because it's hard to have both. Cuteguy’s body—small and lightweight, built for flying and escaping—wasn’t very sturdy, his bones broke easily, his punches didn’t land nearly as hard. 

It was why he preferred long-range weapons: his beautiful guns made by the person he trusted most. 

He could feel the sun beating down on his bare back, it felt nice in the February chill. The snow had long since melted but the season had yet to start warming up. He was extremely grateful for the heat regulating clothes he’d gotten, deciding not to skimp out on his suit. 

The spandex body suit kept him dry through what would otherwise be a sweaty job, the long gloves and thigh highs combo kept his extremities warm. It wasn't perfect, but with all the exercise he was getting, the chill was all but forgotten about. 

He pushed his hands off his knees and stood up straight, he did a stretch for a second before taking off running across the rooftop. He leapt off with a woop and enjoyed the freefall for as long as he could before opening his wings. 

He heard the shouts of surprise as he soared over streets, so close to the ground hovering at about the height of the second story windows. He could just barely make out the image of people pointing at him with grins on their faces as he whooshed by. 

He knew that not everyone loved him. 

He was a vigilante, against the law. 

He was a hybrid, out of chains and free. 

He was sure that a lot of people wished him dead. 

Cuteguy slowed his flight and drifted down, his feet touched the ground and he had to run a bit to keep his balance. This was one of his favorite street food vendors as Grian, and Cuteguy never got a chance to stop here; considering the time of day he usually patrols. 

He tipped the vendor generously and claimed his prize of two sausage rolls and a serving of steaming hot fries. He held the to-go box to his chest as well as he could without jostling it and ran into an alley to take off. 

Cuteguy found an excellent ledge to sit on and eat his food, he rested his back against the glass and kicked his legs childishly. He was so high up he was certain nobody would be able to see him. 

A knock from the glass startled him and he dropped a few fries into the street below. He turned around as best he could with his wings and the glass being so close behind his back. 

A man in a navy blue suit and thinly striped tie was staring unimpressed at him. He cracked the window next to Cuteguy open a few inches—as far as it would go, suicide prevention and all. It wouldn’t do well for an office building to have their employees jumping to their deaths. 

“I ought to call the police on you,” the man said. 

“Just cleaning the windows,” Cuteguy replied. Stretching one wing out in a mimicry of a towel. He wiped at the window for a second before turning to the man and smiling, “see?” he asked, “purely professional.” 

“You harpies,” the man spit at him, “you think you're oh so much better than us regular folk,” Cutegy didn't like where this was going. “Your big freakish wings and mind control. You ought to be exterminated.” 

Cuteguy put his sausage rolls back into the to-go box, planning to escape the conversation by falling forward off the ledge.

“And you,” the man said, the vitriol in his voice pausing the vigilante in his escape, “you’re the worst of the worst. Parading around like you’re a hero. You’re nothing but a criminal and I pray for the day I see you behind bars.” 

“I appreciate your feedback,” Cuteguy tried to keep it lighthearted, it wasn’t like he’d heard something like this before. “I’ll keep it in mind the next time I stop a murder.”

Faster than Cuteguy could react—he was caught off guard from the whole conversation—the man stuck an arm through the gap and grabbed onto his wing. Cuteguy squawked, the man grimaced. 

“Unnatural creature,” the man said, more to himself than to Cuteguy. “Half-blood trash.” 

“Would you—” Cuteguy tried wrestling his wing out of the man's grasp, “—let me go?” 

He could tell now what the man thought he was doing, stealing a feather for some odd purpose. Grian kept his wings well preened, so loose feathers would be impossible for the man to find. Cuteguy could tell he was just planning on ripping one out. 

Cuteguy grabbed the man's wrist and wrenched it off his wing, "don't touch me!” the man shrieked, as if he was the one being assaulted. 

“This is in self defense, sir,” Cuteguy answered, “don’t you know it's impolite to touch a bird's wing? One might think you're flirting with me, touching such intimate spots.” He pretended to swoon, “oh how i’d fall for you if there weren't another already in my sights.” 

The man was awkwardly trying to wrench his arm back in through the too small gap, Cuteguy reveled in having a little longer to torment the man back. “But alas, handsome as you are, I could never stand to romance a filthy ground-bound.” 

The insult was something he’d just made up on the spot, and it had exactly the intended effect. 

The man's face contorted into rage. 

“I’ll have your wings for this!” he shouted.

“The government can’t even clip them,” Cuteguy replied, “what's an ant like you going to do about them?” 

The man furiously tried opening the window further. 

Cuteguy didn’t feel like he’d won the interaction, he just felt sorta numb. He looked to where he’d left the to-go box, only to feel his shoulders deflate. It must have been knocked off in the scuffle. 

He imagined all the pedestrians getting french fries rained down on them, the shock that would have been. 

He gave the man a mocking salute and stepped off the ledge with an “I’ll be off good sir.”

He let the free fall calm him down, it wouldn’t do for him to continue that energy with the rest of his interactions that day. 

He was supposed to be proving that he wasn’t dangerous. 

That he was a good person. 

He drifted down further, closer to the cars beneath him. He wanted nothing more than to soar to the clouds and fall all the way back down to the ground—but he had to be able to see the people. He wouldn’t know if someone needed help if he couldn’t observe them. 

It was a calm day, just after noon, when all the kids would be at school and salary men at work. A flash of orange caught his eye. He watched as an old woman with frizzy white hair and a powder blue cardigan stared helplessly as her oranges spilled down the hill. 

She had about ten brown grocery bags hanging off the edge of her walker and one must've ripped. 

No one stopped to help her. 

Cuteguy stopped to help her. 

He caught the majority of the oranges before they rolled off the sidewalk and onto the crosswalk, unable to do anything about the few that were squashed under car tiers. A sharp citrus scent filled his nostrils. 

He was in a bit of an awkward position holding so many oranges—he ended up bringing one wing in front of him to use as an almost basket for them all. 

Many people were staring at him, but nobody stopped him for an autograph. 

He wasn’t famous enough to warrant that, vigilante or no. and not everyone wanted to be caught talking to someone so illegal. 

He gave the oranges to the old woman and made a joke about how oranges have their own packaging. He hoped she hadn’t been planning to use the zest. She smiled at him and he offered to carry the rest of her groceries home with her. 

She was a sweet woman, someone he imagined would bake chocolate chip cookies and that her grandkids loved to visit. 

He’d almost imagined she’d turn on him like the office worker did, spitting hate and insults at him and refusing to take the fruit he’d saved. She thanked him so kindly, it was people like her that he’d loved doing this work for. 

Chasing criminals was fun, but sometimes he needed to slow down and walk an old woman home or save a cat from a tree. 

“Is there something on your mind honey?” she’d asked him. 

He chuckled nervously, "I had a bad interaction with someone is all,” he answered. 

“Someone you tried to help?” she asked, prodding him further. 

“No, just an office worker,” he answered, but continued on with her staring at him. “It was the perfect ledge to sit on and eat my lunch, and he’d opened the window and started calling me a criminal, and a vermin, and he tried to pull feathers out of my wings!” he said, his voice rising slightly as he remembered it. The man's hand in his feathers, gripping and mussing them up. Sensitive skin burning under the touch. His wings shuddered behind his back. 

He calmed himself down, “and I didn't even get to eat my food,” he said, “because I'd accidentally knocked it off in the scuffle. And I know what I'm doing is illegal, vigilantism is illegal, my wings are illegal, but I just wanted to help people.” 

He’d be running his hands through his hair if they were free, "I want people to look at me and think, ‘maybe he isn’t so bad’, and if they think that about me, they might think about other hybrids.” 

She looked at him sadly. “When I was around your age,” she’d started, "I'd fallen in love with a man, I thought we were soul mates, we had such chemistry and he was so good to me.” 

She paused, "I only found out he was a hybrid when he’d been arrested, hauled off to jail for something he couldn’t control. We’d come a long way since when I was a kid, where they’d be executed on sight.” She looked at his wings, “even the laws we have now are unfair.” 

“I wish more people thought like you,” he said. 

“Plenty do,” she said, raising a hand and pointing to a townhouse up the block, “that one's mine.” 

They finished the walk up to her door, he helped as best he could up the few stairs. “I’d invite you in for tea,” he was about to reject her offer when she continued, “but I'm sure you're a busy man.” 

He set the groceries down on her kitchen island, “now,” she started, "I don't have any right now,” gesturing to an empty cookie jar sitting on her counter, “but if you decide to swing by at any time, there will always be something waiting for you here.” 

He didn't have any plans on it but he nodded anyway, he wanted to say something in return, feeling too awkward to just walk out and leave. 

“Before you go,” she said, “your wings, they’re beautiful. I haven’t seen anything like it before, do you know what you hail from?” she asked. 

He stretched a wing out a little bit, extending it as far as it could go in her small house. “Raven,” he said, “this is just hair dye,” he pointed at the hot pink feathers. 

She laughed a little, “I should have figured, I used to be a cosmetologist.” 

He nodded. 

“Run along now dear,” she said, giving him the out he was itching for. 

“Have a good day ma’am,” he answered with a bow. 

Grian had never had a grandmother like her, his fathers parents were dead by the time he could remember. And his mothers parents had been cold and distant, he shuddered thinking about them. 

He wandered around on foot for a while, it was a nice neighborhood—one where criminal activity happens few and far between. He should have had no business being there. He’s coming up on the corner of what looks like a rather nice park, green grass and trees. A small playset tucked in the middle, as far as possible from all traffic. 

A dog barking loudly made him jump, but plenty of people had pets in the city. Nothing was out of the ordinary. 

Someone screamed. 

That was out of the ordinary. 

He looked around to the source of the noise and spotted it almost instantly, it was a little girl who’d screamed. A mother was trying her best to hold her back as a little black and white blur shot across the park. 

He assumed it would head for a tree, but his heart sank when it dashed out into the street. The traffic—although slow moving, was more than enough to crush a cat. 

He ran out after it, using his wings to propel him a little faster. The cat was halfway across the three lane road when he’d reached the edge. Cars breaked and honked all around him. 

He paid them no mind. 

He knew he must've looked feral, nothing more than a streak of black and pink. 

The cat was closing in on a little alleyway that would be much too small for Cuteguy to pass through with his wings. It was his last chance. 

One last beat of his powerful wings and he jumped, arms outstretched and tackled the small cat. 

It must've been a terrifying encounter, the cat struggled for a minute, batting at him with clipped claws, but it settled down as he whispered encouragement with a few clicks sparsed in. 

The little guy looked up with big yellow eyes, clearly terrified, but docile. 

He walked across the street—using the crosswalk this time—and handed the cat off to the little girl he’d seen screaming earlier. 

The mother thanked him profusely, and the little girl looked up at him like he’d saved her life. Like he was a hero. 

“Next time,” he started, “bring a harness when you take him outside. Cats are flighty animals.”

“We were going on a picnic and,” she tried explaining, “cameron had snuck him in the basket and I hadn’t realized until I’d opened it and that dog started going crazy. He got spooked and ran and it was all I could do to stop her from running out into the street after him.” 

He looked over to the little girl—Cameron—and crouched to get on her level, “you gotta do as your mommy tells you to do,” he smiled at her, “okay?” 

She nodded. 

“You really worried her,” and the little girl looked guilty, holding her cat tighter in her arms, he leaned forward. “Between you and me,” he whispered conspiratorially, "I think you ought to get her some candy to make up for it.” 

She nodded like a man on a mission. 

He turned to the mother, “you should probably take everything and go back home,” she nodded, he spoke a little bit lower so the girl wouldn’t hear him, “the day isn’t ruined, build a fort and put on a movie. Eat the snacks you packed then.” 

The mother was clearly anxious, and if Cuteguy were in an assuming mood he’d say she probably was a single mother who worked more than she should have to. Today had clearly been an effort to spend time with her daughter, and he could tell she felt like she failed. 

She smiled at him, “thank you,” she said. 

And he could tell he was thanking her for more than just the cat. 

He smiled back. 

Cameron tugged on his wing, and he turned to look at her. 

“Pretty bird,” she said. 

“Cameron,” her mom scolded, “you shouldn’t touch someone without permission.” 

She looked him in the eyes and asked, "can I pet you?” 

He was so close to saying no, but he nodded instead. 

She stroked the back of his wing with such reverie that he was almost taken aback, the juxtaposition between her and the office worker. Two more hands in his wings than usual, each the opposite of the other. 

“We should really be heading back home now, cam,” her mother told her, clearly embarrassed by her daughter's behaviour. Cameron looked sad but headed off with her mother, them both choosing to put the cat back in the basket rather than risk him taking off again. 

Cuteguy was glad it had ended well, the day could have gone so much worse had he not been there. Had he not decided to keep walking after the old woman's townhouse, had he not flown by at the right time to help her with her oranges. 

I should thank that office worker, he thought sarcastically. 

He scanned around the park for a second before preparing to take off, his eyes caught on something he’d only glanced over a second before. Someone he recognized. 

He walked over, not purposefully sneakily, but he was quiet enough the man didn’t notice him—maybe he was focused on whatever was going on with his phone? 

Cuteguy leaned over his shoulder and took a peak. 

His own instagram page—he was taken aback for a second, staring at himself through the lens of a camera. Scar likes Cuteguy. He filed that tidbit of information away for later. 

“Hello there,” he said, “whatcha doing?” as if he didn't already know. 

Scar spooked and dropped his phone, flustered. He turned around to look at Cuteguy and his face went beet red. Scar likes Cuteguy. 

Scar likes him. 

He smiled, more as a reflex brought on by his realization than some way to greet the man, “did I scare you?” 

Scar didn’t answer. 

Cuteguy walked around the bench to stand in front of him. 

“Mind if I sit with you?” he asked. Scar scooched over as best he could, Cuteguy took that as an invitation. 

“I—” Scar stuttered out, “shouldn’t you—i thought, I thought that–” 

“You thought what?” Cuteguy asked him, leaning a bit closer. 

“That you only patrolled at night,” Scar finished, mustering up as much confidence as he could. 

“I have a day off,” Cuteguy answered, “Valentine's day.” 

Scar looked like he just remembered something. 

“Are you meeting someone here?” Cuteguy asked. He had to know. 

Scar seemed flustered, and a bit sheepish. “No,” he answered, “I just came out for a walk and I needed to sit down.” He threw an embarrassed glance at his cane. Cuteguy ignored the insecurity. 

“And you needed to scroll through my instagram page too?” he asked, teasing the man. 

In a flash all of Scar's confidence was gone, leaving him a puddle. 

Grian had never seen this side of the man. 

Grian never would. 

“I'm teasing you,” Cuteguy said. Scar seemed to relax a bit at that. “I’m not meeting up with anyone either,” Cuteguy confessed, “it’s why I'm out here. Dressed like this.” 

He looked down at the pink shorts and kitten heels, "God knows I'm dressed for the occasion though,” he said, making it a joke. 

“Can you eat chocolate?” Scar asked him, catching him off guard. 

“...yeah, I can?” 

“Okay,” he said, fishing around in his messenger bag for something, “I was just making sure. I know some avians are allergic.” 

Cuteguy suddenly had a memory of Grian’s father taking chocolate away from him and scolding him. 

Hadn’t he always been able to eat chocolate? 

He shook his head to clear the thoughts, Scar’s eyes caught on his face, whatever he’d been doing was forgotten. 

He smiled nervously, “something on my face?” he asked. 

“I’m just not used to seeing it…” Scar almost whispered, then he jolted, “up close. I’m just not used to seeing it up close.” 

Cuteguy laughed nervously. 

“Your eyes are purple,” he stated. 

“Your eyes are green,” Cuteguy answered. 

“No I mean,” Scar said, “all purple. Even the white part—which I guess isn't white anymore—”

Cuteguy laughed, “you’ve never seen magic before?” he asked and blinked his eyes, now they were pure black, no hint of any color. 

Scar leaned back, “that’s terrifying,” he said, "that's really creepy.” 

“They’re not actually eyes,” Cuteguy answered, “just holes.” 

“Awful,” Scar said, and Cuteguy laughed. 

“How's this then?” he asked and used his pinnae to cover his face for a second, and then revealed himself to look just like the number one hero. 

“Oh,” Scar said, startled, "that's uncanny.”

He laughed louder this time, “sometimes, I look in the mirror and make him say stupid things.” 

Scar chuckled. 

“Oh Cuteguy, you're so handsome and capable,” Cuteguy mocked. “Oh!” He said, having an idea, "I should do this to him!” 

Scar laughed, “you’re going to pretend to be Hotguy, to Hotguy?” 

“Exactly!” Cuteguy agreed, enthusiastic, “oh I can’t wait to see his face.” 

“So,” Scar asked, “you two seem pretty close, are you a thing?” 

Cuteguy slumped. 

“Everyone always asks that,” he said. 

“Oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean to upset you,” Scar said, anxious. 

“No, it's okay,” Cuteguy said, “I'm just tired of answering the same thing over and over again.” 

Cuteguy looked over to the empathetic look on Scar’s face. “It’s just,” he looked away, using a pinna to hide his face, “there's someone I like, as a civilian. And I know it's hopeless, and that it won't ever work out. And that I should just accept it and stop hoping, stop hyping up every little encounter.

“But, it’s just,” he was at a loss for words, but he was a stranger to Scar, someone he’d never see again. “I feel so stupid. Like I'm back in middle school pining after a classmate.

“And, then I found out he has a crush on Cuteguy,” he’d only just found that out, but Scar didn't need to know that part. “And I wonder if I came to him as Cuteguy. If he would love me too. But, then, isn’t that taking advantage of my fame? If he doesn’t love me as me, won't it be empty?” 

“That sounds awful,” Scar said. 

Cuteguy pulled himself together, “sorry, I shouldn't have dumped that on you. It's unprofessional of me.” 

“No, no,” Scar tried, “it really is okay.” 

Cuteguy didn't listen, there were too many emotions swirling in his mind to handle. He needed air, he needed the sky and the sun and the wind in his hair as he fell. He stood up, threw a grin in Scar's direction, but couldn't meet the man's eyes, staring just over his head. “I’ve got a city to save,” he said, mocking a common Hotguy catchphrase, and took off. 

He could almost imagine the face Scar would have made as he did. 

He turned his brain off.

Chapter Text

Scar was left reeling, staring off in the direction Cuteguy had flown.

He’d left just as suddenly as when he’d arrived—embarrassingly catching Scar stalking his instagram, Scar put his head in his hands to hide his blush. He ran the interaction over again in his head, the unexpected way Cuteguy had almost been flirting with him—was it even an almost? 

He remembered the way Cuteguy had leaned in closer, the way he looked at Scar’s lips as he talked—like the man hadn’t even realized he was staring. The smiles and his face as he’d teased Scar. 

But then he’d gone on to talk about the man he was in love with, he’d seemed so sad. 

Was this just the way he talked to any civilian? 

Scar’s only interactions with him were as he’d ran away, Hotguy had only seen his face a few times when the man would let his guard down for a second. 

Scar thought about Cuteguy’s face again—what he could see of it. A dozen less than wholesome images flashed in his mind and Scar had to shake his head to clear them, the blush on his face for a different reason now. 

Gathering his things in preparation to stand up, Scar realized that the bag of chocolates he’d meant to give to Cuteguy were still in his bag. He cursed himself, the vigilante was already long gone. 

He rushed home as fast he could on his cane, messenger bag thumping against his hips with every step. 

The only chance he had at catching Cuteguy would be to dress up as Hotguy and “run into” him on a rooftop. Scar hastily shed his civilian clothes, the stupid suit had so many parts and buckles for him to dress up into. 

He’d never had to get dressed in such a hurry before. Tying his hair into a loose pony tail—it was getting long, he should probably have it cut. He tugged the last strap into place, buckling it and slid his visor over his eyes. Tying the bag of chocolates to his quiver—he really should request pockets the next time he gets an upgrade, or at least a cargo belt. 

This was stupid, what was he even going to say, “you know that guy you spilled your heart out to on the bench? Yeah that's me, you're welcome. Here's some chocolates, happy valentines day i kinda love you.”

It was about as foolish as he could get, he might not even find the vigilante. The city was massive, he could be anywhere by now—and he was a whole hell of a lot faster than Scar, bio-engineered legs or no. He slipped out his window and onto the fire escape above the empty alley. 

It was one of the reasons he’d chosen the place, an easy way to get in and out of his house in the suit. The dark alley holding nothing but trash and rats, the security camera three floors down pointed straight into the darkened street. Discouraging the homeless and drug deals. 

Not a soul but some rats to see him climb up onto the roof. 

The neighborhood was nice enough to warrant the cameras everywhere, but not so nice he wouldn’t be able to afford it on a professor's salary. 

Of course, he probably wouldn’t have been able to afford it on a professor's salary if he took into account the major medical bills he could accrue at any moment. That's what the hero salary was for, not the most high-paying of jobs, but it was nothing to scoff at. 

Scar first made his way to the park he’d just left thirty minutes before. 

He knew the avian wouldn’t be there, it was almost useless of him to check. The neighborhood was nice, just a little bit nicer than Scar’s own, townhouses instead of condos. 

He wondered what the vigilante had been doing in the area, this side of town didn’t see much, if any crime. He imagined the man helping an old lady cross the street and laughed, plenty of people around the city found him unsettling at best—face covered by wings a majority of the time, and if not, glowing purple eyes set deep into shadows on his face. 

Scar thought about the “holes” Cuteguy had shown him earlier how unsettling the man had looked. 

He wondered why he had chosen purple, instead of the hot-pink everyone associated him with. 

Scar ran and grappled across rooftops, heading in the direction he’d last seen the pseudo hero in. He was stopped in his tracks by a beeping into the hidden headset in his ear. 

“Hotguy,” Cub said, “what are you doing out so early?” 

“Early bird gets the worm,” he replied. 

“You woke me up,” Cub grumbled. 

“How’s that my fault?” Scar asked, incredulously. 

“You know I get alerted the second you put that suit on.” 

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” he said cheekily. 

“What are you doing out right now? You know it's not your scheduled time.” 

“Can’t a man have fun on his day off,” he grumbled. 

“Not when it inconveniences me.” 

“Why are you even still asleep?!” Scar asked, “It's like five thirty.” 

“Not my fault I'm contractually obligated to stay up all night when you're on shift.” 

“That’s dumb,” Scar said. 

“We signed the contract together,” Cub said. 

“Its still dumb,” he said, leaping across a narrow gap between buildings. “Fine, uh, consider this training. Yeah, can't let me go rusty can you? Exactly. Checkmate.” 

“Training my ass,” Cub muttered, Scar could hear him typing loudly into his ears. “You never answered my question, what are you doing out so early?” 

“I just told you!” Scar whined, “I'm training. Shooting targets. Pew pew.” 

“Scar, I can hear you lying to me,” Cub answered, "I don't need to see your vitals to know you're talking out of your ass.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scar answered. 

“So it has nothing to do with the reported sightings of your vigilante?” Cub asked. 

“Reported sightings?” Scar asked, playing dumb, “why on earth would he be out so early I wonder.” 

“Uh-huh,” Cub said, “so you’re definitely not chasing him down after you saw him in the park?” 

“I-i never,” Scar stuttered, “how?”

“You think someone so recognizable as a giant pink bird wouldn't draw attention?” Cub laughed, “you’re all over Instagram right now. They’re trying to figure out who you are.” 

Scar’s face flushed, “do I look hot in the pictures?” 

“You always look hot, Scar.” 

“Ever the flirt,” Scar returned, “you’re not so bad yourself Cub.” 

Scar received a notification on the side of his visor—which was both see-through, but also worked like a phone, able to receive messages and take calls. He tapped the button on the side to open the message, him, on the park bench laughing at something Cuteguy had said, eyes closed and leaning back. 

Cuteguy was smiling at him, not any full on grin like he’d remembered, but a sweet little smile. 

Whoever took the photo did a good job of making them look like a couple on a date. 

“Damn,” Scar said, “we look like we’re together.” 

Cub laughed. “In your dreams.”

“Email me that, I gotta print it out and hang it on all of my walls.”

“Your heartbeat is going crazy,” Cub laughed, “flustered much?” 

“No, no, of course not,” Scar said, “just… panicking. What happens when my students find out? Am i forever going to be known as the professor bird fucker?” 

“You’d wear that name with pride,” Cub said, "I'd be surprised if you didn't put it on a little name tag and walk around with it.” 

“True, true,” Scar said, “it’s got a ring to it… wait it just sounds like i fuck birds.” 

Scar swore he could hear the sound of Cub falling out of his chair. 

“Cubbb,” Scar whined, “I’m not a bird sexer.” He tried his best to make his pout come across through the mic. 

“You know you're supposed to be capturing him, right?” Cub asked, “It's like, your current mission.” 

“I’m doing a great job at it,” Scar retorted. 

“The only thing you’re catching is feelings.” 

“He shot me with cupid's arrow,” Scar said, “what can I do about that?”

“Youre the one with the bow, remember? It’d be more like cupid's shotgun.”

“Come on, Scar,” Cub said, “you know this is only going to break your heart.”

Scar stayed quiet. 

“I mean, he’s your nemesis isn’t he? Who’s to say he’s not leading you on to get you to let your guard down?” Cub asked.

“He’s more scared of me than anything,” Scar argued. 

“Okay,” Cub conceded, “Sure, let’s say he’s a good guy. It’s still not going to work out, it’s your job to capture him. Sooner or later something’s going to happen, you’ll be forced to bring him in and watch what they do to him. Or you’ll be taken off the mission and someone else will bring him in.”

Scar didn’t want to think about this.

“What then Scar?” Cub pushed, “when you know he’s down in that basement and they’re doing gods knows what. What will you do then? Save him? Lose your job and risk your life for someone whose face you haven’t even seen?” 

Scar didn't answer. 

“I’m worried about you, Scar,” Cub said. 

“Whatever,” Scar answered. He didn’t want to hear this from Cub. He continued to leap across the buildings, running aimlessly, barely hoping to run into the vigilante. Cub hadn’t given him any directions, no spottings, not any other criminal activity. “Besides,” Scar whispered, almost too quiet for the mic to pick up, "I'll convince him to join up with us.” 

Cub didn’t answer for a while, “I'm sure you will buddy.” 

It didn’t sound sarcastic, just a little hopeless. 

Scar’s chest tightened. 

Cub tried to lighten the mood, “so what was your plan when you found him? Take him to dinner?” 

Scar felt a bit of heat creep up his neck, “No,” he answered, “do you know how public that’ll be?” 

Cub laughed, “no, no, you're right. That’ll end up everywhere in seconds, can’t have Cuteguy be cheating on his bench-date with Hotguy now can we? What a scandal.” 

Scar blushed a bit, “it wasn’t a date.” 

“I’m so glad I have this nice heart rate monitor,” Cub said, “my very own poly graph machine.” 

“Hey!”

“So what was your plan?” Cub pressed again. 

“...i was going to give him some chocolates.” 

“Chocolates?” Cub laughed, “you’re so cliche.”

Scar fumbled. 

“God it’s like a hallmark movie,” Cub said, breathless. “You’re lucky I love you man, otherwise I'd record this and sell you to the tabloids.”

“You can’t do that!” Scar protested. 

“The contract states I can’t let your identity slip,” Cub answered, “not that I can't reveal an embarrassing crush.” 

“...when are we renewing that again?” Scar asked. 

“Two years.” 

“Goddammit,” Scar said. 

“You’re stuck with me.” 

“Worst fate imaginable.”

The sun was starting to dip behind the skyscrapers in the distance, it wasn’t quite twilight but it bathed the city in shadow. It suddenly felt a lot colder. 

Scar sighed, “have you seen any news on him?” 

“Sorry, forgot you can’t see me shake my head,” Cub said, “not a sign of the man. It’s entirely possible he just went home after the park.” 

Scar lifted up his visor to rub at his eyes—he was sure there wasn’t anyone who could see him. “Great,” he responded, “missed my chance. I’m such an idiot.” 

Cub consoled him, “you run into each other basically every night,” he said. 

“Every night,” Scar repeated, “isn’t valentines day.”

“You should go home Scar,” Cub responded, “you weren’t scheduled for today, furioso can handle anything that comes up.” 

“Right.” 

“I’m worried about you,” Cub said. 

Scar didn’t respond, he just turned off the earpiece and ignored the pings his visor sent him. 

He knew it was probably irrational to be as disappointed as he was, he’d only seen the guy's face four times—not including earlier that day, and the fact it couldn't really be counted as his face when hidden under magic like that.

Scar ran his fingers through his hair, pulling strands out of the ponytail. He’d fix it in a second. 

He looked around him, he’d made it halfway across the city, not exactly to ‘the slums’ as people called it, but it was certainly a poorer neighborhood. He felt bad for thinking that, considering a few of his coworkers lived around here. 

Grian lived around here. 

This was one of the places Scar favored the most in his patrols, not rich enough to afford cameras, but it still wasn’t quite as crime laden as the south side of the city. 

Scar hopped across a few more rooftops, unsure of what he should be looking for. Crime, maybe, like someone in a black ski mask holding brown bags marked with the dollar sign will come skipping out of an alley and into his arms. 

A voice caught him off guard, too quiet to hear but loud enough to be familiar. 

Scar looked down to the street beneath him, to the brightly lit pet store and to the man stepping out of the automatic doors and into the chill. 

Grian. 

The short man had been filling his thoughts more and more often recently, someone who was so hopelessly in love with Scar that it hurt. 

He knew of his coworkers' crush and had done his best not to lead him on, Scar remembered taking the professor out for coffee. He had been out of line then, too worried to think straight. He felt bad for leaving the man sitting there so abruptly, but he was unable to ignore an all-available-units call, even if it turned out to be a false alarm. 

Scar felt a bit better that he’d been able to walk the man home—after a healthy amount of threatening and embarrassing himself. Grian could be Scary if he wasn’t falling all over himself. 

Scar wondered why he seemed to have such an aversion to Hotguy, civilians typically loved him, and could never get enough of him. 

He thought of Grian caught up in something illegal, imagining him grinning maniacally with explosions behind him. Tried matching the image of Grian wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses to the meek professor he knew. 

Impossible. 

Scar stealthily snuck down to where Grian was, hoping to startle him. It wasn’t exactly getting revenge on Cuteguy for the same, but it would still feel good. 

The shorter man was muttering something about valentines day and a discount for cat food. 

“They eat like rascals, right?” 

“Hah!” Grian laughed, “you have no idea. Those two eat like—WOAH!” 

Scar started laughing, “did I startle you?” he teased, it felt cathartic to be on the other end. “Woah, that's a lot of cat food. Looks heavy.” 

“Not at all,” Grian said, hefting up the bag. It ripped, dropping the 25 pound bag of cat food on the ground—at least that didn't tear as well. 

“Maybe not too heavy for your muscles,” he said, “but that bag certainly couldn't handle it.” 

Grian stared at the remnants of the plastic bag in his hands—not so much a bag anymore, just two plastic handles. 

“Don't worry professor,” Scar said, bending over and scooping up the bag. “I’ve got this.” 

“You don't have–” he started, then abandoned it, scoffing. “Don’t you have something better to do than to carry cat food,” Grian asked, “surely there's some rooftops that need hopped across and paparazzi to please.” 

Scar chuckled, “my evenings just cleared up,” he said. “Lead the way, professor.” 

Grian looked reluctant, but it wasn’t like Hotguy didn't already know where he lived. “You’re awfully fixated on me,” he said, “are you this personal with every civilian?” 

Scar contemplated it for a second, “only the ones that interest me.” 

Grian made a face, “are you flirting with me?” he asked, incredulous. 

Scar leaned down so he was eye level with the man, “do you want me to flirt with you?” 

“I’m going to report you for harassment,” Grian answered.

Scar pouted exaggeratedly, “you wouldn't," he said. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Grian said. 

“Ridiculously charming,” Scar corrected. 

“Ridiculously annoying,” Grian muttered, but he didn’t sound too upset. Scar took it as a win. 

“How many cats do you have?” Scar asked him, trying to keep them from falling into awkward silence. “You got a mighty bag of food.” 

“Two,” Grian answered. 

“TWO?” Scar asked, surprised. 

Grian looked startled. 

“Sorry,” Scar said, “just surprised is all. I expected a small army. You’re out here carrying half your body weight in cat food and it's not for 20?” 

“It’s not half my body weight,” Grian grumbled.

“No?” Scar challenged. 

“No.” 

“We’ll see about that,” he said, picking Grian up with his other arm. Half his body weight was a serious overstatement, but Scar didn't let the shorter man know that.

Grian squawked when picked up, struggling to get out of Scar's grasp. “Put me down!” He said, "I will actually report you!” 

“Awh,” Scar said, “but this is so fun.” He conceded anyway, angering the small man would only make him trust Hotguy less. 

Grian smoothed his sweater down and refused to meet Scar’s eyes, his face flushed. Scar doubted it was from anything except embarrassment. 

“You’re awful,” Grian said. 

“Awfully amazing,” Scar returned. 

“Awfully insufferable, do you even have any friends?” Grian asked, “are you lonely? Is that why you hang around me so much?” 

Scar was taken aback, “I have so many friends!” he said, “they just…” he trailed off, “don’t know im Hotguy.” 

“So you have no friends,” Grian corrected. 

“Excuse me,” he said, "I have my sidekick.” 

“Your only friend is someone who works for you, that's pathetic.” 

“NO!” Scar defended, “I’m not. I’m the city's favorite hero, Hotguy.” 

“I used to think you were full of yourself,” Grian said, “now I know you're insecure.”

“I am not!” 

“Sure, buddy,” Grian said sarcastically. But he was smiling, and that made Scar smile too.  

They walked in silence for a few more minutes, before Scar couldn't take it any more. “You know,” he started, Grian looked up at him—he was so used to looking up at Grian himself, so used to sitting in the chair, the angle was foreign. “I’ve been carrying this all this way, and you have yet to thank me. Let alone pay me my dues.” 

Grian’s face fell, "I didn't even want you to carry it,” he said. “Give it back. I don’t need your help.” 

He tried to reach for it and Scar held it above his head, “ah, ah, ah,” he said, “you have to show me your cats.” 

Grian paused. 

“What?”

“You have to show me your cats,” Scar reiterated, "I can't do so much work for a client whose face I haven't seen. It’s against my code of conduct.” 

Grian stared at him in disbelief. “You want to see my cats?”

“Want to? I need to!” Scar said, “who wouldn’t? I love cats, they’re so cute. I have one at home, her name is—” Scar caught himself before he said her name. He wasn’t sure if Grian knew of his cat, but her name would be something he could find out easily from coworkers. 

Scar couldn’t risk it. 

“Panda.” 

“Panda?” Grian asked, obviously noticing his hesitation. 

“Yes,” Scar continued, “she’s so fluffy and all black and white.” 

“I guess it's a better name than Oreo," Grian said. 

“Hey!” Scar said, “What's wrong with the name Oreo?” 

“Everyone and their nan names a black and white cat Oreo.” 

“Oh yeah?” Scar said, “What are your cat's names?” 

“Pearl and Maui,” he responded. 

Scar was stumped, he didn't have a good response to that. “Do you have any pictures?”

“Pictures?” 

“What kind of cat owner doesn’t take pictures!” Scar said, annoyed. 

“Do you have pictures of your cat?” 

“Of course I do,” Scar said. 

“Show me,” Grian challenged. Scar wasn't sure if he was trying to catch him in a lie on purpose. 

“I don’t have my civilian phone on me,” he excused. 

Grian looked disappointed, reaching a hand in his pocket to pull out his phone. He turned it toward Scar with a video playing, two cats competing against each other to get the feather toy. 

Scar found it adorable. 

“Wait!” he said, “you named your cat after its breed!?”

Grian looked sheepish. 

“You named an egyptian mau, Maui,” Scar couldn't believe it, “that’s worse than Oreo, that's like naming your kitten, Kitty.” 

“I named him a long time ago,” he said, “my views have changed.”

“I’ll never look at you the same,” Scar said, in mock betrayal. 

Scar had forgotten he’d been wearing the visor, he was Hotguy right now. This wasn’t his coworker, this was a civilian. He’d forgotten he’d been walking around with a baggie of chocolates strapped to his quiver, like a shoddy Halloween Cupid. 

“What’s a guy like you doing out buying cat food on valentines day,” he asked. 

“Cats don’t care about holidays, they’re hungry,” Grian answered. He didn't look up at the hero, “besides, I'm too busy for that stuff.” 

“I’m sure your cats monopolize all your time,” Scar offered. 

“You bet,” Grian looked down at his feet. “The only person I'd want to be with today, just doesn’t like me like that. It’s my fault, for still thinking there's a chance, it’s fine.” 

Scar felt incredibly guilty. 

“What are you doing out all alone,” Grian turned the question back to Scar. “You don't seem like the type to be all alone today.” 

“I’m not alone,” Scar said. 

“Not like that,” Grian grumbled, “walking me home isn't a date.” 

“Not if you don't want it to be,” Scar said. “I think it could be incredibly romantic, the sun's setting, the sky is pink, it's just cold enough you’d have an excuse to grab someone’s hand. City lights are like stars in the sky.” 

For a moment he let himself imagine it was Cuteguy walking next to him, them chatting together. Scar reaching out and brushing hands—he shook his head. 

It’s never going to happen. 

‘It’s my fault, for still thinking there's a chance,’ Grian had said. Scar understood that sentiment. 

They reached his building, Grian fumbling for his keys out of his bag. “Ahah!” he said, “found it,” he inserted it into the lock. He looked back at Hotguy, almost surprised he was still there. As if he’d expected the hero to disappear in a pile of catfood. 

“You can go,” he said, "I can carry it the rest of the way. I’m home safe and sound, mission complete.” 

He looked toward the open staircase, “aren’t you forgetting something?” 

Grian looked at him, “what now.” 

“My dues,” Scar said with mock severity. “You still haven’t paid me.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Wrong.” Scar shifted the bag onto one hip and tapped his temple with two fingers. “You promised me cats.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” Scar argued, beaming as if he had incontrovertible proof. “Verbal contract. Witnessed by the streetlight, the cracked pavement, and that one dandelion growing through the gaps.”

Grian sighed like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “You’re unbearable.”

“Unbearably charming,” Scar corrected automatically. 

Grian hesitated, keys still in the lock. 

“They’re waiting for you,” he said softly. “Don’t make them starve because you’re too stubborn to let a guy inside for five minutes.”

“That’s emotional blackmail,” Grian muttered, “and you’re not just ‘a guy’.”

“Effective, though, isn’t it?” Scar said, ignoring the…compliment? Insult? Grian had thrown at him. 

Grian pressed his lips together, thinking. But instead of snapping a no, he just turned the knob and shoved the door open. “Five minutes. And if you try anything—”

Scar brightened, stepping inside with the bag like he owned the place. “Relax, the only thing I’m trying is befriending your cats.”

Grian led him up the stairs to his apartment, Scar carefully noted the lack of elevator. 

The second Grian got anywhere near the door. Scar could hear feet scramble from the inside and the meows started. 

“Hungry little fellows,” Scar commented. 

“They love food more than they love me,” Grian said, opening the door. 

Maui ran away when he noticed Hotguy in the doorway, but Pearl stood her ground, meowing up at Grian with fervor. “I hear you, I hear you,” Grian chanted. 

She took one last careful look at the hero and fled to the kitchen, Grian and Scar followed her in. Grian pointed towards a little cabinet pantry, “you can put the bag in there.” 

Scar complied. 

Grian turned to look at him, “you know you're not going to be able to pet them right?” he asked, “my cousin comes by here daily and they’re still scared of him.” 

“They haven’t been exposed to my magnificent charm,” Scar answered. 

Grian stared at him blankly. “Right.” 

Scar reached to pull the chocolates off his quiver, Grian’s eyes tracked the movement with panic. 

Did he think I was going to shoot him? Scar thought. 

He grabbed the chocolates and handed it to the man. 

Grian eyed them suspiciously, “chocolates?” 

“I was going to give them to someone else, but our schedules didn’t match up.”

Grian looked up at him. “If you think this will make up for the other day,” he started, Scar shook his head, it wasn’t what he meant at all. 

“I didn’t mean it as a bribe,” he said. 

Grian stared at him, then looked away, something unreadable hidden on his face. “it’s an okay start.”

Chapter Text

Mumbo showed up at his door half an hour later, grinning like he owned the place and brandishing a bottle of something amber.

“I hope you brought something strong,” Grian groaned, stepping aside to let him in.

Mumbo’s laugh was low, easy. “You’re a lightweight. Everything’s strong for you.”

“Good enough,” Grian muttered. He shut the door and headed for the cabinet. “Glasses, then. I’ve been thinking about this sober for way too long.”

They settled on the couch, Mumbo sprawling instantly, his socked feet up on the coffee table like he paid rent here. Grian downed his first glass in three gulps. It burned. Good.

“What is this supposed to be?” he asked, coughing.

“Chocolate toffee.” Mumbo tipped his own glass toward the light, unimpressed. “Can’t really taste it.”

“Bit weird.”

“So?” Mumbo pressed, already leaning forward, hungry for the promised drama.

“You’re not even going to wait for it to kick in?” Grian asked, dragging the words.

“You called me here with gossip, mate. I want that gossip.”

Grian sighed. “Fine. Good news or bad news first?”

“Good.”

“Scar likes Cuteguy.”

Mumbo stared. “...okay? And?”

“Scar likes Cuteguy.” Grian gestured at himself, as though Mumbo were too thick to follow. “I’m Cuteguy.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know you’re Cuteguy.” Mumbo shrugged. “Not gonna go anywhere unless you tell him.”

That stung more than Grian let on. He sighed again, sharper this time. “Yeah.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“Hotguy likes me.”

Mumbo blinked. “Hotguy…likes you?”

“He won’t leave me alone. Walked me home. Twice.”

Mumbo tossed back the rest of his drink, poured another, and downed that one too. Only then did he swivel to face him. “Hotguy likes you. As Grian.”

“Not like, romantically,” Grian rushed. “He just won’t leave me alone. Keeps showing up. Keeps… watching.”

“So a stalker,” Mumbo said. 

“Basically.” 

Mumbo grinned like he’d caught Grian in a trap. “Most people stalk the person they’re interested in.”

“He’s not interested in me!” Grian protested. 

“How’d this start?” Mumbo asked, curious. 

“What,” Grian asked, “gonna try to replicate it to get your own hero shadow?” 

“Or maybe steal yours,” Mumbo countered. “Got a nice Hot Guy up for grabs and you’re not even interested.” 

“I didn’t ask to be stalked by a six-foot freak in spandex.”

“Spoiled,” Mumbo replied. 

“I’m not spoiled,” Grian said, “I'm cursed.” 

Mumbo poured them both another glass, "I really am curious,” he said, “how’d it start.” 

“Monday morning,” Grian said, “I woke up at around three am and went for a walk. I wanted to get an ice cream bar from the gas station and boom, there's a gun to my head.”

Mumbo looks terrified. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Grian said, "I have lethal weapons pointed at me all the time.”

“Not as a civilian!” Mumbo cried. 

