Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air is alive with the inviting tune of community as patrons chat and drink and laugh through the evening. It isn't nearly as busy as it will be later on, at around eight, when the entertainment begins, but that certainly doesn't take away from the atmosphere. Some sway to the quiet yet lively music in the background, some rehearse behind the scenes for their performances tonight.

And others sit alone, two drinks down at the bar, unsure what to do with themselves in a place so foreign to them. They are fish out of water, anticipating being gobbled up by a shark if they so much as begin to enjoy themselves.

In reality, whilst our teeth are sharp, we only bite with permission.

"Why the long face?"

Ah, Owen - some would call them the star bartender. They tick all the right boxes for the role: easy to talk to, pleasing to look at, a fine mixologist, and actually rather charismatic once you put them behind a bar as queer as this one. If anybody can cheer up a newcomer with cold feet, it's them.

"You mean me?"

"Well, can you spy anyone else here who looks as forlorn as you?"

The lone fish appears to ease up a little at that, slightly loosening his taut muscles and letting himself chuckle. "I suppose not," he says as he takes another sip of his whisky - a rather uncommon order for this sort of place.

He is certainly an older gentleman, as is evidenced by his patchy, grey-brown hair and the way his back hunches over with his shoulders, as though bearing the weight of a hefty past. Even still, our patrons span all ages, so it's a wonder why he appears to be so frightened.

It's almost as if he isn't fully convinced that we won't bare our fangs at him.

Owen waltzes over to him, leaning their left elbow on the bar counter. They have to look up at the nervous man from this position, especially with him being quite a bit taller than them.

"So then, why's a silver fox like you acting so out of place around here? It might not be the exact same as whatever your usual bar is, but I can't imagine it's much different."

It seems like a fair assumption to make, that a stocky, older man showing up to a gay bar in a half-buttoned white blouse with shiny new shoes and a single silver earring would, in fact, be gay and frequent gay bars. Which is exactly why Owen was physically taken aback at the response they got.

"Oh - no - I'm not really gay, I just came here to see what it was like."

He blushes profusely as he says it. Whether he's flustered from the 'silver fox' compliment or embarrassed from having to explain himself, Owen isn't sure. No matter, though - they know how to make somebody feel at home on a bar stool.

"Not really gay? Just a bit, then? Because we can help with that," Owen smirks, hoping the joke will help take the edge off the other. It's a risky card to play. He might just take it as an allegation or a call-out, rather than playful banter that says 'Who cares? You're welcome here.'

They know it has worked when they notice the light wrinkles on his face perk up as he barks out a laugh.

"You've got some jokes, that's for sure. I really don't mean to take away from the energy, just going a rough patch and needed a change of scenery."

Owen is lucky that the bar is so quiet in the early evenings of the week - it means they have a lot more time (and, therefore, freedom) to connect with the patrons on a deeper level. After a lifetime of alienation that drilled the notion that they were some unfeeling, predatory monster into their head time and time again, connection is everything to them.

It doesn't matter who. So long as they meet Owen where they're at and talk to them like they would any other, they could be anyone.

"Well, they do say bartenders are like therapists…at least, I think they do. I've got ears if you need them. Speaking of ears, you've accidentally pierced the stereotypical gay ear."

"Oh my god, really?"

"Yep, right ear," Owen pushes some of their long, white hair behind their right ear and taps it to show off the black-and-red stud that decorates it. The dark jewel in the centre glints under the soft light of the bar. It is beautiful. "It's a pretty old signal now, so I was definitely still assuming, but I can't say it didn't inform my guess."

The two of them break into soft laughter before Owen steps back to pour themself a glass of water. They continue chatting with the aforementioned 'silver fox' for a while longer, beverage in hand. This time, it's about them.

Owen has been working at Venomous for far too long. Even after almost eight years, the comfortable glow of the bar and the friendly buzz of the venue hasn't gotten old. This is the place that offered them a home when a home was what they craved with every fibre of their being. This is the place that offered them food through ravenous hunger and made them smile through relentless condemnation. This is the place where that young, vulnerable, frightened Owen was killed and brought back from the dead as this Owen. The Owen that they are now free to be.

I am so very proud of how far they have flown since then.

They tell this tale to the fish at the bar, and he smiles warmly with the lessening of his nerves as his own box of secrets opens up as well.

"I'm a doctor, so life's already stressful enough. To make things harder, I had to divorce my wife earlier this year. Neither of us were happy for a long time; it was gonna happen. I just wasn't ready for the added stress of questioning if I ever actually loved her. Why am I questioning that now? It's not like it matters."

He cuts himself off with a half-laugh, half-sigh and downs some more of his whisky, finishing it off before he continues.

"So, I'm treating myself to a good comedy gig. Starts at eight, right?"

"Sure does, Scott's a great performer. I think you'll enjoy it," Owen replies, setting the other's glass aside to be washed. "And take it from a fag, it's never too late to question who you love, or loved. I've gotten platonic and romantic love mixed up several times over - there's no time limit on realising it, and it doesn't need to be stressful. It's just life."

They smile. That is all they need to do. It says 'There is a world in which you come out of this and you are happy.'

He smiles back. It isn't quite as bright, but it will get there one day.

"Wise words for such a young man."

"Oh, I'm not that young - I'll be thirty next year - and I'm not particularly a man, either. I'm just Owen."

They gesture towards the identity badge on their waistcoat, which must have been too small for the older man to read properly, even through his rectangular, gold-framed glasses. It is black with delicate white lettering that reads 'Owen' and 'they/them.'

"Legs."

Owen furrows their brows at the strange comment before their charisma takes the reigns.

"Why yes, I do have those. What, do they appeal even to straight men?"

"Wh- no - as in, you can call me Legs," he splutters in shock, hiding a chuckle.

"Shit, sorry," they laugh infectiously, only to kick one of their heels back and frown in a playful continuation of the joke they've accidentally started. "So…they don't appeal to straight men?"

Legs simply sighs in feigned disappointment as the doors fly open.

"Shelby! It's about goddamn time, your dead weight's on in forty-five! She's a right drama queen without you to keep her in check." Owen rolls their eyes in time with their speech.

"Owen!" She shouts out, despite not actually being too far away.

Then, the young woman at the door skips up to the bar, almost tripping over her own black heels as she does so, and attempts to pull Owen into a hug over the counter by throwing her arms around their neck. They pretend to be displeased with the gesture and shrug her off.

"Alright, alright, I'll go help her out - she probably just wants help getting into the costume I made. Pour me a pick-me-up first, though? I'll need it," Shelby complains.

Owen doesn't need to be asked twice and gets to work, pouring her a drink (her usual, perhaps.)

Costume design looks like the right sort of passion for Shelby to have. Her deep red hair, the sleek, black dress she wears paired with red and black and gold jewellery that shimmers as she moves - all of it indicates a keen eye for aesthetics. In fact, a lot of the staff and regulars here dress to match the rather vampiric colour scheme of the establishment. It makes for a wonderfully dark atmosphere.

A few moments later, Owen hands a small cocktail to Shelby, who waves frantically as she makes her way backstage. Legs looks down to find a glass of water that Owen has also poured for him.

"To wash the whisky down with," they explain, smiling once more.

"Oh, thank you," he replies, smiling back again.

—-------------------------------------------

It is ten minutes until the first performance of the night begins, and Avid is still hesitant to even enter the building. Pearl, Cleo, and Drift have already made their way inside to secure a table whilst he takes a moment to move past his anxieties.

"I don't know, Elle. It looks like it could be pretty crowded and…and what if the comedy act picks on me?! I know you meant well bringing me here, I just- I don't know if it's for me, y'know?"

Avid's hurried thoughts come clambering out of him in even less coherent sentences as he makes his way around the side of Vicious, away from the populated front entrance. His sweaty hands flail around as he paces back and forth. All he can do is breathe and move and breathe and move. Anything to get this all-consuming, draining feeling out; to expel it from his body.

If Avid were God, he'd make it so that there are no more unexpected social interactions, no more dense crowds, and no more noise. No more earth-shattering sounds grating against the inside of his ears to the point where he can feel the sound waves ricocheting off of his eardrums.

But he is not. He is just a fish.

"Me and the others have got you, Avid - it'll be fun, I promise. The music's always quiet, we'll sit at the back, and if they try to call on you, just shake your head and I'm sure they'll understand," Elle replies, reassuringly. She extends a hand out to Avid and beams in a way only he recognises.

There are very few people in this world that Avid can trust to safely introduce him to unfamiliar environments like this. It's possible that, actually, there is only one.

Just as Avid moves to take Elle's hand, the two of them hear a low voice clearing his throat nearby. Judging by the earpiece and the radio that peeks out from his shirt pocket, he appears to be a security guard.