Grian waved his hand, “semantics,” and took a swallow from his cup. Grimacing at the taste he continued, “anyway, Hotguy shows up and the robber turns me around to face him and does this whole ‘look this poor man in the eyes as I kill him’, type deal, and Hotguy was useless. The guy just stood there, which pissed me off because, it's his job to save me, yk?” 

Mumbo just stared at him horrified, Grian finished the rest of his drink and continued. 

“Well anyway the cashier was an electric elemental, which was nice cause they shocked the robber—and me too at the same time. I passed out and woke up in his arms as he offered me a water bottle—yeah yeah yeah I'm sure you’d love to wake up in Hotguy’s arms too Mumbo, don’t need to tell me.” 

“Im more horrified than jealous,” Mumbo confessed, “you had a gun to your head and then got electrocuted." 

“I heal fast, you know this,” Grian dismissed. 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.” 

“Was never really a good time,” Grian answered. 

“Yeah,” Mumbo said, “sure.” 

“Well then so I got up and left, and Hotguy got all pissy because he wanted to take me to a hospital, but I don't want to pay those bills yk? So I just left.” 

Mumbo downed his drink, Grian followed suit. 

“Well yesterday after I got coffee with Scar—”

“You got coffee with Scar?” 

“It wasn’t a date,” Grian said, a bit put out at the memory, “he just thought I was depressed or something and told me to reach out to someone if I needed it.” 

“Not what you hoped for when he said ‘lets get coffee’, is it?” 

“I got really disappointed,” Grian said, “and, like, I know it's my fault for still getting my hopes up when I know it's not going to work out. But still.” Grian grabbed the bottle and drank straight from it, ignoring Mumbo’s face. 

“That’s gross,” Mumbo said. 

“We’ve kissed before,” Grian replied. 

“That was gross too.” 

Grian laughed. “Love you too Mumbo.” 

“Continue with your story, you waffle.” 

“Well I was walking home from that tragedy of a coffee date, and I was almost there when bam, the man himself drops down from the rooftop and lands in front of me,” Grian shudders at the memory, “and then he started accusing me of doing illegal stuff, and I wondered ‘is he on to me?’, the answer is I highly doubt it by the way. 

“Anyhow, he tells me to give him my bag, and I do, and then he does the dorkiest spin ever while talking about how he's such a great hero,” Grian took another sip from the bottle. Mumbo took it from him, poured him a glass and then set the bottle far out of the shorter man's reach. 

Grian ignored him. 

“And all my papers go flying everywhere! The man spun around like an idiot and they all spilled out. I had to explain to three different students that ‘oh yeah uh they spilled out of my bag when I was walking home’, because I can’t say ‘Hotguy did it’, it's like saying ‘my dog ate my homework’.” Grian complained, rambling. He could feel the effects of the alcohol kick in. 

Mumbo laughed at him, “this time your dog did actually eat your homework.” 

“Exactly!” Grian exclaimed. 

“Well so today I went out as Cuteguy, cause I had nothing better to do. Got harassed by the worst fuckin office worker in history—the man tried to rip my feathers out of my wings. And then I lost my sausage rolls on the street below!” 

Mumbo laughed, “your life is like the stupidest romcom,” he said. 

“Say that again and I'm gonna close the blinds and smother you with my wings you lanky spaghetti-boned asshat.” 

Mumbo laughed even harder, “god I gotta get you drinking more, you sound like you did back in college.” 

“Fuck you too,” Grian said. 

“Keep telling me your story,” Mumbo placated. 

“Well I helped an old lady cross the street and I saved this cat, and you’ll never guess who I met in the park,” he said. 

“Scar?” 

“How’d you know?”

“Only because the whole internet is blowing up trying to figure out who he is.” Mumbo typed something into his phone and turned the screen to face him, a picture of Cuteguy and Scar sitting there on a bench. Looking domestic, romantic. 

Grian desperately wished it was him who could’ve sat there next to the man, who could’ve made him smile like that. 

Not some ripoff hot-pink cupid. 

“Jealous?” 

“Can’t be jealous of myself,” Grian answered. 

“Sure,” Mumbo said, tapping a few times and Grian’s phone buzzed. He must’ve forwarded it to him. 

Why did he know him so well? 

“I told him too much,” Grian confessed. 

Mumbo looked startled. 

“Not about my identity, I kept it vague,” Grian said. 

The anxiety on Mumbo’s face softened a bit, “what did you say?”

“Just that there was someone I liked, and that I knew he liked Cuteguy, and how it hurt that he would never like me for me.” 

Mumbo looked at him, Grian thought there was pity in those dark grey eyes. 

“I flew off,” he said, “ran away.” 

He couldn’t handle the pity in Scar’s green eyes, and he couldn’t handle the pity in Mumbo’s either. 

“I got home and wallowed for a bit, but we didn’t have any cat food and they were three seconds from eating me alive so I went out to get cat food,” Grian continued, pushing the topic forward. “Hotguy showed up and walked me home. Again. Carried the bag for me and made me let him inside to see the cats.” 

“And that's why you called me over?” Mumbo said.

“Yeah,” Grian said. 

“You had the hottest man in the city in your house and it didn’t go anywhere?” 

“He’s not the hottest,” Grian countered, thinking of someone else. 

“Second hottest,” Mumbo conceded. 

“Yeah,” Grian said, “he gave me chocolates. For Valentine's Day.” 

“He gave you chocolates." 

“Yeah,” Grian said, “here, I'll go get them.” He made to stand up but Mumbo kept him down. 

“The number one hero in the city, the one that anyone who likes men—except for you—has a crush on, was in your kitchen, walked you home twice and was in your kitchen. And he gave you chocolates? For Valentine's Day?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you say it’s not romantic?” 

“It’s not. He’s just being weird.” 

“And you’re being delusional,” Mumbo muttered. “Hotguy, Cuteguy, Scar, you. Scar likes Cuteguy, you are Cuteguy. Hotguy likes you, and also Cuteguy.” 

Mumbo looked at him, “this isn’t a love triangle, this is a geometry problem.” 

“It’s not a love triangle,” Grian said. 

“ ‘S what I said mate,” Mumbo answered. 

Grian groaned. “I need more to drink,” he said, downing the rest of the golden drink and standing up to grab the bottle. 

“I swear if you put your lips on it,” Mumbo warned. 

“You’ll do what?” Grian asked, raising the bottle up to his mouth. 

“Mate, I have the key to your house,” Mumbo said, “I know your phone password. There’s a lot I can do.” 

The threat was incredibly vague, probably purposefully. Mumbo said it to scare Grian into thinking of the worst case scenario. 

It worked. 

Grian poured the alcohol into his glass and sat it back down on the coffee table. 

“That’s what I thought,” Mumbo said. 

“I don’t want to listen to your face,” Grian said, grabbing the remote and turning on the tv. The news came up, Grian turned the volume way down. 

“How about this,” Mumbo said, "I got a stack of papers I was hoping to pawn off on you,” Grian glared at the man, “wanna turn it into a game?” 

“What game?” Grian asked. 

“Everytime someone misuses ‘there, they’re or their’ we take a drink.” 

“Sounds incredibly dangerous.” 

Mumbo grinned, “I bet I can last longer than you.” 

“You’re falling over already,” Grian said, taking the challenge. 

He pulled the first paper off the stack and grabbed his red pen—fingers already stained from red ink. “You know,” Mumbo started, “Cuteguy is pretty hot. You should just date him instead, skip the drama.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Grian said. 

The first two papers were uneventful, Mumbo reading sentences out loud and Grian half listening. He stared at the tv screen, nothing interesting was happening. 

“Hotguy, Cuteguy,” he said, “what’s next? Tallguy? Weirdguy? Taxesguy?” 

“You’d make a great Tallguy,” Grian said, “up for being my sidekick?” 

“Ooo,” Mumbo said, “we could stage some great drama, a nice people-pleasing love triangle between Cuteguy, his nemesis and his sidekick.” 

“Nope,” Grian said, “you’re banned. No longer my PR guy. Sign out of that instagram account.” 

Mumbo pouted, “you don't want me to run it anymore?” 

“Not when your idea of PR is ‘people pleasing love triangle’,” Grian answered. 

“But they’ll eat it up,” Mumbo protested. 

“They eat everything up,” Grian said, “the photoshoot you made me pose for was more than enough.” 

“OH!” Mumbo said, “The valentines day one. I forgot to post that.” 

“You have one job Mumbo,” Grian said. 

“Yeah and that’s being an engineering professor, not your unpaid intern.”

“C’mon,” Grian said, “you know you love me.” 

“Sure Grian,” Mumbo said, typing furiously on his phone. Probably coming up with a caption. 

Grian shuddered thinking about the outfits Mumbo had subjected him to, clothes he’d never wear in a million years pictured and posted for thousands to view. 

Mumbo grinned. 

Grian sighed. 

Something on the television caught his eye and he looked up. 

They were saying something about Cuteguy, Grian stared at his alter ego posted up on his widescreen TV. It was a terrible photo, Mumbo would hate it—he glanced over at the man but he was still invested in his phone. 

Grian turned the volume up. 

“We’re closer than ever to catching the feared vigilante, dubbed ‘Cuteguy’,” The woman stated. 

“Not very cute,” her partner joked. 

“No,” she agreed, “you can dress evil up in bows but you can’t hide it’s nature.” 

Mumbo looked up, grimacing. 

“That’s an awful picture,” he commented. 

Grian knew it. 

It was a fuzzy CCTV screenshot, glitched out and making him look like a monster. 

“We have quite the update for you all tonight,” the woman continued, “a first hand account of what it’s like to see the vigilante upclose, as well as an interview with the head of the Emerald Soldier Division.” 

“Stay tuned, we’ll be right back,” the man said. And it cut to commercials. 

“Damn Wolf news,” Mumbo cursed. 

Grian chuckled. “It’s hard to imagine anyone watches them and believes them.” 

An ad for Super-Powered Damage insurance came up, an interview with a rich someone or other talking about how the insurance had completely replaced their car after it was blown up in a superpowered attack. 

“Damn fucking insurance,” Mumbo muttered. 

Grian chuckled, having heard this spiel multiple times. 

“It should just be counted under the other insurances!” Mumbo cried, “why do I need to pay thousands of dollars in renters insurance, car insurance, health insurance when none of them will cover anything caused by a super? ‘You’re mortally wounded and you have a perfectly good insurance plan? Oh, it was a supervillain who did it? I'm sorry you’re going to need to pay 3 million out of pocket man.” 

Grian didn’t add anything, just sipped on his drink and let the man continue. 

“And the worst part is they’re phasing out the vigilante coverage,” Mumbo looked over at him, “sorry man. It’s obviously a scheme to warp the public opinion of you. And it’s working.” 

Grian felt a little guilty. 

“It’s just so stupid,” Mumbo finished, cutting his rant short.

“Everything’s stupid,” Grian agreed. 

The ad break ended, a full seven minutes of nonstop advertisement. The broadcasting company must be rolling in the money. 

“And now,” the woman announced, “an eyewitness account of what it’s like to interact with this feared vigilante—this borderline villain parading around unjustly.” 

The man continued where she left off, “we’re here today with the unfortunate Ted Bramble who was a victim of this creature’s harassment." 

The camera panned out to show the office worker who’d grabbed Cuteguy’s wing earlier that day. 

“That's him!” he shouted. 

“What,” Mumbo asked. 

“The man,” said Grian, “the office worker who tried to rip out my feathers.”

“Oh,” Mumbo said, “weird.” 

“It was awful,” the man—Ted, the most basic name out there. The man was practically irrelevant from birth. “I was sitting up in my office, getting my work done, and suddenly the whole room got so dark.” The man shuddered dramatically, “I looked up and there was this thing peering in at me, staring with these horrifying purple eyes and his wings were spread so wide. It was unnatural.”

“I’m sure that must’ve been terrifying,” the woman soothed, “what happened next?” eager for the man to get on with his story. 

“What a load of bullshit,” Mumbo spat. “It’s almost funny until you remember people believe it.” he’d put his phone down, no longer fiddling with the instagram post. Grian didn’t know if it was because he’d finished it, or if he’d seen the look on his face.

“It’s almost funny until it's you up there they’re demonizing,” Grian grumbled, reaching for the bottle again, ignoring his half empty glass. 

He took a long swig, spilling some out of the corners of his mouth and down his chin. He tried his best to swallow everything before coughing the burning out of his throat. Tears sprung in the corner of his eyes, it took everything in him to not start sobbing then and there. 

“I walked over to the window,” he said, “because I didn't want it to know I was scared of it. And I unlatched the window and opened it—the worst thing I could have done, mind you, even though it only opened a few inches it was more than enough for the beast to stick its hand in and grab my wrist with its claws,” he said, raising an arm to show bandages around it. 

Grian looked down at his hands, nails grown out to uneven lengths, but certainly not claws. He looks at the callus on his middle finger of his right hand, where he always rested his pens. A little spot that had showed up during university and never left. 

He wondered if other people saw claws, or if they saw this otherwise normal man milking his five seconds of fame. 

“How’d you get away?” the man prompted. 

“I slammed the window as best I could onto its arm,” the man answered, “he let out this deathly, inhumane shriek and flew off.”

“I bet you feel so lucky to have survived such an encounter,” the woman said. 

“I don’t feel lucky about the emergency bill,” Ted grumbled. 

Cuteguy hadn’t even hurt the man. 

Mumbo grabbed the remote from where Grian had left it on the table and shut the tv off. Grian wasn’t sure if there was more the man had to say, if there was something he was going to miss. He couldn’t really think clearly to wonder about the implications of the interview, only focused on the way it made him feel. 

How unfair it was for the man to lie. 

How unfair it was for the public to believe him. 

Grian woke up slowly at first, sunlight warming his face and burning through his eyelids. He turns over and groans, pressing his head further into the pillow. 

He hadn’t been able to sleep in like this in a while. It was nice. 

Grian shot up so fast his eyes glazed over with black dots and his head swam. He had classes today. 

There was a glass of water and a few pills of ibuprofen sitting on his nightstand, he chugged the water and took the medicine—no matter that he wasn’t hungover anymore. 

He was swinging his legs over his bed into a sitting position when Mumbo walked in. 

“Mum–” Grian started, voice cracking. “Mumbo, I have work.” 

Mumbo chuckled, “mate, you don't even remember?” 

Grian stared at him, head swimming. 

“You called off earlier,” Mumbo clarified, “when you woke up. Said you were sick. Helped that each sentence was punctuated by audible gagging.” 

“Oh my god,” Grian was mortified. 

“I sent an email out to your students too,” Mumbo said. 

“Thanks man,” Grian said. 

Mumbo set a steaming mug of coffee on the night stand, next to the half-drunk cup of water. “Figured you’d want this too.” 

“Was I really that pathetically hung over,” Grian asked. 

“It was awful,” Mumbo chuckled. “You drank way too much.”

“Did I say something terribly embarrassing?” 

“You started crying because I wouldn’t let you alphabetize your spice rack at two in the morning.”

“That’s not too bad,” Grian said. 

“No?” Mumbo asked, “how about ‘You said Cuteguy deserves a theme song and then tried to make me hum along while you wrote lyrics about yourself,’ or maybe ‘You told me Scar’s voice should be illegal because it makes your ‘knees feel like soup.’”

“Oh god,” Grian said. 

“Oh god indeed,” Mumbo laughed. “I have quite the blackmail, or a wedding story, whichever one comes up first.”

“Wedding?” Grian nearly spilled his coffee. “Whose wedding?”

“Dunno. You and Scar, maybe. Or Hotguy, if he gets to you first. I’m flexible.”

Grian groaned again, this time louder, burying his face in the pillow. His voice came out muffled: “Why are you my friend.” 

“Cause I’d be worse as an enemy,” Mumbo said. 

Grian thought of everything the man knew about him, “ugh,” he responded. “You’ll stay my friend then.” 

“Good choice.” 

“Can we settle for acquaintances?” 

Mumbo raised an eyebrow at him. 

“No, okay, I got it.” 

They both laughed.

Chapter Text

He turned a corner sharply, going much too fast for being in the city. Cuteguy was alone in the sky though, it wasn’t a situation of him recklessly driving a two ton death machine. The only one he could hurt going so fast was himself, splatting comedically against a window or something. 

A shout floats up at him, echoing off the buildings either side. He looks down, a petty daylight theft. Stolen purse, the kind of thing that happens all the time with bystanders too busy to care. Cuteguy dropped down into a dive, the air rushing and blowing his hair out of his face. 

At the last second he opens his wings and beats them once to stabilize, a few pieces of litter are kicked up in the gust of wind. He’s about half a block from the thief, and about a block from the victim. He takes off running, wings angled on his back to create the least amount of air resistance. 

Despite all their weight and the big clunky size, Cuteguy can run just about faster than any average person. And if he can't catch up to them on foot, he certainly can on wing. 

Cuteguy catches up to the man easily. The thief must have heard his footsteps, or seen him in the reflection of a window because he swings the purse off his body and throws it at Cuteguy. 

A poor distraction. 

Cuteguy catches it easily, throwing the strap over his neck and onto his shoulder, safe, but not nearly as in the way as it would have been had he held it. A few steps behind the man he jumps, grabs the man and beats his wings to keep them both from skidding across the sidewalk. 

“Really?” he asks, “middle of the day? On a busy street? You’re not even trying.” 

“Please,” the man said, "I needed the money.” 

Cuteguy can’t see the man's face, but something in his voice sparks pity. He’d been in that position before, petty crimes to stay alive. 

Cuteguy scoffs and shoves the man away from him before he can second guess himself, “don’t do it again,” he said. “Anyone else who catches you won’t be nearly as nice. Can’t do anything in cuffs.” 

The man seemed really grateful, and standing so far apart he could get a good look at his face. A boy, maybe nineteen, dirty but tried to clean up as best he could. 

Cuteguy felt bad. 

He turned around and ran off, away from the boy he’d just let off with a warning. As if it could erase his decision. 

He crossed the road back to the side the woman was waiting for him, purse strap bouncing across his chest as he sped before a car could hit him. He could see her from half a block away, she’d attempted to chase but obviously didn't get far. 

She was staring at him, a pastel pink wheelchair matching her purse. 

Wheelchair. 

He thinks back to the boy he’d let off, a cowardly move, stealing something from someone who didn’t even stand a chance to fight back. He scowled. 

She was wearing a cute outfit, not unlike something Mumbo would put him in. He smiled fondly, and kept that smile up as he approached. Trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. 

“Here,” he said, “sorry about that, they didn't take anything.” 

She stared at him for a moment while he handed the purse over. 

“Thanks…” she said, unsure of herself. “I didn’t—I didn’t think your kind cared about normal people.” A relieved chuckle escaped her lips as she looked through the bag—deeming everything was still in it. 

Cuteguy stared at her. 

The words had hit harder than a criminal ever could. 

Your kind. 

He stood frozen in place, for a second trying to convince himself she’d meant vigilantes. Either way, it was carved into him. 

“Right,” he managed to press out, wings flaring slightly—her eyes widened. There wasn’t a doubt now. “Stay safe.” He stepped back and spread his wings, beating down once to catch wind and take off. He looked down at her, neck craning to look at him as he flapped higher and higher. 

He turned the first corner he could, desperate to get away from her burning gaze. He couldn’t get the words out of his head. 

He’d let a kid go because he’d understood the desperation, the burning want to live. Empathy was a human trait. 

And still. 

He was just ’your kind’. 

Then another thought twisted his stomach. 

Does Scar think the same way about me? 

He climbed higher and higher, ignoring the city beneath him. It was just a grey dot blotch now. A blemish against the green. 

He was up high, much too high. Any higher and his lungs, powerful as they are, would struggle. He’d gasp for air, vision blacking out. And he’d fall, possibly to his death. 

For a second Cuteguy considered flying higher, testing fate. Before he let himself drop into a free fall. Let the wind sooth his thoughts. 

He tried to shove the thought away. 

Scar hadn’t been like that, hadn’t treated him like that. 

He thought of the bench, how warm and kind Scar's expression had been—between all of the flustered teasing. Scar wasn’t like that. 

Was he? 

He remembered the way Scar complimented everyone, how nice he was even to those who’d wronged him. How easy it could be for the man to mask discontent with kindness. 

Was the bench special? 

Was he reading into it too much? Could it just have been a misunderstanding? The same way Grian had misunderstood the coffee date. Was he really that delusional? 

The memory curdled, he was torn between comfort and sickness. 

He wished the wind would wipe his thoughts free. 

He opened his eyes, the city coming into focus much too fast. 

Only for a brief second did he not want to open his wings. 

Then he opened his wings again, breath coming hard and sharp, the thoughts slammed back into him, heavier than the fall had ever been.

His body moved before his mind caught up, drifting in slow lazy circles until he was back threading through the tall buildings. He convinced himself he was just flying aimlessly, cooling his head, clearing his thoughts. The way the buildings gradually grew shorter told him something different. 

He knew where he was going, even if he refused to admit it. 

The sun was sinking below the horizon, glittering against windows and spotting in his vision. He glided past the old church building with the tall clocktower. Past the spiraling parking garage. He tried to ignore the way the streets disappeared in favor of old brick buildings and sprawling courtyards. 

He knew where he was. 

The university. 

It must’ve been around 5:30. Scar’s last class would have ended over an hour ago, it was unlikely that the man would still be around. Cuteguy didn’t even know why he’d flown over, some unconscious question burning his brain that thoughts couldn't express. 

He needed to be sure of… something. 

Cuteguy slowed, wings tucked in close as he banked low over the street. That’s when he saw him. Scar, leaving the staff lot with a stack of papers sat loosely in his lap, humming to himself like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Cuteguy’s breath quickened, heart lurching. 

He was intruding. 

This was a private moment, something Scar hadn’t meant for anyone to see. 

The man was supposed to be alone, to walk home on his own. Cuteguy wasn’t supposed to be here, and yet it was exhilarating. Getting to see the man so unguarded, so himself. 

His singing voice was lovely. 

Cuteguy imagined the man humming as he preened through his wings and he shivered. His strong calloused hands in Grian’s. 

He landed slowly on a roof above the street Scar was wheeling down. He made a joke to himself, something under his breath Cuteguy didn’t hear. His laugh was like music, lovelier even than the song he’d just been humming. 

With a near silent beat of his wings Cuteguy vaulted across the small one-way street and onto the roof across from it. Still trailing a small distance behind the man. 

The route was easy to follow, the man lazed down the streets as though he’d done it a thousand times—he probably had. Trailing hands over bushes, tapping against the occasional street sign. As though even the road home was a friend. 

It was sweet. Intimate. 

Scar traveled with the self-assuredness of a man who thought he was unstoppable, as though nothing could hurt him. Cuteguy thought back to the girl from earlier, who’d probably been on a route she knew well as well. 

Something that hadn’t stopped that kid from snatching her purse. 

Cuteguy was protecting him. 

He didn’t want something like that to happen to Scar, the guilt would eat him alive. Something he could’ve—and was currently—easily prevented. He was just keeping the man safe. 

Cuteguy hovered above, trailing him with almost no sound, adrenaline humming in his veins. Every move Scar made, every tiny, human detail—he devoured it greedily. This wasn’t a side of Scar he was ever meant to see.

And that was a problem. 

It hit Cuteguy all at once. A cold weight settled in his stomach, something sickening. If he kept this up, ‘kept the man safe’, he’d have followed Scar home. 

Like a lovesick stalker. 

His wings twitched nervously. He stumbled back a step, heart pounding, shame flooding his chest. What was he doing? Shadowing Scar like a predator? What kind of person was he?

For a moment, he imagined Scar in trouble—cornered by muggers, or struck by a car—and himself swooping in, dramatic and dazzling, to save him. The fantasy curdled as fast as it came. He wasn’t protecting Scar. He was indulging himself.

Scar paused at the corner, leaning down to straighten a fallen flower pot someone had left by their steps. He whistled as he worked, a quiet little sound, like he belonged here. Like he belonged everywhere.

Cuteguy’s chest ached. He wanted to keep watching. Wanted to know what Scar’s front door looked like, what kind of flowers lined his walkway.

He wanted, and the wanting was unbearable.

With a choked sound he flung himself skyward, retreating into the night before he could learn one detail more.

The breakroom buzzed with the usual early morning chatter. None of the professors had classes this early, so it held the same lively atmosphere he was used to. Grian clutched a stack of papers to his chest, something Scar had asked him for. 

Scar was easy to spot, of course. He stood at the center of the noise leaning against his cane, laughing loudly at some joke Bdubs had made, his voice carrying over everyone else’s. His grin was wide, his gestures dramatic, the kind of presence that pulled people in like moths to a flame.

The kind of presence that pulled Grian in. 

And then, as if sensing eyes on him, Scar turned. His expression softened when it landed on Grian.

“Grian! Lifesaver,” Scar said warmly, waking over as if they were the only two in the room. “Thank you so much, I was worried I’d forgotten to ask you. You’re a gem.”

The praise hit like a sunbeam, and for a heartbeat Grian thought he might melt. “Next time search for your own bibliography,” he forced himself to say.

Scar chuckled and reached out to take the papers, their hands brushing for the briefest moment. Scar’s fingers were warm.

Grian’s brain glazed over for a second, focused solely on the small slice of the world where his and Scar’s fingers had touched. 

“Grian?” Scar asked, expression worried. “You good?” 

Grian jumped, flustered, “yeah, yeah,” he said, a little too quickly. “Just tired, is all.” 

“You should get some more sleep,” Scar said before smiling widely. “Well, I have to get to my class. Thanks again.”  

“Yeah,” Grian said lamely, “no problem.” 

Grian stood there with empty hands, watching the warmth that had felt so private just seconds ago walk slowly out the door. Scar’s laughter trailed after him, ringing down the hall, pulling others along in its wake.

Mumbo rolled up next to him on a sliding chair. Sipping tea with one hand and poking Grian in the ribs with the other. “That. Was. Lame.” He said, punctuating each word with a harder poke. 

“Shut up,” Grian hissed, stealing the tea from the man’s hands. 

Mumbo made a face of disgust, “ugh,” he said, “you’re awful. Now I have to steep another.” 

“Thanks for the tea Mumbo,” Grian laughed. 

“You know,” Mumbo murmured, not unkindly, “if you stare any harder, people will start asking if you’ve lost your glasses.”

Grian blinked, heat creeping up his neck. Grian knew it wasn't from the tea.

Mumbo sighed. “Hopeless.”

The chill in the air was sharp with the lingering bite of winter. The season was on its last legs, clutching desperately to keep its hold. The kind of cold that sat stubbornly in your bones even when the morning sun glowed pink with the promise of spring. 

Cuteguy circled lazily above the university campus. Hero patrol routes never passed through here, too safe. He told himself there wasn’t a reason for him to be in this area, but his body hadn’t listened to his mind for days now. 

He almost missed him. 

Scar. 

His reason for being in the area came wheeling out of a familiar building—the one he’d taught lectures in himself earlier that day. The man had stayed late again. Pulling onto the sidewalk with an ungodly stack of papers. 

Loose leaf, printed handouts, a few folders all stacked precariously on the man’s lap. He was humming under his breath—some song the vigilante couldn't name—too preoccupied with keeping the papers in his lap as he wheeled forward. 

It was a team attack, a bump in the sidewalk coupled with a strong gust of wind. The papers flew from the man's lap, scattering around him. The lighter ones being picked up by the wind and carried away. 

Scar yelped, half panicked and half amused. It was a comical scene, the man trying his best to capture one paper without losing the rest. 

Cuteguy didnt think, he folded his wings in tight and dropped down in a steep dive. The wind rushed against his face and tangled his hair, stomach lurching as he opened his wings again. Catching the air at just the right time to keep from landing in a heap against the ground. 

One hand shot out to snatch a paper mid-spin. Another he pinned down under his boot. His wings beat once, sweeping two more against his chest.

By the time Scar blinked, Cuteguy was already in front of him, handing back half a dozen sheets with a grin. “You, uh… dropped these.”

Scar stared at him blankly before his face lit up in laughter. “Dropped,” he repeated, “yeah,” he said, laughing harder. “The wind turned the papers into confetti.” 

Cuteguy chuckled, walking away from the man and picking up the papers he had dropped, stooping low to grab a stray paper before it could settle under a bench. “Don’t take it too personally,” Cuteguy said, “the wind hates everyone." 

“I’ll say.” Scar shoved the salvaged stack against his chest with one arm, freeing the other to accept the next paper Cuteguy offered. “Without you, I think my entire midterm grading would’ve just… flown off to freedom. And let’s be honest, those kids don’t deserve that much luck.”

Cuteguy’s chest squeezed. The warmth in Scar’s voice, the easy humor—it wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite. He was delighted.

He forced a smirk. “Glad to know I’m good for more than just punching muggers.”

Scar’s laugh bubbled out of him again, soft this time, edged with something fond. “You’re good for a lot, Cuteguy. Honestly, you showed up right when I needed it. Like some kind of guardian angel—you have the wings for it.” 

The easy praise hit him hard, his mind flashed back to him thanking Grian in the breakroom. That warmth that had long since faded. 

It wasn’t the same. It’ll never be the same. 

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Don’t rely on me too much, I just might start charging by the hour.” 

“It’d be worth it,” Scar replied, a grin tugging up one corner of his mouth and exposing a dimple Grian had never noticed before. The wind blew again, pulling a few papers off the top of Scar’s stack. Cuteguy grabbed them easily and gently set them back down. 

Scar never looked at him like that, not in the staffroom, not in the daylight.

Their fingers brushed as he handed it back. Just as warm, but it still felt burning against Cuteguys cold hands. 

Scar’s eyes flicked up to meet his, amusement sparkling there. “Show-off.”

Cuteguy froze. The teasing wasn’t cruel. It was intimate, conspiratorial, like Scar had let him in on a private joke.

He almost forgot to breathe. “Just efficient,” he managed.

Scar grinned wider, tucking the last sheet back into his pile. “Well, efficient or not—you saved me again. What would I do without you?”

He’s never said that to me. Grian’s stomach flipped, whether it be happy or miserable he couldn’t tell. He looked at Scar, smile radiant in the fading light. He wanted to believe it. That he was needed. That Scar needed him. 

He wanted it so badly to be real.

Grian had always been selfish like that, had always wanted too much. 

“I should… uh, go. I’ll—” Cuteguy caught himself before he could finish that sentence. ‘I’ll see you Monday.’ he’d almost said. Wings twitching. If he stayed, he’d ask for more. He’d cling. He couldn’t. “Stay out of trouble, Scar.”

Scar tilted his head, curiosity flickering, but he only said, “Don’t fly into a window.”

Cuteguy didn’t answer, though the words made him smile to himself. He launched upward, the downdraft ruffling Scar’s hair and sending one last paper fluttering—but Scar caught it this time, laughing to himself.

From above, Cuteguy looked down one last time. Scar, alone in the quad, juggling papers, still humming. Still smiling.

The sight was beautiful. 

An arrow whizzed by him, not close enough to be aimed at him, but close enough to know he was being threatened. He watched as it wrapped itself around a pole and heard the buzzing as it wound up. Hotguy grappled up to the roof with him. 

“Did you have to aim so close to my wing?” Cuteguy asked him. 

“I am supposed to be catching you,” Hotguy grinned at him. 

“Do you want me to fly off?”

“Do you want a grappling arrow in your side?” Hotguy asked, unwrapping the arrow from the post, “I doubt it’d be very pleasant to have your insides ripped out as I pull you back to the ground.” 

Grian shuddered. The thought of being yanked from the sky by his stomach turned his wings cold. His fingers still burned from where Scar’s hands had touched them earlier. 

The difference was immeasurable. 

“Sounds fun,” Cuteguy commented. “Sounds fun,” Cuteguy commented, one hand slipping into his pocket where one of his pistols rested. His wings twitched once, betraying his nerves, but he forced a lazy smirk onto his face.

Hotguy leaned against the small shed-like building that led to the rooftop stairs, bow slung over his shoulder and his grin relaxed. 

It wouldn’t be hard to pull out his gun and shoot. 

“Do you have anything interesting you’re supposed to be doing for the night?” Cuteguy asked him, he’d stopped two muggings in three hours. It was a slow night. 

“Awh, birdie,” Hotguy said, "you're the only interesting thing I'd want to do.” 

“In your dreams,” and my nightmares. 

Hotguy grinned at him lazily, he couldn't see his eyes under his visor, but he could imagine the flirtatious look. “Oh you bet,” he said, “my favorite nights.” Hotguy pushed off the building, sauntering over to where Cuteguy stood near the edge. 

“Careful, birdie. Keep looking at me like that and you’ll give me a heart attack. Although, I would look great in a hospital gown.”

Cuteguy arched his brow. “Sounds like a medical problem.”

Hotguy laughed, unbothered. “Or maybe just a you problem. One day I’m going to see your face flush and know it’s not just from flying too fast.” He lifted a hand, hovering it in the air like he might brush Cuteguy’s cheek—but he stopped short, hesitating for a moment.

Cuteguy was almost touch starved enough to let the man follow through. 

In a tick, he whipped the gun out of the pocket of his shorts and aimed it straight at Hotguy’s visor, where he imagined the bridge of his nose lay. He wanted the real thing. Not this parody, not lust dressed up as charm. Scar’s laugh echoed in his head, soft and fond. That was what he wanted. Not this.

Hotguy instantly raised his hands and took three steps back, “woah, woah,” he said, “just teasing you birdie.” 

Cuteguy didn't lower the gun, and Hotguy made no move to grab his bow. “You’re way too full of yourself, pretty boy,” he told him. He grabbed Hotguy’s arm, lifting and twisting it so Cuteguy had full vision of his watch. He stuck his tongue out, “nothing interesting,” he commented. “How boring.” 

He dropped Hotguy’s arm and walked a circle around the man, extending one wing teasingly in a way that would be flirtatious—had the hero known what it meant. “I guess I'll be off then,” he said, “there are cats to rescue from trees.” 

“Leaving so soon little dove?” Hotguy asked him. 

“Can never leave soon enough,” Cuteguy returned. 

Hotguy pouted, "I can't believe you hate me so much.” 

Cuteguy grinned, “can’t hate you enough,” he said, backing to the edge of the roof. “See you later old man,” he blew him a kiss and fell backward over the edge of the roof. For a tick he could see the panic in the face of the hero as he tumbled backward, before his vision was taken over by the sky, then the buildings opposite of him and finally the road beneath as he twisted around to open his wings. 

The building was shorter than he remembered it being—one of these days he was going to misjudge the distance to the ground and fail to open his wings in time, landing in a pile of bones and blood on the street below. Cuteguy shook the image of him painted across the sidewalk out of his head and beat his wings to shoot up in the air. 

He only managed to stop another mugging and narrowly avoided another conversation with Hotguy before calling it a night. 

Grian stumbled in his window through the fire escape, peeling off his suit and enjoying the way the fresh air felt against his skin; having been cooped up all day in skintight clothing. He wasn’t drenched in sweat but it was enough for him to want a shower, throwing his suit into the wash he stepped into the bath and turned the water onto lukewarm. 

He didn’t work the next day so when he was finished drying and hiding his wings he crawled under the covers and enjoyed the prospect of sleeping in. 

In the dark, Scar’s laugh replayed in his head like a song stuck on loop, over and over again. The way the man had smiled was burned into his dark eyelids. The dimple he’d never noticed shining in his mind’s eye. 

Hotguy’s smirk tried to creep in after it, but it rang false, sharp-edged where Scar was soft. Grian turned onto his side, pulling the blankets tighter. He knew which one he wanted, and it wasn’t the one who chased him with arrows.

Chapter Text

Grian walked into the breakroom, it was the middle of the day. Common hour as the school called it, when classes weren’t in and it gave everyone a break and a chance to eat and socialize. Occasionally Grian would stop by Jimmy's office, annoy his cousin and not even have the thought of Scar cross his mind. 

Other times he’d walk off campus to a cafe or restaurant, claiming fresh air, but Grian knew what it was he was avoiding. 

Most days he wouldn’t protest when his feet dragged him into the breakroom, when his hands made a cup of tea and while his mouth ate a vending machine sandwich. Monday’s and Tuesday’s weren’t so bad, when he had Mumbo to keep him company. 

He was all alone on Thursdays, he knew the others noticed. Could feel the occasional pensive glance in his direction. 

The vending machine hummed behind him, and one of the fluorescent lights flickered above him. The corner was always open no matter what time Grian came in—nobody seemed to want to sit next to a leaky vending machine. 

It was perfect for Grian. 

If he could get past the flickering. 

His eye twitched slightly as he did his best to find the opening of the plastic wrapped sandwich. 

It wasn’t that he avoided everyone. 

He just.. didn’t want to intrude. 

They’d already formed little friend groups, each one with similar interests. The Arts professors, Cleo, Ren, Bdubs and Scar. The science professors, Grian only vaguely knew Tango—who had caught his eye by being a fire elemental—and Impulse, the computer science teacher who’d helped Grian with a few tech problems over the years. 

The other professors he didn’t know; despite working for The National University for years. Some of them were recognisable, little more than faces he could pick out in a crowd and say ‘hey, I know them!’

He knew Mumbo usually hung out with the science professors on days Grian didn’t work, sometimes Grian imagined the man only hung out with him out of pity. But the man’s genuine care for Grian was unmistakable, even to someone as far in their head as Grian. 

Going off subjects, there was no reason Grian shouldn’t buddy up with the Arts crew. 

No reason other than Grian being… a little shy. 

Shy. 

Was all. 

He realized he’d been staring when he tuned back in to hear Bdubs teasing Scar. “You’ve been dreamy eyed lately, Scar,” he said, grinning over his cup of coffee. “Who’s the lucky soul?” 

Cleo smiled wide, “he’s been zoning out way too often for a man not infatuated.” 

Ren sat nearby reading through an old dog-eared copy of Romeo and Juliet. “If you need dating advice,” Ren added, “don’t take it from here,” he lifted up the book for Scar to see. 

“Believe me,” Scar said, "I'm far more dramatic.” 

“That’s for sure,” Cleo said, “you’ve got it bad, man. We all see it.”

“Alright,” Scar admitted with his hands up, “Maybe I'm… fond. Is that such a crime?” 

Cleo was obviously delighted, “Fond!” She said, “More like I’m-ready-to-propose.”

“You’re devastatingly pathetic,” Ren chipped in. 

“Devastatingly handsome," Scar grumbled. Something about that small exchange struck a cord in Grian’s head. 

He was overcome with a feeling of guilt. 

His mind tried to excuse it, ‘is it really eavesdropping if their conversation is loud enough to be heard across the room?’ 

‘Maybe if you’ve spent 15 minutes doing nothing but listening in,’ he shot back, ‘you haven't even touched your sandwich.’ 

Grian looked down to where his hands hadn’t even finished unwrapping it. He wasn’t hungry anymore, feeling sick to his stomach. What was wrong with him? Listening in on conversations, nearly following the man home for god’s sake. 

Was he really so horribly, pathetically in love with the man he’d gone mad? Or was it just a succession of temporary judgement lapses. Grian hastily stood up, walking over to the little kitchenette and dropped the sandwich in the trash. 

He dumped out his lukewarm mug of tea in the sink and washed it as quickly as he could before speedwalking out into the hallway. 

He ducked across the hall into the unisex bathroom, locking the door behind him before nearly crumpling into a spiraling mess. 

Scar was in love with someone. 

And it so obviously wasn’t him. 

He’d entertained the thought for a moment, his mind replaying all the kind little moments Scar had given him. All the times it could’ve meant something, something more than coworkers. 

All the times he’d watched the man show the same kindness so effortlessly, so thoughtlessly. Like it was as easy as breathing. Like it was how he treated everyone. 

No. 

Scar was not in love with Grian. 

His smile flashed in his mind’s eye, that dimple Grian had never seen. The lopsided grin. 

A smile not meant for Grian, but Cuteguy. 

The realization hit him like a truck, he slid down the wall and sat on the probably disgusting bathroom floor. 

He’d known Scar had a thing for Cuteguy. 

A celebrity crush, the sort of love you feel for someone unobtainable. Lust maybe, something that’d fizzle out after a one night stand and leave Grian devastated. 

The kind of thing you’d gossip with your friends over, ‘he likes me,’ like he had with Mumbo. 

The kind of ‘knowing’ where you're only grasping at straws. 

Grian knew. 

He tried to tell himself it didn't matter. It did. He tried to tell himself he’d already known this. He could only guess. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t any different, Scar still didn’t like him in the way he wished so deeply he would. It did matter, Scar was in love with Cuteguy. He was Cuteguy. 

It may not have changed everything, but it sure as hell changed a lot. 

He thought about what Mumbo had said, ‘it’s not going to go anywhere. What, are you going to reveal your identity?’ 

Mumbo, lovely Mumbo. The voice of reason amongst his spiraling thoughts. 

He was right, it never could go anywhere. 

Grian thought about the way Scar had smiled. 

Not at him, never at him. 

The way the man had smiled at the mask Grian had worn like a shield. Infatuated with the idea of him, not with him. 

He wanted the ideal, not the reality. 

Grian resolved to stomp his infatuation out like a dropped cigarette butt. Crushed beneath his heel to prevent it catching fire—nevermind the fact it burned so brightly it hurt his eyes, burned his hands. 

He’d stop flying by the university, stop going by the breakroom. Stop seeing the man as anything other than a coworker. 

Someone knocked on the door. 

Grian cleaned up, looking himself in the eyes before turning to unlock the door and step out. 

He stared up at the ceiling, his room was dark, but the light from streetlamps seeped in through the cracks in the blinds. 

He’s tired. 

It’s been a long day. 

He needs to sleep, it’s late. 

But no matter how many times he forces his eyes to drift close, focuses on counting his breaths to keep his thoughts from wandering. 

He just can’t. 

Grian rolls over to his side, facing the window and he stares at his hand under the dim light. The yellow of the streetlights casting tiny little highlights against the miniscule wrinkles, the deep blue shadows burning his eyes with their intensity. 

His eyes shut again. 

Scar. 

He opens them. Ignoring the flash of the man's lopsided smile. 

The way his eyes lit up and crinkled slightly when he smiled. 

That stupid little dimple. 

Grian couldn’t sleep. 

Couldn’t do much of anything but think about Scar, or ignore thinking about Scar. 

Neither of which were really productive. 

He imagined what it would be like to see the man’s face sleeping beside him, barely discernible in the low lighting. The way his hair would fall over his face, eyelashes just barely touching his cheeks. Lips parted slightly and the steady, reassuring rise and fall of his chest. 

Grian’s heart ached. 

He’d been trying to avoid Scar, all but running away from any interaction with him. 

If Grian ignored Scar, stayed away from Scar, he’d have nothing to fuel his foolish desires with. No interactions to turn over in his head and overthink about. The crush would dissipate. 

Except it hadn’t. 

And maybe that was his fault too. 

He thought about the way he’d watched the man out in the courtyard—laughing with cleo and bdubs—while he stood out of view in Jimmy's office on the second floor. How for a second there he could swear the man made eye contact with him before Grian disappeared further into the office. 

He thought of the way the man had proposed a joint project between their students, two weeks of joint lectures in a larger hall, and groups made up of strangers. 

Grian almost said yes, two weeks working with Scar. 

Two weeks with Scar. 

He’d said no, made up some excuse about him being a bit behind on the curriculum. 