"Headphones. Oh, and there's a side door just here," he hands Avid a pair of headphones from his bag before leading the way to the other door and opening it. "It's mostly for performers, but I also let the claustrophobic ones through."

"Thank you Abolish, we'll bring the headphones back later," Elle whispers, enjoying how she gets to pretend this is all some sort of secret spy operation.

Abolish gives a single nod and a tiny smile in return. The door closes.

Avid, with a stranger's pair of headphones now resting on his head, just looks over to Elle in complete bewilderment.

"Token straight bouncer," is the explanation she provides.

He has no time to do anything but accept it as a satisfying one as he's practically dragged through the tiny hall of dressing rooms and, eventually, out into the main area.

Dark wood and soft, red lighting combine to create an intimidating colour scheme that swallows Avid whole. Yet, somehow, the people inhabiting the space manage to make it inviting. He wouldn't mind being consumed by whatever 'dark forces' reside here.

As he weaves through the tables, he gawks at the glittering disco ball overhead, the deep red fabric that drapes from the ceiling, the gothic paintings and queer music posters decorating the walls. Everything.

It calls for him like a siren does a sailor, with an allure not dissimilar to that of a venomous creature of darkness. Even still, it is not an evil force, but one of belonging. It only appears frightening to those who do not yet understand.

Avid does not yet understand. He longs to. Soon enough, he will.

Pearl and Drift are sat around a table at the back, as Elle had promised, and Cleo is standing beside them with authority, ushering Elle and Avid over like a worried-sick parent who's very unimpressed with their children's tardiness. As most are sat down by now, a few heads turn in their direction and, suddenly, Avid feels himself being dragged over to the table with even greater force.

"What time do you call this? It's literally seven fifty-nine on the dot, is everything al-"

Cleo is cut off by the jazz music that begins to play.

"Well, fuck that then, it's starting," she laughs, and the rest of them join her in it. If everything was not alright, they would just have to shout at her and hope she can hear it.

A gruff voice rumbles smoothly through the speakers, complimenting the music.

"Good evening, creatures of the night. We have some fine pieces of entertainment coming up, so I wouldn't put that bottle down if I were you. We're starting off strong with the one, the only…Veronica Van Pyre, everyone!"

The crowd erupts with claps and cheers as she struts out onto the stage. It's a small, simple platform, but well-decorated with curtains, ambient lighting, and a catwalk that protrudes out from the front. We never did have the largest budget, but we have always found ways to make it comfortable; a place that guests will want to come back to just to feel what they felt the first time all over again. The newer staff seem just as dedicated to that cause as the folks I hired years ago.

That fish out of water from earlier is looking on from the same bar stool, not quite confident enough to take a table, and Owen is mixing drinks, though not before taking a moment to appreciate Shelby's handiwork.

A gentle mist pools around her ankles as she moves - Veronica.

Shelby has styled her a short, blonde wig to contrast with the blood red colour of everything else that adorns her. Strong, shimmering eyeshadow and lipstick, gothic-style rings, a pearl necklace resembling blood pouring out from a wound, and the main event is an awe-strikingly beautiful dress. It is embellished with jewels all over, the corset features intricate patterns made of shiny black lace, and the asymmetrical skirt shows off a pair of black, rose-patterned lace tights and short, red heels.

Avid is now a lot more focused on breathing again. This time, however, it's the fault of the absolute goddess gracing the stage. He can feel Elle's eyes on him, noticing the panic that quickly sets in as his body tenses up. She looks as if she knows something; perhaps it is something even Avid himself is yet to know.

Meanwhile, Veronica's movements are impossibly smooth as she twirls before sitting on the table in the middle of the stage and kicking her legs. Her words do not register in Avid's mind. All he can process is her silken voice and the way it meanders through the crowd with the elegance of a dancing ribbon.

The audience laughs at whatever her opening joke was. Avid bolts to the bar.

He does not excuse himself, which causes Elle and Cleo to exchange suspicious glances towards one another. They definitely know something.

"A vodka lemonade, please. If you could."

The nerves in Avid's voice are on full display, but Owen chooses not to point them out. Instead, they flash him a smile and get straight to mixing his drink, starting up the sort of casual conversation that has become very typical of them over the years.

"On it…say, I don't think I've served you before. This your first time here?"

Being at the bar breaks Avid out of the strange frenzy he has found himself in and gives him something far less intimidating to focus on. Small talk and alcohol - easy, right? Much easier than trying to understand any of his current emotions.

It also slightly drowns out the sultry voice in the background that refuses to get out of Avid's ears.

"Yeah, actually. My best friend invited me; she's a lesbian. I'm not, though."

It takes Avid mere seconds to catch himself.

"Wait- I- of course you're not a lesbian, Avid," he mutters under his breath in panic. "I'm not - uh - anything else either. Well, I am something obviously. I do exist. I- um-"

His incessant fumbling is certainly a spectacle. One that Owen simply has to take pity on him for. Even Legs can be seen tuning in to the conversation from a few seats over, biting back a snicker. His gaze has been flickering between Owen and the rest of the room for the last who-knows-how-long.

"Calm down, calm down. No need to worry yourself sick over labels," they respond. It is effortlessly smooth, as if they've had this talk many times before, including with themself. That, I can confirm.

"I'm not even unlabelled! I...I like women, okay?" Avid stammers in defeat.

As Owen finishes pouring Avid's drink and sets it down on the counter in front of him, they notice how he keeps glancing nervously at the drag queen on stage behind him. His head whips around a few times before they decide to push one of his buttons.

"Including that one?" Owen teases, motioning their head towards Scott - or Veronica, rather - who's still doing crowd work from the table. The comment catches Avid mid-sip and he nearly chokes.

"Wha- I mean, is that a woman?"

"Only when it's drag comedy night. Which is to say, I guess you're still straight if you want to be stubborn about it," Owen answers, clearly quite entertained by their own words. "Maybe check back in when she dresses down and joins the crowd later."

They raise an eyebrow in time with the suggestion, watching colour rush to the young man's face as he hastily drinks from his glass. Owen could bet money on Avid learning something about himself tonight, and part of them hopes that Legs will as well. In that world, the two shy fish would be sure to grow sharp, confident fangs soon enough. This, too, would become their second home - or even their first.

Perhaps it is just wishful thinking, but Owen has always enjoyed getting lost in their wishes.

Chapter Text

The rest of the night goes about as expected. People are chatting and dancing and drinking; Cleo is straddling Pearl as they make out with her; Elle, Shelby, and Drift are playing a card game at the other side of the table as if nothing is happening; Owen is mixing drinks and waving off Legs, who's had enough for one night; and Scott and Avid are making out against a wall.

Hold that thought.

What?

The new youngster, who is supposedly so straight that he can't even think up the word 'queer,' is kissing one of the objectively-gayest people that ever graced this Earth. One could've sworn that they were having a friendly conversation just moments ago, after being introduced by Elle and Shelby, but here they are.

They had talked back and forth for around an hour after Scott's performance. It started out as simple introductions, then a sharing of interests as they watched the next act perform, then some light flirting on Scott's end when the girls had gone back to the table.

"Yeah, drag's my main earner nowadays. What did you think of the show? I saw you watching."

Avid had frozen up at that, muttering a hesitant reply as his limbs stiffened and his grip tightened around his drink. Breathe. Don't move.

"It was good."

"Something tells me you liked it a lot more than you let on, dear."

That comment, along with the suggestive way in which Scott leaned in to breathe down Avid's neck and meet his eyes more directly, had completely shifted the energy between the two of them.

Now, watching Avid finally zone in on what he wants is like watching a bird finally discover that it can fly.

"So, how many drinks have you had?" Scott laughs between eager kisses. It is, in part, a genuine question - or at least it should be. Knowing him, he ought to be tired of making out with men who are only queer when they're too blackout drunk to recognise the difference. I'd hope that those days are far behind him.

If not alcohol, Avid is definitely drunk on something. Otherwise, he'd be shaking like an in-denial bisexual who's just been rudely awakened by a frustratingly attractive pansy. That would be a much more fitting reaction, yet he comes across as oddly relaxed.

He doesn't tremble in the slightest as he leans into Scott's personal space with an enthusiasm unbeknownst even to himself, almost pinning the other to the wall.

Avid had checked back in once Scott was out of costume, alright, and this was the product of it. Intense anxiety overwritten by pure, all-consuming desire.

"I'm on my fourth," Avid sounds rather bubbly as he answers. Just before Scott has time to reconsider things, he adds, "Oh, but only one of them was alcoholic. That's what you really meant, ri-"

Scott sighs and cuts him off with even more kisses; he has already gone too long without them.