He’d almost said yes when he saw the way Scar’s face fell. 

Grian realised then, laying in bed, that Scar had been worried about him again. Had noticed him enough to feel pity. That the look on his face when Grian had claimed to be behind was out of concern. 

He remembered the awkward twenty minutes he’d spent ducked into an empty classroom, hiding to avoid Scar. The same Scar who’d stopped outside and decided to chit-chat with a coworker. 

He felt pathetic. 

He imagined the security officer could read his mind, thought the man found his entertainment through watching Grian so obviously over-think. Watching him fail at the smallest of tasks and laughing. 

He knew, logically, that it wasn’t true. 

Pixlriffs was a good person. 

Grian was just going insane. 

He rolled over to lay on his back, staring up at the patterns the light drew across his ceiling from the blinds. 

He’d sworn to keep his distance as Cuteguy. 

He’d failed even more miserably at that. 

Swooping down when some kid had grabbed the handles of his wheel chair and when running recklessly across streets and down sidewalks. A car had slammed on the brakes so hard the car behind them had rear ended it. 

Scar was terrified, but Grian felt a sense of satisfaction in the way the kid had been even more terrified. At that moment he didn't care how Scary he appeared, the pre-teen needed to learn an important lesson that his parents had obviously not cared to teach. 

Scar was on the verge of tears, and Cuteguy could only imagine how Scary it must have been to be taken with no control over where he was going. Akin to being picked up and thrown over a shoulder. Stolen autonomy, put in a potentially life threatening situation all because some kid had wanted a good laugh. 

Grian was still angry about that. 

He honestly didn’t regret breaking his rule to help the man then. 

He regretted the way he’d acted afterward, laughing with the man, sticking around him. Offering to walk him home. 

The way that Scar had looked at him as if he’d hung the stars, breathless and still flushed from fear. 

The image was ingrained in Grian’s mind. 

Something he might never get over. 

Jimmy had noticed his behavior. 

Had even tried to sick Joel on him, but Grian was able to easily convince his friend. Joel wasn’t as close to him as Jimmy was, being that they weren’t coworkers. There was only so much they could do with conflicting schedules. 

He’d been able to prove to Joel he was fine, and instead set the man's sights on making Jimmy's life just that littlest bit more inconvenient. And then laughing about it together. 

Mumbo wasn’t so easy to distract. 

Grian had dragged him out into the cold February morning when the man had insisted “You’ve been… not yourself.” 

He claimed that he’d just needed fresh air as they stood outside shivering into their too thin clothes and blowing warm air on their hands. 

It had been too cold to talk, at least. 

He smiled, remembering the way Mumbo had scowled under his mustache. Grumbling about the cold. 

Smiled, remembering the way Joel had grinned at him when Jimmy had called. 

Remembering the way Scar had looked up at him like he was worth the world. 

Everything always came back to Scar, didn’t it. 

Grian hated himself for it, and yet, he didn’t stop smiling. 

He shouldn’t be here. 

It was bad enough that he’d offered to walk Scar home. Bad enough the man had accepted. 

Butterflies still fluttered in his stomach when he thought about the way Scar’s eyes had lit up, the smile brightening his face as he accepted. How he’d happily chattered about this and that while Cuteguy walked slowly alongside him, savoring the seconds.

Being here now, across the street from the sleeping man's apartment was idiotic. It was creepy, insane. He wasn’t okay. 

He shouldn’t have been able to justify it. 

But somehow he could. 

A few thoughts of ‘I’m just resting my wings,’ and ‘I need a little break, I'll be gone in a moment,’ and he couldn’t bring himself enough to care anymore. Ignoring the fact that fifteen minutes had turned into an hour. 

Ignoring that ‘patrolling’ only seemed to be flying circles around this small, middle class neighborhood—one that wouldn’t see much if any crime at all. Ignoring that over the past week he’d been coming here, sitting on the edge of the rooftop and daydreaming. 

He may have a problem. 

…

It was a lot more than a problem. 

At least he could admit that. Self-awareness was the first step to getting better, wasn’t it? 

Then why did it seem to just be getting worse? 

A light flicked on in Scar’s living room, the man himself shirtless in his wheelchair. A fluffy white blanket was thrown over his lap. Cuteguy didn’t move, half from fear that if he did he’d be noticed. But the other half of his brain, something darker, something that would disgust him when he thought back on it, was mesmerised. 

He’d never seen Scar without his shirt on, it felt so intimate. So… personal. 

A little voice in his mind screamed, ‘yes, it is personal. You shouldn’t be seeing this. You shouldn't be doing this.’ 

His brain was so full of static he almost couldn't hear it, his limbs were filled with lead. 

He was wrong. 

He’d stopped registering the sight before his eyes, too focused on his own spiraling thoughts. A small, quiet sound shook him out of it. Scar had opened the balcony door and was making his way outside. Cuteguy threw himself backward out of reflex. 

He knew the movement probably caught Scar’s attention. 

Shame burned a hole through his heart, he lay there flat. Still as if he were dead. Revulsion filled his brain and left a bad taste in his mouth. 

He was almost hyperventilating. 

He focused on his breathing, bringing it back down to as normal as he could bear. All the while running through scenarios in his head. Scar probably hadn’t seen him, he’d been distracted. Scar definitely saw him, not just a shape against the night but who he was. Scar had probably just missed him, attention drawn by Cuteguy’s rapid movement, but he remained unseen. 

A quiet, hesitant voice calls out. “Are you there?” Scar asks. 

Cuteguy’s heart drops. 

A chuckle reaches his ear, even though the two are separated by a few stories and the street below. “I think I just imagined it,” he said, “look at me Jellie, talking to myself at night. I must be going insane.” 

There's silence for a moment, Cuteguy waits for him to say more; his heart pounding. 

It takes a few moments, but finally he does. “I feel safer since I met you,” he confessed into the chilly night air. Cuteguy was jealous of the man’s blanket, it looked comfortable. “I feel like it's fate, or just a series of really big coincidences that we keep running into each other. Or, more rather, you into me.” 

He was so, so stupid, being as obvious as he was about his desire for Scar. 

“I’d seek you out if I could,” Scar started, “but look at me. I can’t really fly around, or get around very well at all.” 

Grian’s heart broke to hear the man sound so defeated about himself. He wished he was there next to him, close enough to smooth his hair and hold his hand. Whisper to him about how perfect he was, wheelchair or no. 

It took all his self restraint to not peek his head over the roof and see the look on the man’s face. 

“Am I so wrong to think that maybe you’ve found me on purpose all those times?” he asked, “am I overthinking it? You seem to swoop in each moment I’m in trouble, catch me when I’m about to fall and sweep me off my feet with your charm.”

Cuteguy wondered if the man was done talking, if he’d gotten tired of the chill and gone back inside. 

“Am I special?” Scar asked, after minutes of silence. As if he’d had trouble getting the words out. “Is this what you do for everyone? Do all civilians get this much attention from you or have I just caught your eye?” 

His resolve was wavering, Scar sounded so hopeless, so downtrodden. As if each question took more and more of his self esteem to ask. 

Scar looked so small, sitting on the balcony achingly far from where Cuteguy hid. 

Hid. 

Had hid. 

He’d moved without realizing, lifting his body up and peaking over the half wall surrounding the perimeter of the rooftop. Scar was looking down at the steaming mug in his lap. But, beg as his mind might, he couldn’t look away from the man. 

As if sensing the eyes on him, Scar looked up at him. 

He was too far away to see the color of his eyes, but Grian had long since memorised the exact shade of green belonging to Scar. 

Scar let out a disbelieving breath. 

“I’d forgotten I'd seen you,” he chuckled, “I got so caught up in talking to myself… you heard all that, didn’t you?” 

Cuteguy didn't move, as if staying frozen in place would undo the last hour. 

“That is you, right?” he asked, "I'm not sure who else would be on the roof. I can’t really see very well from this angle.” The man was rambling, clearly trying to diffuse such an awkward situation. “It’s kind of creepy almost,” he said, “you’re so still. Like an owl, or something. Like a serial killing ghost.” 

Creepy. 

He was being creepy. 

He should at least go down and talk to the man now. 

It was only right. 

His wings itched to take off, to fly high in the sky. In a battle of fight or flight, he always had to control his instincts. 

He wasn’t in a battle of fight or flight. 

But the anxiety was still crushing. 

“I don’t really know anyone else with glowing purple eyes,” Scar joked, but there was something serious hidden underneath. 

Cuteguy stood up, moving slowly. 

There was obvious relief on Scar’s face. 

He shifted slowly from foot to foot before finally pushing himself to take a leap of faith—almost literally. He hopped up onto the short barrier between him and tumbling to the sidewalk below and jumped off. 

Scar’s gasp of air was almost inaudible underneath the wind and blood rushing in his ears. He snapped his wings open—not nearly as close to the ground as he usually did, he didn’t want to scare Scar more than he already had. 

He propelled himself up, until he was able to grab the railing of Scar’s balcony and pull himself up. The man looked intensely relieved. 

“Body-guarding me now?” he asked, the simple joke stung in Cuteguy’s chest. His stalkerish behaviour hadn’t gone unnoticed to Scar. 

“You just get in so much trouble I figured it better to be proactive,” he forced the words out against the lump in his throat. Leaning faux-casually against the man’s railing. 

Scar laughed, “I am surprisingly clumsy.”

“I’ll be there to catch you fall,” the words rushed out before he could stop them. But the smile on Scar’s face kept him from regretting them. 

“I’ll be counting on you,” he replied. 

Cuteguy smiled back at the man, drowning in the look on his face. 

The air was so sweet, so tender. He’d all but forgotten the turmoil he’d felt previously. He didn’t regret coming to the rooftop tonight, it led him to this. 

This perfect little moment. 

“I feel safe with you around,” Scar whispered, as if it were a love confession. 

“Not the heroes?” Cuteguy asked him. 

“The heroes belong to the city,” Scar answered. ‘I belong to you,’ Cuteguy thought. “It feels like…” Scar trailed off. 

“Feels like what?” Cuteguy pressed, desperate to know. 

“Like…” Scar was hesitant, as if his next words held the secrets of the universe. “It almost feels like you're mine—my... my personal hero. Sorry. It’s stupid, I-” he rushed to defend himself but the words had already been said, could never be taken back. 

“I do,” Cuteguy whispered, so quietly he wasn’t sure if Scar heard him. 

Scar looked up at him, emotion so raw, so evident on his face it brought Cuteguy to his knees—thank god he was leaning against that railing, else he would have really fallen to his knees. 

“Go out with me,” he blurted before he could stop the words.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Mumbo commented, for the twentieth time, shaking his head slightly as he helped Grian stuff pillows into plastic garbage bags. 

“You keep saying that,” Grian answered. 

“I know,” Mumbo said, “I just.. You.. you're so-”

“So what?” 

“Pathetic,” Mumbo whispered. 

Grian scoffed. 

Mumbo chuckled nervously, “did I say pathetic? I meant hopeless. No that’s mean too, complacent? Comfortably miserable? Oh bollocks, that's even worse. Passive. I meant passive.” 

“I get it,” Grian chuckled, not too offended. 

“Sorry mate,” Mumbo said sheepishly, “you’re just…” 

“You had it right the first time,” Grian joked, “but hey, I surprised us both!” 

“I don’t know what went through your head.”

“Neither do I,” Grian answered, quieter. “But, he did say yes.” 

It was Mumbo’s turn to scoff, “you pine in front of me anymore and I'll find a way to turn you into a tree.” 

Grian chuckled, stuffing a heart shaped pillow into the bag and tying it off. 

“You’re sure on wearing the photoshoot outfit?” Mumbo asked him. 

Grian nodded. 

“But what about your pockets?” Mumbo asked, “where are you hiding your guns?” 

“It’s a date, Mumbo,” Grian answered, “why would I need guns?” 

“What if he’s setting you up?” 

“I’m the one setting the date up.” 

“I’m worried about you,” Mumbo said. 

“You shouldn’t be,” Grian said. “I’m strong.” 

“I know you are,” Mumbo said, “it's just… sorry.” 

The thought of Scar contacting the authorities and catching him in a trap hadn’t even crossed Grian’s mind. Which was probably a sign he was being naive and should take a step back to think. 

But it was Scar.

He’s known Scar for years. 

They’re coworkers. 

But Scar hadn’t known Cuteguy for years. 

“You really went all out,” Mumbo commented, “how much did you spend on this?” 

“Maybe,” Grian thought for a second, “seven hundred?” 

“Seven hundred??” Mumbo gawked. 

“Well, okay,” he started defending himself, “most of it was on the chair.” 

It would have been hard to plan a good-leg-day in advance, and Grian wasn’t sure if Scar would have been able to get to and from the ground from his wheelchair so he had splurged and bought an electric chair lift—just in case. 

Mumbo just looked at him. “I think you might have a problem with overthinking.” 

Grian fake-pouted. 

“You didn’t consider asking him about his mobility?” Mumbo questioned, not rudely. 

“I didn’t really think about it,” Grian answered. 

“But you thought enough to buy a $500 mobility aid he may or may not need? Or he may have already?” 

He felt scolded, “it’d be awkward to ask,” he said, “and besides, it’ll make me seem less mysterious.” 

He didn’t like the way Mumbo was looking at him. 

“I’m sure Scar would have been more than fine with you asking. It’s more awkward to assume and go out of your way on something he didn’t need, or want. It’s a sweet gesture, but it would also be sweet to show you care by asking him.” 

He was embarrassed. 

But Mumbo was right. 

“You deserve him way more than I do,” Grian said. 

Mumbo burst out laughing, “even if he proposed to me with a diamond ring and rose petals falling from the sky around us, I’d have said no.” 

Mumbo looked at Grian, “you’re my best friend, I wouldn't do that to you.” Grian looked away. “And, besides, you know who I want.” 

He looked back to see Mumbo waggling his eyebrows, and he couldn't help but grin. 

“I thought you were ace,” Grian teased. 

“Demi,” Mumbo corrected, “and besides, can’t a man window shop?” 

“According to you,” Grian said, “the merchandise already belongs to another.” 

“Alas,” Mumbo agreed, “such a shame.” 

“I still don’t think Hotguy likes me,” Grian said. 

“I still think you’re oblivious,” Mumbo answers. 

“You don’t see how he acts around me as Cuteguy,” he protested, “he looks at me with that kind of hunger that forgets I’m a person.“

Mumbo’s gaze was unreadable. 

“And-” Grian continued, “he scares me. Even if we were in a relationship. Does his job come first? If he finds out who… I am, does that mean I'll stop being Grian?” The reason he was so uncomfortable with Mumbo’s teasing statements. Fear. 

Their good mood was ruined. They both could tell. 

“We should probably start hauling these to the car,” Grian said, changing the topic. 

Mumbo just nodded. 

Scar hadn’t been sure how formal to dress up—he didn’t know where they’d be going. Cuteguy had left a note on his balcony window. 

He reread it again, just to make sure. 

Saturday March 3rd at 10pm, meet me on your balcony. 

He had the day right, at least. 

Cuteguy had nice handwriting, not the kind Scar had expected from his getup—all loops and hearts dotting the I’s—it was simple, almost cursive but not quite. 

It was pretty. 

He stared at it for a minute longer, almost familiar in an uncanny way. 

He sat in the dark on his couch, Hotguy’s leg bracers hidden beneath his pants. It would be unlucky if Cuteguy decided to take things so far in one night—Scar blushed furiously and banished the thought from his head. 

He wasn’t nearly ready for that yet. 

His phone buzzed, the alarm he’d set for 9:45 was going off. He silenced it and stood up, making his way to the balcony door and peering through the glass. 

Nothing, it was too dark to see anything. 

He opened the door and stepped out. 

“You’re a little early,” a voice came from beside him. Scar jumped, and nearly shouted but Cuteguy pressed a finger against his lips to shush him. “It’s a good thing I decided to get here when I did.” 

Scar blinked, attempting to get his eyes used to seeing in the dark. 

He could tell the man opposite him was smiling based off the way his faintly glowing purple eyes crinkled. Scar imagined the look on the rest of his face—heart beating faster just off his own imagination. 

“Hi,” Scar breathed, too flustered to say anything else. 

“Hi,” Cuteguy returned, voice full of amusement. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” 

“You want to come in?” Scar asked, he hadn't expected it to move so fast. 

“Just so we can leave out the front door,” Cuteguy answered, “it’d be weird for your neighbors to see you getting whisked off by a shadow with large wings.” 

Scar nodded, that was logical. He hadn’t thought of where they would go from the balcony. 

“Careful,” Scar said, leading him into his apartment, “it’s dark.” 

“I can see a lot better than you can,” Cuteguy teased. 

Scar’s face flushed, and he wondered if Cuteguy had been able to see him waiting on the couch in the dark. He hoped he didn’t see the way he blushed when Cuteguy held a finger to his lips. 

He led his companion—partner? Were they technically dating now? Scar wasn’t sure, and he was too scared to ask—to the front door. Opening it up into the bright yellow light of the hallway, he shut his eyes for a second to ward off a headache. 

He and Cuteguy stepped out into the hallway. It took a second for Scar’s eyes to adjust, but when they did he felt his mouth drop open slightly. Cuteguy laughed—the sound made his head spin. 

He was wearing a soft baby-blue sweater over his usual pink bow-adorned shorts and black leggings. He’d switched out the heeled boots for white mary-janes. 

He looked back up at the man's face—obscured as always beneath that infuriating shadow—and it was then he noticed, gasping he asked “what happened to your–” 

“Shh,” Cuteguy cut him off, “don’t let your neighbors know who I am.” he whispered. 

Scar nodded, guilty for almost giving up a secret. He tried not to notice how close they were standing in the hallway, how he could smell the conditioner Cuteguy used. Pomegranate? It was something sweetly fruity like that. 

Cuteguy straightened, the motion confident in a way that made Scar feel clumsy in comparison. “So,” he said, tone bright again, “ready to go?”

Scar realized he was still holding the door open and stepped aside, gesturing awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” Cuteguy replied, as if there had never been any doubt. He glanced down the hallway, then at Scar. “You’re fine walking, right?”

Scar blinked, caught off guard by the question—though something in the man’s tone made him think he was trying to sound casual. “Yeah. I can walk. I’ve been… doing better lately.” He tried not to think about the mechanical braces supporting his every step. How he’d woken up in the morning and hardly been able to crawl his way over to his chair. 

How even now his legs felt wobbly—not a good sign for the city's greatest hero. 

Cuteguy smiled, “Glad to hear it.”

They took the elevator down in silence. The quiet was awkward and Scar found himself staring at the glowing floor numbers just to have something to do. He was conscious of every breath, every tiny sound in the narrow space: the hum of the lights, the whisper of Cuteguy’s sleeves when he shifted.

“You’re quiet,” Cuteguy said at last.

Scar let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I think I’m still processing that this is actually happening.”

“Not what you expected?”

Scar risked a glance sideways. “No. You’re… different in person.”

“Disappointing?”

“Not even close,” Scar blurted before he could stop himself. Cuteguy’s head tilted slightly, and he felt heat rush to his ears. “I mean, uh, I just thought you’d be taller.”

That earned him a quiet laugh—low and warm. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

The elevator dinged and saved him from having to answer. They stepped into the lobby, the air colder than he’d expected. Scar shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and turned toward the street. “So… are we taking a cab?”

“For the most part,” Cuteguy said, leading the way out.

“That’s a bit vague,” Scar said. 

“Worried?” 

“Maybe,” Scar said, “just a little bit.” 

“I’d like to think I'm not as scary as they say,” he said. 

Scar followed, noting the way the man moved—light, effortless, every step like he had all the ease in the world. He wondered what it felt like to be that sure of yourself, to walk through the world like gravity was optional.

They stopped at the edge of the block. The city was quieter here, streetlights buzzing faintly above them, a few cars hissing past. Cuteguy tilted his head down—Scar assumed it was because he didn’t want anyone else to notice his face. 

He raised an arm above his head to call for a cab. 

He really was a lot shorter than Scar had expected. It’s hard to gauge someone's height when they’re always looking down at you warily. 

Seeing this new side to the vigilante… was unexpected. 

Chasing him around in the sky was exhilarating, the adrenaline creating split-second moments that lasted forever. Studying the avian from different angles, the way his hair flowed in the breeze. 

He remembered the day he’d first realized those ‘tights’ he thought Cuteguy always wore were actually thigh-highs. And ever since launched on a super secret side mission to capture as many glimpses as possible. 

A cab pulled up beside them, and the two of them climbed in. 

Cuteguy listed off an address that the cabby confirmed two times, confusion laced in his voice. It wasn’t until they’d gotten into the neighborhood that Scar had understood. 

It was an older part of the city, the streets were lined with abandoned apartment buildings and smashed in convenience stores. There were no lights in any of the windows, and hardly any of the streetlamps. Scar was surprised energy was still being delivered to this part of town. 

The cab pulled up in front of an unremarkable building. 

Scar couldn't see anything of importance marking it different from any of the rest. 

The street looked the same as every other they’d passed. 

They both slid out of the cab, Cuteguy a few seconds ahead of Scar. 

The driver stopped him. 

“I’ll do circles around the area for about an hour,” he said, "I hope you know what you're doing. I don't want to become an accomplice to murder.”

Scar nodded, “it’s okay,” he said, "I trust him. And I can hold my own if need be.” 

It was true, he was wearing the bracers—the only important part of the Hotguy suit, aside from the bullet resistant fabric—and he’d fought Cuteguy at close range many times. 

The only conceivable way this could go wrong is if Cuteguy had found out his identity and purposefully targeted him—and considering the only people who knew were his boss and Cub, he doubted it. 

Cuteguy was waiting for him when he stepped out and the cab drove off, something pensive in his posture.

“That was nice,” he said, “don’t need to be extraordinary to save people.” 

“You heard that?” Scar asked. 

“My hearing’s a little bit better than most,” Cuteguy responded. He looked over at Scar, he seemed sad. “Follow me,” he said, “we need to break his line of sight.” 

They walked a few yards down the building and turned into a small, rot-smelling alley. Trash hadn’t been collected from here in years. “I’m sorry about the smell,” Cuteguy said. 

Scar really hoped this wasn't their final destination, a small stinky dead-end alley. 

The city was quieter here, streetlights buzzing faintly from the road behind them. Cuteguy looked up—really looked—and then back at Scar. “You trust me?” he asked, pulling off the pale sweater. 

Scar hesitated. The question wasn’t playful. It felt heavier, like a weight balanced between them.

He swallowed, almost unsure. “Yeah. I do.”

In the span of a few seconds he balled the sweater into a clump—Scar hardly had time to catch a glimpse of his shirt underneath, the same one he’d worn for valentine’s day on his instagramn—before the smaller man was upon him. 

Cuteguy’s grin flashed, quick and brilliant. “Then hold on.”

Before Scar could ask what that meant, an arm slipped around his waist and suddenly his feet weren’t on the ground. His stomach lurched, wind hitting his face as the world dropped away below them. He grabbed instinctively at Cuteguy’s shoulder, heart pounding.

“Holy—!” Scar couldn’t even finish the sentence. The city spread out beneath them like a glittering map, lights shining in every window. The rush of air drowned out his own thoughts.

“Still doing okay?” Cuteguy called, voice teasing.

“I—” Scar’s breath caught a laugh that was half hysteria, half awe. “I think you could’ve warned me!”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun? You’re insane!”

“Maybe,” Cuteguy said, and there was a smile in his voice that made Scar’s chest ache.

It was beautiful. Scar had only been this high up on occasion, sitting on the tallest sky scrapers and looking down at the city. 

They were far from the center, far enough that the tower that housed the emerald city looked like something built from lego bricks. 

He was dumbfounded. 

They slowed as they approached the skeleton of a half-finished high-rise, steel beams glinting under the moonlight. Cuteguy landed lightly through where a window would have been, setting Scar down before stepping back to give him space.

Scar staggered for balance, laughing breathlessly. “You–, you really are insane.”

“Probably,” Cuteguy admitted again, hands slipping into the pockets of his small shorts. “But you’re smiling, so I’ll call that a win.”

Scar shook his head, still grinning despite himself. “You could’ve told me we were flying.”

“I did,” Cuteguy said, mock-offended. “I’m sure I mentioned it at some point..”

“You didn’t!” but Scar was laughing. It was far more exhilarating then grappling around, he could only imagine what it must be like for Cuteguy to get to do that every day. 

Cuteguy laughed—properly, beautifully laughed—and it did something strange to Scar’s chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone sound so genuinely happy.

When the laughter faded, silence settled between them again, softer this time. The view stretched on forever, the skyline, the glittering water beyond, the faint hum of car horns far below. Behind him stretched an almost nest of blankets and pillows, picnic baskets and boxes of chocolates sat to one side. 

“This is where you take all your dates?” Scar asked after a beat.

Cuteguy hummed. “You think I do this a lot?”

“Do you?” Scar turned toward him.

The man tilted his head, pretending to think. “Only when I really like someone.”

Scar felt that one right in the ribs. “That’s… a line.”

“It’s true,” Cuteguy said simply, and something about the quiet certainty in his tone made Scar forget how to breathe for a second.

He glanced away, trying to laugh it off. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“Flirting.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

Scar looked back up at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You tell me.”

Cuteguy stepped closer. “Maybe I am.”

Scar’s brain short-circuited. “That’s… uh, bold.”

“I’m sure someone mentioned that to me before.”

Scar huffed a laugh. The man was too close again, and Scar couldn’t bring himself to move.

“I’ve wanted to meet you like this for a long time,” Cuteguy said softly.

“Like this?”

“Without the mask between us. Not the one on my face—the one you wear when you’re everywhere else..”

Scar blinked. “I don’t—”

Cuteguy smiled, and even with the shadow covering his eyes, Scar could feel the intensity. “You do. But it’s okay. You care so much about everyone else, I think it's beautiful.”

That made his heart do something stupid and fluttery. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it sounds like you mean them.”

Cuteguy tilted his head again, the way a bird might, curious. “And what if I do?”

Scar didn’t have an answer. The world felt too small, too bright, his thoughts too loud in his own head.

He forced a laugh that sounded weak even to his own ears. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” Cuteguy said. “You’re kind. You care too much. You smile even when it hurts. You’d give away your last coin to someone who needed it more.”

Scar swallowed, throat tight. “You sound like you’ve been watching me.”

“Maybe I have.”

Scar thought of the way he’d caught him on the rooftop that night and his pulse stuttered. “That’s supposed to be creepy, isn’t it?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

He didn’t. God help him, he didn’t.

They stood there for a long moment, the wind tugging at their hair, the hum of the city below fading into white noise. Cuteguy took one more step forward, close enough that Scar could feel the heat from his skin.

“Cuteguy…” Scar’s voice cracked on the name. “You’re, you’re kind of terrifying, you know that?”

“Terrifying?” The man laughed softly. “I’ve definitely had that mentioned before.”

Scar smiled faintly, nerves fraying. “Not… in that way,” he said. 

“In what way?” Cuteguy pressed. 

“Like you know exactly what you want,” Scar said. Like he was hungry, and Scar was on the menu. 

Cuteguy’s breath hitched—or maybe Scar imagined it. The distance between them felt fragile, like a thread about to snap. He could see the faint outline of his jaw now, the edge of a grin he’d never really seen before.

“Scar,” Cuteguy said, voice suddenly quieter. “Can I—”

Scar’s brain filled in the rest before he could stop it. Can I kiss you?

He didn’t answer—he couldn’t. His body betrayed him, leaning in just a little, just enough that if either of them moved another inch—

A siren blared somewhere in the distance. The sound snapped him back to reality like a slap.

Cuteguy froze, then drew in a slow breath and stepped back. The sudden absence of him made the air feel colder.

“Sorry,” Cuteguy said. “It’s getting late, we should probably sit down and enjoy the food. I don't want to keep you out too long.”

Scar blinked, trying to catch up. His heart was still racing, mouth dry. “Right,” he managed. “Yeah. Of course.”

Cuteguy turned toward the nest, flexing his hands like someone shaking off tension. 

Scar hesitated before following. “Thanks for tonight,” he said, voice quiet.

“Thank you for saying yes,” Cuteguy replied.

Scar laughed under his breath. “You make that sound like it’s hard to do.”

“It might be, someday,” Cuteguy said, and there was something too honest in the way he said it.

Before Scar could ask what he meant, Cuteguy’s hand lifted—for a moment Scar thought he was going to touch his face, pull him in. Whisper something irresistible into his ear—but he just tapped the brim of Scar’s jacket instead. “Chocolate?” he asked, Scar imagined he’d lost an internal battle.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t been able to rest after he’d gotten home from their date—not that he’d really tried much. Too restless, heart still racing even hours after their flight home. Cuteguy had relented to fly him back home so long as Scar agreed to hang on as tight as he could. 

It was breathtaking, being able to fly like that. 

He could still feel it if he tried—the faint pressure of Cuteguy’s arm braced across his chest, the rush of air as the city fell away beneath them. Every streetlight had blurred into golden ribbons, every rooftop a fleeting spark under his boots. 

The world had felt impossibly wide and small all at once, like the only thing keeping him tethered to it was the man laughing beside his ear.

Here he was now, chasing that same high with his petty imitation. A grappling hook would never be the same, nor would hanging on to Cuteguy ever come close to being able to fly and dive like he’d seen the man do. 

He’d gained a newfound appreciation for all the acrobatics Cuteguy managed to pull off midair, the whoops of joy he’d sometimes hear before Cuteguy knew he was near. 

It must’ve been amazing. 

He wondered if Cuteguy ever got Scared up there, or if he’d simply learned to live in the wind—untouchable, unbound by the rules that grounded everyone else.

Scar had spent years being told where to stand, who to save, what counted as “heroic.” His training manuals hadn’t said anything about joy. Not the kind that came from the sound of someone else’s laughter mid-dive.

Maybe that was what drew him to Cuteguy, jealousy—not the wings or the power, but the freedom to want without permission.

He’d thought of his coworker, Jimmy, who had wings but would never know the same feeling. Scar had never seen his wings in person, but spending hours researching wing binding had put a fowl taste in his mouth. 

Was something like that really necessary? 

He remembered sitting through a safety briefing years ago, watching some suited officials explain wing-binding with charts and statistics—After the war, when vigilantes and winged soldiers went rogue, the government realized the biggest threat wasn’t from an enemy country, but from its own citizens.

He’d nodded along back then. Everyone had.

Now, he wasn’t so sure what they were protecting. The people on the ground, or the illusion of control? The thought curdled in his stomach. Maybe he wasn’t any better—he’d worn the same emblem that punished difference and called it law.

He thought again about the joy on Cuteguy’s face, the way he himself had felt. 

Thought of that interview he’d seen on tv, a ‘first-hand account’ they’d called it. He’d dismissed it instantly, having seen how the vigilante treated civilians. 

But, others might not have. 

How could people hate someone just for living? 

His watch beeps—a petty theft at the gas station two blocks from where he was standing. Normally he’d let the police deal with something so small, but he’s had a slow night and needs some form of entertainment. 

He takes 30 seconds to grapple over, catching sight of the perpetrator instantly. A slim teenaged boy wearing a dark grey hoodie was running desperately down the block; he didn’t have time to get very far. 

Hotguy felt a bit sorry for the kid, sheer un-luck that he’d been so close to the convenience store. 

The area was familiar to him—he realized this was the same store where he’d first met Grian as Hotguy. Scar wondered how the man was doing, he’d been a bit too preoccupied with Cuteguy to worry about him.

Guilt panged in his mind. 

He’d caught up to the kid in the hoodie, the fear in his eyes made his guilt all that much worse. He really did feel bad for the boy. 

“Hand it over,” he told him, gentle as he could without coming across as soft. 

The kid looked around him desperately, searching for some heroic soul to save him. The hero was standing across from him, and saving wasn’t the goal. The kid’s breath came in quick bursts, chest rising and falling beneath the oversized hoodie. His hands trembled around the plastic bag. 

“Please,” the kid whispered, “I can’t go to jail. It’s not—It’s not even for me, I just—my sister—” 

“The bag,” Hotguy said, “hand it over.” 

His heart broke for the boy. Head down he handed over the plastic grocery bag. 

“I’m sorry,” the kid whispered, “I tried I–”

Scar could see the truth in it—could feel it. The desperation didn’t look practiced; it looked like hunger. He’d arrested enough people to know the difference between guilt and survival.

He sighed, lowering his arm just slightly. “You picked a bad night, kid. Wrong street, wrong hero.”

“So that’s it?” the boy asked. “You turn me in and feel good about it?”

Scar didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He only gestured again toward the bag.

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, eyes wet and furious. “I’m just so tired of—”

He never finished. Scar took the bag, heart heavy as the streetlight flickered. Scar took a second to look through it—just four simple items, the kid was borderline risking his life over four items. A package of instant noodles, tampons, chocolate and ibuprofen. There was a time when “hero” had felt clean. 

When it didn’t mean breaking hearts over stolen groceries.

Scar couldn’t take it. Pulling a fifty dollar bill out of his suit, “here,” he said, “take it and run.” 

The boy looked up at him with the biggest puppy brown eyes Scar’s ever seen. “thank you,” he said, grabbing the bag and the bill and taking off. 

He’d been thanked many times, and saved many people. 

He wasn’t sure if any of them made him happier to hear. 

He walked down the block to the store, head too full of thoughts to bother grappling. The bell dinged as he opened the door. 

The cashier was the same one that’d electrocuted the robber. 

“I couldn’t get the thief,” he said, “circled around on the rooftops for a while, but there wasn’t anyone suspicious out on the streets.” 

They nodded. 

“How much is it?” he asked, "I'll cover it.” 

“The bill was 20.06,” they said, “he only had a ten and some change. I–” they looked up at him, trying to read something on his face. “I felt bad for him,” they said. “The prices keep rising–and, the tampons? It's almost ten dollars for eighteen. Eighteen! Not even twenty, it’s ridiculous.” 

Scar nodded, he’d never needed to buy something like tampons. Never paid attention to the prices. 

“He left the money, just didn’t have enough to pay it. Company policy is to report shoplifting for anything over five dollars,” they looked almost as desperate as the boy had. “I didn’t want to, just, if they watched the tapes or if they checked the inventory I’d be fired or something.” 

Scar’s parents had been wealthy, he’d gone to a good—one of the best—schools, gotten a good degree and a good job. 

He’d never had to worry about this. 

Never even had to see it. 

He pulled another fifty out of his suit, “here, this should cover it,” he said, setting it down on the counter. They looked down at it, before typing something into their register. “You can keep the change.” 

They looked at him. 

“I don’t need it.” 

They looked around awkwardly before croaking out a thank you, refusing to meet his eyes. 

The thank you didn’t move him quite as the thief’s had, but it did feel good. 

Felt like he did good. 

Like he was a hero. 

“Anytime,” he said, giving them a half salute before walking out of the store and grappling off towards his apartment. 

He was done for the night. 

He didn’t make it very far before catching sight of someone stumbling down the road carrying a stack of boxes in their arms. 

The stack towered over their head and Scar wasn’t sure how they saw where they were going at all. 

He’d had a long night, he should just turn around and continue on his way home. The person hadn’t noticed him yet, and there was nobody out on the streets to notice. 

But he didn’t. 

He wasn’t quite sure why. 

“How do you even see past that?” he asked, voice amused. 

The person stopped, muttering something he couldn’t hear from behind the boxes. 

“Stop gawking and help me,” he said. 

Scar chuckled, reaching out and taking the top two boxes off the pile. Letting him see the person behind it, Grian, glaring up at him.

For a second he contemplated setting the boxes back down—only as a joke—but he just beamed one of his signature smiles at the man. 

“You’re out late,” he said. 

“It’s early now,” Grian replied. 

“Whats so important that–” he shifted to carrying the boxes with one arm to check his watch, “that you have to be up at five a.m.?”

“I told my friend I'd help him clear out his shop,” he said, “they’re moving locations—a smaller one but in a better spot, and so he had to throw a few things out.” 

“And so you’re taking these out to the dump? You know there's dumpsters in about every alleyway right?” Scar asked, incredulous. 

“I’m walking to the Salvation Army,” he said. 

“You mean the homeless shelter, right?” Scar asked, shifting the boxes in his arms. “Didn’t realize they took this kind of stuff.”

“It’s more than just a shelter,” he said.

Scar didn’t know how to respond. 

“God, I swear I've seen you on TV at a charity event. How do you not—do you never pay attention? Nevermind,” he said, “Salvation Army is basically a charity. They do a lot for a lot of people, all over the country. Food pantries, donation thrift shops, financial aid with rent, shelters. A lot of stuff, not that you’d ever need anything like that.” 

Scar felt guilty. 

Grian sighed. 

“I’m realizing,” Scar started, but he didn’t know how to continue. Grian looked up at him expectantly. “That… there's a lot more to being a hero I didn't think of.” 

The response wasn’t enough to satisfy himself, but Grian seemed to take it as a reasonable response. 

“So,” Grian said, and Scar secretly thanked the gods that they’d not condemned themselves to awkward silence. “You have to have something better to do than always carrying things for me. Is this a PR stunt?” 

“Oh please,” Hotguy said, “if it were PR there’d be a camera crew—and way better lighting, twilight skies washes me out.”

Grian looked up, “huh,” he said. 

“Hmm?” 

“Didn’t realize it was so late,” he answered, the grey-blue sky reflecting off his black eyes. 

“Early,” Scar corrected, mirroring what Grian had said to him not ten minutes before. 

“Early,” he agreed. 

“So what’s in these boxes?” Hotguy asked, curious. 

“Porcelain dishes—mostly teacups, but there's a few plates from the bakery too.” 

“Bakery?” 

“Well, it's a coffee shop,” Grian said, “but his wife loves to bake, so he runs a small bakery inside too.” 

“And,” Scar said, “this coffee, how good is it?” 

“The best i’ve ever had,” Grian said, “though that may be bias—or Joel just puts in extra work to impress me, but it’s really good.” 

Scar nodded, remembering the tall iced monstrosity he’d gotten the time they’d gone out together. 

“You have a big sweet tooth?” he asked.

“Not that much,” Grian said, surprising Scar. “I like the deserts his wife makes, but his coffee is better without every syrup under the sun—i think he might drug it actually, it never tastes the same anywhere else.” 

Scar laughed. 

“Seriously,” Grian said, “I have to put more sugar than coffee in my cup to even come close to enjoying it.” 

“Well,” Scar said, “let him know that last i checked drugs were illegal.” 

Grian laughed. 

“I’ve done my duty,” Scar said. “Saving the city one coffee cup at a time.” 

“What a hero,” Grian said with faux-admiration. He knew the man well enough to know he’d probably never respect Scar’s job, but at least he was comfortable enough that the two of them could joke. 

He wondered what Cuteguy would think, seeing them together. Would he be jealous?

Cuteguy didn’t know who Scar was, at least he’d be safe in that regard. 

“Hey,” Grian said, “can you do me a favor?” 

Scar hummed. 

“Can you pull my hood over my face?” he asked, “I’d do it but I don't want to risk dropping the dishes.”

Scar shifted the two boxes over to one hand and used the other to pull the red hood over Grian’s face, glowing red from the cold. 

“Chilly out here,” Scar commented. 

“I’m sure it's even colder for you, what with all that skin you're showing,” Grian said. “No, I just wanted to have my face covered when we walk into here together—I don't trust the security guard reviewing the footage to not post us all over the internet.”

Scar laughed, “Hotguy donates dishware to charity, how chivalrous."

“So kind,” Grian said, and it didn’t sound as much like a joke as it usually did. 

Grian pressed the button to cross a main street. 

“There’s not even any cars out,” Scar said, “there’s no reason to wait here.”

“I'm not breaking the law right next to a cop,” Grian said, but there was humor in his voice. 

Scar gently kicked the buttonpost, “come on you piece of crap.” 

Grian laughed. “I feel like patience is something they should have taught you in hero school.” 

“Hero school taught me plenty, thank you,” Scar said. 

“I’m sure,” Grian said, chuckling. 

The light finally switched from the red hand to the walk symbol, and they both started across the empty road. 

“That was useless.” 

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to obey the traffic laws or you’ll die.” 

“My mom said the cops would come and arrest me if I set foot in the street without looking both ways.” 

“See!” Grian said, “you have to be careful, I wouldn't want to be arrested.” 

“I wouldn’t arrest you,” Scar said. 

Grian looked up at him, gaze unreadable, but he could tell there was a lot of emotion there. Doubt? Relief? 

“How much further do we have?” Scar asked. 

“It’s just down the block from here,” Grian said. 

“And you’re going home after this?” he asked. 

“I’m walking back to Joel’s,” he said, disappointing Scar, “he owes me free coffee.” 

“That’s all you get?” Scar asked. 

“Not everything's about a paycheck,” Grian said. 

“No it’s apparently all about drugged coffee,” Scar joked, “no, but, couldn't you buy coffee with a paycheck?”

“Shhhh,” Grian said, “it's about the principle.” 

Scar laughed, "I'll walk you back then,” he said. 

“You have better things to do,” Grian said. 

Scar relented, “I will—if I'm needed—run off and save the city,” he said, placing a hand over his heart, “if not, I'm saving you from boredom and a possible mugging.”

Grian sighed, “fine,” he said, “but you’re not coming into Joel's with me, I've already got Mumbo obsessed over you, I don't need him too.” 

Scar chuckled, “only if you get me a cup of that coffee.”

“Deal.” 

They reached the building and Grian handed his box over to Scar, “take it,” he demanded. 

“What?” 

“Take it,” he said, "I'm not walking in there with you—Mumbo would know it's me the second he sees it. You're donating these on your own.” 

Scar stared at him incredulously. 

“Go on,” Grian said. 

Scar took it, “where do I put these?” he asked. 

“I don’t know, maybe next to the donation boxes?” 

Scar sighed. “Youre like a bug,” he said. 

“What does that mean?” Grian asked. 

“You bug me,” Scar said, “exactly like it sounds.” 

“I’m not getting you that coffee,” Grian said. 

Scar pouted, “but we had a deal,” he said. 

Grian laughed, "you're such a child,” he said. “Go drop those off.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he said, suddenly remembering their second meeting—and how he’d embarrassed himself.

Scar was almost surprised to see Grian out there waiting for him, and he was surprised just how relieved he felt. 

“You want to try grappling?” he asked, unsure of why he’d offered it. 

Grian eyed the grappling hook, then Scar. 

“No thank you,” he said, "I'd rather not be swept off my feet—i have a-” he hesitated. 

Scar laughed, “not a damsel in distress, got it.” 

They started walking back the way they’d come. “How long is it to walk back?” 

“About twenty minutes,” he said. 

“Thats not too bad,” Scar said. 

“Not really,” Grian answered, “where he’s moving to though, it's probably a bit too far to walk to from my apartment.” Grian seemed really sad as he said that. “It’s better for business, and Joel’s excited.”

“You’re still allowed to be disappointed,” Scar said. 

Grian whipped his head up to look at Scar, "I'm not disappointed. This is a good thing, amazing actually.” 

“It’s not selfish to have emotions Grian,” he said, “you’re sad you’ll see your friend less. That’s okay. You can feel like that and still be happy for him.” 

“It’s–” Grian started, “it’s whatever."

Scar sighed. 

They walked another block in companionable quiet. The sky had lightened to a dull blue-grey, the kind of in-between color that made the streetlights look unnecessary but not yet redundant. A car honked somewhere behind them, the city was waking up.

“Is that it?” Scar asked, nodding toward the corner. A thin, two-story brick building with a hand-painted sign out front: Small’s Beans & Bakery. Warm light spilled from inside, the faint silhouette of someone rearranging chairs visible through the fogged glass.

“Yeah,” Grian said. “That’s Joel’s place.”

Scar smiled. “Looks cozy.”

“It is,” Grian said softly. His expression softened too—fond. Scar followed his gaze, wishing he could see what Grian was seeing in that little shop.

Before he could ask, his wristwatch gave a sharp, shrill ping.

“Ah, hell.” He checked the display—red alert, north district. “Duty calls.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Grian said, tugging his hood up again.

“You never do,” Scar replied with a grin. He hesitated for a second—long enough to want to say something else, something that might have made Grian laugh again—but then he turned, sprinting down the street. His boots hit the pavement with crisp rhythm, and within seconds he was grappled up to a building.

By the time Scar looked back, a block away, the sidewalk behind him was empty.

Guess he went inside, Scar thought. 

The alert pulsed on his wrist again, sharper this time.

Scar cursed softly under his breath and jumped across a roof, sprinting towards the provided address. 

By the time he reached the north district, dawn had bled pale gold along the edges of the skyline. The bank sat on a corner of Market and 12th—glass skylight shattered, alarms screaming, the acrid smell of smoke heavy in the air. 

Two fire trucks waited uselessly outside, their crews pushed back by police cordons.

“Hotguy!” one of the officers called, waving him down to their barricade, relief breaking through the chaos. “We’ve got two elementals inside—heat and frost types. Hostages cleared, vault breach still active.”

Scar nodded, scanning the street. The pavement shimmered faintly with residual power—a frosting of ice melting over cracked asphalt. “Anyone else in there?”

The officer hesitated. “We think… Cuteguy beat you to it.”

Scar blinked. “What?”

“He showed up maybe five minutes ago. Cameras caught him going in through the skylight. We lost visual after that.”

Scar couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Guess I’m late to the party,” he said, and before anyone could stop him, he shot his grappling line upward and vaulted onto the roof.

The bank’s skylight was shattered—not done by the heat elemental at the very least, that left two people inside who could have done it. He crouched on the edge and looked down.

Cuteguy moved through the chaos below like a ghost.

He wasn’t showy—no grand gestures, no bursts of power meant to dazzle the cameras. His movements were sharp, clean, and efficient. When the heat-wielding mutant hurled a molten fist toward him, Cuteguy pivoted out of range, the man missed, and his fist went straight into an expensive painting. Cuteguy countered with a simple kick that knocked the man off balance. Then, without missing a beat, he turned to disarm the ice-mutant before the second attack even began to form.

Scar had seen hundreds of fights. This one was… beautiful.

He’d never really stopped to appreciate the vigilante, used to him showing up halfway through the fight while Scar was already engaged and distracted. 

It was almost like… he’d gotten the warning before Scar. 

Or at the very least been flying around the area and heard the sirens, still, it was strange. He’s never been so early to the party. 

Scar dropped down through the hole, landing lightly behind a burning counter. “Need a hand?” he called.

Cuteguy stiffened, whirling around, mask catching the dim red of the emergency lights. “You’re late,” he said flatly.

Scar smiled. “I was helping an old lady cross the street.”

“Right,” Cuteguy said dryly, “very heroic.”

Scar shrugged. “She had a lot of boxes to carry.”

That earned him a tiny pause. 

Then Cuteguy rolled his eyes and turned back toward the magma mutant, who had recovered enough to lunge again. Scar jumped forward, intercepting the blow with his forearm—he was focused on trying to pretend like the burning didn't hurt him—it wasn't as bad through his heat-resistant glove, but the fabric was thin—when the man knee’d Scar’s gut. 

He doubled over, sputtering. 

“Hey!” Cuteguy called, “old man! Get back on your feet I can’t restrain two of them!” 

“You were doing just fine on your own when I got here,” Scar wheezed. 

“Holding them back, maybe,” Cuteguy agreed, “I don't have cuffs, I can't restrain them without knocking them out.” 

“We switch then,” Scar said, passing the magma man off to Grian. He wouldn’t be able to cuff the heat elemental without knowing what temperature he could burn to, but the frost elemental? 

He pushed the attacker back against a wall, restraining him with a quick flick of steel-wire cuffs.

“Got him,” Scar said cheerfully. “See? Teamwork.”

Cuteguy shot him a look that might’ve been amusement—or mild disgust—it was hard to tell under the mask.

“Fire guy’s yours,” he said, and stepped aside.

The heat mutant was still standing, but he was obviously disoriented—Cuteguy must’ve hit him over the head, though not hard enough to knock him out. 

Scar knocked him to the ground, cuffing his feet together so he at the very least wouldn’t be able to run properly.

He wasn’t quite sure how to go about restraining his arms, even if he’d exhausted himself and couldn't burn out of the cuffs, Scar only carried two on him.

He noticed the glove on his right hand, his arm was still burning from the heat—but the fabric itself was still intact, no damage done to it. 

Without thinking, Scar peeled his shirt off and used it to tie the man’s hands in a makeshift restraint. It’d be enough to get him to a holding cell at least. 

“AGH!” Cuteguy screamed, Scar turned to look at him in time to see the man blush furiously and turn away. “What are you doing!?” he yelled-asked. 

“Restraining him,” Scar answered. 

“Put your clothes back on!” Cuteguy yelled. 

He smiled, finding the man's reaction to be adorable—even if Cuteguy wasn’t aware of who he was really standing next to. 

“Sorry,” Scar said, “no-can-do.” 

“You’re awful,” Cuteguy said. It was the most human Scar had ever seen the man—atleast, it was when he stood across from him as Hotguy. 

Scar watched him for a moment. Cuteguy was rummaging around in one of his pockets, finally pulling out a red hoodie. There was precision in every movement, but also exhaustion—like someone who’d been holding their breath for too long.

“Put this on you exhibitionist,” he demanded. 

Scar laughed, grabbing the weirdly familiar red sweatshirt from the vigilante. “Think this might be a bit small for me,” he said, “considering how small you are.” 

“It’s oversized,” Cuteguy responded simply. 

Scar pulled it over his head, he was right on it being small—not enough to rip, but enough to stretch and pull and show off his pecs just as well as no shirt would. “I’m not so sure if this is any better,” he said. 

Cuteguy turned around, “ugh,” he said, “that was my favorite hoodie too.” 

“You can have it back,” Scar offered. 

“And let you walk around half naked?” he asked, “the internet would explode,” he gestured his hands in an exploding motion. “And m—my best friend would go absolutely mental about it, I doubt he’d shut up for months.” 

Scar chuckled, “funny, he’s more a fan of me then you? Must sting.” 

Cuteguy glared at him, those lovely violet eyes narrowed in distaste. “He’s got bad taste in men, I'm not surprised.” 

“And your taste in men is?” Scar asked him. 

“The only reasonable choice,” Cuteguy responded. “Not a brawn with no brain like you.” 

Scar laughed, if only he knew. He stared at Cuteguy for a moment, unsure of what to say. “You’re good,” he finally settled on.

Cuteguy stared at him, cautiously. “I’m careful.”

“That too.”

Silence settled between them for a few seconds, broken only by the distant sirens.

Scar crouched beside the unconscious mutant, checking for vitals. “Are you always this hard on your partners?”

“I don’t have partners.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Cuteguy’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Don’t start.”

Scar smiled faintly, not pushing it. “I just mean—it’s nice. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Cuteguy turned his head toward him, eyes narrow behind the tinted goggles. “You saying you don’t?”

“Hey, I’m plenty competent,” Scar said lightly. “Just not… textbook.”

“I noticed,” Cuteguy muttered.

Scar leaned against the counter, letting the tension ebb. “You know, I used to think you were—well—more of a myth than a person.”

Cuteguy’s voice was quiet. “Maybe I prefer it that way.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. He seemed to consider it, then finally said, “People get disappointed when you turn out to be real.”

Scar frowned. “I think people get disappointed because heroes keep pretending to be something they’re not.”

That earned him another long look. The room glowed faintly in the red light, illuminating the fine details of Cuteguy’s face where the mask didn’t cover—the pale skin around his jaw, the tired set of his mouth.

“You talk too much,” Cuteguy said softly.

“Occupational hazard,” Scar replied. “Talking distracts villains long enough for me to punch them.”

“Or get punched.”

Scar grinned. “That too.”

The police burst through the front doors then, shouting commands, weapons raised. Cuteguy stepped forward, wings raising towards the sky instinctively.

“They’ll want statements,” Scar said.

“You give one for both of us.”

“Running off already?”

Cuteguy hesitated halfway up the broken stairs. “You don’t need me here.”

“Maybe not,” Scar said, “but that’s not the same thing.”

Cuteguy froze for half a heartbeat, then shook his head. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“I like mysteries,” Scar said.

Cuteguy gave a soft exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “You’d regret solving this one.”

“Try me.”

Their eyes met, brief but electric—like static before lightning. Then Cuteguy vaulted through the shattered window, vanishing into the vast, pale dawn.

Scar stayed where he was, staring after him.

One of the officers approached cautiously. “Sir? Are you good?”

“Yeah,” Scar said, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He glanced once more at the broken window, where shards of glass glittered faintly along the frame—and crunched under his boots. The city outside was waking, the first rays of sunlight crawling over rooftops, washing the wreckage in gold.

Cuteguy was gone.

But the warmth that lingered in Scar’s chest didn’t fade.

He smiled to himself—softly this time, not for the cameras.

Chapter Text

“You’re not okay, are you?” 

The words cut through the quiet room like a knife. 

Grian looked up at him sharply, “what?” he asked, shocked. 

“You come in every morning dragging your feet like you haven’t slept in weeks, you drink nothing but coffee and I haven't seen you eat in ages,” Scar listed off, losing his breath. Voice raising in the empty room. “You’re falling behind on grading and your lectures end thirty minutes early–”

He exhaled sharply, trying not to let his concern turn into frustration.” Something is wrong Grian. I can see it.” 

He watched the dust motes dance in the sunlight that streamed in the windows from behind the man. It was a lovely day outside, the contrast between the world and their conversation jarring to Scar. 

Grian looked down at the desk, to the half-drunk mug of coffee Scar had seen him refill at least three times now—the man didn’t even like coffee, not really. 

Scar knew that now, Grian had told him.

It was strange, realizing how much he knew about him lately. For years, Grian had been an enigma, his quiet coworker with the too-blank stare, the one who never stayed long after his classes ended, who always seemed somewhere else in his head. But in the past two months, the fog had been lifted.

Maybe it was because of how often he’d seen him lately. Maybe it was because, as Hotguy, he’d actually talked to him.

He’d learned more as a hero than as the man who saw him every week in their dull, fluorescent-lit staff room.

“There isn't anything wrong,” Grian said, his voice flat, but his hands spun his pen anxiously. “I’m doing good.” 

Scar studied him. The dark circles under his eyes were almost bruised-looking, his cheekbones too sharp, his lips cracked. The thin lenses of his glasses didn’t hide how empty his gaze had become.

For a moment, Scar saw another face superimposed over his—Cuteguy’s smile, soft and sharp at once, eyes glowing under that damned shadow of his hood. Chapped lips, playful eyes, the same exhaustion hiding under both.

Scar shook his head. Not now.

Grian could be in trouble.

The hero in him wondered if the man was caught up with the wrong side of the law—doing something illegal would stress anyone out. Someone blackmailing him? The thought felt absurd, but he couldn’t shake it. What else could make a man fold in on himself like this? 

Was he on drugs? Scar dismissed that almost immediately, he couldn't imagine Grian doing such a thing, though, he’d keep it in the back of his head just in case. 

Scar switched to a gentler angle, “what has Mumbo said?” knowing how close the two were. 

Grian blinked, surprised Scar had brought him up. Was it because he didn’t realise anyone would pay so much attention to him? “Mumbo’s on vacation,” Grian said simply. 

“Vacation?” Scar echoed. 

“Rock climbing mostly,” he straightened the papers on his desk into a pile, Scar having only seen him half-heartedly grade one before giving up. “He wants to hit the world's seven famous mountains, he’s been saving for years for it.” 

“In March?” 

“It’s almost April now,” Grian murmured, not even looking up.

Scar blinked. He was right. 

Scar almost couldn’t believe how much time had passed, he’d been so distracted lately. His mind blurred between long nights, late patrols, the chaos of balancing two lives. Between texts and rooftop rendezvous and the quiet thrill of someone saying I love you and meaning it.

He’d been so wrapped up in his boyfriend that the rest of the world had faded to static. Even this.

“Grian,” Scar said softly. 

“Scar,” Grian answered, his tone cautious. 

“I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Grian said, “I’m doing great actually,” he flashed a smile, something brittle, unnatural on his face. 

It didn’t quite reach his eyes—Scar had always found them a little unnerving, unable to tell where his iris ended and his pupil started. The obsidian black gave nothing away, just darkness, polished smooth.

Scar hesitated. 

“I started seeing someone,” Grian whispered, as though he couldn’t believe it was real. He watched the man’s face flush, as though he said something he hadn’t meant to. 

Scar froze. For a split second, his mind jumped somewhere dark—that explained it. The exhaustion, the mood swings, the way Grian seemed smaller every day. God, please don’t let it be someone hurting him.

He’d seen it before—bright, lonely people dimming under someone else’s shadow.

He searched the other man’s face, trying to decipher his thoughts—relief? Disbelief? Fear? All of them, maybe.

“Really?” Scar asked, voice cracking slightly, “that’s… that’s nice.” 

Grian nodded almost absently, hands packing up the papers from off his desk. “Yeah.” 

Scar didn’t want to let him go. “What are they like?” His voice too casual to be genuine.

“Everything I thought he’d be really,” Grian said, and Scar couldn't tell if that was good or bad. “I’m just… so worried he’s going to see through me and be disappointed.” 

Scar’s heart clenched, a sentiment he could relate to. 

“There wouldn’t be any reason to be disappointed,” Scar said, attempting to sound certain, “anyone would be lucky to have you.” 

For a heartbeat, Grian’s expression cracked—something flickered in those dark eyes, something raw and wounded. Scar realized too late what he’d just implied.

Grian had liked him once. Maybe he still did.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice wrong in Scar’s ears. He shoved his papers into his bag and stood up. “I have to go, I'm meeting Jimmy for lunch.” 

Scar rose half a step, almost reaching out—fingers twitching. “Would you want to meet for coffee sometime?”

Grian didn’t even look at him, “no thank you,” he said, shouldering his messenger bag. “I’ve already got plans.”

Scar couldn’t help like feeling he’d lost something, even though that thing was never his to begin with. 

The door clicked softly behind him, leaving Scar alone with the hum of the ceiling light and the faint bitter smell of burnt coffee.

He stood there for a long time, unsure when to move. The room felt colder without Grian in it.

Scar sat back down in the chair across from the abandoned desk. His eyes drifted to the empty mug, the faint imprint of a thumb on the handle. He imagined what it must be like—to feel that small, that hollow, that desperate to be seen by anyone at all.

He should’ve said something different. Maybe if he’d asked about sleep, or offered to walk him home, or told him that he wasn’t fine—

Scar dragged a hand through his hair and sighed.

For a man who was supposed to save people, he was terrible at saving the ones right in front of him.

He’d never felt more helpless in his life.

Scar leaned too far back in his chair, balancing it precariously on two legs as the chatter around him buzzed like static. 

The conference table gleamed under the fluorescent lights—polished within an inch of its life, much like everyone seated around it.

“Scar.”

Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

He jolted upright, chair legs slamming back to the floor with a thud. The Slayer—Gemini Tay—shot him a look over her tablet, all raised brows and exasperated grace.

“Try not to give the med team another heart attack,” she muttered under her breath. “You got a concussion last time.”

“From falling out of a chair,” Furioso added in, teasing Scar—he was one of the heroes who chose anonymity, though they were still close enough. 

Scar grinned, sheepish. “Yeah, yeah. I like living dangerously.”

“As dangerous as a middle-school classroom,” he replied. 

“Save it for the field,” gem said, but her mouth twitched, half a smile escaping before she turned her attention back to her tablet.

The door at the far end of the room opened with a click, and everyone sat up a little straighter. The head of operations strode in—uniform pressed, boots clicking, posture stiff with self-importance. Scar didn’t even bother remembering his name; they rotated every year like clockwork.

“Good morning, everyone,” the man said, voice carrying that bureaucratic confidence of someone who never had to get blood on his hands. “Let’s get started.”

The meeting began the way they always did: dull numbers and self-congratulatory reports. The city's crime rates are down by three percent. Capture efficiency is up by five. Citizen satisfaction is stable. Budgets, logistics, PR. 

Nothing that actually mattered when you were actually the one bleeding in an alley.

Scar tried to focus, really he did, but his mind kept drifting—to Grian’s hollow eyes earlier that week, the tremor in his hands as he reached for another cup of coffee, or his pen, or anything. 

It had been days since Grian had replied to his texts. Every morning Scar caught himself checking his phone, waiting for that small notification bubble that never came.

Gemini elbowed him when the head droned on about ‘public trust initiatives.’

“You’re spacing out again.”

“Just thinking,” he murmured.

“Try not to. It’s bad for you,” she whispered, lips barely moving.

He smiled faintly, grateful for the levity. But it died the moment the door opened again.

Another man entered—different uniform, same smug walk. A lower department head, civilian liaison maybe. 

He exchanged a few quiet words with the director, then plugged a drive into the projector. The lights dimmed.

Scar straightened instinctively. Gemini did too.

“This,” the man said, “is a new policy initiative from central command.”

The screen turned on, and opened to a slideshow titled ‘Community Safety Program – Avian Compliance Division.’

Scar’s stomach dropped. 

He thought of the man he’d just shared a couch with two days ago, had held hands with as they tossed popcorn back and forth between them. 

The man clicked through slides as he spoke. “In light of recent events—the Cuteguy incidents, the unauthorized flight demonstrations, and continued interference with official investigations—we’ve determined the need for a proactive citizen-led reporting system.”

A new slide flashed up. Showing a proposed tip line for suspected illegal avians.

Scar felt the air go heavy.

The man continued, voice oily with bureaucratic pride. “This program allows concerned citizens to report suspicious behavior or individuals possibly concealing illegal flight capability. Reported persons will be detained, searched, and processed by Avian Control before being cleared. We believe this will not only aid in capturing the Cuteguy menace, but also—”

“Menace?” Gemini interrupted sharply.

The man faltered. “Pardon?”

“You called him a menace,” she said. Her voice was calm, but her jaw was tight. “He hasn’t hurt anyone.”

“Interfering with official law enforcement is a crime, Ms. Slayer,” the man said coolly. “And it sets a dangerous precedent if we allow rogue vigilantes to operate unchecked. Especially those who may be inspiring rebellion amongst his kind.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

Scar glanced across the table at Furioso. The man’s jaw was clenched, disgust written plain on his face. Gem rolled her eyes and scribbled something down furiously on her tablet, muttering.

Scar’s pulse pounded in his ears. The words searched and processed stuck like a splinter in his brain. He’d seen pictures of what ‘processing’ meant. The cold, fluorescent white rooms, the restraints and scalpels. The scars left behind.

He opened his mouth—then shut it. Heroes weren’t supposed to argue policy.

The man at the front cleared his throat and continued. “Furthermore, with Cuteguy’s recent interference two weeks ago during the bank raid, his capture remains a top priority. We expect cooperation from all departments.”

All eyes turned to Scar.

He felt the weight of it—the expectation, the unspoken demand. The poster boy. The golden hero. 

The one who’d bring the city’s most wanted vigilante to his knees.

Scar smiled tightly, forcing confidence into his voice. “You’ll have him soon. Promise.”

A round of approving nods followed. The meeting rolled on.

But Scar barely heard it.

His thoughts were already miles away, on a rooftop bathed in neon where Cuteguy’s laugh had echoed soft and tired. 

Scar’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the table. He kept his face calm, professional. But inside, something twisted.

They wanted to strip people down. Cage them. Dismember them. All in the name of “safety.”

And they wanted him to help do it.

He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the room pressing in on him.

Gemini shot him a sidelong glance, eyes questioning. You okay?

He nodded once, too fast. Fine.

The rest of the meeting blurred together—statistics, protocols, paperwork. Scar barely registered it. By the time they were dismissed, his coffee had gone cold, and his chest felt too tight to breathe properly.

He lingered as the others filed out, still left reeling.

“Hell of a mess,” Furioso muttered on his way past, voice low enough for only Scar to hear. “This isn’t what we signed up for.”

Scar nodded mutely, unable to string words together.

When the room finally emptied, he exhaled shakily, pressing his palms against the cool tabletop. His reflection in the glass looked older, tired. 

Like someone who’d finally realized the system he served didn’t serve him back.

He pulled out his phone. The screen lit up—no new messages.

Scar typed something out, deleted it, and typed again.

hey g. just checking in. hope you’re getting some rest.

He hesitated a moment longer, thumb hovering over send.

Then he locked the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Scar sat waiting in his living room. They’d planned this before Cuteguy had slipped out the door and off the balcony after their last movie date—planned in the loose, uncertain way they always did, relying on coincidence more than communication. Without a phone number, without even a reliable time, they’d agreed on a few windows when both might be free. 

He hadn’t heard from him since.

Scar had spent most of the day pretending not to glance toward the balcony every few minutes, pretending not to flinch every time the wind rattled the glass. 

He’d even moved one of the armchairs so it faced the front door, as if sitting there, expectant, might keep the man from slipping away again.

It was easier for Cuteguy to come through the door now. Less suspicious. Less risk of being seen landing on the balcony with those wings—those impossible, beautiful wings. Those illegal wings. 

He’d started wearing hoodies and coats with unnatural stiffness, always hiding something. Scar told himself he understood.

Half of him was sure he wasn’t going to come.

The policy had been finalized and shipped off to the press within hours of the meeting, and by Thursday morning it was everywhere. 

“Anonymous tip line launched for citizen safety,” the news anchors had said. Smiling. Reading from a script. There were infographics, hotlines, little boxes scrolling under their faces about ‘the importance of cooperation’ and ‘protecting the city.’

So much for the ‘early warning’ they were supposed to receive when new laws passed.

Scar had gone in that morning to find the entire university buzzing. Some of the students were already cracking jokes about ‘duck season.’ Jimmy had looked shaken—truly shaken, eyes bloodshot from crying. 

Grian hadn’t shown up at all.

Scar told himself it was because Grian wasn’t feeling well. Maybe he’d taken a mental health day. Maybe the news had just been too much.

He told himself that again now, sitting there, waiting.

A faint rattle came from the balcony. Scar jumped so fast he nearly knocked his knee into the coffee table. 

His heart stuttered, thudding once, twice, before he caught himself on the arm of the couch and crossed the short distance to the glass door.

He’d locked it earlier, though he couldn’t remember why. Maybe because of the wind. Maybe because of the fear gnawing low in his gut that someone might break in and take what little he still had control over.

He unlocked it quickly.

“Sorry,” he said as Cuteguy stepped across the threshold, hair, wings, and clothes dripping wet. “I thought you’d come through the door.”

Cuteguy didn’t respond. He just stood there, water pooling beneath his boots, the smell of rain clinging to him like static. His hood was half-fallen back, his hair plastered to his temples.

Scar’s chest ached at the sight.

“Here, let me get you a towel,” he said, already moving toward the bathroom.

When he came back, Cuteguy was in the same position, wings hanging half-limp at his sides.

Scar had never seen him look so small.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked gently.

“I’d just get your couch wet,” the man whispered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came.”

Scar hesitated. “Don’t apologize to me,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I sit on the couch after showering all the time. It can take it.”

He held out the towel.

Cuteguy took it, but slowly, almost like he was afraid of being scolded for it. He rubbed half-heartedly at his hair, then let the towel hang around his shoulders like a defeated cape.

Scar smiled—small, nervous. He wanted to reach out, touch his arm, but the air between them was brittle. It would shatter if he tried. “Do you want me to make you something warm? It must’ve been cold,” he offered, “I have hot chocolate?" 

Cuteguy didn’t answer him, rubbing his hair absently with the towel. 

“I saw the broadcast,” Scar said finally, because the silence was unbearable. “The policy. It’s… awful.”

Cuteguy’s head lifted a little, but he didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said, the word dull. “Awful.”

Scar didn’t know what to do. 

“Do you nee—want me to dry your wings?” he offered. 

Cuteguy met his eyes finally, the beautiful violet meeting him from under that damned shadow—Scar wondered if he’d ever be able to look at his partner freely, without the mask. Without the fear. 

He’d never stopped to wonder why Cuteguy’s eyes were purple when the rest of his outfit was pink, though that was a question for another time. 

“I’d—” Cuteguy started before stopping himself, “I can't.” 

Scar nodded, he’d learned the little bit he could from looking online. Wings were sensitive, letting someone else touch them requires an immeasurable amount of trust. And Cuteguy couldn’t even trust Scar with the shape of his nose. 

For good reason though, it was disappointing but he didn’t hold it against the man. 

Scar could be the death of him.

“C’mon,” Scar said, “let’s sit down.” He grabbed his partner’s hand and led him over to his couch. 

Scar had loosely planned on making them popcorn and them continuing their dumb superhero show they’d started watching—Cuteguy cringing and making fun of the character who was an obvious Hotguy rip. 

He wasn’t sure if that was the right idea. 

Cuteguy was obviously hurting, and though Scar had no idea what to do he knew he couldn’t do nothing. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. 

“Talk about what?” Cuteguy asked in return, though they both knew what Scar had been referring to. 

“This,” Scar said, gesturing to the curled up bird on his couch, “the law, the city, the world. Anything.” 

“There’s not much to talk about,” Cuteguy tried. 

“There’s a lot to talk about,” Scar said, "you're scared. They’re after you.” 

“You think I don't know that?” Cuteguy snapped. 

“I’m sorry,” Scar said, “that's not how I meant it.” 

“They were looking for me before this. They’ll keep looking for me until they have me.” 

“But they don’t have you,” Scar said. 

“Not yet they don’t,” Cuteguy replied. 

“I won’t let them,” Scar said. 

His boyfriend looked over at him, there was so much emotion in his eyes. Too much for Scar to handle. 

“What can you do to stop them?” Cuteguy asked, Scar had never been more tempted to reveal himself as Hotguy. He’d almost let it slip a few times, with Cleo and Bdubs, with Cuteguy. But never had he wanted to purposefully tell someone so bad. 

He imagined the emotions that would play across Cuteguy’s face, fear, anger, disgust maybe. He’d seen the looks the man had thrown at him when he was uniformed, the difference in Cuteguy’s opinion of himself and himself was terrifying. 

“I—” he didn’t know what he was trying to say, "I'm sorry.” 

He remembered how quietly he’d sat in the meeting, listening to Gem muttering under her breath and seeing Furioso with his death glare and insubordinate comments. 

He was realizing he was somewhat of a coward. 

His fingers twitched at his side, desperate to reach across the gap and to comfort his partner. Hold his hand, his hair, his face. Let him know he wasn’t alone in this. 

“You’re safe with me,” he said finally, though it didn’t feel like nearly enough. 

Cuteguy answered with something muttered under his breath, something Scar couldn’t make out. 

Scar waited, watching the water drip from the man’s feathers, forming tiny, perfect circles on the floor. He wanted to reach out again. He wanted to do anything to break that distance.

But Cuteguy’s face was unreadable—mask-perfect. Not cold, just distant, like he was standing behind glass.

“You must’ve been cold out in that storm,” Scar said finally, just to fill the space. “Didn’t know it was going to hit so hard.”

“I wasn’t planning to fly,” Cuteguy said, voice small. “Then I did.”

Scar smiled faintly. “Sounds like you.”

That earned him a glance, a flicker of something—something that almost looked like fondness. It was gone as fast as it came.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch, a gulf of silence stretching between them. Scar could hear the rain on the balcony, the hum of the heater, the faint ticking of the clock above the stove. Every sound felt too loud, too sharp.

Cuteguy’s wings shifted uneasily, dripping onto the rug. He’d stopped drying them halfway through.

“Can I get you something warm?” Scar asked. “Tea? Coffee? Blanket?”

Cuteguy shook his head. “No. I just needed—” He stopped himself, clenching his jaw. “I don’t know.”

Scar’s heart twisted. “You can stay as long as you want,” he said, and meant it.

The man gave a small, strained laugh. “That’s dangerous.”

“What is?”

“Being here,” Cuteguy said. “With you.”

Scar froze. The words hit something deep and unnamed. “You’re safe here,” he said immediately, too fast, too certain.

“Not truly.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut skin.

Scar wanted to say something, anything—to promise, to swear, to tell him he’d never let anyone hurt him. But the words felt hollow before they even formed. He couldn’t protect him. 

Not really. 

Not if the whole system wanted him gone.

And the worst part was knowing he’d be the one sent to bring him in if anyone ever found out.

Scar looked away. “I won’t let them touch you,” he whispered, because that was all he had left to offer.

Cuteguy gave a small, humorless sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You say that like you could stop them.”

Scar’s chest went cold. “I could try.”

“Don’t,” Cuteguy said, sudden and sharp. “Don’t try for me.”

He stood up, dropping the towel on the couch. His wings unfurled slightly, shaking out what little moisture remained, feathers catching the dim light like wet ink. Scar couldn’t help but stare.

“I don’t need you to get hurt because of me,” Cuteguy said, softer now. “That’s not what I came here for.”

“Then why did you come?” Scar asked. He couldn’t keep the plea out of his voice.

Cuteguy hesitated, hands curling at his sides. For a second, he looked like he was going to answer. But then he just shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said again, quieter this time. “I just… didn’t want to be alone.”

Scar stood, instinctively, and took a small step closer. “You’re not alone.”

“I am,” Cuteguy whispered, and there was something so final about the way he said it that Scar froze in place.

The clock ticked. The heater hummed. The rain slowed to a faint, steady tapping.

Scar didn’t know what to do. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides. Every instinct in him screamed to comfort, to hold, to fix. But Cuteguy’s body language warned him away, all rigid lines and held breath.

So he did nothing.

Eventually, the man sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “I should go.”

Scar’s pulse jumped. “No, you don’t have to—”

“I do.” Cuteguy’s tone was gentle, but firm. “It’s late.”

“You could stay the night,” Scar said, desperate now. “I have extra clothes, you can—”

Cuteguy’s wings twitched, half-spread. “Scar.”

He stopped.

Cuteguy gave him a tired, almost sad smile. “You’re too good,” he murmured. “That’s the problem.”

Scar didn’t understand what that meant. He didn’t have time to ask before Cuteguy turned and opened the balcony door. The cold air rushed in again, smelling of rain and city and loss.

He hesitated on the threshold, feathers rustling faintly. For a heartbeat, Scar thought he might turn back.

Then he was gone—just a shadow swallowed by the night.

Scar stood there for a long time after, the door still half-open, the towel still lying abandoned on the couch. The sound of the rain filled the room. His heart wouldn’t slow down.

He wanted to tell himself it would be fine, that this was just a bad night. That Cuteguy would come back when things calmed down.

But part of him—small and scared and honest—knew something had shifted.

He thought about the policy. About the silence in that meeting room, the way he’d stared at the tabletop while they announced it. About how easy it had been to say nothing.

If I lose my job, I can’t help anyone.

That was what he’d told himself. What he kept telling himself. But standing here, staring at the empty balcony, it didn’t feel like protection anymore. It felt like surrender.

He closed the door and leaned his forehead against the glass, letting the chill seep into his skin.

The city lights blurred through the rain, streaking gold and red. Somewhere out there, Cuteguy was flying alone.

Scar stayed there until his reflection faded into the dark.

It was raining again. 

What was that saying? ‘April showers bring May flowers’? 

It would be April in a few days, he supposed the rain wasn’t too out of place. It wasn’t nearly enough to be considered a shower, just a light dribble casting a haze over the city. Hours of it had left puddles and reflections of lights on the street beneath him. 

The city was quiet tonight, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t busy. 

It was just one of those nights where the city held its breath.

The police nightshift had been doubled since the announcement went live, it made sense, considering that was the time Cuteguy was out most often. But he’d seen the exhaustion on the officers faces, they were way too understaffed to be sending their men out like that. 

Nobody dared even step foot outside unless they needed to. No one would commit a crime tonight, or tomorrow. Scar’s job was done before it even began. 

There really was no reason for him to be out tonight, a show of force maybe. 

He was beginning to wish he’d brought a book. 

Normally, boredom would be the last thing he felt, even on slow nights. 

Slow nights meant he got to zip around the city and goof off a bit with no one looking. 

This wasn’t a night for goofing off, maybe it was the heavy atmosphere dredging down any good spirits Scar would have been able to muster up. But he figured he’d have trouble feeling okay even on the brightest of nights. 

He hadn’t seen Cuteguy since he’d flown off his balcony into the rain. Hadn’t heard a whisper of the man either, no sightings on the news, nothing from dispatch. 

He hadn’t seen Grian since that Tuesday either. 

A flash of worry shot through him, but he dismissed the thought instantly. He couldn't think of even one of their coworkers who’d turn the man in, let alone have any reason to suspect him. 

He was just… sick is all. 

Scar hopped to another rooftop, taking a second to admire the view of the down-town skyline. Every rooftop glistened with rain, lights smeared like paint across the skyline. He could have lived at the top of one of those penthouses had he wished. 

There was nothing for him to be doing right now. 

He considered calling in and letting them know he’d be going home early. 

He wasn’t paid an hourly wage, there was no reason for him to be out here when he wasn’t needed. 

Dispatch spoke up in his ear, “Hawkeye, east sector movement. Unregistered wingspan, probable visual of Cuteguy.”

Scar was off, zipping recklessly across each rooftop. Going just about as fast as he physically could. He’d gone faster, once, hanging on desperately to the shoulders of the man he loved. 

The memory lit a fire under him. 

He was desperate to make it to his lover before anyone else could. 

Even if the man wouldn’t be able to recognise him under all his get up. 

He’d be safe with Scar. 

Suddenly—a few streets to his left—something burst up from beneath the rooftops, wings beating so desperately Scar could hear them. 

A gunshot rang out. 

Then another. 

Far away as he was he couldn’t tell if the vigilante had gotten shot, he couldn’t tell if he’d heard the man’s scream of pain or if it was just the aftershocks of the sound in his ears. 

Scar gave chase immediately. 

He spoke into the communicator on his wrist fervently, unsure if dispatch could hear him. “Sighting confirmed. Giving chase. Tell the officers to stand down, I don't want to risk being shot.” 

“Copy that,” dispatch responded. Cold and hollow on the other end. 

He briefly worried if she had a family at home, friends who loved her. 

Cuteguy was flying lopsidedly. 

He had been shot then. 

The scream was real. 

Scar choked back a sob, doing his best to remain composed. 

He couldn't be sure if there were cameras below him. 

He’d been taught just to always assume someone was watching him. 

Hurt as he was, Cuteguy was still the slightest bit faster than Scar. Plus he’d gotten a headstart. 

“Cuteguy!” Scar called out. 

He wasn’t sure why he yelled for the man, Hotguy wasn’t trustworthy. Hotguy was the man who’d chase him down nightly, he’d tease and shoot arrows at the man. 

Hotguy was the enemy. 

But still, he watched Cuteguy falter for a split second before picking up speed. 

He wasn’t fast enough to leave Scar’s sight. And he was too hurt to pull any complicated flying maneuvers to shake him off. 

They’ll keep going until one of them runs out of steam. 

Scar didn’t have wings, he didn’t have the extra weight Cuteguy did. 

He didn’t have to use his muscles to propel himself upward, all he needed to do was fire an arrow and trust it landed.

He knew in his heart who would fall first. 

Cuteguy was staying low to the buildings, never climbing higher than he had to, never risking the open air where drones might spot him.

But he also left himself in Hotguy’s range. He couldn’t fly high above buildings, he had to rely on rooftop antennas and cranes to keep his altitude. 

Cuteguy turned a corner sharply, probably too sharply for his current condition and it took Scar a second to adjust course. 

He’d managed to buy himself enough time to get away at least. 

Scar had been hoping to talk to the man. 

But just knowing he was alive was enough. 

Scar landed on a nearby rooftop, exhaustion growing. His arms were tired from drawing his bow back so often and his legs were paining him even from under the braces. 

A pained yelp came from nearby, startling Scar out of his thoughts. 

His heart sank. 

Cuteguy hadn’t gotten away then. 

He listened carefully, heading in the direction the noise had come from. 

Hotguy vaulted the last gap, boots sliding on the slick edge of the building before he caught himself on one knee. His chest burned. He could almost still hear the echo of the gunshot somewhere behind him, rolling through the alleys like thunder.

Then he saw him.

Cuteguy sat slumped near the far ledge, a tangle of feathers and shadow under the pale light drifting up from the street below. It was too cloudy to gain anything from the moon.

He sat with one wing stretched out in front of him, slick feathers splayed wide and trembling with the effort of holding still. The other was curled tight to his back, pressed close like he could protect it from the rain. 

His head was bowed, blond hair plastered to his forehead, hands slick and shaking as they dug into the wound in his feathers. 

He wasn’t being careful. Every motion was raw, desperate. His fingers slipped on blood soaked feathers, searching for the bullet embedded deep beneath. When he found it, he bit down hard on his lip, jaw trembling, the sound that left him small and strangled. 

A hiss. A breath held until his shoulders shook.

Scar froze where he stood. He didn’t dare move. The sound of rain filled the space between them—the steady rhythm of drops hitting the nearby metal watertower, the faint rasp of his breathing as Cuteguy leaned closer to his injury.

He looked so human like that.

Hotguy’s voice came out lower than he meant, rough around the edges. “You shouldn’t be doing that out here.”

Cuteguy flinched. His head jerked up, eyes wide and unfocused, one hand flying toward the weapon at his hip. For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other through the rain.

Cuteguy just stared up at him in fear, those pretty purple eyes wide with a fear Scar had never seen on the man. 

“It’s okay,” Scar started, trying to soothe the man’s obvious panic. 

It didn’t help. 

Cuteguy couldn’t back up any further, he was already pressed against the half wall meant to keep people from tumbling off the roof. 

For a long second, Hotguy couldn’t move. The bow felt wrong in his hands, like something cruel.

He bent over and set it on the ground—it was a bit too precious to him just to toss it aside. He stood back up and held his hands out, "I'm not going to hurt you,” he said. He felt like he was talking to a scared animal, he’d seen a few videos on people getting stray dogs to trust them. 

He sat down crosslegged across from Cuteguy, leaving his hands where the man could see them. 

He looked at the man's wing again, able to see it a bit better at this angle. 

“You can go ahead and take me in if that’s what you came for,” Cuteguy said, voice snapping through the quiet air like a whip. Despite that, the voice itself was quiet, strained from pain and with a hostility Scar rarely heard anymore. 

“That’s not why I'm here,” he said. 

“Then why are you here?” Cuteguy asked? Not taking his eyes off Hotguy, even as his fingers continued digging in his wing, grasping for the slippery metal. 

“Because I–” he stopped himself before saying I love you, "I don't know. You’re hurt, and I'm—and I'm supposed to help people. To protect them.” 

Cuteguy scoffed. 

“Why do you always run?” Scar asked softly. 

Cuteguy took a moment to answer, he was breathing hard. One hand gripping the fabric of his shorts like it would save him, the other smeared with blood up to his elbow. Scar watched it pump out sluggishly. “Because you always chase,” he said finally, voice quiet and raw.

Scar didn’t know what to do with his hands. His fingers itched to reach out, to help his partner, to hold him. Comfort him. He didn’t move, he just sat there, hands still against his thighs. Cuteguy may have been the one between them with blood on his hands, but Scar’s felt just as slick. 

“You know I have to look like I’m trying,” Scar said, forcing the words out. “If they think I’m not—”

“They’ll replace you,” Cuteguy finished, bitterly. “I know. But you’re not trying, are you?” 

Hotguy didn’t answer. 

“You could have turned me in the first time you had me cornered on a roof top, you could have turned me in that time you shot an arrow clear through my thigh. You could have turned me in when you found me tangled in that net,” Cuteguy said, “but you didn’t. You backed off, let me fly away. Used the tip of one of your arrows to cut me out of the net before grappling off.” 

Scar said nothing, he just held Cuteguy’s gaze. Those shining purple eyes burning defiantly. 

“I don’t understand you,” he said, “it’s like this is some game to you. Like I'm a toy or some pet to win over. Like I’m the most interesting part of your life and turning me in would just be ‘such a shame’ to lose.”

Cuteguy finally was able to pull the bullet out, dropping it to the ground between them with a metallic clink. 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Scar said quietly. “They’ve got patrols everywhere. That new hotline—”

Cuteguy laughed, short and sharp. “Yeah. I heard.” He gestured toward the city below. “You can’t go anywhere without someone watching now. No one’s safe unless they can pretend to be something else.”

Scar looked at him helplessly, unsure if that last comment was a slight at him. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t,” he cut him off. His voice was trembling, but not with anger. With something closer to fear. “Don’t say I don’t have to hide. You know what happens if they find me.”

Scar shut his mouth. He did know. He’d read the memos. He’d watched the footage they never showed on the news.

He wanted to say I’d never let them touch you.

He wanted to say I’ll protect you.

But both felt like lies now—too small to mean anything in a world like this.

So he said nothing.

“You’re a coward,” Cuteguy said, “you have to know that right?” 

Hotguy stared at him. He might have been kidding himself, but he swore he saw a hint of amusement in those violet eyes. 

“An avian sympathizer, but the face of the company hunting us down. You’re their poster boy, your voice is louder than any of the politicians. And yet, you sit on your hands and do nothing.”

“I can’t do anything—” Scar started, using the same excuses he uses on himself. “If I speak out, I'll lose my job. I won’t be a hero anymore. I won't be able to help people.” 

Cuteguy laughed. “Is your hero gear remote controlled?” he asked, “if you rebel can they shut it off?” 

Scar wasn’t sure. 

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t matter, even if it was. I know someone who can make you more. I’m sure he’d love to even, it’d be a dream come true.” 

Scar hesitated. 

“But you won’t, will you?” 

“They know my name,” Scar whispered. 

Cuteguy’s eyes softened just a little bit. 

“If I," he paused, trying to avoid tripping over his words, “if I deflect. My parents, my friends.. Coworkers even. Anyone who knows me.” 

“You can still do something,” he said. 

“Like what?” Scar asked, voice raised a little bit.

Cuteguy didn't answer for a moment, "I don't know.” 

Scar’s ass hurt from sitting in the same position too long, and the rain and wind were starting to pick up. It was cold outside. 

“I’m a coward too,” Cuteguy said. “I started this because I wanted to show people that we’re not monsters, and now I've made everything worse. If I just… turn myself in, then it will all stop.”

“Are you an idiot?” Scar asked him. 

“What?” Cuteguy breathed, voice quiet. 