In turn, Avid simply giggles against his lips.

Back at the table, Drift catches a glimpse of the pair before turning swiftly back around to place down a card. She appears as if she's trying not to laugh.

"Looks like they're getting acquainted, alright," they snicker.

"Getting straight to the point, like proper queers," Cleo jokes, pulling away from Pearl for a moment before diving back in. The kisses are sweet, hungry, coated in a loving glaze that the two of them drink up like medicine.

Drift cannot resist the urge to crack a joke that he more than likely overuses.

"Queer bars really should come with spare rooms. Then all you 'proper queers' can have your own place to eat each other's faces in and I can play Minecraft Uno undisturbed."

Playful laughs erupt from Elle and Shelby as Cleo turns back around with that same disappointed parent expression from earlier. She opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, and then the hilarity of the situation hits her right as she clocks the money on the table.

"You're playing Minecraft Uno? Like, you've been betting money on actual competitive Minecraft Uno? In a bar, at ten o'clock at night, with alcoholic drinks?"

"Like proper queers, Cleo. Like proper queers," Drift answers with a smug smile, leaning back in their chair.

Cleo barks out a hearty laugh that infects the entire table as they cling on to Pearl's shoulders for stability and turn back to speak with her. "Darling, we're surrounded by actual children."

The laughter echoes through the room, melding with the gentle, serenade-worthy music that's now being played. Avid is grateful for that - it means he can go without headphones. Scott is, too, because it makes the other man all the more accessible to him.

His hands reach up to entangle themselves with Avid's hair before moving down to rest on his hips. They pull his loose, open button-up down his shoulders slightly in the process, revealing more of the black undershirt beneath. Avid looks underdressed in comparison to Scott, which the latter clearly finds endearing as his fingers travel across the man's body with ease.

Avid, however, is certainly not endeared by how difficult it is to make a smooth movement across Scott's form. Even out of costume, he is still covered in ruffles and jewellery and contrasting textures. He particularly has to avoid this one area on Scott's collar, where the sheer white fabric bends into tight frills that feel, for lack of a better word, god-awful.

On the topic of Scott's shirt, the aforementioned sheerness of it that leaves very little to be imagined is not helping Avid's case. The one from the bar is definitely going to say they told him so later, and they have every right to.

He understands the comfortable allure of this place now, at least in part. It's early, yet.

As Scott moves down to his neck with an intention Avid isn't quite aware of, he pulls back. The nerves from before stab back into his chest like a freshly-sharpened stake.

"Sorry, I don't really know what I'm doing. This is all new."

"I know."

Scott's voice is gentle as he responds. Unsurprisingly, it has the same ribbon-like quality as his drag persona, whirling around Avid before it settles softly in his ears.

"Is that- is that bad? Am I doing a crappy job?"

"No, no, it's not your kissing that makes it obvious."

Avid looks confused as Scott pulls him close again by his undershirt and begins to nose around beneath his ears. The bandages there make it difficult. He wonders what it would take for the other to unravel them.

"After this, you might just want to take some time to…calm yourself down before you head back to your friends."

Avid still looks confused…until Scott pushes a leg into him slightly.

Oh.

Well, shit.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," Avid exclaims with an entirely new level of embarrassment that makes him wish he could be executed on the spot. Bonus points if his final memory can be of making out with Scott. Even more bonus points if Scott can get back in drag for it.

"It's fine, it's cute. I might've even been the same if mine wasn't still taped back."

If the light of the room wasn't already tinted red, it would be far more obvious how flustered Avid has become. He drops his head onto Scott's shoulder in an effort to hide himself from the situation, as well as any future teasing he might fall victim to. When he processes Scott's words in full, something catches him off-guard and he perks back up again, almost colliding with Scott's head on the way up.

"It's taped-"

Scott nods slowly with a smirk, which he can only hold for a few seconds until he breaks down laughing. Avid joins him, and they both laugh away any shred of awkwardness there could've been. They just enjoy the absurdity of the circumstances for a while - even Avid, who has gotten the shortest end of the stick imaginable.

When Scott guides him back to his friends by the hand, he makes sure his body is positioned directly in front of Avid's until the latter is able to sit down and hide his problem safely under the table. The group of sapphics still sitting there eye them in accusation as they take their seats.

"So, bisexual?" Cleo teases. It's obvious who it is intended for.