“You think they’re going to stop now they’ve got their foot in the door?” he asked, “what happens if people riot when you're taken? They’ll only worsen the punishments. Any registered avian could be imprisoned, or castrated.” 

Cuteguy just looked at him, as if this hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

“Even if they don't riot, you don't think they’ll reuse the same footage they always do to fearmonger? This didn’t start with you, and it's not going to end with you either.” 

“Then what do I do?” Cuteguy asked, voice desperate. 

“I don’t know,” Scar said, “live?” 

Cuteguy slumped in on himself, pulling his wings around him as if they could protect him. Scar wasn’t sure if he was shielding himself from the cold, or from Scar. 

“I’m scared,” Cuteguy said. 

“I know,” Scar answered. 

“There’s someone…” Cuteguy started. “There’s someone I know, well, more than know. We’re… dating.”

Scar sucked in a breath. He was talking about him. 

Cuteguy was talking to Scar and he didn’t even realize. 

“I feel like I'm taking advantage of him,” he said, "I found out he liked me—as Cuteguy, not me—and I just… sort of… started showing up more and more around him.” 

Scar nodded. 

He knew it really wasn’t much of a coincidence all those times Cuteguy had been there right when he needed him. 

“And i—i feel like,” he was starting to stumble over his words, Scar tried to seem sympathetic while he listened. “I’m being selfish. I shouldn’t be doing it, you know?” 

Cuteguy looked up at him, wings parting slightly. “What would you do if you found out a fan liked you, really liked you. And you liked them back?”

Scar didn’t know, he said as much. 

“It’s a power imbalance, and I feel like I'm taking advantage of that. Especially since I know for sure he won’t like me for me, as a civilian. I feel like I'm playing pretend and it's all going to come crashing down like a house of cards.” 

Scar was heartbroken. Listening to his partner spill his feelings to a glorified stranger, someone he despised just because he didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Because he felt like he couldn’t talk to Scar. 

“And,” Cuteguy continued, “this just makes everything so much worse. At least if I were a hero he’d be safer, but if someone finds out then he’ll be imprisoned for life for not turning me in. Or ill let my guard down and ill meet him one day and find you waiting there instead, instead of a couch and movies its a cement slab and dripping water.”

He was starting to sob now. 

“Do you trust him?” Scar asked finally, he wasn’t sure if he were asking to comfort Cuteguy, or to reassure himself. 

“I don’t know,” Cuteguy answered and Scar’s chest hurt a little bit more, “I want to, but I feel so naive jumping in head first.” 

“It sounds like you love him,” Scar said finally.

“I have for a long time,” Cuteguy answered. That was news to Scar. 

“You should tell him how you feel at least,” Scar said, after a few moments, “you don’t have to show him your face, I'm sure he understands. But tell him how you feel, this isn’t something you should have to carry alone.” 

“He could die…” Cuteguy whispered. 

“He won't," Scar answered. 

“I could,” Cuteguy said, “that's a lot more likely. With the laws and patrols and all, hell! I’ve been shot already!” He raised his injured wing to emphasize his point. 

“Things will calm down,” Scar said. 

“They won’t.” 

“They will if you stop showing up.” 

“And then what? They double down on the civilian side? Strip checks anytime someone enters a building?” His voice was almost hysterical, “it’s not going to stop pretty boy,” he spat the moniker as if it were a slur, “it’s just going to get worse.” 

“It’s going to be okay,” Scar whispered, raising his hand slightly towards Cuteguy.

“For you maybe,” Cuteguy said. 

For a while, neither of them spoke. The city hummed below, the air heavy with smog and the faint sound of sirens. Cuteguy moved first, straightening out a bit, wings stretching just the slightest amount, staring up at the skyline behind Scar.

“You remember the first time we met?” he asked suddenly.

Scar smiled faintly. “You mean when you stole my comms?”

“I didn’t steal them,” Cuteguy said, his lips twitching. “You dropped them. I just picked them up before you could.”

Scar almost laughed. Almost. “I thought you were a new recruit then, you ran halfway across the market with them.”

“Yeah,” Cuteguy murmured, “and you chased me then, too.”

The silence that followed was heavier this time. Scar felt it in his throat, in the back of his teeth.

“You know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “sometimes I wish you’d stop.”

Scar looked over at him. “Stop what?”

“Trying so hard to fix things that can’t be fixed.” Cuteguy’s wings shifted, feathers glinting faintly in the streetlight glow. “You keep thinking you can save everyone. But you can’t, Hawkeye. Not from this.”

He’d used his professional name, something Scar was almost unused to hearing. Scar swallowed hard. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you don’t want to know that.”

Scar didn’t respond. He wanted to, but every word that came to mind sounded hollow.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Scar said.

Cuteguy huffed softly. “You say that.”

“Because I mean it.”

That almost earned a smile. Almost.

Cuteguy looked at him—really looked at him—and Scar wished he hadn’t. The sadness there was too much.

“Safe?” he echoed. “You think that’s what this is about?”

“I just—”

“I’d rather die free than rot in their possession. I’ve been a puppet before. You think they’d ever let me out again?” His voice cracked slightly, just enough to make Scar’s chest ache. “You can’t protect me from them, Hero. Not forever.”

Scar hated how right he was.

“I don’t want forever,” he whispered. “I just want you to live long enough to see this end.”

He looked away again. “You sound like you believe it will.”

“I have to.”

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “You always have to.”

Scar didn’t know what to say in response. “Why are you here?” he asked instead.

Cuteguy didn’t answer right away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes fixed on some distant point in the city.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d be able to save me.”

Scar almost laughed again, but the sound caught halfway. “I will always try.”

“Yeah,” Cuteguy murmured. “That’s the problem.”

He stood up then, slow and deliberate, brushing the dirt from his hands. He looked smaller in the city light, thinner somehow.

“You should go,” Scar said quietly. “Before they send drones out this way.”

Cuteguy gave a small nod. “Yeah.” He turned toward the edge, wings twitching as though testing the air.

“Hey—”

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

Scar hesitated. He wanted to say don’t go. He wanted to say I’m sorry, or I love you, or please just let me try. But the words tangled somewhere in his throat.

All that came out was, “Be careful.”

Cuteguy smiled then—small, tired, and heartbreakingly kind. “You too.”

He spread his wings and stepped into the wind. For a moment, Scar thought he might fall—the lift came late, clumsy from exhaustion and burning pain—but then he was airborne, rising just high enough to clear the next building.

Scar watched until he couldn’t see him anymore.

Only then did he realize his hands were shaking.

He sat down where his lover had sat, staring at the same skyline when the rain had started to fall again. The city blurred beneath the drizzle, all its edges softening into gray.

He told himself he was doing the right thing. That staying quiet meant he could still help, still protect.

That keeping his job mattered.

But the excuses sounded thinner now.

Maybe Cuteguy was right. Maybe some things couldn’t be fixed.

The rain came harder. He didn’t move. He stayed there until his clothes clung to him, until the comms buzzed again demanding a report, until the night swallowed the sound of wings entirely.

And still, he waited—as if the man might come back.

Chapter Text

He heaved himself into his window, pressing his wings to his back and hissing in pain—the bullet wound was healing, but it would still need more time. His heels catching on the fire escape, the soft metallic thumps worried him, what if someone heard and went to investigate?

He tumbled down onto the hardwood floor of his apartment with a loud thud. He felt bad for any of his downstairs neighbors who may have heard the noise. 

For a moment he didn’t move. Just the sound of his breathing—too fast and too loud in the quiet night. The curtains were drawn, letting only a thin slice of city light cut across the floor. Dust danced circles in it.

He was home, he was safe now. 

There weren’t any police or drones or heroes to catch him. Not in his bedroom with the curtains drawn. 

There was nothing to fear here—and yet, he still felt so afraid. He huddled in on himself, using his wings as a shield from the outside world. The wet feathers were still cold from the early morning air.

His wings twitched once, then folded tight against his back. The bullet hole burned. A sharp, wrong kind of pain—he could feel it knitting itself shut, the slow pull of flesh and muscle dragging back together. It hurt more than it should.

He told himself to get up, up off the floor and out of his clothes. To hide his wings and crawl under his covers. 

He didn’t. 

He just lay still on the floor, desperately trying to catch his breath.

The air was cold. The wet feathers stuck to his skin. His hair clung to the sides of his face, matted with sweat and rain and wind. His fingers trembled when he tried to brush behind his ear.

He was home.

He was safe now.

No patrols. No police. No heroes. No searchlights sweeping the roofs.

He tried to believe that.

He couldn’t.

The silence pressed on him. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t safe. It was just heavy.

At least the night was no longer filled with the sound of sirens and gunshots. 

He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, wings curving forward like a shield. The tips dragged against the floor, feathers bent and sticking in odd directions. Blood crusted along one edge, sticky where it dried.

He wanted to wash it off, but even the thought of standing felt impossible.

He tried to breathe slower. His lungs didn’t listen.

His ears listened carefully. 

Waiting for the sirens to start back up again, to hear men chattering into their radios. For the sound of grappling hooks to whizz closer. The sound of helicopters hovering above his building, shining search lights into his still open window. 

There was nothing. 

That didn’t help to calm him down. 

He was terrified, nothing but adrenaline pumping through his veins. Blood drained and replaced with cold fear. 

They were going to find him. 

They were going to take him. 

They were going to steal his flight. 

Going to open his chest and silence his defiant heart. 

He thought of his cousin, a man who’d never learned to fly. Someone who’d never be able to. His parents had made the decision to keep him safe, to bind his wings and make sure they’d never grow strong enough to support his weight. 

Sometimes, he wished his father had done the same. 

He wished he’d never learnt to fly. 

He wouldn’t be so scared of losing it if he hadn’t. 

He curled tighter, nails digging into his arms until they broke skin. The sting barely registered. He just wanted something to ground him—to make the fear smaller, to remind him that he still existed. 

His heart kept lurching in his chest, too fast, then suddenly too slow, every beat like it couldn’t decide whether to keep going. The room was cold. Not sharp, not biting—just the kind of cold that seeps in and stays. 

His feathers were still damp, sticking to his shirt, drying in uneven patches that left his skin clammy. Every small twitch tugged at the wound, the wet pull of blood against cloth. The air around him smelled like rain and metal.

His cats scratched at the door, an ugly noise, too quiet and too loud. He couldn’t bring himself to answer it. Even that soft sound made him flinch. The silence between scratches felt heavier than the noise itself. 

The world was quiet—too quiet for him to be this scared.

He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the hollow space beneath his ribs. His heartbeat rattled against it like a trapped bird. He told himself he was fine. He’d been through worse. He was overreacting.

There wasn’t anyone outside. He wasn’t bleeding out. He wasn’t being hunted.

So why did it feel like he was?

He dug his fingers into his hair and pulled until his scalp burned. He dragged his nails down his arms, felt feathers catch and rip from his wings in clumps. 

The pain was shallow and fleeting, the kind that left nothing behind but guilt. He told himself to stop, but his hands didn’t listen.

He should have been stronger than this. He was stronger than this. He’d faced down officers and drones and heroes before. He’d gotten away before. 

This shouldn’t have shaken him like it did.

And yet—he couldn’t shake the image of Scar’s easy grin, Mumbo hunched over blueprints of guns and robots, Jimmy’s laugh echoing out from his office, how easy he made friends with everyone. Joel shoving cups of coffee at him while loudly complaining, teasing him about his height and his taste in men. Normal people. Good people. 

People who didn’t deserve to burn just because he existed.

He could almost see it—sirens outside their windows, boots slamming down on their floors, wings torn from strangers in the name of justice. 

All because of him.

He tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t go down. His throat felt too tight, his chest too hollow, the world too still. 

He wished, absurdly, that the cat would start scratching again. 

Anything to fill the quiet.

To block out the sounds of his mind.

He pressed his forehead to his knees, pinnae fluttering wildly in time with his heaving breath. He told himself it would pass. 

It always did.

It had to

He was strong. 

Wasn’t he? 

He’d become a vigilante for a reason. 

He’d wanted to show people that he wasn’t a monster, that they weren’t monsters. 

He thought of all the people he’d hurt now, just by existing in the spotlight. For daring to show people he existed. 

They were going to kill him. 

He was going to die. 

His head spun. His vision felt narrow, like he was looking through a keyhole. The world existed somewhere beyond it, muffled, too far to reach.

He should call someone. 

Scar maybe, he had given Grian his phone number. 

He laughed, finding something humorous in revealing himself to his partner amidst a breakdown. He imagined Scar rushing over to his house, thinking he was going to help Grian, only to find the city's most wanted man in a puddle on the floor. 

He wondered how his partner would react. 

Grian imagined he’d be gentle. 

That he’d know exactly what to do to get him out of this mess. 

It would be so easy to reach into his pocket and grab his phone. 

He should move. 

He couldn't pull his hands from their positions digging into his skin. The fingers wouldn’t respond to him with so much as a twitch. 

He could only lie there shaking.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there—minutes or hours, it didn’t matter. His body hurt from holding itself so tightly. His chest ached like something was pressing down on it, crushing every bit of air before it could reach his lungs.

His wings trembled. The feathers puffed up involuntarily, reacting to the cold and the fear, until he looked bigger, more bird than man. 

His instincts screamed at him to hide, to fight, to do something.

He couldn’t do anything.

He felt his head fall back against the wall. The thud barely registered. He stared at the ceiling through blurry eyes.

He tried to swallow. His throat burnt from the effort.

“They’ll come for me,” he whispered. “They’ll come for me, and then—”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

The thought hung there, half-formed but heavy enough to crush him anyway.

Scar’s face flashed in his mind. His smile. The way his eyes softened when he laughed. The warmth in his hands when they’d brushed his feathers, careful and gentle.

Gone. All of it gone.

He’d thought he could keep both. 

Keep his safety and still have that warmth. But every moment they spent together, every time he lingered too long, he was just tightening the noose. He’d dragged Scar into the line of fire without meaning to. 

Sacrificed the man because of his selfishness. 

He curled in tighter.

It hurt to breathe.

The wound on his wing pulsed with his heartbeat. 

The healing had slowed—maybe because he couldn’t calm down enough for his body to focus. He reached behind himself, fingers brushing the edge of the hole. Sticky. Wet. He hissed through his teeth.

He felt the twitch of a muscle pulling taut beneath his touch, the faint shifting of tissue knitting back together. He could feel it. That slow crawl of cells repairing. The burn that followed.

It made him nauseous.

He dragged his hand back around and pressed it against his mouth to keep from making a sound.

He didn’t want the neighbors to hear him.

He didn’t want anyone to hear him.

A soft scratching came from the door.

Then again—two small paws against the wood. A quiet mewl. Pearl.

Maui added his weight a second later, claws scraping in complaint.

He wanted to tell them to go away, but his throat wouldn’t work. The scratching continued, soft and persistent. He turned his head toward the door, just barely. “Not now,” he whispered. “Please. Not now.”

The noise quieted, but he could still hear them shifting, tails brushing against the doorframe. Waiting.

He closed his eyes.

They’d come for him.

The police. The heroes. The government. Whoever decided he wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

And if they didn’t find him, they’d find Scar.

They’d take him apart until they found the connection. They’d call it justice.

He pressed his palms against his face. His fingers were shaking again.

“I’m going to die,” he breathed.

The words didn’t sound real, but they didn’t need to. The meaning sat deep in his chest, sharp and solid.

He’s going to die. Scar will die with him. Mumbo, Jimmy, Joel. Cleo and Bdubs. The coworkers he couldn’t remember the names of. They’d all be guilty just by knowing him. 

His pinnae twitched again, every tiny motion amplified by the adrenaline still thrumming through him. He reached up, grabbed one of the smaller ones and yanked. 

The sting cleared his head for a second.

He hated that it worked.

He did it again. And again. Until the pain blurred into everything else.

His breathing came in uneven bursts. A sob caught halfway.

He dragged himself upright, every movement shaking. The room tilted, then steadied. His wings dragged behind him, the tips catching on the floor. He stumbled toward the bed.

The sheets were still unmade from that morning. He collapsed onto them face-first. The pillow smelled like his shampoo.

He wanted to sleep. He couldn’t.

His mind wouldn’t stop.

Scar’s voice. Scar’s laugh. The sound of the news broadcast. The policy headlines. 

Every sound layered over itself until it was just noise.

He clutched the pillow tighter.

The cats scratched again, softer this time.

“I said not now,” he whispered. His voice cracked on the last word.

They didn’t answer, but he could imagine them curling up outside the door, waiting.

He turned his face into the pillow and tried to breathe. Tried to anchor himself to the fabric, the smell, the weight pressing against his chest.

He wasn’t sure if the shaking was from the cold or from crying. 

Probably both.

The window was still open. He could feel the draft dragging across his wet feathers, chilling him deeper.

He should close it. He didn’t move.

His hand reached up blindly, brushing against the side of his head. The smaller feathers there were puffed up, trembling with every shallow breath. He smoothed them down, but they lifted again the moment he stopped.

His body didn’t believe he was safe.

Maybe it was right.

He thought of the bullet again. The flash of light. The sound. The way it had felt when it hit, like his whole wing had been torn out of joint.

He thought of the look on Scar’s face if he ever saw the Scar it would leave.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t let Scar see what he’d done to himself.

What he’d caused.

His vision blurred again. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes and slid down into the pillowcase. He didn’t bother wiping them away.

His chest heaved. The sobs came quiet and uneven, the kind that made no sound except for the air catching in his throat.

His body ached. His feathers were sticky and bent. His skin burned where he’d clawed it raw.

He wanted to disappear.

He wanted to vanish into the sheets and the dark and forget that the world outside existed.

Instead, he hugged the pillow tighter, buried his face deeper, and whispered until the words stopped making sense.

“I’m sorry,” he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to. 

Until the shaking slowed. Until the fear stopped feeling sharp and just felt heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he said, maybe to Scar. 

Until exhaustion dulled everything else.

“I’m really sorry, please I tried.” 

The room stayed dark. The cats stayed quiet. The world outside kept moving.

Grian stayed there, curled on his bed, clutching the pillow like it could hold him together.

He’d woken up groggy that next morning, with eyelids crusted together from tears and a crick in his neck. His wings were sore from their awkward position hanging off the bed like they were. 

He sat up, rubbing his gritty eyelids with the palm of his hand while he stretched. He was sure he looked like a mess—and that he’d woken up far too late to make it to his morning lectures. Not that he’d made it to any lectures recently. 

He typed out a quick email on his phone, informing his students that he was still down with the ‘flu’ and that he should hopefully be better in time for classes on Tuesday. He tacked on a quick reading assignment to make up for his sick leave. 

He flopped back down onto his mattress, it was comfortable enough to make him want to fall back asleep. For a moment he considered it, curling up into his comforter and closing his eyes again. 

He pulled himself out of bed and swung his legs around to the edge. His feet hit the ground with a click. He frowned, realizing he was still wearing his heels. That he’d slept in them. 

Gross. 

He noticed the blood he’d tracked onto his sheets second, though the wound in his wing was well on its way to being healed—though, not quite yet judging by the throbbing—it still bled quite a lot onto his bed. 

He sighed. 

He’d have to clean up the feathers he’d plucked out and left on the ground as well. It wasn’t enough to leave bald spots in his wings, thankfully, but it was more than enough to leave a small pile on the ground. 

He stood up and crossed the short distance from his bed to the wall. He took a quick glance out the window—nothing was there—before shutting it.  

One of his cats must've heard the commotion because there were now paws scratching at his door, soft mewls begging to be fed. He chuckled to himself, before making his way over to the door. 

The mewls turned into full on yelling once he’d gotten the door open, both Pearl and Maui were there to greet him. They spun circles around his legs, yelling the whole while. 

“I can’t walk if you keep tripping me up,” he told them, like he did every time. 

They ignored him. 

He made it to the kitchen without stepping on a paw nor tripping, an olympic feat in and of itself. He pulled open the cabinet and grabbed the measuring scoop out of the bag. 

He’d always hated the feeling of the kibble dust collecting under his nails, but it was a small price to pay in order to keep his cats fed. He scooped the kibble into the bowl, picking it up before either of his beasts could get to it. 

He scooped more into the second bowl, making sure both cats were fed at the same time. 

Pearl was bold—and rude—she’d shove Maui out of the way just to eat a microsecond earlier. He shut the cabinet door and kicked off his heels, startling his cats enough to make them jump, but not enough to distract them from their food. 

He hopped on one foot while peeling one of his thigh highs off—it was stubborn, stuck on from last night's sweat and rain presumably. 

He almost tripped and fell, but was able to flap his wings in time to steady himself. 

He giggled to himself, it felt so nice to be able to use his wings freely. The sock landed on the ground with a thwap, and the switched feet to work on the other. 

He knew logically it’d be faster to make it to the bathroom before undressing. He wasn’t sure if what he was doing could be considered lazy or stupid. 

It was certainly more fun. 

His shorts were next, then his shirt and lastly the bodysuit. 

He left his uniform in a messy bread-crumb like trail from the kitchen to the bathroom. He’d need to wash them later, but for now, he couldn’t care less about them. 

He wanted a shower. 

He turned the tub dial to warm up the shower as the first thing he did—the old pipes took forever to bring him anything but an ice cold shock—before standing over the sink and looking himself in the eye.

His glamour was still up—his mother would have been proud, keeping it up without thought—he dismissed it within a second. 

He almost regretted it when met with the sight of his face. Messy hair, bags under his dull almost lifeless looking eyes. His skin was pale and his cheeks were sunken a bit. 

There were a few freckles across his nose, but not the same amount he’d normally have this time of year. 

He hadn’t been outside during the day much recently. 

He sighed, trying to run his hand through his hair but he only succeeded in tangling it further. 

The pink on his wings was visibly fading, he’d need to buy more hair dye soon. 

Bleach too, judging by the amount of black pin feathers growing in. 

He dragged himself away from his reflection in the mirror and tentatively stuck a hand under the water. 

Too hot.

He turned it down a little bit and stepped in, the warm water soothing the soreness in his neck and wings. He spent longer in the shower than he normally did, spending ages working the dirt, sweat and blood out from his feathers. 

Washing his wings with shampoo and conditioner wasn’t something he did often—mostly because it wasn’t necessary most of the time—but he figured it was worth the extra effort this time. Even if it came at the cost of getting his wings uncomfortably wet. 

The bathroom was filled with steam by the time he stepped out and toweled himself off. 

He figured it was well past noon now. A part of him hated himself for waking up so late in the day, and considered himself useless. Another part was thankful for the rest. 

He dried his wings off as best he could before carefully folding them back into his back. It wasn’t incredibly painful, but it was very uncomfortable to do. He did the same with the pinnae on his head before dressing up in a sweatshirt and khakis. 

He tried to ignore the pile of clothes as he walked to the door, but in the end the logical side of him won out and he quickly gathered them up and into the washer. Semi-satisfied with the state of his apartment he walked out of the front door and locked it behind him. 

He knew exactly where he wanted to go. 

It was longer of a walk than he was used to, almost 45 minutes. Long enough for him to consider hailing a cab about three times. He didn’t. Just kept walking, he wanted to memorize the route—like he had with Joel's last, and much closer, location. 

It took him a while but eventually he found it, a small painted brick building with large glass windows and an awning covering a few chairs. It was green, close to sage but not quite—teetering on the edge of being garishly ugly, but not so far it wasn’t charming. 

Grian grinned to himself. 

He pushed open the glass door and walked into Small Bean’s and Bakery. He’d been here before, but not while it was open. The smell of brewed coffee and fresh bread filled his nose. It was lovely. 

“Be right with you!” Joel called from the back room, and Grian took it as a sign to meander behind the counter and select one of Lizzie’s desserts. 

“Hey! What are you–!” Joel started, “oh, it's you,” he said lacklusterly, though Grian could hear the fondness in his voice. 

“You decorated nicely,” Grian said around a mouthful of banana and chocolate muffin. 

“You’re gonna pay for that,” Joel grumbled. 

“After all the work I did for you?” Grian asked, fully knowing most of the work had been done by Hotguy himself. 

“After you bailed on me! Yes!” Joel said, “you took those boxes and you disappeared you stupid—” someone walked through the door before Joel could finish, instead sending a death glare Grian’s way. “How can I help you?” he asked. 

Grian stuck his tongue out at Joel—half chewed muffin on display—before sauntering over to the other side of the counter and picking a seat by the window. He pulled out his laptop and started planning out the next week's lesson. 

He was in the middle of brainstorming ideas on how he could catch his classes up to the planned curriculum when Joel all but slammed a mug of coffee on the table in front of him before sliding into the seat across from him and scowling. 

Grian picked it up and took a sip, as good as it always was. “You know,” he started, “Hotguy told me to tell you to stop putting drugs in my coffee. Said it was illegal or something.” 

Joel looked stunned for a second before frowning—leading Grian to laugh at his pout. “My coffee is perfectly legal,” he said, “in fact, it's–” he was interrupted by the door opening again. He was right, the new location was so much better for business. 

“Hello!” a familiar voice called through the room, and Grian’s heart gave a jolt when he realized it was Scar.

Joel turned around, “be with you–” and nearly fell out of his seat. 

“Oh my!” Scar said, “Did I startle you?” 

“No–” Joel squeaked out, “no it's fine, give me one moment please.” He hurried out of his seat and ran around the counter and into the back room. 

Scar looked over at Grian and said “I think I startled him.” 

Grian chuckled at that, for a second forgetting that he wasn’t Cuteguy, and that Scar was just his coworker. “He’s jumpy,” Grian said, “and has a bad attitude. It’s a wonder he gets any regulars.” 

“Mind if I sit here?” Scar asked, gesturing to the seat that Joel vacated. Scar glanced in the direction of the counter, “unless..” he trailed off. 

“No, no,” Grian said, “it’s fine. He doesn’t like to sit down in front of customers because he’s afraid they’ll think he’s lazy or something.” 

Scar looked over to the door Joel disappeared behind before finally sitting down, leaning his cane up against the table. 

Grian looked out of the window awkwardly and took a sip of his coffee. He wasn’t sure if continuing to work on his laptop would be rude to Scar, but the man sitting across from him didn’t seem to mind. Scar himself was leaning back in his chair and staring out the window—Grian was taken aback by how handsome his side profile was. Sure, he’d seen it before, admired it even. 

But there was something in the way Scar was sitting, and the way the light from the cloudy sky cast shadows across his face. His eyes looked so green in the white light. 

Joel cleared his throat from behind the counter, startling Grian and drawing both of their attentions to the man. “What can I get for you today?” he asked, in a practiced manner that made his voice almost unrecognizable to Grian. 

Scar stood up and walked over to the counter, browsing the menu for a second before responding. “I’ll have what Grian’s having,” he glanced back to Grian, with the half raised cup of coffee in his hand. 

Joel nodded, “coming right up,” he typed a few buttons into his sales system and Scar handed him a ten dollar bill. “Feel free to have a seat and I'll have that out to you.” 

Scar nodded and made his way back to Grian. 

They sat in silence for a moment while Grian typed away on his keyboard, “have you been doing alright?” Scar asked him. “I noticed you’ve been out.” 

Grian felt like a deer in the headlights for a second, missing work and then showing up at a coffee shop across town. He probably looked lazy. “I’ve had the flu,” he said, “it’s better now, but I just didn’t get enough sleep last night.” 

Scar nodded, “you look a little rough.” Ouch, did he really look that awful? “I hope you feel better soon.”

Grian gave a polite chuckle and responded, “yeah, me too.”

Joel carefully set the cup of coffee down in front of Scar, before lingering a second to stare at the man. It almost seemed as though he had trouble pulling his eyes from the man. 

Scar was oblivious to the weird looks he was being thrown and delved immediately into the coffee, “mmm,” he said, “hazelnut, that is good.” 

Grian nearly shot out of his chair, his head whipped around to stare at the hastily retreating Joel. 

“You liar!” he accused, “you told me it was just cream and sugar!” 

Joel raised a hand as if in apology, while refusing to turn around. “Must’ve slipped my mind, my bad.” 

Grian slouched in his chair, forgetting that Scar was there to witness the moment. “Guess you found out the secret ingredient,” Scar said, “it wasn’t drugs after all.” 

Grian stared at him for a moment. He was certain he’d never told Scar about Joel’s coffee. 

Scar had a look of realization and then looked away as if sheepish, "I overheard you talking to Jimmy about it,” he said. 

Grian nodded slowly, he still had a weird feeling but the explanation was more than reasonable. “Yeah,” he answered, "I guess I have.” He took a sip of Joel’s coffee and wondered how he’d never noticed it was laced with hazelnut syrup. 

He looked over at the man, who was standing behind the counter half heartedly wiping it down, more focused on staring over at him and Scar. 

Joel bent over and started furiously scrubbing at a spot when he noticed Grian’s attention. 

Weird, he wondered why the man was acting like that. 

“How’d you hear of this place, Scar?” Grian asked him, trying to start up some small talk to fill up the awkward situation. 

“Y—Oh, a friend of mine recommended it to me. Said they couldn’t get enough of his coffee, and I had to come see for myself.” 

Grian nodded, proud of Joel for being successful. 

“Great coffee,” Grian said, “makes up for his terrible company,” he said it loud enough for Joel to hear, though the man was obviously eavesdropping. 

Joel muttered something Grian didn’t catch and Scar chuckled. “I wish it weren’t so far out of the way,” he said. 

“Me too,” Grian echoed, a little quieter, in hopes Joel wouldn’t be able to hear. “He actually just moved here. It’s a lot better for business, considering all the salary workers around here, but I sometimes wish he’d stayed.” 

Scar nodded, “good for him, bad for us.” 

Grian was surprised that Scar had included himself in that, but Joel's coffee really was that good. 

Joel was staring again, Grian could see it out of the corner of his eye. He sighed, and then stood up, “excuse me for a second,” he said before marching over to Joel. 

He dragged him by the arm into the back, barely giving the man enough time to set down his rag. 

“Hey–!” Joel protested. 

Grian turned on him the second the door was shut, “you’re being rude Joel.”

Joel sputtered, scrambling for a response but Grian didn’t let him start. 

“Scar’s a coworker, he’s fine. We’re not dating,” Grian said, “please stop looking at the man like he's an exotic insect.” 

“I–” Joel started, “I wasn't staring!” he lied. 

Grian leveled him with a flat glare. 

“Fine! I was staring," Joel admitted, "I just know him from somewhere and he doesn’t know me and it’s really awkward.” 

Grian thought for a second, “is he famous on the internet or something?” He didn’t use social media often, had even handed off the Cuteguy instagram account to Mumbo. 

“Not in the way you're thinking,” Joel said. 

“I don’t understand,” Grian said, utterly confused. 

“Ugh,” Joel said, “forget it you don’t need to know.” 

Grian realized what Joel had meant, “Joel!” he said, “does Lizzie know? Is she okay with that?” He was surprised Scar hadn’t told him as Cuteguy, but he supposed it was an awkward subject to bring up. 

Joel stared at him, uncomprehendingly for a moment before his face flushed “What!? No! It’s not that either!” he exclaimed, almost loud enough Scar might’ve been able to hear him. “We just work together,” he said, a little too fast, “he just doesn’t know who I am because…” 

“I’m going to stop asking questions before I learn things about you I can't unlearn,” Grian said, making to move around Joel and back out into the front-room. 

“Grian!” Joel said, “we just do theater together, okay!?” 

Grian laughed, “you’re still embarrassed about it?” Joel’s face flushing was more than enough to give him away. He got the lead role in the University's rendition of Romeo and Juliet, even roping Grian and Jimmy into ensemble roles. It’s how he’d met Lizzie, almost cliche in the way they fell in love. 

“I’d almost rather you think I'm a porn star,” Joel said. 

Grian laughed, “you should invite us to one of your plays.” 

“Like hell I will,” Joel said. 

Grian laughed and playfully shoved past the man. He found Scar gone when he’d stepped through the door, his empty mug of coffee left on the counter with a tip tucked underneath. 

Grian was almost a little disappointed.

Chapter Text

Cuteguy drew in a nervous breath before lifting his hand and knocking on Scar’s front door. 

He’d taken a cab to his place, desperate to see the man after the small taste he’d been given the day before. Though Grian had seen him yesterday, it’d been a week since he’d seen Cuteguy.

He wondered what Scar thought of him, running off like he did. 

He’d be right to be upset, was he angry?  

“Hey,” Scar said breathlessly after opening the door. He’d gotten to it pretty quickly, as if he’d been waiting. That thought sent a pang of guilt through Grian’s chest. He raised the pot of flowers up in an offering, trying to smile as apologetically as possible. 

He’d wondered if the flower shop had perfumed them to make them more enticing to customers, he doubted the scent was truly that strong. There were still a few tiny little droplets of moisture from when it’d been watered last. 

He’d made sure to pick a plant in a pot, he always thought it was sad the way cut flowers died after a few days. 

“Flowers?” Scar asked, taking the potted plant, “lilacs,” he said, noting the species. 

Cuteguy nodded, “sorry,” he said a bit awkwardly. 

“Sorry?” 

“For taking off like I did,” he answered. 

“Oh,” Scar said, “it’s okay, you were upset. I don't mind, promise.” He flashed Cuteguy a grin, “besides,” he said a little bit quieter, “I upset you.”

“You weren't the reason I was upset,” Cuteguy protested. 

“No but I made it worse,” Scar answered. 

Cuteguy shook his head, “you didn't. I promise.” 

Scar didn’t look convinced, but he seemed to ponder it for a second. “I guess,” he said. 

Cuteguy shifted on his feet a bit awkwardly, and Scar realized they’d both been standing in the hallway. “I’m sorry,” he said, “come in.” Scar moved to press his back against the door so Cuteguy could have room to squeeze in through. 

A movie was playing on the tv—a star wars movie, he recognised. One from the original trilogy, it’s been a few years since he’d watched them. Funnily enough, it’d been Scar who’d pushed him to do so. Overhearing him rant about it in the breakroom and desperate for any modicum of connection to the man. 

“It smells good in here,” Cuteguy commented, because it really did. 

Scar gave a nervous chuckle before making his way into the kitchen, “yeah, I was making cookies. You can have a seat on the couch,” he gestured over to the couch they usually sat on. 

Cuteguy listened, but he didn’t make himself comfortable. 

He sat down on the edge of the couch, feeling too awkward to relax—even though he’s been in Scar’s apartment many times. His fingers tapped on his knees, Scar was cleaning up the mess he’d made from baking earlier. 

The living room wasn’t large, but it wasn’t small either. The apartment was an open-concept design, with only a kitchen island separating it from the living room. He could see Scar standing at the sink a few feet away but he looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. 

The sound of the rushing water from the sink filled the quiet in a way that almost felt domestic. Too domestic. 

It made Cuteguy’s chest ache with want.

Scar’s cane was leaned up against the arm of the couch, within easy reach, though he didn’t seem to be needing it right now. Cuteguy smiled a bit at that, glad that the man was having a good day. 

He fiddled with the zipper of his grey hoodie, feeling the little metallic clicks beneath his fingers. The sound of Scar moving in the kitchen drew his attention—drawer sliding open, the sound of silverware rubbing up against each other as they moved, soft clinks as Scar moved new utensils into their space. 

Scar made his way over to Cuteguy a moment later, carrying two steaming mugs. Scar handed one to Cuteguy and then sat down next to him on the couch, Cuteguy scooted back a little bit. The mug Scar had handed to him had a simple text design on it—probably gifted from Cleo or Bdubs if he were to guess—it read: “I’m a teacher. Just like a normal teacher. Except much hotter.” 

Cuteguy smiled, an ironic cup choice, considering Scar didn’t know Cuteguy was a professor as well. “Thank you,” Cuteguy said, taking a sip. Scar made hot chocolate, with a scoop of quickly melting whipped cream on top. 

“You’re welcome,” Scar answered, “I uh,” he started, and Cuteguy looked over at him. “I had some hazelnut coffee creamer, and I put some in mine—because you know, nutella right? And I wasn’t sure if you’d want any in your’s so I didn't put any in, but it's actually really good and—” Scar hesitated for a second, “do you want to try it?” 

Cuteguy nodded, setting his mug on the coffee table. Scar handed his over—another silly mug, this one printed with the image of a pickle, and the caption “I'm kinda a big dill.”

“I love your mugs,” he commented, taking a sip out of Scar’s cup. He tried to convince himself that the flush on his face was from the heat of the drink, not from the realization of their indirect kiss. 

Scar chuckled warmly, “my friends think they’re the perfect gifts,” Scar said, “but I don't use them much. I’ve been trying to get better at that though.” 

Cuteguy nodded, “this is really good,” he said. 

“Mhm, I thought you would like it,” Scar said, “with you being part bird and all.” 

“What?” Cuteguy asked. 

“I’m so sorry, was that offensive?” Scar asked, "I just—I just thought since, you know, birds like nuts?”

Cuteguy started laughing, almost unable to answer his partner. “No!” he said, trying to be reassuring, "I just,” he laughed more, “never thought of it like that.” 

Scar looked incredibly relieved, and Cuteguy smiled at him. He handed the mug back over to the man, trying to ignore the warmth on his lips. 

They sat in silence for a while, both sipping their respective mugs of the warm drink—Cuteguy occasionally stealing sips from Scar’s mug as well. The only sounds were the soft hum of conversation from the TV.

Scar broke the quiet first. “So, uh, how’ve you been?”

Cuteguy shrugged, gaze flicking down to the hot chocolate. Depressed. “Busy. Tired. You?” 

“Yeah,” Scar said, “I know how you feel.” 

They sat there again, another silence stretching between them. It wasn’t quite as awkward this time—just a bit heavy, full of things neither of them had the courage to say.

Scar eventually rose to check on the cookies. Cuteguy exhaled shakily once his back was turned, pressing a hand to his chest to try to calm the fluttering there.

When Scar came back, he was holding a plate of slightly uneven cookies, golden around the edges. He set them on the coffee table. “They’re still really hot,” he warned, though there was a glimmer of pride in his voice.

Cuteguy took one, the warmth almost hurting his fingers. Scar had been right, they were hot. The first bite nearly burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. It tasted like butter and sugar and best of all, gooey chocolate.

“Good?” Scar asked, a bit of almost childish hope in his voice.

Cuteguy nodded eagerly, unable to speak around the mouthful.

Scar chuckled again and leaned back into the couch beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that Cuteguy could feel the body heat radiating off him.

He wanted to move closer.

He didn’t.

The movie played on, a lightsaber hum slicing faintly through the air. Cuteguy’s eyes drifted toward the window—he could see the faint reflection of the two of them sitting there, side by side, the lamplight softening their edges.

“Thanks for coming by,” Scar said quietly.

Cuteguy blinked, startled. The half-bitten cookie forgotten on its way to his mouth, “You’re thanking me?”

“Yeah,” Scar said simply. “I missed you.”

Something in Cuteguy’s chest fractured, a small crack that let warmth seep through. He stared at Scar for a moment longer than was polite before looking away.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I missed you too.”

The words slipped out quieter than he meant them to, almost lost beneath the hum of the movie. But Scar heard. Cuteguy could tell by the way his smile faltered for a second, how something gentle flickered across his face—something that made Cuteguy’s stomach twist.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that. Or maybe he had.

Scar didn’t answer right away, just watched him with that unreadable look of his. The TV light flickered across his face, casting small blue shadows under his eyes. Cuteguy forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the steam still curling from his mug.

The air felt different now, thicker somehow. Not heavy, exactly, just charged—like the moment before lightning.

Scar broke the silence first, voice low. “You always do that.”

Cuteguy blinked, unsure of himself. “Do what?”

“Say something that knocks the wind out of me,” Scar said with a soft laugh. It wasn’t teasing, not really. There was warmth in it—and something that sounded a lot like longing.

Cuteguy tried to laugh it off, but it came out uneven. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Scar said, smiling faintly. “That’s probably why it works.”

Cuteguy looked at him then, really let himself look—not a small stolen glance. Scar’s hand was resting on his knee, fingers curled loosely around the mug’s handle. The lamplight caught a scar on his knuckle, the faint purple of healed skin. 

His hair was messy, sticking up in uneven tufts, and Cuteguy had the sudden, ridiculous urge to smooth it down.

He didn’t, but his fingers still twitched rebelliously.

He stared at the movie instead, but the subtitles on-screen blurred together, meaningless. His pulse felt too loud in his ears.

Scar shifted closer—not much, just an inch or two, the couch dipping slightly under the weight. Cuteguy could smell him now, a faint mix of vanilla, sugar, and the faintest hint of some flowery soap.

It shouldn’t have been enough to make his breath catch. And yet.

“You really okay?” Scar asked quietly.

Cuteguy nodded, but his throat was too tight to speak.

Scar didn’t push. He never did. He just sat there, steady and patient, until Cuteguy found his voice again. “I just… don’t know what to do with myself,” he admitted.

Scar’s hand shifted, hesitated, then rested lightly on his arm. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said softly. “You can just be here.”

Cuteguy looked at the hand on his sleeve—warm, gentle, grounding—and felt something in his chest loosen. He exhaled, long and shaky, and when he looked up again, Scar was closer than before.

He hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten until then.

Scar’s eyes flicked down for the briefest moment—not to his lips, not quite, but close enough that Cuteguy’s breath hitched.

He could feel every inch of space between them—or maybe it was the lack of it.

The room felt small, the kind of quiet that hummed in the bones. The TV was still going, but neither of them noticed.

Cuteguy’s fingers tightened around his mug. “Scar?” he asked softly.

Scar hummed, low in his throat, a sound that made the hair on the back of Cuteguy’s neck stand up.

“I…” he started, then trailed off, unsure what he was even trying to say. That he was nervous? That he didn’t want to mess this up?

Scar tilted his head, patient as ever. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmured.

That was all it took.

Cuteguy leaned forward before he could talk himself out of it. The motion was hesitant, trembling at the edges, but Scar met him halfway.

The kiss was barely there at first—soft, cautious, a test. Scar’s lips were dry, but warm, tasting faintly of cookie dough, chocolate and sugar. Cuteguy’s breath stuttered against him, his fingers tightening on the fabric of Scar’s sleeve.

Scar’s hand came up instinctively, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of his cheek. The touch steadied him, and the tension melted from his shoulders.

He pressed in again, just a little, and this time Scar responded—slow, sure, with a kind of quiet care that made Cuteguy’s head spin.

It wasn’t perfect. Their noses bumped, and Cuteguy’s heart stuttered in embarrassment, but Scar just laughed softly against his mouth. The sound was warm, and it made him brave enough to kiss him again—slower, deeper this time.

Scar tasted sweet. Both in the sugary way, but in the warm, human way.

Cuteguy felt him smile into it, felt the way Scar’s breath hitched when his hand found the back of his neck. His hair was soft, surprisingly so, like something he shouldn’t be allowed to touch.

Scar’s fingers slipped into the curls at the nape of his neck, and Cuteguy couldn’t help the quiet sound that escaped him—a half laugh, half sigh that felt like something breaking open.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing harder than they should’ve been. Scar’s hand stayed where it was, thumb still resting on his cheek, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Cuteguy couldn’t look away. His heart was hammering, but it wasn’t fear anymore. It was something else—something softer and terrifying all at once.

“Hey,” Scar said quietly, almost whispering.