"Oh, no, all that taught me was that I'm definitely gay. Very gay," Scott responds anyway, looking over to where Avid is sat with a level of lust that he'd usually find intimidating if he wasn't so focused on covering up just how bisexual he is. He even feels one of Scott's shoes gently brush against his under the table.

Scott has always been like this: smug and suggestive, with a level of sass only achievable by somebody this eccentric. To Scott, there is no thrill like guiding a beautiful man down a path of what he perceives to be darkness and corruption, only for that same man to find home in it. Only for him to find his fangs and bite back against that deceptive idea which consumes the flesh of so many people from the inside out - which consumed the man, too, before he re-inhabited his own body and made it his.

It is the story of many of us. It is part of Scott's story, too, and he wants nothing more than for others like him to feel that same freedom.

I have witnessed so many come into their fangs and wings and claws like baby birds learning to do what they were built to do. Some are born to live, but others are born to live and fight in hope that the next ones need not fight any longer.

That is our battle.

We certainly do have our fun in the process, however, for enjoyment is one of the sharpest blades we can wield.

The others simply sigh at Scott being Scott and continue with their rather immature card game, dealing Avid in upon request. It's more than likely that Avid's group will hear all about this interaction and what came of it on the drive home, though their taxi driver (and Drift) will not be impressed at the level of mortifying detail he will probably go into.

Shelby does not appear excited by the prospect of having to hear Scott go on about it during their drive home either. If her experience with him is anything like mine was, he will go on and on about how the men he flirts with are always straight by morning, or how they only want the 'man' in him, or how they only want the 'woman' in him.

She will assure him that, whatever happens, there is somebody out there who will love him.

He will not believe her, even though she and all of his friends are hiding in plain sight, waiting for him to notice - to recognise the value of their love. It might take him a long time.

I have always wished Scott well in every area of life, even after everything that happened. It is sad that some of those wishes are yet to come to fruition, but the ones that have look wonderful on him. Good friends, a job he adores, a mind clear of too many substances.

Like Owen, his wings have also taken him far in recent years. He is another one I am proud of.

Eventually, the group at the table exchange farewells through hugs and handshakes and kisses on the cheek as Avid, Elle, Cleo, Pearl, and Drift make their way to the taxi together. On the way out, Elle returns Abolish's headphones and Avid starts walking back up to the bar to hand in their empty glasses. The others assume it is just out of courtesy, as a way of saying thank you by making the staff's jobs easier. In reality…

"Here they are! The non-lesbian," Owen calls out as he approaches. They are quickly shushed by a very embarrassed-looking Avid, who rushes to the bar, looking around to check that nobody heard. This man is simply too fun to mess with.

"Oh, I'm sorry, would you rather me call you the dragsexual?"

"Avid works just fine," he answers through gritted teeth, but the smile tugging at the corners of his lips tells Owen all they need to know.

He places the empty glasses down and admits to Owen, in a voice just loud enough to be audible over the music, "I think I'm bisexual. I just wanted to say thanks for being so chilled out about it. Wait, not me being bisexual - you didn't know that for sure. I mean, about like…you made it sound normal. Well, obviously I knew it was normal, but- you just-"

Owen smiles warmly and lets him talk, even if he is digging himself into another hole they can tease him about next time. There will most certainly be a next time. That brings a shimmer to their eyes; another lost fish is finding their fangs. He will get there one day, but there are quite a few steps between admitting that you have fangs and letting yourself be.

First comes the wondering if your fangs are monstrous. Then comes the realisation that they are beautiful. Then comes the horror of learning why you need to bite back. Then comes the joy of learning to fly. So on, so forth.

For it, you are called vicious, immoral, the opposite of virtue.

But how can that be, when this is what life becomes when you embrace the things that make you up?

"I felt like you saw me."

Owen could cry on the spot - I know that face, and Avid does not know how heavy his words are. That heaviness is grounding. It binds Owen to this place, where they belong. Frustratingly, it also robs them of all adequate words - they cannot possibly scramble together a response in time.

"Avid! Get a move on before I bloody well drag you out this door!"

That is Cleo, standing by the door with a drunken Pearl resting her head on their shoulder; the effects of alcohol always seem to have a delay on her.

"Okay, okay! I have to head home now. I'll be back some night," Avid says to Owen before bolting for the door. He doesn't even have time to process the fact that his first coming out received no answer. Owen's smile alone seems to have been enough.