“Hi,” Cuteguy echoed, because it was all he could manage.

Scar smiled, small and unsure. “That was…”

“Yeah,” Cuteguy said quickly, cutting him off before he could finish. His face felt hot, and he ducked his head. “It was.”

Scar chuckled softly, not pushing for more. He leaned back, hand falling away but not far. “You okay?”

Cuteguy nodded, his throat tight again. “Yeah. Just…” He let out a shaky laugh. “Just wasn’t expecting that to actually happen.”

“Me neither,” Scar admitted. His smile turned shy, boyish. “But I’m really glad it did.”

Cuteguy looked up at him again, and the sight made his chest ache in that familiar, unbearable way. He reached up before he could stop himself, brushing a bit of flour from Scar’s jaw—leftover from baking, probably.

Scar froze, eyes softening. “You’re gonna make me think you like me, Cuteguy,” he teased, voice low.

Cuteguy laughed weakly. “Maybe I do.”

Scar grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. Because I really like you too.”

The confession hung in the air between them, fragile and steady all at once. Cuteguy didn’t know what to do with it—didn’t know how to hold something that felt this kind.

So he leaned forward again.

The second kiss wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t rushed either—just surer, a little hungrier, full of everything they hadn’t said. Scar’s hands found his back, steady and firm, anchoring him. Cuteguy curled his fingers into Scar’s shirt, pulling him closer.

Scar’s hair brushed his temple; his breath was warm against Cuteguy’s cheek. The world narrowed to the small space between them—the smell of sweets and something more, the quiet hum of the TV.

When they finally parted again, neither of them spoke. Scar just rested his forehead against Cuteguy’s, both of them breathing the same air, Cuteguy trembling slightly from the quiet enormity of it all.

“Okay?” Scar asked again, voice barely more than a whisper.

Cuteguy nodded. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Better than okay.”

Scar’s hand slipped down, resting lightly on his arm. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s all I wanted.”

Cuteguy smiled—small, private, disbelieving—and let himself lean in until his forehead pressed against Scar’s shoulder.

Everything felt impossibly still.

They stayed like that, quiet and close, until the warmth between them evened out—something steady, something safe.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Cuteguy didn’t feel the need to run.

Scar had one arm wrapped around Cuteguy, his fingers drawing lazy shapes against the fabric of his hoodie. Neither of them were really paying attention to the movie anymore; the flashing light from the screen painted the room in soft, flickering color, but the hum of the TV had long since turned into white noise.

Cuteguy could feel every place Scar touched him—the solid warmth of his side, the soft drag of his fingertips—and it made his chest feel too small for everything inside it. 

He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet, this kind of closeness.

It’s been a long time since he’d felt so comfortable in someone’s arms. 

Scar shifted slightly, his breath brushing against the curls at the back of Cuteguy’s neck. “How do you hide them?” he asked suddenly, voice low and curious.

Grian blinked, turning his head a little. “Hide what?”

Scar’s gaze flicked toward the side of his head, to where  his pinnae would normally be visible. “Your wings,” he said. “When they’re not out.”

“Oh.” Cuteguy felt his ears burn. “Uh. It’s not pretty.”

Scar chuckled quietly, his hand still tracing idle circles against Cuteguy’s back. “You say that like I scare easy.”

Cuteguy huffed a soft laugh. “You might.”

“I doubt it,” Scar said. There was a note of teasing in his voice, but not unkind. “C’mon, now I’m curious.”

Cuteguy hesitated. He could feel the weight of Scar’s attention on him, not heavy or demanding—just there. Steady.

“I’d, uh, show you,” he murmured finally, rubbing the back of his neck, “but it’s kind of… gruesome.”

Scar’s eyes softened. “Then you don’t have to,” he said easily, as if it really was that simple. He reached up instead, brushing a bit of hair back from Cuteguy’s face, fingers catching in the curls for just a moment before falling away.

Cuteguy’s breath caught.

“Can I see them, though?” Scar asked gently.

“My wings?”

“Yeah.” Scar smiled faintly. “They’re beautiful, you know. You shouldn’t have to hide them.”

Cuteguy felt the flush rise to his face, heat blooming under his skin. He wasn’t used to hearing that—not like that, not with so much quiet sincerity behind it.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Sure.” He looked toward the hallway, half to avoid Scar’s gaze. “Let me just, uh…”

“The bathroom’s there,” Scar said, pointing behind the couch. “Door all the way on the left.”

“Thanks.”

Cuteguy stood, his knees unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the man watching him go.

The bathroom light was soft and yellow, the kind of warm tone that made everything seem gentler. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a second, breathing hard. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror—cheeks flushed, hair mussed, lips still tinged red from the kiss.

He looked… happy.

Really happy.

Cuteguy laughed under his breath. It was quiet and breathless, the kind of laugh that came from disbelief more than humor.

Then he exhaled, straightened, and reached up to his shoulders.

The glamour seals weren’t hard to break—just unpleasant. His fingers brushed along the faint silver lines where flesh met spell. He whispered the undoing softly under his breath, and the air seemed to shimmer for a moment before it gave way.

The first stretch was always the worst. The muscles pulled sharply, skin prickling as the wings unfurled from beneath their cage. They burst outward silently, the motion sending a ripple through his back.

He winced as they settled, the sensation half pain, half relief. The bathroom itself was almost long enough for him to stretch them both out at the same time, though the way the tips hit the end made him long for open air.

His wings brushed the wall behind him, the mirror, the shower curtain. He tried to tuck them closer, but it was always difficult after so long keeping them hidden. They almost had a mind of their own, unhappy for being bound so long.

He looked up again at his reflection—at the dark arcs of feathers stretching wide and uneven behind him. He looked unsettling, with the dark shadow over his face, wings flared as they were.

Scar had called them beautiful.

He didn’t see it.

Grian ran a hand along the nearest wing, smoothing a few mussy feathers with careful fingers. The wings felt warm under his touch. 

When he opened the bathroom door again, the air in the living room felt cooler against them. Scar looked up immediately from the couch. The movie was still playing, just background ambience now.

Scar didn’t say anything at first. He just stared.

His expression wasn’t shock, or fear—just quiet awe. His eyes traced the curve of the wings, the way they shifted slightly when Cuteguy moved.

“They’re…” he started, but his voice failed him for a second. “God, they’re gorgeous.”

Cuteguy ducked his head, shivering slightly in embarrassment. “They’re a mess.”

Scar shook his head. “No,” he said firmly, getting to his feet. “They’re not.”

He reached out slowly, like he was afraid to startle him. “Can I?”

Cuteguy hesitated, then nodded.

Scar’s fingers brushed along the edge of one wing, and Cuteguy shivered—the sensation sharp and strange, half ticklish, half electric. Scar paused immediately, searching his face for discomfort, but Cuteguy shook his head.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Just sensitive.”

Scar smiled, the corners of his mouth soft. “Guess I’ll be careful, then.”

His hand moved again, this time slower, tracing the line of feathers down toward the base. His touch was reverent, curious in a way that made his breath hitch.

Scar’s palm was warm against the cool quills, and when his fingers brushed a spot just between the shoulder blades, Cuteguy’s knees almost gave out.

Scar caught him before he could stumble, steadying him with a laugh. “Sorry—didn’t realize that was—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, face burning.

Scar’s grin softened into something gentler. “You’re allowed to like it, you know.”

Grian couldn’t find an answer to that.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t awkward—just quiet, comfortable. Scar’s hand moved a little higher, smoothing down another line of feathers, careful and slow.

Cuteguy exhaled shakily, leaning slightly into the touch. The warmth of Scar’s hand, the faint smell of sugar and vanilla still clinging to his skin—it all felt too much and not enough at once.

When Scar finally pulled his hand back, Cuteguy’s wings twitched, as if reluctant to lose the contact.

“You should leave them out more,” Scar said softly. “They deserve air.”

Cuteguy smiled faintly. “Maybe I will.”

Scar’s hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment longer. “Good.”

The TV flickered again, blue light washing over them. Neither moved.

It was quiet in a way that made Cuteguy’s heartbeat sound too loud.

Grian wasn’t sure who moved first, only that suddenly Scar’s hand was resting lightly on his back again, coaxing him gently toward the couch. He followed wordlessly, the tension in his shoulders loosening a little with every step.

“Sit,” Scar said softly, and Cuteguy did, letting himself sink into the cushion. Scar followed, close enough that their knees brushed. The air between them felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heater.

Scar reached up, brushing a bit of stray hair from Cuteguy’s face again, fingertips skimming the base of one small pinna. The feathered ridge twitched instinctively under the touch, and Scar froze, eyes wide.

“Sensitive?”

Cuteguy laughed quietly, a sound closer to a breath. “A little. You can, though—it’s fine.”

Scar hesitated for half a second longer before letting his hand drift through the loose curls, thumb grazing one of the soft feathers tucked there. “They’re so small,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Do they move on their own?”

He hummed, leaning into the touch despite himself. “Sometimes. Usually when I’m… feeling a lot.”

Scar smiled at that, eyes bright in the low light. “Good to know,” he said, tone just shy of teasing. His fingers stayed, combing idly through the hair near the base of Cuteguy’s neck, massaging little circles into his scalp.

Grian could’ve melted.

His wings shifted, half-folded now, brushing lightly against Scar’s leg. Scar’s hand slowed for a moment, as if considering, then slid down from Cuteguy’s neck to rest against the curve of his nearest wing. He began to smooth the feathers the way he had before—slow, steady motions that made Cuteguy’s chest tighten in the best way.

“There’s… debris sometimes. Or they’re shifted a bit, out of place. It feels better when they’re straightened out, ”he whispered, voice gone thin. 

Scar’s expression softened even further, and he kept going, patient and careful. The sound of his hand running through feathers was barely audible, a faint whisper like dry grass in a summer breeze.

Cuteguy exhaled a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling slightly with each careful pass. “You’re… really good at that,” he said after a while, voice muffled against his sleeve.

Scar chuckled. “Guess it’s all the grooming I do for Jellie,” he joked, voice low and warm.

That earned him a small laugh, the sound fluttering out of Cuteguy before he could stop it. “I can’t believe you just compared me to your cat.” He hadn’t met Scar’s cat yet, been told she was skittish. 

Afraid of the other cats she could probably smell off of Grian.

Scar grinned, eyes crinkling. “Hey, she’s spoiled rotten. You should be honored.”

Cuteguy elbowed him gently, though his face was still pink. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” Scar said agreeably, and without missing a beat, resumed smoothing out another row of feathers. “Ridiculously in love with you.”

Cuteguy didn’t answer, but the faint tremor of his pinnae and the way he relaxed further into Scar’s touch was answer enough.

After a while, Scar leaned back against the couch, his arm automatically wrapping around Cuteguy’s shoulders. The gesture was easy, instinctive. Cuteguy tentatively placed a wing across the man's back. 

“C’mere,” he murmured, tugging gently until Cuteguy gave in and leaned against him fully.

Scar was warm. So warm.

Cuteguy shifted, folding one leg under himself and letting his arm slide around Scar’s waist. His palm rested against the soft cotton of Scar’s shirt, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath.

“Comfortable?” Scar asked.

Cuteguy nodded, his voice inaudible. 

“You’re like a weighted blanket,” Scar told him, his breath brushing against the top of Cuteguy’s head.

Cuteguy smiled into his shoulder.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The movie on the TV had shifted scenes again, its light washing the room in alternating blues and golds. The soft hum of dialogue filled the silence between them, grounding it, but their focus was elsewhere.

Scar’s hand moved again, fingertips ghosting through the curls at the crown of Cuteguy’s head, then down toward one pinna, brushing the feathers there with a care that made Cuteguy shiver.

“You don’t let anyone touch these, do you?” Scar asked after a while.

Cuteguy hesitated. “Not really. They’re… private, I guess. Sensitive.”

“Too sensitive?”

Cuteguy shook his head, a faint smile curling on his lips. “No. Just… personal.”

Scar nodded slowly, his movements still deliberate, reverent. “Then I’ll be gentle,” he promised, his thumb brushing the downy edge of a pinna before trailing back into his hair.

Cuteguy’s breathing slowed, deeper now. He could feel the tension draining from his body in waves, every pass of Scar’s hand grounding him more. His wings fluttered occasionally, soft and involuntary, as if adjusting to the new rhythm of touch.

Scar noticed, of course, because Scar noticed everything. “Do they always do that?” he asked.

“Mm,” Cuteguy mumbled, half-asleep now. “I can’t really control them.”

Scar smiled faintly, leaning his head against the back of the couch.

Scar shifted again, careful not to disturb him, one hand continuing its slow path through his curls. “You can sleep, you know,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

Cuteguy didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. His arm tightened slightly around Scar’s middle, wings folding closer to his back. His head nestled in against Scar’s chest, and within a few minutes, his breathing evened out.

Scar reached out, brushing a stray curl back from Cuteguy’s forehead, his fingers lingering just a little too long. “Sleep well, little bird,” he whispered, barely audible over the hum of the TV.

Cuteguy stirred faintly, listening to the man in some close part of his subconscious, his wings flexing once before settling again.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep.

When he blinked awake again, the room was dark—just the flicker of the TV and the soft hum of the credits music as they rolled by. Scar was still there, still warm, still steady beneath him.

For a moment, Grian didn’t move. He could feel the rise and fall of Scar’s chest, slow and even, the faint vibration of his voice when he spoke.

“Hey,” Scar murmured, low and careful. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Cuteguy stirred, mumbling something unintelligible before rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The world felt soft around the edges, like he was still half in a dream.

Scar chuckled quietly, brushing a curl from his face. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed. You’ll crick your neck if you stay like that.”

Bed.

The word felt too intimate, too gentle—and yet it made warmth unfurl in his chest. He let Scar guide him upright, blinking against the faint light. The room tilted slightly when he stood, and Scar caught him by the elbow before he could stumble.

“Easy,” Scar said, voice still full of that same patient warmth. “You’re dead on your feet.”

“Not dead,” Grian mumbled, words slurred with sleep. “Just… floaty.”

Scar laughed softly. “Floaty, huh? Alright, Mr. Floaty. Bedroom’s this way.”

Grian let himself be tugged along, his feet scuffing quietly against the carpet. Everything felt far away, like he was walking through a dream where the air was thicker than normal. His wings dragged faintly behind him, feathers whispering against each other with each step.

Somewhere down the hall, he heard a quiet mrrp and the soft thud of something hitting the floor. 

Jellie.

The cat darted out from the half-open bedroom door, tail flicking as she trotted into the living room. She paused just long enough to glance up at them, eyes bright, before vanishing toward the couch.

“Guess she’s giving up her spot,” Scar said fondly. “She likes sleeping on the bed, but I think she’s decided you can have it tonight.”

Grian smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward even as his eyes drooped again. “Generous of her.”

“Extremely,” Scar agreed.

The bedroom was dark except for the low glow spilling in from the hallway. It smelled faintly of something floral—lilacs, maybe, from the little plant Grian had brought earlier. The thought made him feel a little dizzy again.

Scar guided him to the bed with gentle hands, pulling back the covers. Grian sank down onto the mattress, the softness catching him like a sigh. His wings shifted awkwardly for a moment before settling, feathers rustling softly as they spread across the sheets.

Scar’s voice was a quiet murmur somewhere above him. “You okay? Need me to help—uh—fold those in or anything?”

Grian shook his head, eyes half-lidded. “They’ll figure it out,” he mumbled. “They’re smart.”

Scar chuckled again, that low, warm sound that made Grian’s stomach twist pleasantly. “Alright, sentient wings. Got it.”

He felt Scar tug the blanket up. The weight of it pressed down lightly over his legs, grounding him.

The mattress dipped as Scar leaned closer, adjusting the pillow behind his head. “Better?” he asked softly.

Grian nodded, barely awake now. “Mm. Smells like you,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

There was a beat of silence. Then Scar laughed quietly, a little breathless. “Yeah? Sorry. Fabric softener, I guess.”

But it wasn’t just that. It was something warmer—shampoo and sugar and maybe a hint of the cologne he only ever wore on good days. It wrapped around Grian like another blanket, heavier than the one draped across him.

“Goodnight, Cuteguy,” Scar said finally, voice soft enough that it barely reached him.

Grian forced his eyes open just long enough to see the faint outline of him in the doorway. “’Night, Scar,” he whispered, and it came out half a breath, half a sigh.

Scar smiled. He didn’t need to say anything else. The light in the hall dimmed as he turned off the lamp.

The sound of Scar’s footsteps faded, replaced by the distant rustle of Jellie jumping back onto the couch. Grian could hear the faint, familiar thrum of the heater starting up again, the steady rhythm of the night pressing in around him.

He rolled onto his side, the sheets cool against his cheek. His wings adjusted, one curling forward protectively, the other spreading lazily across the bed. He breathed in again, the scent of Scar clinging to the pillow—sugar, warmth, safety.

His heart ached with something soft and terrible.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel lonely in a dark, quiet room.

He pressed his face further into the pillow, catching one last breath of Scar’s scent before his eyes fluttered closed again.

The last thing he registered was the soft creak of the floorboards outside the door and Scar’s voice—barely audible, as if he didn’t mean to be heard.

“Sleep well, Songbird.”

Grian’s lips curved faintly in his sleep.

His pinnae settled, a soft, contented movement, before the darkness took him whole.

Chapter Text

The wind was calm that night, the kind that barely stirred Cuteguy’s hair as he swung his legs over the edge of the rooftop. 

The city stretched below in grids of soft yellow and white, headlights weaving through dark streets like restless fireflies. It wasn’t often he let himself just sit and breathe like this. Even less often that someone else was sitting nearby.

Especially, who were nearby. 

He’d stumbled across the man by accident, flying around more aimlessly than he’d like to admit. With the influx of police force—attempting to catch him—most people didn’t feel like committing crimes, and the ones who did, usually out of desperation, were quickly shot down and locked up. 

He’d seen the lone man standing on the rooftop and for a moment his heart sank, diving towards the man because he thought he was up there to end it. 

He’d landed desperately behind him with the words “don’t!” cried out, before he realized the man before him was more than capable of jumping off a building and surviving. 

He’d been embarrassed of course, Hotguy had teased him for caring so much to save his life. 

Then he’d smiled, and told Cuteguy ‘I’m glad someone tried to help, even if that isn’t the reason I’m here,’ and the gentleness in the smile is what broke—no bent—Cuteguy’s ideas of the man. Even going so far to sit next to him when he’d offered. 

Hotguy was chewing on something—slowly, noisily, crinkling the wrapper like he wanted Cuteguy to know it. He glanced over with a look of disdain, making his opinion clear. 

He was regretting ‘saving’ the man. 

“Protein bar,” he said around a mouthful, holding the wrapper up as proof. “Gotta keep the muscles fed.”

Grian snorted. “You’re such a meathead.”

“Occupational hazard,” Hotguy said easily. “Though, the brain is a muscle.” Cuteguy scowled at him, he laughed. “If I don’t eat every three hours, my metabolism eats me.” He tore off another bite, then offered the half-eaten bar in the vigilante’s direction. “Want some?”

Cuteguy recoiled, nose scrunching. “No, thanks. I’m not looking to share your DNA.”

Hotguy laughed—loud, unbothered, the sound cutting through the low hum of the city, he got a far off look for a second, a slight smile gracing his lips. Before he said “Fair enough. More for me.” He finished it off in two bites and balled up the wrapper, flicking it perfectly into a nearby vent opening. “See that? Still got aim.”

“Littering, truly heroic,” Cuteguy deadpanned.

Hotguy grinned and leaned back on his palms. “You joke, but I’ve gotten free meals for less. This one lady from Hot Wok practically threw a takeout bag at me yesterday. Said I ‘saved her cousin’s scooter.’ I don’t even remember doing that.”

“Free food for heroes,” Cuteguy mused. “Guess the perks are good.” Not that he considered it at all. 

“Sometimes,” Hotguy said. His tone shifted a bit, softer under the joking surface. “Sometimes it’s just...compensation. For seeing too much.”

That gave Cuteguy pause. He glanced over, but Hotguy’s eyes were still on the skyline. Something wistful in that gaze, even though he couldn’t see the man's eyes. 

Then, in that casual way he did when he didn’t want to make something heavy, Hotguy added, “Therapy’s kind of taboo at the office, anyway. You know how it is—‘big strong heroes,’ gotta keep the brand polished. Can’t have the public knowing we, I dunno, cry in the shower sometimes.”

Cuteguy huffed out a small laugh, but it wasn’t mean. “That’s messed up.” 

“Tell that to the PR team,” Hotguy said. “They’d probably dab on some makeup and make me smile through it and before handing me off to another camera crew.”

There was a long moment where neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. Just… honest.

Then Hotguy broke it with a crooked grin. “You know, I know this architecture professor. I think he might just actually be shorter than you.”

“Hey!” Cuteguy shot back, scandalized, Hotguy was talking about him. “I’m five-seven!” A pause, then a thought he thankfully didn’t say aloud: at least with these heels on.

Hotguy snickered, the sound low and warm. “Sure you are.”

“I am!”

“Totally believe you.”

“You don’t!”

“I don’t,” Hotguy admitted, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. Grian tried to glare over him but failed almost immediately. The corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “Same hair too,” Hotguy said, staring at the top of Cuteguy’s head, hand half raised as if he were going to touch it. He felt his heart still. “I’d believe it if you told me you were the same guy.” 

Cuteguy didn’t answer. Not right away, afraid the wobbling in his voice would give him away. “You know old man,” he said, “secret identities are supposed to stay secret.” 

“I dunno,” Hotguy said, “I’m certain I'd like to see your pretty face.” 

Warmth arose in his chest from the compliment, quickly snuffed out from guilt. What would Scar think, if he could see him now? 

Cuteguy leaned over towards Hotguy and placed his index finger up against his lips—the motion both dangerously easy, and incredibly disorienting. “Shh,” he said, trying to use the man’s infatuation for him against him. “Secret, remember?” He pulled back just about as quickly as he could, “and besides, this ‘pretty bird’ belongs to another.” 

He could see Hotguy blushing pretty furiously under the visor, and Cuteguy felt torn. Guilt for leading this man on, for their tentative friendship. And guilt for betraying Scar, even if it was to distract the man. 

“A shame,” the man eked out. 

“Not really,” Cuteguy returned. 

For a while, that was it. Just the two of them sitting there, words fading into the soft buzz of neon signs and distant traffic. The sun had completed its journey across the sky, now settling into the warmth of its bed. 

Twilight set in in full force, the sky still beautifully red, but the world around them was painted in shades of purple and blue. He thought back to what the man had said a while back, ‘twilight skies wash me out.’ 

Cuteguy let himself study Hotguy when the other man wasn’t looking. 

The abhorrent neon orange of his suit was cast a peachy-apricot color, one Cuteguy definitely preferred. His normally warm, tanned skin seemed almost greyish in the lighting, giving him an almost corpselike visage, something about it was achingly familiar to Grian. 

The thought unsettled him. 

He focused on something more positive. 

The way the city light caught in his hair, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the faintest shadow of exhaustion under his eyes. For someone constantly in motion, Hotguy looked startlingly peaceful up here—like the sky itself was the only place he really belonged.

He could almost see what everyone was tripping over themselves for. 

Not that he looked any better than Scar, but the confident shape of the man’s jaw reminded Grian of his partner. Something about those lips that made them look almost identical in the low light. 

He could probably convince himself they were cousins or something, rather than the man being a run of the mill gym-bro. Brown hair wasn’t uncommon. 

And Cuteguy… he realized he wasn’t thinking about danger or alliances or who technically counted as ‘the enemy.’ Not right now. Not with Hotguy sitting three feet away, his warmth barely reaching through the cool air, but enough to make Grian’s chest ache a little.

He leaned back on his hands, mirroring him. “It’s kind of nice up here,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Hotguy replied. “Not many places left where you can hear yourself think.”

Grian hummed in agreement. “You come up here often?” 

Hotguy shrugged. “When I can. It’s quiet. Nobody expects you to smile for the cameras up here, no reporters, no crowds. As nice as it is, no forceful takeout either.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It’s honest.”

That made Grian look over again. The wind ruffled Hotguy’s hair, a few strands falling into his eyes. He didn’t bother pushing them away. He just sat there, breathing in the early night, and Cuteguy thought—not for the first time—that there was something painfully tragic under all that bright costumed bravado.

Something he wasn’t sure he should want to see.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, quietly, “Does it ever get easier? The… expectations?”

Hotguy exhaled through his nose, considering. “You don’t stop caring,” he said at last. “You just get better at pretending you’re fine.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that.

Cuteguy nodded, his throat a little tight. “Sounds lonely.”

“Not as lonely as your job, I'm sure,” he said. And then Hotguy looked at him then—really looked. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.

Then Hotguy smiled, gentle and teasing all at once. “You’re getting all serious on me, Shortstack.”

“Do not call me that,” Grian muttered, but he was smiling too.

“Can’t. It’s your official codename now.”

“Terrible codename.”

“Then you’d better come up with something better before next time.”

Next time.

The words hung there, light and casual—but he felt them settle deep, where they could hurt later if he let them. Still, he didn’t pull away. Didn’t move. He just sat there, side by side with the man he was supposed to oppose, and for once didn’t feel like he was failing at something.

The city glowed beneath them. The night hummed.

And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, Grian forgot he was supposed to be anyone else.

The city had gone quiet in that soft way it did after rush hour—cars reduced to the occasional hiss across wet asphalt, the smell of rain still clinging to the air. Neon from the nearby storefronts pooled across the sidewalk, streaking everything in bruised pinks and golds.

He’d gone into work that day, doing as best he could to deliver the lecture and make it engaging when his mind was anywhere but. None of his students took the class for an easy grade, they took it because they loved the subject or because they needed it to graduate. 

He felt off, standing there in front of a hundred-odd people, most of them with their full attention on him while he stumbled through this cobbled together lecture he’d spliced from what he was supposed to teach the past week. 

He was glad that he always planned ahead, giving himself two weeks or so of buffer room at the end of each semester just in case something like this were to happen. But he’s behind on even that. 

He glanced over at the man trailing a few steps behind him. 

Hotguy walked beside Grian, balancing three boxes of pizza in one arm like it was nothing, the top one cracked open, a little bit of steam escaping into the overcast April skies. 

He’d been talking since he’d met up with Grian, his voice light and animated, the kind of sound that filled up the dark between streetlamps. 

“You’ll never believe this,” he said, taking a bite mid-sentence. “Right, so, some guy tried to rob a delivery kid. Tips, food—the whole deal. Kid couldn’t have been older than seventeen, shaking so bad he could barely start his scooter afterwards.”

Grian raised an eyebrow. “And you just happened to be there?”

Hotguy swallowed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Hey, luck of the draw. I stopped the guy, made sure the kid was fine, and then he just goes—‘keep the pizza, man, I already reported it stolen, so they’re making more.’” He grinned, wide and a little smug. “Hero work’s got its perks, huh?”

“That’s what you call it?” Grian asked dryly. “Stealing pizza from traumatized minors?”

“Stealing?” Hotguy gasped, scandalized. “It was a gift! He insisted! And besides—” he lifted a slice like a trophy “—think of it as a reward for services rendered.”

“Tragic,” Grian said, shaking his head. “Truly selfless of you.”

Hotguy laughed. It was that big, easy laugh that felt like it came from his whole chest, bouncing off the alley walls. He took another bite, talking around the crust. “You ever notice those delivery scooters kinda look like llamas?”

Grian blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Yeah, the ones with the big round headlights and those long handles,” Hotguy continued, gesturing with his half-eaten slice. “They’ve got the same energy. Like, stubby legs, long nose—very llama-coded.”

Grian stared at him. “You’re delirious.”

Hotguy just nodded solemnly. “If I had a llama, I’d name him Pizza.”

That earned an involuntary laugh out of Grian. “Are you sure that’s not because you’re currently chewing through a slice of it?”

Hotguy swallowed and answered, “No, I think that’s unrelated.” He seemed pretty serious about that. 

The way he said it—so sincere, so perfectly stupid—made Grian snort. The night around them softened, laughter echoing low and tired and real. For a moment, it didn’t feel like they were on opposite sides of anything. 

It was just a man with pizza and another with too many secrets walking home through the city.

That reminded him, “someone’s going to see you walking with me,” Grian started, “and then they’re going to dream up some story about us being together—or maybe I'm one of your coworkers out of costume, the possibilities—and then I'm never going to be left alone, you know.” 

“Who’s gonna see us,” Hotguy said, gesturing to the mostly empty street, “there’s nobody here.” 

A woman walking her dog turned the corner up ahead, and she almost fell over after catching sight of the two of them there. 

Hotguy stared ahead, “that's weird timing,” he said, "comedically coincidental.” He offered the woman a wave before dragging Grian across the street—a clear sign he didn’t want to talk to her. 

“Jay-walking, are we?” Grian asked, staring back at the woman. Her leash was gripped loosely in her hand, the dog sniffing around the base of the tree while she fumbled her pockets. 

“I know you have short legs,” Hotguy started, earning him a disgruntled ‘hey!’ from Grian, “but we should probably walk a little bit faster before she pulls her phone out.” 

Grian obliged, ignoring the way Hotguy’s strong arm was still wrapped around his own measly stick-like one. They turned a corner and into a little alley way, not quite like the dark dingy ones Grian was used to from his neighborhood. 

The sides were lined with brick buildings and back doors, but the alley-way itself was lit up nicely with some arching stringlights. A few people had set up chairs along the walls. Of course, there were still trashcans, and some of them leaked a little bit.

“Ah,” Hotguy said, “alleyways. You know you’re in them more often than you're not when you're a hero.” 

“Maybe that's why you always smell so bad,” Grian commented. Hotguy shoved a slice of pizza into his mouth, not forceful enough to make him choke—though he almost did from laughing—but he did get a little bit of grease on Grian’s face. 

He wiped his face off with his sleeve as they passed through the alley and onto the next street over. It was thankfully deserted. 

“You know,” Grian said, chewing the slice of pizza the man had given him, "you're not at all what I thought you'd be.”

Hotguy looked down—ugh, down, the idea of the man being so freakishly tall pissed Grian off—”What did you think i’d be?” he asked. 

“Awful, really,” Grian said, “when we first met—the papers—” 

Hotguy groaned. “Don’t remind me,” he protested. 

“I thought you were self centered,” Grian said, “probably corrupt. Power hungry. Manipulative. You know, like most cops are.”

Hotguy didn’t answer, he just looked down at Grian with a strange look cast across his face. 

“And you're not,” he continued, "you're weird—goofy, almost childish sometimes. But youre… nice, and I can tell you really just want to help people. Even if you're kinda bad at it.”  

“Kinda bad?—you know what, you’re probably right.” 

Grian chuckled, “you mean well.” 

“I do,” Hotguy agreed. 

“I’m glad,” Grian answered, “this city needs someone like you—someone who’s trying.” 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  He even smiled as he said that.

But then, in an instant, the world changed.

The sound came first—a sharp, electronic chirp from Hotguy’s comm unit, slicing clean through the air. Then came the light, red and urgent, flashing against the side of Hotguy’s jaw. Hotguy froze mid-step. The half-eaten slice hung limp in his hand. 

The easy humor vanished like a flame snuffed out, replaced with a focus that made Grian’s skin prickle.

“What is it?” he asked carefully.

“Gas station explosion,” Hotguy said, eyes scanning the data on his wrist. “East side. Two apartment buildings next door—still occupied.”

Grian’s chest tightened. “Is everyone okay?”

“Too early to tell.” His voice was different now—flat, efficient, stripped of all the warmth from moments ago. The shift was startling. One second he was laughing about llamas, and now he was every inch the hero the city thought he was.

Hotguy exhaled once, like he was trying to center himself. Then he looked at Grian and shoved the pizza boxes into his arms. The cardboard was still warm, grease soaking faintly through the underside.

“Hold this for me.”

“Wait—”

“If you don’t see me again,” Hotguy said, forcing a crooked grin, “make sure it doesn’t go to waste.”

It was a joke, but there was no humor in it. Not really.

Then he muttered something under his breath—an address, maybe, a street name—and stepped back. Grian caught a glimpse of the tension in his shoulders, he reached up and grabbed the bow off its holster on his back. Pulling out a grappling arrow and then he was off in a flash.

The sudden stillness after was disorienting. The city noise came creeping back slowly—sirens in the distance, the hum of power lines, a single car honking far away. The warmth of the pizza boxes felt out of place in his hands, almost obscene.

He stood there a while longer, watching the last glint of light fade into the dark sky.

Then, quietly, he sighed.

He ducked into an alley a few buildings down, stepping over puddles that reflected the faint glow of streetlights. 

This one wasn’t like the one they’d meandered through earlier, the air smelled faintly of trash and damp concrete. At the far end, near a dumpster, an older man sat wrapped in a blanket that had once been white. His skin was gray from exhaustion, eyes heavy-lidded but alert enough to track Grian’s approach.

Grian crouched down and set the pizza on the ground beside him. “Hey. It’s still warm.”

The man blinked, confused. “You one of those heroes?”

Grian hesitated. “Not right now,” he said softly. “Just… someone who had too much dinner.”

The man stared at him for a long second, then gave a faint smile—one of those small, tired ones that didn’t reach the eyes. “Thanks, kid.”

Grian nodded once and straightened. He turned into the shadows between the dumpsters, already tugging at the zipper of his hoodie. It’d take too much time to find an empty alley. 

It wasn’t a graceful transformation, but it was efficient. Stripping off his clothes until he was just left standing in his undersuit and thigh highs. He pulled the shorts and his gloves out of the pockets he’d sewn into the bodysuit and frantically pulled them on. 

He didn't bother changing his shoes, nor did he bother with releasing his pinnae—he could do that while flying. When he stepped out of the shadows it wasn’t Grian who emerged. 

It was always a bad idea to try flying so soon after releasing his wings, without stretching them properly they could cramp up mid-flight and cause him to falter—or fall. But Cuteguy didn’t care, he spread his wings anyway, stretching them once against the humid air. The faint wind stirred loose trash at his feet, carrying with it the distant echo of sirens. Somewhere far away, smoke was climbing into the night sky, staining the stars.

He took a breath. The scent of the city filled his lungs—ash, oil, faint traces of sugar from the bakery down the block. Then he launched upward, wings slicing through the air, leaving nothing but the flutter of disturbed dust and the half forgotten man gaping up from behind. 

The wind tore at his face as he climbed, the cold biting through the thin fabric of his sleeves. Cuteguy flew faster than he ever should have—his muscles weren’t ready for this kind of strain, not after the past few days—but every second he wasn’t there was a second someone could die.

Below him, the city blurred into streaks orange and red, the glass buildings reflecting the burning sun setting in the sky behind him. Sirens cut through the evening from every direction, echoing up the glass sides of the buildings. . The scent hit him before the sight did. Acrid, chemical, and wrong.

Then he turned a corner around one of the skyscrapers and saw it.

The world seemed to drop out beneath him. Somewhere far ahead, something bloomed in the air—a low orange flicker that grew brighter and thicker the closer he got

The gas station was gone—reduced to a single crater rimmed with twisted metal and a pulse of rolling heat. Smoke poured upward in a column so thick it swallowed the sky, rising in oily plumes that glowed deep red near the base. 

Two apartment complexes framed the ruin, one already gutted and half collapsed, the other a tower of glass and steel burning from the bottom floors up.

His chest constricted. The roaring sound of the flames filled everything. 

Everything felt like slow motion. 

He’d never seen anything like this. 

And people—there were people—tiny silhouettes on balconies waving, shouting, praying someone would see them. There were so many people down below, crowds of people pouring down the street away from the fire. 

There were a few cars trying to combat the flow, honking desperately as they tried to get back to their homes and save their children and their pets. 

He didn’t think. He just dove.

The air burned his throat as he cut through the smoke layer. Heat buffeted his wings, singeing the ends of his feathers. He coughed once, pulling up into a hover near the edge of the street where the emergency crews had cordoned off a perimeter. Firefighters in bright orange suits were dragging hoses, shouting over the roar.

He landed hard near a cluster of them, boots skidding on wet asphalt. “Where do you need me?” he shouted, voice cracking.

The nearest man—a captain by the look of his badge—whipped his head around. His expression flickered between shock and calculation. “You’re Cuteguy, right?”

He nodded.

The man hesitated for a heartbeat, just long enough for a spray of embers to burst from the third floor. Then he pointed upward. “Upper levels. Focus on the seventeenth up through the top floors—ladders can’t reach that high, and anyone who jumps won’t make it!” he had to yell to make it over the sound of sirens and screams. 

Somewhere, a child was crying. 

“Got it!”

And then he was gone again, wings beating against the turbulent air.

He angled himself up toward the higher stories. The glass here was warped and blackened, heat rippling off it in waves. He spotted movement through one window—smoke swirling up against the glass—and braced his forearms before slamming through. 

The sound was deafening, glass giving way in a shower of shards.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke. A fire alarm screeched overhead, and sprinklers sputtered uselessly. “Hello?” he called, coughing through the haze. “Is anyone here?”

A sound—a small, choked cough—came from the hallway. He followed it, ducking low under the rising smoke. At the end of the hall stood a little boy, maybe seven, barefoot in pajama pants and a too-large T-shirt with a cartoon dog on it. He clutched a phone to his chest like it was a lifeline.

The second he saw Cuteguy, his eyes went wide. “You came!”

Cuteguy tried for a reassuring smile. “Course I did. You alone here, buddy?”

The kid nodded, eyes watering from the smoke. “My mom’s at work. I was taking a nap and—” He coughed hard.

“Okay,” Cuteguy said, stepping forward, crouching to his height. “We’re gonna get out, alright? You and me. Is there anyone else home?”

“My dog!” the boy said, grabbing his arm. “You have to get him too!”

“Lead the way.”

He followed the kid into a side room—small, cramped, filled with scattered toys. The air was clearer here, though the heat was starting to creep upward, he could feel the warmth through the floorboards. The dog—small, tan, shaking—was wedged beneath the bed, he growled. A pathetic noise for a terrified animal. Cuteguy dropped to his knees, extending a hand. “Hey, c’mon, it’s okay.”

The dog didn’t budge.

The kid, impatient, dove under the bed himself, whispering reassurances until he managed to grab the collar. Cuteguy helped tug the dog free. It whimpered but stayed still as he looped an arm around it.

He grabbed the child’s hand with one arm, the dog with the other, and walked towards the boy’s window. It didn’t open, probably a suicide-safety measure. He handed the dog to the boy and told him, “back up okay? And I want you to turn around, we don’t want glass getting in your eyes.” 

The child nodded, he understood the gravity of their situation. Cuteguy grabbed a lamp and yanked the cord out of the wall, he used the sturdy base to bash out the window, making sure to dislodge any loose glass in the frame. Wind rushed in, filling the space with sparks and ash and the sound of screams.

“Ready?” he asked the boy.

The kid nodded, face streaked with soot but grinning now.

“Good.”

He took the dog under one arm, the child with the other and instructed him to ‘hold on tightly’ before he sprinted toward the open window. 

“Hold on tight!”

The boy squealed something—half laugh, half scream—as they leapt. The air ripped past them, the drop sudden and dizzying. Cuteguy spread his wings hard, catching the current and leveling out. For a terrifying second, the dog wriggled and barked, but he held fast, the muscles in his arms straining.

They glided down through a maze of smoke and heat, landing just beyond the safety line. The boy’s mother wasn’t there yet—someone from the paramedics took him instead, wrapping him in a blanket, cooing over him. The dog was pried from Cuteguy’s arm and carried off in the same motion.

Cuteguy barely took a breath before he was off again.

He went up floor by floor, breaking windows when he needed to, carrying down anyone he could. A woman with a sprained ankle. An elderly man still in his bathrobe. Two college students clutching their laptops like they’d die without them, he’d had to make them drop them in favor of grabbing onto them. Their lives are worth more than their homework. 

Each time he set someone down, he went back up. His lungs burned, his feathers were streaked gray with ash, and still—up, always up. 

On what must’ve been his fifth or sixth trip, he stumbled into an apartment that was eerily quiet. No voices, no movement. The fire hadn’t reached it yet, but the walls were warm to the touch, and smoke coiled through the ceiling like lazy snakes. He scanned the room quickly—and froze.

Against the far wall sat a birdcage. Inside it, a small parakeet, bright yellow, hopping anxiously from perch to perch. Its chirps were faint and broken, lost beneath the hum of the fire outside.

Something in him twisted. He crossed the room in two strides, unlatched the cage, and cradled the whole thing against his chest. The bird’s tiny heart thudded so fast he swore he could feel it through the bars.

“You’re alright,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He carried the cage all the way down, landing beside the same captain from before. “Anyone got a safe spot for this?” He felt idiodic, wasting time carrying the bird down when he should have just left and went elsewhere. People might’ve died because of this. 

But still, he couldn’t just leave it. 

The man blinked, then called over a paramedic, who took the cage gingerly. “We’ll look after it,” the paramedic promised.

Cuteguy nodded once, grateful, and launched himself skyward again.

This time, he didn’t aim for any particular window—just the highest one that still had fire curling from it. The air shimmered around it, the smoke darker now, thicker. He angled his shoulder and braced himself before diving.

The impact rattled through him, glass exploding outward in a rain of molten shards. Heat slammed into his face like an open furnace. He coughed once, twice, eyes stinging as the flames painted everything in violent orange.

The apartment was a wreck—half of it already burning, furniture collapsing under its own weight. He heard the pop of something electrical and ducked instinctively. The fire was alive in here, moving fast, devouring air.

He forced himself to keep moving.

“Hello?” he shouted, voice raw, the smoke long since filled his lungs. It’s a miracle he could still breathe. “Is anyone here?”

No answer. Just the sound of the fire breathing, crackling, whispering.

He turned toward the hall, trying to get his bearings, and that’s when he saw it—

A flash of color through the haze. Movement. A choking cough. 

Someone was there.

A faint cough cut through the roar of the fire, then another. 

He spun toward it, eyes stinging, pinnae trying their hardest to shield his face from the heat. The smoke shifted—he saw movement, a shadow dragging itself along the floor near the kitchenette.

Cuteguy didn’t hesitate. He bolted forward, tennis shoes slipping on the warped flooring as he reached the figure and crouched down.

It was a woman—late thirties, maybe early forties, her hair a dark tangle streaked with gray and ash. 

Her wings were— 

She had wings. 

They were heavy and unkempt, half-spread across the floor. One of them twitched when he touched her shoulder.

“Hey—hey, ma’am, can you hear me?”

She coughed hard, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. “Y—yeah,” she rasped. “Just… dizzy.”

Her voice sounded dry, frayed around the edges like old rope. 

He helped her sit up, wincing as her wings dragged against the scorched linoleum. A metal brace was affixed to her back and Cuteguy could see where the heated metal was burning her skin. Avians under contract didn’t get to keep full flight capability; they were allowed enough for function, never for freedom.

“Can you walk?”

“Maybe.” She blinked through the haze, eyes focusing on him—and then widening just slightly in recognition. “You’re that kid.”

He smiled faintly, ignoring the way his lungs screamed for air. “Cuteguy, yeah. Lucky for you, I’m good at breaking things and carrying people. C’mon, let’s get you out of here before this place caves in.”

She tried to push herself up, but her arm buckled. He caught her before she hit the ground. The heat was rising fast now, the fire crawling along the walls like something alive.

“Lucky,” she repeated.

“Cmon, we have to get going.” he told her, half lifting her body.

“trying,” she wheezed. “I live here. I want a view from high up, to remind me of… you know” she gestured vaguely, maybe at her wings, maybe at her life. He felt free when he was up high, soaring through the air. Maybe she was dreaming of that. 

He nodded, guiding her toward the shattered window he’d come through. “Alright, I’ve got you. Just hold on tight.”

“Wait—” She hesitated, gripping his wrist. “There’s people above us still. The building next door—some of my coworkers live—”

“I’ll go back,” he promised. “But I need you safe first.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but her breath hitched mid-protest. He took that as agreement, scooped her up under the arms, and unfurled his wings.

They moved fast. The window’s edge tore at his sleeve as he vaulted through. The rush of open air hit like a slap—the relief of clean oxygen, the shock of cold wind on sweat-damp skin.

The woman gasped, clutching at his jacket with one hand and her ID badge with the other. Below them, the city had turned into a sea of orange and red lights—flashing emergency beacons, firetruck strobes, the glint of broken glass catching the light.

“Don’t look down,” he muttered, like he’d told every other person he’d met. 

She laughed—a short, humorless sound that broke into a cough. “I’ve been higher than this before. Used to fly, you know. Full clearance. Before the contract limits.”

He glanced down at her, startled. “Government?”

She nodded weakly. “Emergency dispatch division. Fifteen years.”

He adjusted his grip, wings straining to keep steady in the updraft. “Guess this isn’t your first disaster, then.”

“It’s the first one I’ve been in,” she said. Smoke-stung tears made tracks through the soot on her cheeks. “Used to be the one giving coordinates, telling people where to land, who to prioritize. Funny how that turns out.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just held on tighter and angled down toward the cordon.

As they descended, she spoke again, softer this time, her voice almost lost in the wind. “You shouldn’t be here, kid.”

“Yeah, well,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ve heard that one before.”

She smiled faintly—then the smile faded. “You’re free-flighted, aren’t you?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Must be nice,” she said, staring down at her clipped feathers. “I can only use mine on government hours. Got a tracker that locks them if I fly for ‘personal reasons.’ The company says it’s about liability. I think it’s about control.” 

The bitterness in her tone was raw enough to make his stomach twist.

He tried to think of something—anything—to make it better. “You could’ve quit,” he said, though it sounded hollow even as he said it.

“I could’ve,” she agreed. “But quitting means paying back everything they spent on your training. They say it’s an ‘education fee.’ You try saving up on a state salary with restricted hours. And theres… losing your license”

He stayed silent.

She laughed again, but it was a small, broken thing. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of what we do. Most of us are. But we’re not people anymore, not really. We’re assets with mobility they don't have.”

He didn’t respond right away. The ground was coming up fast now—lines of people, flashing lights, firefighters waving.

When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “You’re not an asset.”

She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. “You still think that. Give it a few years, little bird.”

He touched down, boots hitting pavement just past the barricade. Paramedics swarmed instantly, calling out orders, unfolding stretchers. He set her down carefully, easing her onto one of the waiting gurneys.

She gripped his sleeve before he could step away. “Hey.”

He leaned closer.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “Keep going, for us.”

He opened his mouth, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. He settled for a nod.

Then she said, almost absently, “You know, I used to envy people like you.”

He frowned. “Like me?”

“Free ones,” she said. “We tell ourselves we’re serving something bigger, that it’s noble. But when I see you out there—” her gaze drifted skyward, to the haze and chaos above them— “you look like what I thought this job would feel like.”

He wanted to tell her it wasn’t as free as it looked, that every flight came with guilt and exhaustion and fear, but before he could, one of the medics stepped in, pulling her hand away gently.

“We’ve got her,” they said. “You should rest too.”

He didn’t.

He backed away as they lifted her onto the stretcher, watching until the ambulance doors closed. The smoke curled up around them like a living thing.

And then he was moving again, pushing off from the ground with a powerful beat of his wings.

He rose fast, through the heavy gray air, lungs burning and muscles screaming. He didn’t look down again.

The higher he flew, the worse it got. The night had swallowed the city whole—black smoke churning against the last embers of the sunset, streetlights flickering like stars under the haze. The top floors of the burning tower were collapsing inward now, the metal beams glowing red through the structure.

He could hear the wind howling through shattered windows, the staccato bursts of pressure as glass gave way. It was the kind of sound you felt in your ribs.

Cuteguy barely paused to breathe. Every pass, he scanned for movement, for a hand pressed against a window, for any sign of life. Each time he found one, he dove.

He lost track of how many people he pulled out. The faces blurred together—the terrified, the dazed, the silent. He stopped thinking about names, about anything except next.

At some point, the airspace filled with more wings. He spotted the glint of feathers catching the glow—other Avians had arrived, government ones by the looks of their uniforms. Their formation was tight, efficient, metal braces on their backs glowing orange in the light. They didn’t wave. Neither did he.

A few of them gave him looks—quick, assessing glances—but no one told him to leave. There wasn’t time for that.

For a moment, he was just one of them.

Then a familiar burst of neon green streaked across his peripheral vision. He turned his head just in time to catch the blur of motion that could only belong to Furioso.

The man was cutting through the smoke like a comet, running and jumping across air like it was solid. He moved with terrifying precision, dashing a window apart before diving in to drag someone out.

Cuteguy didn’t call to him. Didn’t even think of it. They locked eyes for a split second through the smoke—two silhouettes suspended in the chaos, both panting, both ash-streaked and filthy—and then turned away in perfect unspoken agreement.

He dove for the west wing. 

The fire didn’t care who was who.

For the next half hour, the world existed in fragments. Heat, wind, wings, screams.

He found a woman trapped under a fallen beam; her arm was pinned, the skin blistered from the heat. He braced his shoulder and heaved until the metal shrieked and shifted.

A man tried to hand him a box of family photos as Cuteguy hauled him toward the window. He had to yell at him to drop it, though the man refused, stuffing it in his shirt. 

The smoke was everywhere now, so thick it smeared out the world into light and shadow. He couldn’t tell where the floor ended and the fire began. His wings felt heavier by the minute, every feather dragging like it was soaked in oil.

By the time he reached the top floor again, it was almost unrecognizable. The walls were half gone, twisted beams jutting up like bones. He could see through the holes into the open air. The fire had burned so hot the glass had melted, pooling in rivers of shimmering black across the floor.

He didn’t find anyone alive up there. Just an overturned wheelchair and a stuffed bear, both scorched. He crouched for a moment, chest heaving, staring at the wreckage.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. There wasn’t room for it.

Then a voice crackled through the emergency speakers below, faint but clear enough:

“Fire breached the main gas line! Everyone clear the perimeter—repeat, clear the perimeter!”

Cuteguy’s head snapped up. Through the haze, he saw a flash of fire deeper in the building’s base, a bloom of orange spreading like blood through water.

He didn’t think. He just ran.

He sprinted down the corridor, wings half-spread for balance, glass crunching under his boots. He dove through a broken window right as the building convulsed behind him.

The explosion was deafening. A wave of heat and force threw him off-balance midair, flipping him head over heels. He fought to right himself, the sudden wind shear shredding through his feathers.

Something sharp hit his shoulder—a piece of debris—and he grunted, wincing. It didn’t feel deep, but it stung.

Below, the street had erupted into chaos. The firefighters were retreating, shouting for each other, dragging hoses and injured crew back behind the trucks.

He hit the ground harder than he meant to, stumbling as his knees buckled. Someone grabbed his arm before he fell—one of the government Avians. The woman’s uniform was singed, the edges of her gloves blackened.

“You’re done, kid!” she shouted over the roar. “We’re pulling out!”

Cuteguy looked back at the tower. The top half was starting to lean, groaning under its own weight.

“There might still be people—”

“We’re done!” she barked, shaking him. “If you go back up there, you’re not coming down.”

He froze.

Her eyes were sharp, steady. Not cruel, but final. The kind of look someone only learned after losing people for real.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

The two of them ran for the cordon together. Behind them, the building let out one last, horrible sound—a long metallic scream—and then collapsed in on itself. The impact sent a gust of ash and heat across the block.

They stood there, panting, as the world came apart behind them.

For a long time, no one spoke.

Then the other Avian turned toward him. “You did good work,” she said quietly. “Stupid, but good.”

He gave a small, weary smile. “That’s usually the review I get.”

She snorted once, then walked off toward the command tent. 

Cuteguy stayed where he was. His chest hurt from breathing smoke. His feathers felt like they’d been sanded down. Everything smelled like burnt metal and gasoline.

Up above, the smoke was thinning, drifting apart into gray tatters. The stars were starting to show through.

For a second, he let himself imagine the woman he’d carried earlier—the one with burnt, braced wings—somewhere safe, maybe watching this same sky from the back of an ambulance. He hoped she made it. He hoped she got to rest.

He doubted he would.

He folded his wings tight against his back, ignoring the tremor in his hands, and started walking toward the outer edge of the crowd. A few people shouted his name—some cheering, some just wanting to see him—but he didn’t turn around.

He couldn’t. 

Not yet.

Not until the screaming in his head quieted down enough to hear himself think.

By the time he finally left the ground, the city was quiet again.

The noise still clung to him—the roar of the fire, the panic, the sirens—but it all felt far away now, as if the world had been wrapped in cotton. He rose higher, wings dragging through the cool night air, until the sounds below blurred into a low, pulsing hum.

From up here, the damage looked smaller. Manageable. The streets were veins of flashing red and blue; the collapsed building was just another dark patch among them. He hovered for a moment, staring down at the city he’d nearly burned himself out to save.

Smoke still drifted in thin ribbons from the wreckage, catching the moonlight in dull gray. For the first time since he’d arrived, he noticed how cold it was. The wind sliced through his sweat-soaked suit, goosebumps crawling up his arms. His hands shook from exhaustion and adrenaline, and the cut in his shoulder throbbed each time he shifted his wings.

He should’ve gone home. He should’ve landed and let the medics look at him.

But he didn’t want to be around anyone right now.

He landed on a nearby rooftop—somewhere high enough that the air still smelled faintly of ozone instead of smoke. The tar paper was still damp from the earlier rain, slick under his boots. He folded his wings back slowly, wincing when a few singed feathers cracked under the strain.

He sank down near the edge of the roof, arms draped over his knees, eyes fixed on the glow still rising from downtown. 

He didn’t feel heroic. He felt… hollow.

Like he’d poured out everything he had and there still wasn’t enough.

He thought about the boy and his dog—about the way the kid had cheered midair, completely fearless, trusting him without question.

He thought about the woman with the caged wings, her face pale in the firelight, how she’d squeezed his wrist like she was afraid he might disappear before she did.

He thought about the bird in the cage, chirping helplessly in the smoke until he freed it.

He rubbed a hand over his face, leaving streaks of soot behind. “You can’t save everyone,” he muttered to himself. The words felt foreign in his mouth.

Heroes weren’t supposed to think like that.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the empty stretch of sky. The stars were faint tonight, washed out by city light and smoke. Still, he searched for them—anything constant, anything clean.

The ache in his chest wasn’t just from the smoke. It was the weight of what came after—the silence. The moment when no one’s watching, when the city isn’t burning, and there’s nothing left to do but remember.

He stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing.

Just being.

When he finally stood, the fire was a smoldering glow on the horizon.

He took one last look, spreading his wings wide despite the pain, and leapt back into the dark.

Chapter Text

Grian lay in his bed, the sheets twisted around him like they were trying to smother him rather than comfort him. The room was too cold—too sharp against his skin—but the thought of warmth made him recoil. Anything soft, anything safe, felt like a trap. 

He didn’t deserve comfort. He knew that. 

And yet… a faint, almost painful ache of wanting it lingered anyway, crawling under his ribs and pressing at his chest.

His phone was a rectangle of harsh, flickering light in the darkness. He tilted it in his hands, trying to soften the glare, but it stabbed at his eyes no matter what angle he held it at. 

The glow made the room feel sharper somehow, highlighting the corners that should have been hidden, turning every shadow into a black threat. 

Scrolling. 

Always scrolling. 

His thumb moved faster than his mind, flicking past small videos with no real intention: a cat tumbling off a counter, a recipe for something sugary he would never make, a dog running in a sunlit backyard. 

They all passed too quickly, but he didn’t want to slow down. Slowing down meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering. And remembering… remembering was dangerous.

He tapped on a video, not really seeing it. 

The sound was tinny and sharp, crawling through the air and scraping against the silence of his room. He tried to focus, tried to catch the words, the images, but they blurred into each other. Meaningless. 

His eyes ached. His temples throbbed. He pressed the phone to his forehead, hoping the pressure would dull the light, dull the pain, dull everything.

When the video ended, his finger drifted again. Mindlessly. A thumbnail in the corner caught his attention—small, almost indistinct. It didn’t seem important at first. He tapped it.

On screen a woman in a sharp suit was sitting in front of a screen replaying the fire, occasionally the camera would focus in on some hero dashing into the flames. Sometimes it’d zoom in on the unfortunate people trapped on their balconies. 

A flash of pink cut through the grey, and Grian stared at himself as he flew a woman and her sister down to safety. He hardly remembered their faces. 

“…hundreds killed and more injured in urban disaster…”

The reporter’s voice hit him like a physical blow. Clear, unflinching, human, and utterly impossible to escape. 

Grian’s head went numb. 

The light of the phone disappeared into a fog at the edges of his vision. 

A high, ringing sound filled his ears, sharp and metallic, like a dozen bells clanging inside his skull. His stomach lurched violently. His limbs felt impossibly heavy, as if gravity itself had decided to punish him. 

And yet, at the same time, a fire ignited under his skin, spreading from his chest to the tips of his fingers, crawling across his scalp, scorching his lungs.

He tried to shift, to lift the phone, to move at all, but his body betrayed him. 

It was trapped in the bed, useless. 

The heat inside him rose, thick and suffocating, as though his blood itself had become molten metal. 

Every nerve was alive, screaming, sparking. The room, once merely cold, seemed irrelevant now. The walls pressed inward. The ceiling drooped. The darkness felt like it could swallow him whole if he made even the slightest wrong move.

Grian pressed his hands to his face, clawing at his skin, at the mattress, at anything that could be moved. 

His fingernails dug red lines into his palms. It barely mattered. Pain was irrelevant. The fire inside him was worse. 

It wasn’t just heat; it was guilt. Panic. Shame. All of it coiled together, twisting inside him, tightening like a noose.

He tried to think. 

Tried to organize the thoughts screaming in his head. He couldn’t. 

Images flashed unbidden behind his eyelids: buildings, blackened and smoking; people screaming and running; the smell of smoke and scorched plaster; the sound of glass shattering, wood cracking. Faces he didn’t know but could feel, pressed against him like a weight, staring silently, judging.

His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps. 

He felt the sheets against his skin, coarse and irritating, like the room itself was punishing him for even existing. 

The floor beneath him felt impossibly far away. His chest heaved. His throat burned. Every inhale was a battle; every exhale came too fast, too loud in the room.

The images on the phone lingered behind his closed eyelids, refusing to be dismissed. People, running, screaming, falling. 

Hundreds. 

Hundreds of lives, lost. And he’d been there. He hadn’t saved them. It felt like his fault. 

His stomach twisted. 

The cold air of the room made him shiver, but shivering didn’t help; it only reminded him that he was alive, that he was still here while others weren’t. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to throw the phone across the room, to break it, to erase this knowledge, but his arms felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. 

They barely obeyed him, fingers twitching uselessly.

His ears rang louder. His hands shook violently. The walls seemed to bend and close in. Every breath felt like inhaling fire. He pressed his face into the pillow, desperate for anything to anchor him, anything to make it stop.

Time stretched. Minutes felt like hours. The heat, the noise, the panic—it never let up. The room pressed in from all sides. 

And through it all, a tiny, stubborn voice whispered: move. Find someone. Hold on. Do not stay here.

But the voice was drowned almost immediately by the sensation of burning. His chest felt like it would split. His lungs threatened to collapse. Every nerve screamed in protest. 

His fingers curled into the sheets, white-knuckled, desperate for anything tangible, anything safe.

The phone lay face down on the floor. His eyes refused to focus. He could barely think. But somewhere, deep inside, buried under the panic and the heat and the numbness, he knew one thing: he needed something. 

Needed to be somewhere he could breathe. Somewhere that wasn’t just darkness and heat and ringing.

He whispered it to himself, voice hoarse and trembling: Scar…

Grian didn’t know how he got out of bed. He just… did. His legs moved, stiff and sore from hours of lying awake and twisting in a restless fog of panic. Every step felt too heavy, as though the ground itself were trying to hold him down, weigh him back into the mattress he had so recently escaped. 

He didn’t think about flying; even if he could have, it would have been impossible. 

His wings still ached, singed along the edges where fire had licked them cruelly, where feathers were brittle and raw. He knew this. 

The thought of lifting off the ground made his chest tighten. Gravity, he decided, might be the lesser punishment tonight.

He stumbled into his shoes, practically on autopilot, the cold of the floor biting at his bare ankles. 

The darkness of the city outside pressed against his vision through the window. Somewhere, far away, sirens wailed, but here in the quiet of the late evening, it was a hollow sound, distant and meaningless. 

He barely noticed the chill seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. Comfort still terrified him; the idea of warmth made his stomach twist.

As he walked, his mind drifted—drifting against his will—to the woman with the braced wings. 

She had stayed helplessly in the chaos, unable to escape when the smoke thickened around her. The thought twisted in him like a knife. 

If her wings had been free, if she had been able to fly away from the flames, she could have saved herself. She could have helped others. 

She might have been dead, killed by the smoke inhalation and Grian’s own decision to waste time. Now, she was gone. Guilt rose up in his throat, bitter and suffocating. 

He had felt the same helplessness in himself when he had clawed at the edges of those flames. 

Could he have done more? 

Should he have?

The memory of the fire gnawed at him, each movement of his wings recalled in the dull ache that ran down his back. 

Singed feathers scraped together under his skin with every slight motion, reminding him that his own flight had been imperfect, messy, and slow. 

He thought of the people he hadn’t saved, of the screaming and confusion and bodies left behind in the lower floors, the way the building itself shrieked as it fell and died. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t deserved comfort. Not tonight.

The street was nearly empty, lit only by flickering streetlights and the occasional glow from a distant building. The entrance to Scar’s apartment building was bright, welcoming. The light from it burnt Grian’s eyes. 

He kept them closed as the elevator climbed to the 9th floor. 

His hands trembled as he raised them to knock on Scar’s door, fingers curling uncertainly. The chill of the metal handle bit into his skin, but he hardly felt it. 

He froze mid-motion for a heartbeat—or maybe a second longer—when the thought hit him: he hadn’t remembered to put up his glamour. 

Scar had almost seen him.

Panic blossomed in his chest, a flare of heat that made his stomach knot. 

His throat closed up.

Does it matter? he thought. Does it matter if Scar sees? Does anyone matter right now? 

Yes. It did matter. 

Scar didn’t deserve to have to see his face in this state, see what his own nails had done to it. He put the glamour up, covering more than what he usually would. 

He knocked. The sound reverberated through the quiet building, too loud in the empty stairwell, and he flinched instinctively at it.

A pause. 

And then the soft shuffle of movement from within, wheels rolling against hardwood. 

The door opened, and Scar was there, hair mussed, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. He looked like he hadn’t rested since the day before, and the sight of that tiredness crushed Grian a little further into himself. 

He didn’t speak. Scar didn’t speak either. The door closed behind them, shutting out the street and its emptiness, leaving only the muted hum of their shared silence.

They moved toward the couch. 

Neither of them really moved in any particular direction; it was more a series of small, unconscious gestures until they were seated. Grian curled slightly against the cushions. Scar sat beside him, careful not to touch, careful not to crowd, but somehow close enough that the warmth of their body reached him in faint pulses he wasn’t ready to name.

Hours seemed to pass in the quiet. 

Grian’s thoughts wandered without coherence, circling the fire, the braced avian, the rescuers with braces of their own, shining in the light of the fire. The faces of people lost in smoke, the sting of feathers and the ache of guilt that refused to leave him. 

Scar was silent, patient, a presence he could rest against without having to speak. 

The quiet was almost unbearable, oppressive in its weight, but also… safe. A paradox he wasn’t ready to examine.

A gentle voice finally broke the stillness. 

Scar leaned just slightly toward him, soft and careful, asking, “Do you want to go to bed?” The words were simple, unassuming, but they hit Grian like a tether to reality. 

He nodded, unable to form the energy for speech. 

His throat was raw. His chest felt heavy with exhaustion and grief. 

Scar rose slowly and moved toward the bedroom, Grian followed. 

Scar’s hands moved gently, tucking him in, adjusting blankets around his shoulders. Each touch was deliberate, soothing without being overbearing, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence, of his survival.

Scar began to wheel away, small sounds of movement echoing in the dim room. 

And yet, before the distance grew too far, Grian’s hand shot out, gripping the sleeve of Scar’s shirt with surprising strength. 

His fingers dug in, a silent plea, a need too vast for words. ‘Stay,’ he whispered in his mind, though no sound left his lips. The gesture was clumsy but urgent. Scar paused, glance flicking over their shoulder, and gave a small, conceding nod.

Scar left for a moment, slipping into the bathroom to prepare for bed. 

Grian didn’t move, didn’t speak. 

He rested against the pillows, still holding the phantom weight of every life he hadn’t saved. 

He imagined the braced avian again, unable to escape the smoke, and shivered against the lingering chill of his room.

Finally, Scar returned. 

He climbed into bed quietly beside him. 

Grian felt the warmth without letting it overwhelm him, felt the steady rhythm of Scar’s breathing as an anchor. 

Neither spoke. 

Neither had the energy. 

The room was quiet, the darkness pressing softly against the edges of vision, but it was a comfortable darkness, a darkness that allowed him to let go without fear.

The ache in his chest softened, a little, as his exhaustion claimed him. 

Memories of fire, smoke, and helplessness ebbed, pushed to the edges by the weight of his quiet presence beside him. 

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. 

His head sank into the pillow. 

He let out a shaky breath, letting it escape into the darkness of the room. 

Scar shifted slightly, adjusting under the covers without disturbing him, small movements that were steady and grounding.

And at last, Grian drifted. 

Not fully relaxed, not fully safe, but far enough from the fire, far enough from the ringing in his ears, far enough from the gnawing guilt that had eaten at him for hours. 

He fell asleep beside Scar, tangled slightly with limbs and blankets, heart still heavy but tethered, the quiet presence a small shield against the lingering storm of his thoughts.

The city outside hummed, indifferent, but inside, in the dim room and under the weight of blankets and careful, quiet presence, Grian allowed himself a brief reprieve. 

A moment of peace. 

And though it was fragile, it was enough.

The fire didn’t start slowly. 

It erupted, roaring and suffocating, and the heat hit him before he even realized he was running. 

The ground beneath his feet was molten, shifting with every step, a skin of burning orange and black magma that pressed against him, trying to hold him down. 

Faces flared in the flames, and he couldn’t look away. The people he had saved, the ones he had pulled from collapsing apartments, now twisted in agony, caught in smoke and fire he hadn’t been able to control. 

Their eyes, wide with terror, met his, accusing him, blaming him for the helplessness they felt.

He ran, wings outstretched though they throbbed, feathers singed and brittle from heat that still lingered in his bones. The fire seemed to stretch infinitely, consuming buildings and streets, turning the night into molten hell. 

Around him, birds appeared. They swarmed, bright yellow against the inferno, wings slicing through the thick, choking smoke. 

Hundreds of them, circling him, screeching in voices he didn’t recognize, voices too human to just be mimicked. 

He tried to shoo them away, flapping, twisting, but they moved faster than his thoughts, faster than his wings could carry him. 

Their beaks scraped at his arms, their claws raking at the edges of his burned feathers. 

And then, one by one, they ignited. 

Small sparks at first, but then flames licked their bodies, yellow feathers curling and shrieking as the fire consumed them. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t look away, and the heat became unbearable. 

The woman with the locked wings appeared above him, her eyes glinting with something sharp and green. She shrieked something he couldn’t hear over the roaring of flames and the crackling of burning birds, and then she was on him. 

Claws dug into his wings, pulling at his back with ferocity, ripping at the brittle edges. Pain exploded through him in waves, sharp and overwhelming, and he tried to twist away, to get free, but her grip was relentless.

“You’re… free,” she said, her voice like melting shards of glass. “And I’ll take it from you.”

Her jealousy wasn’t just hatred; it was a raw, desperate need. 

He tried to push her off, but she dug deeper, and every tug sent sparks flying from the edges of his wings. 

Pain lanced through his body, bleeding into the fire that had been swallowing the city around him, and Grian couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Around them, the birds were dying. 

Each burst into flames, wings folding in unnatural ways, screeches mingling with human cries until it was all a single, horrible roar. 

The weight of guilt pinned him down, and the fire’s heat pressed in on every side. He couldn’t fly. 

The braced-wing woman laughed, sharp and bitter, and clawed again, tearing feathers that had already been burned, sending fresh agony through him. 

Sparks erupted where her talons scraped, and the smell of singed feathers, of burnt flesh, filled his nose.

People’s faces swam before him, twisting in expressions of fear and pain. 

Another man he’d pulled from a lower floor of the complex reached for him, but his arms passed through him.

He tried to grab them, tried to save them again, but his hands closed on smoke. The burning birds collided with his back, the braced-wing woman still clutching, and he felt as though he were being consumed from all sides.

The fire was everywhere. 

It licked the sky, turned the air thick and unbreathable, and made it impossible to think. 

Flames coiled around him, seared the tips of his wings, ran along his neck and shoulders, and he couldn’t tell if it was real or hallucination. 

Each second stretched into minutes, each scream into hours. He tried to push upward, tried to fly away, but gravity—guilt, panic, exhaustion—held him down.

She whispered, “I could have had this. I should have had this.” 

Her nails raked again, and his wing splintered under her grip. 

Pain ripped through him, and he let out a cry that sounded like it came from a thousand throats, a sound swallowed immediately by the inferno around him. 

He tried to shake her off, but the fire between them burned hotter than anything he had known. 

Smoke clawed at his throat, ash coated his eyes, and he stumbled forward, flapping frantically, unable to rise.

The birds around him were dying faster now. One after another, they ignited in miniature suns of burning yellow feathers and heat, screaming with voices that were part human, part something else. 

They spiraled into him, collided with his wings, tore at his back. He felt their death as acutely as his own, an unbearable empathy, a weight of lives he couldn’t save pressing against him from every side.

Somehow, he kept moving. 

Somehow, even as feathers fell and burned around him, he kept running, though not fast enough to escape the inferno. 

The braced-wing woman held fast, clawing at his wings as if she could take everything from him by sheer force. 

Pain and guilt had merged into one sensation, a fire hotter than any physical flame. He could feel it in his lungs, in his chest, running down his arms into his hands.

He screamed. 

The sound caught in his throat, choked by smoke and ash, but it left his body anyway, a raw, terrible noise that seemed to shake the fire itself. 

He tried to think, tried to remember that he had saved people, that he had pulled them out. But the memory was a knife, and every face he tried to hold onto melted away, leaving only flame, smoke, and claws digging into him.

The braced-wing woman’s claws cut deeper now, tearing at his shoulders, at the bases of wings that still throbbed from the previous day’s fire. 

He wanted to beg her to stop, wanted to tell her she couldn’t take what wasn’t hers, but no words came. 

There was only fire, only the smell of burnt feathers, only the screaming of birds and humans and something in his own chest that screamed louder than anything else.

He flapped desperately, trying to push himself upward, but the fire was relentless. 

He was burning from within as much as from without. 

And then, just as he thought he could take no more, he felt himself falling. 

Falling into the fire that had consumed the world around him. He screamed, the woman had fallen away, burnt up with the last of the bright yellow birds. The helplessness converged into a single, blinding heat that made him feel like he was dissolving.

The world ended in fire, a burning, screaming, clawing chaos, and Grian could do nothing but fall, his wings torn, his chest on fire, his mind screaming, until the world tilted beneath him. 

One second he couldn't see, surrounded by the black of smoke, wings sore and smoldering, and the next he crashed through glass, shards slicing his skin, jagged edges scraping along feathers and bone, and he was inside Scar’s apartment—except it wasn’t Scar’s apartment anymore. 

It was a furnace, walls melting, smoke thick and acrid, curling around him, sticking to his throat. 

The fire licked up the walls and ceiling, greedy and alive, turning everything into orange and black, devouring furniture, papers, the faintest glint of a picture frame.

And Jellie was there. 

Her meows were weak, pitiful, cut short by fear and smoke, echoing somewhere under the haze. 

His stomach dropped. He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at the floor, digging beneath the couch where he thought he’d hear the small, frantic cries. 

Heat seared his palms through the carpet, smoke curling up into his lungs, choking him, making him cough and gag. “Jellie! Jellie!” he screamed, but his voice barely reached past his own panic.

The cat’s cries came again, sharper, closer. 

He dove under the bed, brushing ash and scorched wood aside. Nothing. 

He spun, scanning the room, trying to find another hiding spot. 

Closet. 

He yanked the door open and leaned in, smoke stinging his eyes, the heat searing his face. Nothing. Only the smell of charred clothes and the suffocating roar of fire. 

Jellie mewed again, weakly, but then the meows dwindled, fading into silence that tore at him like an open wound.

And then Scar’s voice.

It was a scream. Shredded by fire and panic, raw and terrifying. “Grian! Help! Someone—please!”

He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. The room shifted around him—the floor stretched, the walls bent like liquid metal—and he was flying, or at least trying to. 

His wings were burning, feathers blackened at the tips, muscles screaming, but the fire below was more urgent than any pain he could feel. 

He dove toward the sound, chest heaving, lungs screaming, heart hammering so violently he thought it might burst.

Scar was there, trapped beneath a fallen beam, smoke curling around his hair, eyes wide with terror. 

His body was heavier than anything Grian had ever lifted, and as he grabbed him, hoisting him into the air, the weight pressed him down, threatening to pull him back into the inferno. 

Flames wrapped around their legs, brushing against wings, singing hair, scorching fabric. Scar’s hands clawed at his shoulders, gripping him in panic, pulling desperately at anything he could hold.

Grian rose, pushing upward, fighting the heat, fighting gravity, fighting his own exhaustion. He dragged the two of them towards the window he’d crashed in through. 

They fell through, suddenly 100 floors above the ground. 

He could feel Scar slipping already, the man’s weight dragging him downward. Every beat of his wings sent lances of pain through his body, but he refused to release him, refused to let go, even as sweat and ash burned his eyes.

Then the words cut through everything.

“Grian… you’re going to kill me.”

He froze, heart stopping for the briefest second. 

Scar’s eyes were wide, frightened, almost pleading. 

And then he began to slip, his arms sliding from Grian’s shoulders, letting go. Panic clawed at Grian’s chest. He wasn’t strong enough to hold him up on his own. 

“No! Don’t—don’t let go!” he shouted, throat raw and burnt, flapping harder, beating his wings with every ounce of strength he had left.

Scar’s body tilted backward, spiraling downward. 

Grian lunged, stretching his arms, fingers straining, trying to grasp at him. 

The world spun; buildings warped, fire twisting into impossible shapes around them. The air was thick, suffocating, and his lungs screamed with every breath. Each wingbeat brought him closer, but not close enough. Scar was slipping farther, weight pulling him down through the inferno, into the blackness below.

Grian’s wings burned hotter. 

The tips flared with fire, feathers breaking off in his desperation, but he couldn’t stop. 

He could see Scar’s face now, twisted with terror, lips moving but no sound coming out over the roar of the blaze and the rush of wind. 

His hands grazed Scar’s arm, fingertips brushing against fabric, skin, hair—just enough to feel the heat, to feel the weight—but not enough to hold him.

The city stretched below them, a nightmare version of streets and buildings, a molten river of fire and ash. 

Grian twisted, dived, clawing through the sky, each movement a battle against gravity, against exhaustion, against the burning wings that threatened to collapse under him. Scar’s eyes locked with his, wide, desperate, resigned. “Grian…” he said again, and it was enough to shred him apart inside.

The drop was endless. 

No matter how hard he flapped, no matter how hard he twisted or lunged, Scar slipped through his grasp, sliding down the blaze, farther, faster, the roar of the inferno drowning out everything else. 

Grian’s chest burned, wings screamed, arms trembled from the impossible weight, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go. Not now.

His fingers brushed Scar’s sleeve again. Just the tips. It was close enough to feel the solid weight pressing against him, almost—almost enough to catch him. 

Grian felt his heart in his throat. Every instinct screamed at him, every muscle tensed, wings thrashing uselessly. Scar’s body twisted midair, falling faster, and the words—you’re going to kill me—echoed again, a knife twisting in his chest.

Grian dove, spiraling down, heart hammering, arms outstretched. 

The heat from his wings scorched the air, flames trailing behind him. 

Scar’s hands flailed, grasping at him, at nothing, slipping past his fingertips, body sliding like water through his grasp. He screamed, a raw, desperate noise, a sound without hope, a sound that carried every ounce of terror, guilt, and helplessness he felt.

He could see the ground now, impossibly close, glowing orange-red, twisting under the heat. 

He reached again, clawed again, outstretched fingers grazing Scar’s sleeve, hair, the edge of a jacket—so close. And then, just as the fingers brushed the edge of him…

Grian woke.

Heart pounding, trembling, sweat slicking his skin. 

The echo of the words still rang in his ears. 

The fall, the fire, the panic, Scar’s terrified eyes—the feeling of helplessness pressed down on him, crushing him as if the nightmare had left its mark on his chest. 

He gasped, shaking, wings aching. They were hidden when he’d gone to sleep, they must’ve burst through in desperation to save Scar. He could feel the hole they tore in the back of his shirt, cool air brushing up against the burning skin.

The seconds before impact stretched out in memory, leaving him raw and broken, clutching at nothing.

The room was dark, too dark, his eyes scrambled over the shadows, expecting—praying—to see Scar somewhere nearby. But there was nothing. 

Silence. 

The faint hum of the city outside pressed against the window.

“Scar?” His voice cracked, brittle and too high, too raw. 

The single syllable bounced off the walls and faded into nothing. His stomach tightened. He swung his legs over the bed, but they felt leaden, unresponsive, as if the mattress itself was trying to hold him down. 

He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, a maddening staccato.

He fumbled for his phone, almost knocking it onto the floor, and dialed Scar’s number. A faint melody played from the living room, his phone playing its ringtone from the living room. Grian forced himself upright, fumbling in the dark to pull on clothes, anything that could make him move faster. His wings ached faintly, still stiff and singed from the fire.

He swung his legs over the bed, feet hitting the soft shag carpet under scar’s bed. He stumbled out to the livingroom, legs wobbling like a newborn calf. 

Scar’s phone, the screen still lit up and left lying on the kitchen bar. 

Scar wasn’t here.

Panic settled like a weight on his chest. Every feather felt like a bruise, a reminder of how close the disaster had come, of what he hadn’t been able to stop. 

All he could think about was Scar. Where was he? 

Who had him?

His pace quickened, he ran back into the bedroom searching the bathroom, the closet. 

Nothing. 

Scar’s wheelchair was tucked away in the corner of the room, forgotten. His cane leaning up against the back of the couch. 

“Scar!” Grian called, hoping desperately that this time he’d answer. 

Nothing. 

He ripped open the door to the main bathroom. Nothing. 

The laundry room. Nothing, of course nothing, why would he be in there. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

He dashed around the corner and checked the study, desperately hoping that Scar would just be doing late night grading. 

He wasn’t. 

Of course he wasn’t. 

Every shadow in the apartment sparked a new wave of fear. 

He imagined people lurking, waiting for him to fall asleep before snatching Scar away. 

Government agents, spies, anyone who had somehow traced him to this place. 

The thought tightened his stomach until it was nearly impossible to breathe. He pictured Scar being dragged into some sterile, bright office, cuffed and interrogated for the crime of… loving him. The word ‘crime’ rang in his head like a hammer striking stone.

He clenched his fists so hard his nails cut into his palms. The faint warmth of blood on his skin was almost reassuring. A sign that he was still… still here. Still moving.

He felt sick, rushing into the bathroom to vomit, slamming the door behind him. His reflection in the mirror startled him. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, pink feathers still singed black, hair sticking out at odd angles. He barely recognized himself. 

Panic clawed up his throat, sharp and relentless.

“No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. You can’t be gone. I can’t—” His voice broke off, then returned, higher, louder, until the words became incoherent screams.

He fell to his knees, clutching at his own arms as if he could anchor himself to reality, but reality was slipping. He pulled at his feathers instinctively, tugging hard, and felt the familiar sting as quills tore from their follicles. 

He scratched at his skin, nails digging in until the pain became another kind of focus, a way to channel the screaming chaos inside him. Each pull, each scratch was a small relief, a bitter comfort.

“Scar… please… I’ll be good. I’ll behave. Just… just come back. Don’t leave me…” His voice was raw, still burnt from the ash and smoke—breaking open as sobs shook his body. 

There was blood beneath his nails now, but it didn’t feel like his own. He knew in his heart it was Scar’s, that he was dead. 

That Grian had been the one to kill him. 

His wings itched, the raw skin beneath feathers protesting, but he ignored it, too consumed by the gnawing thought that Scar had been taken, that he’d never see him again.

The panic had no rhythm, no pattern—just a roaring tide of heat and cold, pain and dread. He could feel the imaginary hands dragging Scar away, feel Scar’s terrified eyes looking at him for help that would never come. His screams echoed in the tight bathroom walls until he thought his voice would give out completely.

His throat burned. Every inhale was a battle. 

He tugged at his wings, clawing, pulling, anything to release the impossible weight pressing on his chest. He begged desperately for them to bring Scar back, for him to be safe. He promised through sobs that if Scar were safe he’d leave the man and never look back. Never do something so selfish ever again. 

Tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood from torn skin, smearing across cheeks.

Every thought twisted, every memory sharpened. He remembered the government birds, the ones with regulated wings who couldn’t escape. The woman with the braced wings, her struggle replayed in fragments. If only she could have flown freely. If only… He choked on a sob. If only he hadn’t been late. 

If only he had been faster.

The panic pulled him under, drowning him in waves of guilt and fear, until he could hardly tell where his body ended and the nightmare began. 

The room was small, constricting, closing in on him. The mirror reflected not his face, but the hollow echo of everything he couldn’t save. 

Scar. 

The others. 

Himself.

He collapsed forward completely, forehead pressed to the cold tile. 

He pulled at his wings once more, feathers tearing under his frantic hands. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered but finding Scar, and yet he couldn’t. He couldn’t. The world narrowed to this unbearable point, this impossible terror, and he screamed again, raw, guttural, meaningless except as a release.

Every corner of the bathroom seemed to twist, shadows flickering like fingers reaching for him. Every creak of the apartment, every distant car horn, became evidence of some unseen threat. 

And the thought of Scar alone, trapped, frightened, made the panic rise even higher, boiling over, consuming everything else.

He sank to the floor, quivering, arms wrapped tight around his body. His wings itched and bled, his skin raw, hair matted. Every breath was labor. 

Every heartbeat threatened to rip him apart. He was trapped in a spiral of despair, guilt, and terror, a storm he could not calm, a pain that was both physical and endless.

And then, just as the screaming threatened to split him entirely, he heard a noise. 

The creak of the floor made him freeze, muscles tensing as though bracing for something unseen. But no one opened the door, no one came in. 

Silence swallowed the room again, and the absence of Scar became a blade pressing into his chest. His hands, slick with sweat and blood, trembled uncontrollably. Every thought spiraled, tumbling over the last like stones in a landslide, each one heavier, sharper than the one before.

“You’re gone,” he whispered to himself, barely audible over the thundering of his heartbeat. “You’re gone and it’s my fault.” The words shook in his throat. He couldn’t breathe properly. 

He tried to sit, tried to steady himself, but his knees buckled, and he collapsed sideways onto the floor. The cold tile pressed against his cheek, indifferent. He pressed his face into it, seeking some grounding, some anchor, but the tiles only reflected the emptiness, the weight of absence.

Scar’s absence twisted the memories tighter, like a knot he could not untie. 

He remembered the fire, the smoke, the weight of bodies in his arms. 

Grian’s stomach churned, bile rising. He pulled at his feathers again, even harder this time, feeling them tear, watching the thin shafts of pink and black scatter across the tiles. The pain was fire, and yet fire was easier to endure than the thought of Scar being gone forever.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’ll be good. I’ll behave. Just… just don’t take him away. Please, just give him back. I’ll do anything.” His nails dug into the soft skin beneath his wings, leaving scratches that burned like branding. He had no energy left to scream, his voice raw, echoing back to him in jagged shards. No one answered. 

No one ever answered.

He had disobeyed before, and they had punished him. 

Scar was punishment now. Scar had been taken because of him, because he was careless, because he wasn’t good enough. The thought made his chest tighten until it hurt to inhale. 

His arms trembled, and he clawed at his skin again, leaving red streaks that burned in the harsh fluorescent bathroom light.

Every passing second stretched impossibly long. His mind leapt from one horror to the next: Scar alone, crying; Scar trapped, screaming for him; Scar dying because he couldn’t protect him. 

Each imagined scenario slammed into him with the force of a freight train. He clawed at his wings with renewed desperation, ripped at the tips of his feathers, pulled at his skin, and cursed himself for not being faster, stronger, smarter. He deserved this. 

Deserved everything.

He imagined Scar’s hands reaching for him, hands that weren’t there, and his sobs doubled in intensity.

The world contracted to the size of the bathroom. Tiles, mirror, walls, the gap beneath the door—they were all boundaries pressing inward, a trap from which there was no escape. 

He curled into himself, pulling his knees to his chest, wrapping his wings around him like a shield that offered no protection. He could feel the blood seeping into his fingers from clawing, the sticky warmth a tiny proof that he was still alive, though barely.

“No, no, no, no,” he whispered over and over, voice cracking, until it became a frantic chant. He hit the floor with his fists, fingers scraping across the tile. He tugged at his wings again, pulling the feathers loose. 

Pain spiked up his arms and down his back, jagged and raw, but the physical agony was easier to bear than the thought of Scar being lost forever.

And then the images sharpened. 

Scar’s voice, screaming—not the imaginary voice from his mind, but real, horrifying, panicked. He imagined Scar in the fire again, flames licking at the edges of his vision. 

He imagined himself diving, pulling, flying with Scar in his arms, feeling the heat, the weight, the helplessness. 

And then Scar slipping from him, slipping and falling, and Grian’s scream joined the imagined roar of the fire, an endless echo that filled the small bathroom, leaving nothing else in the world.

He pressed his face into his knees, shaking.

His own body felt like it was aflame, his wings ached from imagined claws and real injuries, and still he clawed and pulled. He was lost inside the spiral, a storm with no exit. Memory and imagination collided. Childhood punishments, fire, the government, Scar—all intertwined, a crushing weight pressing down on every nerve.

Every breath burned, every heartbeat felt like a hammer. 