It is quite the smile, if I do say so myself.

Chapter Text

It is far too early for Owen to be awake after working a late-night shift, but the fibres of their blanket are beginning to scratch against their skin like sandpaper. After long enough of tossing and turning as the burning sensation worsens, they are forced to surrender.

It never feels good to give in to their body like this, even when the pain is particularly unbearable and their bones are scraping against one another with each movement, or lack thereof. In a way, it's like having to raise a white flag before they can even draw their sword; like being coaxed into a fight they are doomed to lose.

Owen does not know how many hours of genuine sleep they have gotten. Clearly not enough to get themself to the kitchen without colliding with a doorframe or two on the way.

They enter the main room of their apartment to find a familiar, tall figure slaving over the stove as some cheesy romantic drama plays on the television. Soft smoke wafts through the air - breakfast, Owen assumes.

"Good morning dear," the figure chirps, only to turn its head to face Owen and furrow its brows in concern. They look frail, shivering from the cold and the pain that rips through their body. "You look awful, are you not well?"

"Not particularly. Today's a bad day," they sigh.

"You just sit down and let me handle breakfast, then."

The voice sounds like home, its words pulling Owen into a warm, heavy, and much-needed embrace. It is taunting them. All they can do is scoff at it.

"Pshh, I wish."

They let out a soft exhale as they walk up to the kitchen cabinets and take out a pan before picking out some food to fry in it. Their bones are trying to fold in on themselves or spontaneously combust or something like that, but they have to eat. Perhaps, if they prepare a lot of food now, they won't have to cook for the rest of the day.

The figure is now leaning sideways against the fridge, arms folded - it seemingly appeared there when Owen took its place.

"How is the bar?"

That voice rings through Owen's ears again - not even the sizzling of the stove will drown it out. Nothing ever will.

"You asked me that yesterday," they laugh. It is gentle, yet it still aches when their body jolts with it. "We had a lot of new patrons last night, though. Nice atmosphere. Scott was at it again with some guy, but I've got some faith in that one."

There is a long pause in which all that can be heard is the pan full of food and the scraping of Owen's spatula against the metal. They break their own silence.

"They miss you. All the regulars from back then."

I hardly miss them back. I see them all the time, I am only unable to exchange words with them.

The figure says nothing, though. Owen cannot know what it would say.

"I wish it never happened," they continue, voice brimming with a fragility they rarely allow themself to reveal.

They know what the figure would say to this, and it says exactly that.

"That is an impossible wish, and you know it. Please don't waste your dreams on something so purposeless."

Your dreams deserve to be spent on all of the wonderful goals I know you can conquer, not on trying to change what has already taken place.

I can think of nobody else who can dream of bringing a smile to a lost soul's face and proceed to do so as effortlessly as you did last night, and every night prior to that. I have heard of no person, nor monster who deserves such pain and yet you harbour it because you know you must exist - that there is more joy and belonging in the universe when you roam it.

If I were to make an impossible wish, it would be for you to hear me say those words.

"It isn't purposeless, Louis," they spit out with force. "Things would be different if you were still here."

"And yet you have come into your own regardless, my love. Of that, I am proud."

Their fantastical projection of me is rather accurate, as is expected after we spent so long carefully wrapped in one another's company, but I do wish it called them beautiful more often. That is one major flaw in its design. It makes sense, though - they never did believe me. I wonder if they would now.

I cannot test it.

There is one person I do miss, no matter how many times I see them. I think that hearing them speak to a phantom version of myself only makes me miss them more. That should be me talking. Those should be my words that they are hearing.

Instead, it is a mirage; a shadow, playing recordings of my words from life back at them until it runs out of data to pull from and is forced into repetition.

If only 'I miss you' was one of its pre-programmed phrases. I never had the chance to miss them before I became this.

—-------------------------------------------

Despite the aches, Owen still shows up to work for the evening. Otherwise, they'd be trapped with their own thoughts in the silence of their barren apartment for the night, the pain still not letting up. If they are going to be in pain, it might as well have a pretty-looking backdrop.

Speaking of pretty, they appear to have made an effort to look particularly dashing, tonight. For that silver fox, perhaps, if he shows himself later. A part of them is clearly still lost in that wish.