He clawed his wings, his arms, his thighs. Tears streamed unchecked, mixing with blood and sweat. The panic reached its apex, the tipping point where Grian no longer distinguished between the nightmare, the fire, the loss, and the cold apartment.

A voice, low and steady, brushing against the chaos. “hey… it’s okay.”

The sound alone made him flinch, freeze, desperate for it, desperate to hold on. 

He wanted to scream, wanted to pull away, wanted to claw himself free, but the panic had run dry; only raw, ragged awareness remained. That voice was the anchor, the signal that the world hadn’t ended, that someone—Scar—was here, real, alive.

He lifted his head slightly, trembling, stained with blood and tears, and the edges of the storm began to recede—not fully, not yet—but enough to let him feel the first flicker of something like relief. His body shook, but the crushing weight lifted fractionally.

Somewhere beyond the floor tiles, the screaming, the claws, and the fire, Grian realized he was no longer alone. 

And in that realization, he let out the tiniest shuddering sigh of release, the first breath he’d taken in what felt like hours.

He felt the warmth of someone settling next to him, a weight pressing down not on him but into him, he instinctively leaned in, curling his trembling body toward the solid presence. Scar’s arms wrapped around him, firm and grounding, pulling him up towards the man, and for the first time since he had woken, Grian felt something like safety, though he was still trembling.

Scar’s chest was warm beneath him. 

He whispered into the top of Grian’s head, soft, low, a cadence meant to soothe. “It’s okay, I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” The words were slow, deliberate, and each one felt like a rope thrown into the storm inside Grian’s mind.

He pressed his face harder into Scar’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent, letting the slight rigidity of the braces remind him that Scar was real, here, breathing. 

The world outside the bathroom—outside the apartment—didn’t exist. 

Only the sound of Scar’s whispered words, the faint creak of the floor beneath them, and the way the man’s arms molded around him, adapting, securing, holding.

Scar’s hands moved carefully to Grian’s wings. 

He had seen the damage already, but now with Scar’s attention he really saw. 

There were still a few pin feathers, but molting season had all but passed. The pink of his wings had been overtaken by splotches of shiny black feathers. The pink itself had faded, it was muted now, and some were still grey from the smoke and ash. 

He felt embarrassed. 

Scar started preening the feathers, running his fingers along the shafts, separating broken ones from the intact, pulling gently on any that seemed ready to be released.

“You’ve pulled at them again,” he murmured gently. “And some of these are… burned. Singed.” His thumb brushed over the blackened tips. Grian winced slightly, but didn’t pull away. “We’ll get them sorted…  maybe trim the worst of them.”

Grian whispered back, voice still quivering, “I… need to redye them. They’re… faded now. And… the black… the splotches…” His words trailed off, choked by the echo of the panic he’d just endured.

Scar didn’t speak, only hummed softly, thumb stroking the line of feathers along the shoulder. “I know,” he said finally, voice as quiet as a heartbeat. “We’ll fix it. I’ll help. But first… just breathe. Just be here with me.”

The silence settled between them like a soft blanket. 

Neither moved for several minutes, only breathing in time with each other, the warmth of Scar’s body seeping into Grian, drawing the jagged edges of fear away. It felt nice, the warmth, it was the first thing he’d felt that wasn't freezing or burning hot. 

Grian’s wings twitched reflexively under the touch, but Scar only continued, patient and unhurried, preening the damaged feathers and softly straightening the ones Grian had pulled loose. 

He worked slowly, so slowly that Grian felt each touch as a balm, each small adjustment a quiet reassurance.

“I… I’m sorry,” Grian murmured finally, voice low, trembling. “For… for everything…”

Scar pressed a kiss to the top of his head, low and soft. “I know, Birdie. I know. You didn’t mean to hurt yourself. You just… couldn’t stop it.” His voice was steady, full of something like a quiet command without pressure. “But you’re here now. You’re okay now. Let me help you.”

Grian let the tears fall freely, unashamed, small hot streams that soaked into Scar’s sweatpants. 

He wanted to collapse entirely, to dissolve into the solid warmth, to let the fear and guilt pour out entirely.

Scar’s arms tightened, holding him closer, his whispers constant. “You’re okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I won’t let go.”

Finally, Scar shifted slightly, easing Grian up from the hard tile floor.

“Come on,” he said softly, taking Grian’s hand and standing. The bathroom tiles were cold beneath their feet, but the small act of standing, of moving together, gave Grian the barest sense of grounding. They crossed the short hallway and Scar helped him onto the bed, gently settling him beneath the covers. 

The soft weight of the blankets pressed against him, and for the first time in hours, he felt a flicker of comfort without terror.

Scar knelt beside him, gaze soft but intense, as if trying to hold every jagged edge of Grian’s panic in place. “I saw you in action…” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “On the news… saving all those people… it broke my heart for you.”

Grian’s brow furrowed. “Broke your heart?” he asked, voice shaky, almost disbelieving.

Scar nodded, thumb brushing along the side of his face. “You’re too kind, Cuteguy. Your heart is too big. And when you’re faced with something larger than yourself… I’m afraid you’re going to crack.”

The words landed like small stones in Grian’s chest, and he closed his eyes, letting the weight of them settle. “I… I just… I couldn’t save everyone,” he whispered, the guilt still raw, though tempered by Scar’s calm presence.

“I know,” Scar murmured, leaning closer. He pressed his forehead to Grian’s temple, holding him firmly, intentionally. “But you saved more than you know. And you… you survived. That counts. That matters. You were able to save yourself.”

Grian let his head rest against Scar’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling the warmth that was so foreign, so terrifying, yet undeniable. 

The panic receded slowly, leaving only trembling remnants, manageable pieces he could breathe around. Scar’s hands remained on his wings, lightly stroking, smoothing, preening, a constant reminder that he was not alone, that the fire, the nightmares, the panic… none of it had to be faced alone.

“Thank you,” he whispered finally, voice almost lost. “For… for staying. For… just being here.”

Scar smiled softly, lips brushing against the top of Grian’s head again. “Always. Always here, My Love. That’s what I do.”

Grian felt a small warmth bloom in his chest, a fragile, tentative thing, but real. 

He curled slightly, letting himself sink into Scar’s embrace, letting the solid presence of him absorb the lingering panic. 

He let his hands rest lightly on Scar’s arms and finally allowed himself to relax. The tears dried slowly, leaving faint streaks, but the tightness in his chest loosened incrementally. Scar’s hands lingered over his wings a moment longer, ensuring every damaged feather was attended to, every small scratch acknowledged.

“I’ll need to fix them,” Grian said quietly, voice still soft. “The singed feathers… the color… I’ll need to redye them.”

Scar hummed softly, leaning closer. “We’ll do it together,” he promised. “We’ll fix them. But for now… just sleep. Let me take care of you.”

And so Grian did. 

He felt Scar shift beside him, preparing for sleep, settling close enough to offer warmth but careful not to crowd him, hands still lightly brushing over his wings. 

He let himself drift, muscles finally unclenching, the chaos in his mind muted, the fire inside cooled, if only slightly. Scar’s whisper lingered in his ears, a mantra, a tether to the living, to safety: I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re okay.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Grian allowed himself to believe it.

Chapter Text

The smell of smoke still clung to the air.

Not thick anymore—not the choking, eye-stinging kind that had made his lungs feel like ash—but faint, ghostly. Like it had soaked into his nose and decided to stay.

He knew it wasn’t real.

Grian blinked awake to gray light filtering through the blinds. 

Morning or maybe afternoon—he didn’t check. His throat felt dry, his mouth tasted metallic. When he rolled onto his side, the sheet rasped against his feathers, and he winced out of instinct.

The burns were gone. 

His skin had healed, his wings had mended. But the memory hadn’t. When he reached back, fingers brushing the curve where his shoulder blades met the downy base of black feathers, the ache pulsed like it was still there. 

Phantom pain. 

He breathed in, slow and shallow.

He closed his eyes and pulled his wings tight to his back, feeling the telltale tug as the magic gave way. The pocket dimensions stretched open like silk being unstitched—tingling, then pressure, then the familiar, queasy sensation of feathers being pulled into air that didn't exist. They vanished with a soft ripple, slipping under his skin until all that was left were two large scars along his shoulder blades.

When it was over, he exhaled through his teeth. The apartment was too quiet.

He swung his legs out of bed, the floorboards cold against bare feet. His sweater—the one he’d been wearing since yesterday, or maybe the day before—lay in a heap on the chair. He tugged it on anyway. It smelled like dust and laundry detergent and faintly, still, of smoke. He might have imagined that last thing. 

There were clothes scattered over the floor: jeans, a crumpled shirt, socks that didn’t match. He grabbed the first pair of pants that seemed clean enough and pulled them on.

In the mirror, his reflection stared back with hollow eyes, hair tussled against his forehead. He looked like someone who’d been living underwater.

His cats sat by the food bowls, waiting. Normally they would’ve been yowling the second they heard movement, twining around his legs, purring at his ankles. Today, they just watched him.

Pearl crept forward first, sniffing the hem of his sweater, then his wrist. She gave a soft, uncertain chirp, pressing her nose against his palm. He could feel the question in the touch.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. The words cracked halfway out of his throat.

Maui, didn’t seem convinced. He padded over to the bowl, sniffed at the untouched food, and looked back at Grian with a plaintive meow. When Grian didn’t move, he sighed and sat down beside Pearl instead, both of them staring up at him like they were waiting for him to do something.

He crouched down, rubbing behind their ears. “I said I’m fine,” he repeated, quieter this time.

The lie didn’t even sound like one anymore.

The silence stretched. 

The cats eventually went back to their food, though they kept glancing up between bites. Grian stayed crouched on the floor, eyes fixed on the faint morning light bleeding through the blinds.

He hadn’t dreamed last night, but somehow, he still felt like he hadn’t woken up.

Somewhere outside, a car alarm blared, then faded. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—once, twice, then fell silent. He didn’t look at it.

He stood, pulled his sweater tighter around himself, and stared blankly at the door.

When the knock came, he already knew who it was.

“Mate,” Jimmy said when he’d opened the door, eyes flicking up and down. “You look like shit.”

Grian grunted, tugging his rumpled sweater tighter. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice flat. “You’re too kind.”

Jimmy’s car was the kind that had personality—a dented side mirror, two different air fresheners, and a permanent layer of cat hair. When Grian climbed in, the air smelled faintly of sandlewood and black ice.

Jimmy glanced over from the driver’s seat and did a visible double take.

The seatbelt felt too heavy across his chest.

“I mean, you always look a bit dead inside,” Jimmy continued, trying to keep his tone light, “but this is, like, next-level undead professor stuff.”

No response.

Jimmy tapped the steering wheel, drumming a rhythm against the leather. The radio was off, the silence thick. Outside, the city slid by in flashes—scaffolding, glass reflecting the morning sky, students walking with cups of coffee in their hands.

“They’re still cleaning up from that fire,” Jimmy said, softer now. “At least it’s a distraction from the whole avian-hunting garbage they’ve been running on the news, yeah?”

That got a reaction, but not the one he’d wanted. Grian’s shoulders tensed. His gaze didn’t move from the window.

Jimmy’s smile faltered. “Right. Not funny. Got it.”

He cleared his throat, changing lanes. For a while, the only sounds were the tires on asphalt and the faint rattle of something loose in the glove box.

“Hey, man,” Jimmy said, more carefully this time. “Are you doing okay?”

The question hung in the air. No answer. Just the hum of the engine.

Jimmy frowned. “Grian?”

He didn’t look over, didn’t blink, didn’t even sigh. But Grian could feel it—that slight flicker of resistance, the sharp press of thought that wasn’t his own, brushing against the edge of his mind like a cold wind.

He focused. 

You’re an idiot.

He knew the words echoed loudly in Jimmy's head because he flinched, nearly missing the green light.

“Jesus, warn a guy before you start broadcasting insults directly into his skull,” he said, exhaling hard as the car lurched forward. Jimmy laughed under his breath, though it came out strained. “Alright, alright. No more pity check-ins. You win.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, but it was a softer one this time. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.

When they pulled into the university parking lot, Jimmy set the parking brake and reached for the spare coffee cup in the holder.

“Hey, uh… figured you might want this. From Joel. He’s not feeling too well either, but he wanted me to bring this to you.”

Grian blinked at it for a long moment before taking it. The lid creaked under his thumb, the coffee itself was barely warm.

“Thanks,” he said, almost too quiet to hear.

Jimmy nodded, pretending to adjust the mirror instead of watching him. “Don’t mention it.”

Grian stepped out, shutting the door gently. 

The university hadn’t changed. The same scuffed tiles, the same buzz of fluorescent lights, the same smell of burnt coffee and copier ink. 

Grian wished it had changed—anything to make it feel less like he was walking through a ghost of his old life.

He kept his head down as he passed through the halls. Students moved in clusters, chatting about projects and midterms, the usual undercurrent of exhaustion and caffeine. Every sound pressed on him like static. 

His wings twitched under his back—a subconscious itch. He wanted to stretch them, to breathe, but that would mean letting them exist, and he couldn’t handle that.

He took the long way to the breakroom, keeping his eyes on the floor.

When he reached the breakroom, Mumbo was already there, standing by the counter with a mug in hand and his hair doing its usual ‘I’m actually a very important business man’ impression.

“Morning, sunshine,” Mumbo said cheerfully. “You look like you wrestled a tornado.”

“Feels like it,” Grian muttered, not bothering to make a mug of coffee when he had a to-go cup of Joel’s.

Mumbo leaned against the counter, watching him. “Haven’t seen you around much. Thought you’d finally run off to build a cabin in the woods or something.”

Grian took a long sip. “Would’ve, if I could afford it.”

“Ah, right. The glamorous life of academia.” Mumbo smiled faintly, trying to keep the tone light. “You sure you’re okay? You look—”

“Don’t,” Grian said softly.

Mumbo blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Ask,” Grian replied, voice low. He wasn’t being cruel—just tired.

The silence stretched between them, thick and awkward. Mumbo sighed through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. I’ll just… pretend you’re thriving then.”

Grian gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He grabbed his coffee and planned to leave, but froze in the doorway.

Across the room, he saw Scar.

The man was laughing with Bdubs about something—easy, warm, the kind of sound that always drew people in. His cane was leaning against the table, his hair slightly mussed, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he smiled.

For a moment, Grian forgot to breathe.

Then Scar looked up. Their eyes met through the room.

It was only for a heartbeat, but it hit like a punch. Grian’s stomach twisted—too many feelings crammed into too little space. Guilt, longing, shame, something else he didn’t dare name.

He looked away first. Sharp, instinctive. Like staring at the sun too long.

Scar’s smile faltered. He said something to Bdubs that Grian couldn’t hear, then took a small step forward—just enough that it made Grian move.

He turned on his heel and walked out, ignoring the way his heartbeat climbed into his throat. 

“Grian?” Mumbo called after him, but he didn’t stop.

Down the hall, the chatter of students grew louder. He slipped through them, shrinking into the noise, into anonymity. His lecture hall was empty when he arrived, and that was the first relief he’d felt all morning.

He set the coffee down on the desk and exhaled shakily. His reflection in the dark computer screen looked like someone else’s—hair a mess, sweater stretched at the sleeves, eyes dull and too wide.

He didn’t bother fixing any of it. Just sank into the chair and rubbed his face with his hands, whispering to himself: ‘Just get through today.’

Students trickled in by twos and threes, clutching coffee cups and half-finished breakfasts, talking in the low, comfortable murmur of people who hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of rain and paper.

He erased the previous professor’s work off the board, warmed up the projector, took attendance, the usual dance.

Grian stood at the front of the lecture hall, hands curled around the edge of the desk like it might keep him anchored. The projector hummed, throwing pale blue light across the whiteboard. The hall smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning solution, and the windows along the wall let in a slice of gray daylight that made everything look washed out.

No one looked at him closely enough to notice the tremor in his hands.

His eyes flicked across the rows automatically, counting heads. Near the middle, third row from the back, a single empty seat caught his attention—the one by the wall, where a student used to sit cross-legged and doodle in the margins of their notes.

The empty chair looked ordinary. Harmless.

He knew better.

The university confirmed it two days ago. The student—bright-eyed, who’d stayed behind a few times to talk about how they applied their architecture knowledge to minecraft builds—hadn’t made it out of the fire.

Grian forced himself to look away, throat tightening. He turned back to the computer, pulled up the day’s topic, and began.

“Alright, everyone. Today we’re covering basic load distribution in large-scale builds—structural integrity when balancing height and material flexibility.” A few students perked up, but most didn’t. Some stared blankly at the board. 

Others scrolled on their laptops, pretending to take notes while their screens flickered with game menus and chat windows.

His voice sounded normal, almost cheerful.

He clicked to the next slide. Equations. Graphs. A simple cross-section diagram of reinforced concrete. The kind of thing he could explain in his sleep.

And for a moment, that’s exactly what it felt like—sleepwalking. His hands moved, drawing a quick line across the board, gesturing toward the weak points in a frame. 

He knew the words that followed, had said them a dozen times before. “You’ll notice the lateral stress accumulates here first, before traveling along the beam—meaning even small miscalculations can cause failure propagation through the entire structure.” 

He clicked to the next slide. “So, when you’re designing a vertical framework, what’s the biggest factor you need to account for?”

Silence.

Someone in the back yawned.The room felt stale, air thick with the weight of routine. Grian’s eyes swept across the rows automatically, taking stock of who was paying attention and who wasn’t.

“Wind,” Grian said dryly. “Though apparently attention span comes close.” A few students chuckled half-heartedly.

His gaze caught again on the empty seat, the light from the window cut across it, highlighting the abandoned chair, the faint smudge marks on the surface where a laptop used to slide across. It shouldn’t have stood out. But it did. It had for the entire week.

He forced himself to look away.

He wrote a quick diagram on the whiteboard—lines and triangles, force arrows—and kept talking. “Buildings are alive in their own way. They bend, they breathe. That flexibility keeps them standing when things get rough.”

He paused.

“If we com—If we compare this to an elastic model—” The words stumbled for a beat. “You’ll see how, in practical terms, these stress points inform… building code standards, particularly in, uh, urban districts.”

He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. His rhythm was off—pauses coming in strange places, inflection dropping mid-sentence. A couple of students in the front row glanced up, confused. Others were lost in their screens, the sound of a video game faintly audible from somewhere in the middle rows.

He turned back to the board and wrote a number down, the marker squeaking against the surface. It was too bright. His eyes watered. He blinked and tried again.

The lecture continued like that—mechanical, halting, punctuated by silences that stretched a beat too long. He’d built this unit around control and precision, and now both felt miles away. Every word seemed to slide past the point of meaning.

His gaze wandered again, unwilling, to that same empty desk. The shape of it was wrong—too clean, too untouched. No notebooks stacked on the corner, no jacket draped over the chair.

He turned back to the board, rubbing a smudge from the marker with his thumb.

“Now, imagine stress applied unevenly. One beam weakens, another takes the weight. The structure doesn’t fall right away. It just… learns how to hide the damage. Now,” he said again, “who can tell me what happens if these load-bearing beams are spaced irregularly?”

A few hands went up. He pointed to a girl near the front—she looked nervous, caught off-guard. “Uh—um, it redistributes the pressure unevenly?”

“Yes. Exactly.” His tone was too sharp, too fast. “Redistribution. Uneven stress. The beginning of a failure chain.” He could see a few students exchange looks. He tried to soften it with a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry. Bit of an engineer’s tangent.” 

Laughter rippled weakly through the room, uncertain whether it was meant to be a joke.

He hadn’t meant for his voice to shake.

He cleared his throat and moved on, switching slides. “Anyway. Let’s talk tensile strength ratios. If you’re using a combination of—”

The projector light flickered. Someone giggled quietly at whatever was happening on their screen.

Grian pressed a palm to the desk to steady himself. He could feel the phantom heat again, the memory of smoke in his lungs, the sound of a building screaming as it fell to its death.

He forced himself to click through a few more slides, diagrams blurring together—foundation models, compression tests, stress data. His brain followed the motions, but his focus kept slipping sideways, back toward that seat. It wasn’t supposed to be empty. Not that one.

He’d read the email twice, maybe three times, the day it came through the faculty list. ‘Student lost in the fire downtown.’ The message had been phrased like it was background noise. ‘A tragedy,’ the dean had written, ‘but classes will continue as scheduled.’

And they had. The next morning, the world had gone on, except it hadn’t—not really. Not for Grian.

It should have been me.

He’d been there. He could have done something.

His fingers curled.

“…and so that’s why iron framing, when combined with reinforced glass, allows for—” He stopped mid-sentence. The words blurred together, meaningless.

He turned toward the board, staring at the diagrams until the lines no longer made sense. His heart thudded painfully behind his ribs.

He shifted his weight and adjusted his glasses, pretending to check his notes. The lines of text swam slightly before his eyes. The silence in the room pressed in around him until he could hear the soft whir of the ceiling fans.

“Let’s, uh… move to the case study portion,” he said, tapping at the remote. “This next slide—”

The image changed to a building schematic, a hospital project he’d worked on as a consultant a few years ago. Perfectly intact, perfect symmetry. Safe. Predictable.

The opposite of that night.

He took a breath through his nose, slow, careful.

Sometimes it felt like the smell of smoke still clung to him, no matter how many showers he took.

His voice faltered again. “You’ll notice how the support beams here are reinforced near the stairwell…” He trailed off, distracted by a faint scratching sound—one of the students doodling with a mechanical pencil. The tiny, repetitive click echoed louder than it should have. His heart was beating too fast.

“...which, uh, would—would prevent… collapse in the event of… an emergency.” He barely finished the sentence.

He moved to the side of the desk, leaning against it to steady himself. It wasn’t like anyone was paying close attention. Not really. They’d leave this room, head to their next class, their next coffee, their next text message. 

Life went on.

He wanted to say something else—something real—but instead he turned back to the board and wrote another equation. His handwriting was worse than usual, letters uneven and thin.

From somewhere behind him came a faint murmur, two students whispering. He couldn’t catch the words, but one of them laughed softly, quickly stifled. He exhaled through his nose.

“Forget this,” he muttered under his breath.

He reached for the eraser and, with one hard swipe, wiped everything clean. Marker dust clung to his sleeve, a faint smear of blue and black.

The room went quiet. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, confused.

He set the eraser down carefully, too carefully. “Change of topic,” he said.

A murmur rippled through the students. The students glanced at each other. One or two froze mid-keystroke.

“We’re going to talk about something else.”

Grian faced them fully. His tone was steady, but his eyes were too bright. “You’ve spent months learning how to design beautiful things—towers, bridges, homes—but tell me this: what good are they if they can’t keep people alive?”

A few students exchanged looks. One raised a tentative hand. “Professor? I thought today was—”

“—load distribution,” Grian finished. “Yeah. It was.” He paced slowly in front of the desk, words spilling faster now. “But after last week, I think we can all agree that pretty buildings aren’t enough.”

The air shifted.

He turned, eyes sweeping the room. The sudden weight of his attention made people straighten instinctively, laptops lowering an inch. Even the students who usually sat in the back pretending not to exist looked up.

He gestured toward the board. “You think disaster planning is just paperwork? Something for engineers and government officials? You’re wrong. It’s your responsibility. If you design a space, you decide how it lives and how it dies.”

The students stared, uneasy.

He was aware of himself talking too quickly, voice rising, but he couldn’t stop.

Grian took a slow breath through his nose. He didn’t have a slide prepared for this—he didn’t need one.

“Say your apartment catches fire tonight,” he said evenly. “How long do you think it would take you to get out?”

No one answered.

He waited a moment longer, then set the marker down with a soft tick. “Anyone?”

A girl near the front hesitated, voice small. “I… don’t know? A few minutes?”

Grian’s jaw tightened. “A few minutes,” he repeated, almost to himself. “That’s optimistic.”

He walked along the edge of the platform at the front of the hall, pace measured. Digging his nails into his palms the motion hurt but it helped keep his hands from shaking.

“You think you’ll smell smoke first,” he said. “You won’t. You’ll wake up confused. You’ll think it’s the heater, or maybe a neighbor. You’ll stand there for thirty seconds before you realize what’s happening. And by then—” He snapped his fingers, the sound loud enough to echo. “The air’s already thick with carbon monoxide.”

A student in the middle row flinched. Another closed their laptop quietly.

Grian stopped in front of the empty desk. His eyes lingered on it.

“How long do you think the walls will last?” he asked softly. “Your ceilings? How long until the floors give out?”

No one dared answer.

“The building you’re sitting in right now was built in 1984,” he went on, tone clipped. “Retrofit in 2003. Fire code’s been updated six times since then. You trust those sprinklers overhead?” He pointed toward the ceiling. “Half of them don’t even work when the pressure drops below ninety PSI. You’d never know until it’s too late.”

A nervous murmur passed through the room. Grian’s eyes flicked toward it, and the whispering died instantly.

He reached for the marker again and drew a rough floor plan on the board—quick, frantic lines forming a rectangle, stairwells at each end, a few scribbled doors. His handwriting was jagged, urgent.

“These are your exits,” he said. “You think they’ll stay clear when panic sets in? When everyone starts running the same way?” He drew a big X across one stairwell. “This one floods with smoke first. It’s useless after thirty seconds.”

The students were sitting straighter now. Phones were lowered. The games were gone. Every pair of eyes was fixed on him, silent, wary.

“Sir?” someone asked hesitantly. “Is this… on the exam?”

That almost made him laugh. Almost.

“No,” he said, voice rough. “No, it isn’t.”

He turned back to the board, marker tapping furiously. “You all think you’ll have warning. That someone will save you. A hero will swoop in, or the fire alarms will give you time.” His throat tightened. “That’s not how it works.”

He stepped back and stared at the mess of marker—arrows, exits, pressure lines, all scrawled over each other. His breathing was shallow, ragged in the silence.

“Even if someone did come for you,” he said finally, “they might not make it in time.”

That landed like a weight.

The students didn’t move. Even the ones who never paid attention looked stricken now. He could see their faces clearly—wide eyes, fidgeting hands, the kind of collective silence that came from realizing something wasn’t right.

One of the boys in the front shifted in his seat. “Professor?”

Grian blinked, slow, as if coming back from somewhere far away.

He set the marker down again. His fingers were streaked white. “You build something strong,” he murmured, “you expect it to stay strong. You think—if you measure everything just right, if you follow the code, if you care enough—it won’t fail.” He laughed under his breath, humorless. “That’s not how it works either.”

He could see flashes again—orange light against the sky, screaming metal, the smell of scorched insulation. He could hear the sound of someone’s voice, muffled by smoke, too late.

His heart thudded against his ribs. He gripped the edge of the desk until the wood bit into his palm.

“You all sit here,” he said hoarsely, “and you study the math, the theory, the regulations—but none of it means anything if you don’t remember what happens when the walls fail. When the heat hits the steel, when the roof caves in, when you’re counting seconds and the exits are already gone.”

The words tumbled faster now, unfiltered.

“Buildings burn. People die. And the rest of us—” He stopped, jaw locking. “We pretend we couldn’t have done anything differently.”

A long silence followed. You could hear the hum of the projector again, the faint tick of someone’s pen rolling off a desk.

He glanced toward the window, then back to the empty seat. His chest hurt.

He took another breath, steadier this time, and forced his voice down to something gentler. “I don’t say this to scare you,” he lied. “I just want you to think about it. Really think. When you design something—when you build—it’s not just numbers. It’s lives.”

The girl from before raised her hand, slow. “Professor… Did something happen?”

The room froze, waiting.

Grian’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stared at her for a heartbeat too long, then looked away.

He picked up the marker again, trying for normalcy, but the words that came next were quiet, flat. “There was a fire downtown last week. Some of you probably saw it on the news.”

A murmur of recognition swept through the class. Heads nodded. One or two people whispered the building’s name under their breath.

Grian took a breath that didn’t quite reach his lungs. He looked up at the empty seat again. “Someone in this room used to sit there,” he said quietly. “They were smart. Kind. Asked better questions than most of you.”

He forced a weak smile, but it didn’t hold. “They’re gone. And maybe I could’ve—” He stopped himself, the sentence breaking. He turned away before anyone could see the flicker of emotion cross his face.

Silence pressed in.

No one spoke. Someone at the back lowered their gaze, hands clasped tight in their lap.

He turned to the board again, though he wasn’t seeing it anymore. The marker trembled faintly in his hand. “So when I say don’t trust the building, I mean it. When I tell you to memorize your exits, I mean it. When I say code compliance isn’t a formality—it’s survival—I mean every word.”

His tone cracked open, desperate now. “If the lights go out, if the alarms fail, if the heroes don’t show up—what’s left? You. The structure you built. The one you designed. The one you thought would hold.”

Silence. Heavy. Unrelenting.

He felt every pair of eyes on him—worried, uncertain, maybe even afraid. The kind of fear students shouldn’t have to feel toward their teacher.

No one spoke. Even the usual whisperers had gone still.

Grian exhaled, slow and uneven. The outburst drained out of him all at once, leaving a hollow ache behind.

Finally, he said, softer, “I just want you to understand what you’re building for. Not the skyline. Not the portfolios. People.” He reached for the marker again, sketching a simple outline of a structure—nothing fancy, just a cube of intersecting lines. “Homework’s the same,” he said quietly. “But think about stability this time. Real stability.”

No one moved at first. Then chairs scraped slowly, softly, like they were afraid to make too much noise.

As the students gathered their things, a few glanced back—hesitant, concerned. Grian pretended not to see them. He turned toward the window, watching the city sprawl out through the small basement windows.

Students packed up quickly, unsure whether to thank him or just leave. He watched them go one by one until the last bag disappeared through the door.

Only then did he let his shoulders slump.

He ran a hand down his face, then reached instinctively for his back. The wings pressed faintly against the inside of his skin, folded tight. The scar tissue didn’t hurt anymore, but when he flexed the muscles, a phantom burn crawled up his spine.

He stayed there a long time, staring at the empty chair, until the lights shut off automatically.

The air in the lecture hall still smelled faintly of expo marker and the citrus scented wipes the custodian used on the desks.

The empty seat caught the light once more, that same bright white stripe from earlier.

Grian walked home alone that day.

Chapter Text

Scar remembered the night vividly. The way the bathroom had felt too small, the sound of his breathing echoing off the tiles. 

Cuteguy had been curled up on the floor, knees to chest, shaking so violently. 

Scar had only been gone an hour or two—a meeting, an emergency meeting that had pulled him away from home. One moment the apartment was quiet, the next he had found Cuteguy like that, shaking in a puddle of blood and feathers.

The memory still made his chest tighten. He hadn’t really understood it at the time, but the panic, the fear, the way Cuteguy had looked at him—it scared him.

Now Scar sat in his wheelchair, tracing the edges of the armrests with restless fingers. 

He had work today. 

He was worried about Cuteguy, hadn't seen the man since the morning after he found him in the bathroom. It’d been over a week. 

He knew that he’d come back, that he’d see his partner again and that he’d be able to comfort him. He just didn't know when. 

He took the elevator down to the main floor, passing through the doors and rolling out onto the sidewalk. He was running a little bit too late to wheel the whole way to the university. He’d woken up late and spent too much time trying to stubbornly convince himself he could get by with just his cane. 

The bus rolled up about five minutes later, earlier than it should have for this stop. He was glad he got here when he did, because the bus didn’t wait around for anyone else to arrive. He was grateful his city at least had lifts onto the bus, though they seemed to be skimping out on just about everything else. 

It didn’t take him long to get to the university, he didn’t live far. He planned on stopping by the breakroom, to chat with his coworkers. 

Scar pushed open the breakroom door, the hinges whining softly in protest. The hum of the vending machines and the faint hiss of the coffee maker were oddly comforting. 

He paused at the threshold, scanning the room, unsure of what he was looking for. 

There.

Grian.

The man was standing by the counter, absent-mindedly stirring a mug, hair slightly mussed, posture tight with stress. The light from the window hit the side of his face just so, and for a moment Scar was reminded of someone else. 

He wanted to roll forward, to close the gap between them, to say something—anything. 

The breakroom was cramped, the tables arranged like obstacles. A few yards wasn’t far—but today it felt unreachable.

He cursed under his breath. 

Mumbo said something to Grian, and he laughed. His head tilted back slightly as he did so, catching sight of Scar and meeting his eyes. 

He overheard Grian say to Mumbo, "I should go, Jimmy needs something from me.” Before rushing past Scar and out the door, Mumbo’s eyes followed him and latched onto Scar. 

He watched as something akin to realization bloomed across the man’s face, he gave Scar a small polite wave and went to go say something to Impulse.

Neither Cleo nor Bdubs were in the breakroom today, so Scar just turned around and headed for his office. 

He thought back to the past few weeks—the way Grian had folded into work whenever Scar entered the room, the small vanishings, the sudden preoccupations that had seemed trivial at first.

It wasn’t subtle anymore. 

The pattern had become unmistakable: Grian was avoiding him. It stung that the man could be so close yet feel worlds away. 

Scar’s fingers tapped on the armrest, drumming out frustration, anxiety. 

He didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. 

Had he pushed the man too far? 

Said something he shouldn’t have when they met at Small’s Beans and Bakery? 

Scar pushed the door to the hallway open and rolled forward, the quiet click of the wheels against the linoleum echoing softly in the otherwise quiet corridor. He was heading for the elevator, trying to shake off the tension that clung to him like smoke. 

The breakroom had offered no relief—seeing Grian so taut, so distracted, had left a knot in his chest that didn’t loosen.

As he passed a cluster of students near the vending machine, their chatter drew his attention. He slowed, he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop initially, but his ears caught their words.

“I don’t want to go to Professor Solidarity’s class,” one said, voice low, almost whispering. “He scares me.” Scar’s fingers froze on the armrest. He hadn’t expected that.

“Why?” asked the other, leaning against the wall with a bag slung over one shoulder.

“Well… he just… went crazy?” the first replied. “At the beginning of the lesson, he was acting weird—Hayden said he thought he was on drugs or something. And then, suddenly, he just… freaks out? In the middle of the lesson he erases the board and starts talking about fire safety. Like, ‘how fast could you get out of this building if it caught on fire.’  It was terrifying. I thought he was crazy.”

He kept rolling slowly past them, pretending to examine the vending machine’s selection, but his mind replayed every detail the student had just said. 

Fire safety. 

Erasing the board. Freaking out. 

He could see how it had struck the students as frightening, maybe even incomprehensible. He didn’t blame them. But he knew Grian wasn’t ‘crazy.’ 

The hum of the vending machine filled the small silence that followed the students’ departure. 

Scar had known Grian was unraveling—he just hadn’t realized other people could see it too. Even if they didn’t understand the gravity. 

How long before someone else called it ‘a threat to burn the building down’? 

Scar finally selected a bottle of water, the cold plastic giving him some minor satisfaction. He didn’t drink. He just held it for a moment, letting the coolness seep into his fingers, grounding him.

Scar sighed, the sound low and quiet. 

It was frustrating, maddening even, that he could see the cracks forming, but couldn’t do anything about them, he didn’t know where to start. 

Every time he tried to imagine approaching him, it felt like he would only make things worse.

The students’ words echoed again: ‘terrifying… crazy… freaks out…’ 

By the time the hallway cleared, Scar had straightened, rolling toward the elevator with a firmer grip on the handles.

The day passed in a blur of classes, he taught the same thing over and over again. Answering student’s questions and grading silently in between lectures. 

He was in the middle of wrapping up his last class when he glanced out the window. He’d always hated the view from his window, giving him a nice clear vantage point of a parking lot. 

But now he was grateful for it, below him, walking alone with his head down and headphones covering his ears. 

Grian. 

“That’s everything for today,” Scar said, turning back to his students. Some seemed a little bit concerned at his sudden change of topic, but most of them were grateful to be allowed to pack up their things and leave. 

He shut off the projector and logged out of the shared computer before rushing off down the aisle between the tables, out the door and to the elevator. 

Grian didn’t want to see Scar. 

Even if he didn’t know why, Scar knew he just didn’t. 

He waited as the elevator slowly rose. 

Fourth floor, the sixth, the doors opened and someone got on next to him. They pressed the button for the 1st floor. 

They were on the eighth now, and Scar could tell the man standing next to him was more than annoyed. 

He got off on the tenth. 

The floor was mostly vacant, very rarely were classes held up here and most of the offices were empty. He wheeled himself to the small unisex bathroom, one that boasted a blue handicap symbol, but was barely large enough to give Scar the space to wheel around. 

He locked the door behind him and grabbed the duffle bag out of the compartment under his seat. His first order of business was shimmying his pants off and putting his braces on, at least then giving him the maneuverability to put on the rest of his uniform. 

He always felt weird changing in the bathroom like he was, it was awkward and cramped. He chuckled to himself as he imagined getting a ‘magical girl transformation’, one that’d allow him to become a hero anywhere, without the hassle. 

He folded up his chair and shoved it down into the duffle bag, grateful that it seemed to swallow up whatever he shoved in it without losing space. 

He and the other heroes had gotten the bags out of the blue one day, on the term that they’d forever be on-duty, and required to drop whatever they were doing and help. 

It’d come with a miniscule pay raise. 

He made his way to the first classroom on his right. The fact the window could even open was a liability, and Scar wondered how many people were to blame for the oversight

His knees ached the way they always did before a shift—an ever-present reminder that the braces weren’t medicine, just a tool. Something to keep him obligated.

He climbed out, making his way up the bricks and onto the roof. Stashing the dufflebag between some air vents and grappling off in the direction he knew Grian would walk. 

Hotguy trails Grian by two paces, head ducked, hood dripping, suit darkened to a blotched charcoal by water.

“I know you're there,” Grian said, without even looking behind him, walking like a man being followed by Death itself but is too polite to say anything about it. 

Shoulders up, one hand jammed in his pocket, the other loosely dangling a half-open umbrella, stride stiff. He didn't seem to mind much about the rain. 

Scar scoffed, “how do you know im not some creep following you home?”

“You are some creep following me home,” Grian answered. 

“Dont say it like that!” Scar protested. “I’m… ensuring your safety.” 

“Im sure other stalkers justify it like that.”

“They do not!” he said, catching up to Grian. A delivery truck rumbled past them, the exhaust curling in the damp air. 

“Did you see the sky today? It’s doing that weird half-sunny, half-going-to-rain thing,” Scar asked him. 

Grian turned to look up at him, his undereyes smeared a bruised purple color. “Don’t try to change the subject,” Grian said, a half huff of a laugh escaping. “I noticed. It looked like it couldn’t make up its mind.”

“You know,” Hotguy continues, “I read somewhere that drizzle like this is actually the most efficient form of hydration. Like the air is drinking you.”

“That’s disgusting,” Grian mutters, opening up the umbrella.

They walk a few more steps. Grian picks up the pace. Hotguy does too. Grian picks up the pace again. Hotguy matches it with an ease that feels insulting.

Grian stops abruptly. Hotguy nearly walks into him.

“…Are you going to follow me all the way home?” Grian asks, exasperated.

“Right,” Scar says. “I… don’t want you to get mugged.”

“Hotguy, a mugger would take one look at me and assume I’m the mugger.”

“That’s fair,” Hotguy concedes. “But in fairness, you do look like someone who’d steal hubcaps for fun.”

Grian snorts without meaning to. “I don’t even know what a hubcap is.”

“You commit crime for a living and don’t know what a hubcap is?”

“I don’t commit—” Grian cuts himself off, breath puffing. “I don’t do car stuff.”

“Car stuff,” Hotguy repeats, dramatically offended. “Wow. Wow. Professor Grian, a noted architecture expert, doesn’t do car stuff.”

Grian rolls his eyes and starts walking again. “A building stays where you put it. A car rolls away.”

“Only if you park badly.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Maybe you’re a menace,” Hotguy says lightly.

“Maybe you’re annoying.”

“That’s possible,” Scar agrees cheerfully.

They walk a few more blocks. Grian keeps trying to angle his umbrella so the man stops hogging its edge. Hotguy keeps leaning under it anyway. 

Grian sighs. “Do you need something, or are you just here to provide… commentary?”

“Commentary is important.”

“Not yours.”

“Ouch.” Hotguy presses a hand to his chest. “Deep wound. Emotional scars. I’ll carry this pain forever.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly charming,” he says with a wink, even though Grian can’t see his face.

“No.”

“I think, yes.”

“No.”

“You smiled earlier.”

“I grimaced.”

“You smiled.”

“Grimaced.”

Hotguy squints. “Are you going to argue with me all the way to your doorstep?”

“Are you going to follow me all the way to my doorstep?”

Hotguy grins. “Grimaced.”

“See, now you’re just being—” Grian breaks off as Hotguy lightly bumps his shoulder with a knuckle, not enough for contact, but just shy of it—teasing, friendly, familiar.

He stiffens instead.

Hotguy notices—the tiny recoil, the way Grian’s shoulders lock.

He doesn’t comment.

Grian tries to pretend it didn’t happen, but the silence that settles between them is suddenly too heavy. So he talks again, quickly.

“So. Why are you here? Really.”

“I told you,” Hotguy says. “You look like you’re gonna mug a grandma for 20 bucks.”

“That’s not—”

“Also,” Scar adds, “you looked kinda pathetic. Like a wet rag. Or one of those ducks in the dish soap commercials, you know, the ones covered in oil and looking at you like it's your fault?” 

Grian paused, “what..?” he seemed so genuinely speechless. 

“I don’t have a camera with me,” Scar said, “but if I took a picture of you right now and searched up the oiled-up-ducks it’d be a spot-the-difference challenge.” 

“Youre..” grian didn’t laugh. Not really. Just stared at the road ahead, jaw clenched—like he’d hit a limit on how many times he was allowed to joke.

“I’m?” 

“You know what, Forget it,” grian said, turning and continuing to walk. 

“Gladly,” Hotguy chirps. “I forget things all the time.”

Grian mutters, “I doubt that.”

“Oh yeah, no—I once forgot I left a pot on the stove and nearly burned down a whole apartment complex.”

Grian stares at him blankly—Scar winced, that probably wasn’t the best thing to say. “Why are you proud of that?”

“I learned a lesson!” he tried to brush past it. 

“And the lesson was…?”

Scar considers. “Smoke detectors are too sensitive.”

Grian groans, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re unbearable.”

“I think I’m delightful.”

“You think everything is delightful.”

“Incorrect,” Hotguy says solemnly. “I do not think traffic is delightful. Or taxes. Or paper cuts. Or when the popcorn bag says two minutes but actually it’s more like fifty seconds because otherwise it burns and then the entire breakroom smells like sadness for a week—”

“You microwaved popcorn for two minutes?”

“In my defense, I trusted the bag.”

“Never trust the bag.”

They walk another stretch. Grian’s steps soften. Hotguy watches his shoulders loosen—not much, but just enough that the rain no longer seems to weigh on him quite as heavily.

“You really don’t know how to leave people alone.”

“Nope,” Hotguy says proudly. “Terrible boundary skills. You should see my performance reviews.”

Grian raises a brow. “The HeroCorp gives you performance reviews?”

“Oh yeah. Quarterly. Lots of charts. Lots of red marks. My supervisor once wrote, ‘overly charismatic, distracts coworkers.’”

“That’s the most believable thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Thank you.”