They are wearing my deep red ruffled blouse - the one with the flowing sleeves that poof outwards at the end. It looks far better on them than it ever did on me, and that is not me being modest. Overtop, is a small, black corset with over-the-shoulder buckles and attachments on either side that resemble limp bat wings. They almost look like a skirt on them, which makes me mildly frustrated that I never got to see them wear one with my own, physical eyes.

Owen is breath-taking. There are no further words for it because none of them will be adequate enough. They could make the whole world stop to admire them, if they so desired.

It's a miracle that the Earth is still turning.

"Evening, Owen! How are we tonight? Think you'll need an extra pair of hands behind the bar?"

It's as if Renhardt, more often referred to as Ren, can sense it on them already - the agony, the fatigue. He always makes sure to give them options on their bad days, like any decent boss should. I would thank him for that, if such a thing were possible.

Owen sighs softly, relief washing over them.

"Please."

"Then I'm happy to assist, but my hearing's on the way out so you'll have to excuse my entourage of questions," Ren laughs before continuing to move some of the tables around.

He is joined by a younger, blond man in a dress shirt and forest green tie, who proceeds to haul a few chairs away from the area in front of the stage. Several other members of staff are doing the same.

"Is this enough space, do you reckon?" Martyn calls out - I am fairly certain that was his name. Ren assesses the space, squinting his eyes rather endearingly before speaking up.

"I'd say a few more tables and then we're good to go, dear."

"Oi, keep it professional, you! You're supposed to be my employer!"

It is a lighthearted reprimand that Ren answers with a hearty chuckle.

For one night a week, we transform the main area into more of a dance floor, creating a much larger clearing so that more patrons can stand and mingle. It typically brings about a rowdier (and some would say raunchier) clientele.

To combat that, the bouncer from the previous night seems to be working inside the building whilst another member of security, Miss Apo as Ren calls them, takes charge of the door.

Owen knows better than to exhaust their body by helping the others set up, so they take a seat on the chair someone has put behind the bar for them and watch.

To anyone else, the scene in front of them wouldn't look like much: a bunch of freaks and queers rearranging furniture in their overly-elaborate clothes as they laugh about some ridiculous joke from the night before, or about how homophobic it is that one of their kitchen appliances broke this morning. It is nothing.

But it is everything.

—-------------------------------------------

Opening time is a few minutes away, and the first patron waiting in line at the door appears to have arrived with a handful of…university textbooks?

It's going to be a long night.

"So, is this like an impact play thing, or-" Apo cuts herself off with a laugh when the person across from her facepalms, comically. "I'm sorry! But seriously, Pyro, what the fuck is this? I know it's your first time, but I think even first-timers would think this is weird."

"I don't like studying in silence and Cherri told me the place you worked at was chill!"

Apo sighs as if questioning every life decision that played even the slightest role in leading up to this moment. Some people are actually this moronic. By nature. Not even on purpose.

"Well not on gay party night! Do you know what happens when you blast It's Raining Men in a room full of gay people? Because it's nothing you want your poor, innocent college textbooks to see."

The couple waiting behind Pyro laugh, but it isn't judgemental - they're clearly just entertained by the conversation.

Pyro flashes a dismissive hand at Apo as he replies with, "I'll be fine. It'll make for a fun atmosphere."

"Jack 'I'll be fine' Pyroscythe, they will eat you alive and fluster you to death!"

A person can tell that Apo is particularly displeased when they hear her forcefully utter their full name as she lectures them, especially when a mocking nickname is thrown in. It appears that Pyro is quite familiar with this treatment, for they just stand there and wait for her to be done, smiling in amusement.

"You are literally signing yourself up to be the mysterious, nerdy twink in the corner that everyone wants a piece of."

"You think everyone wants a piece of me? Why, thank you!"

Pyro feigns flattery, though, with how convincing their tone is, it might even be genuine.

Before Apo has a chance to fail at discouraging the young student any further, it's time to start letting in the crowds. Pyro grants them one final smile and a small wave as he makes his way inside and wanders over to a table in the back corner, pulling a laptop out from his bag.

The room fills up slowly as there's still a little while left until the DJ begins their performance. Some arrive with their hands interlocked or holding someone close, others drag their friends by the wrist to claim a table in time, a few come alone - whether radiating pure confidence or jittering with uncertainty, they have made it.

They are safe now.

It does not take long for somebody to take an interest in Pyro's strange choice of library alternative. He has made very little effort to blend into the environment. Their brown overcoat hangs on the back of their chair as they sit there in the clothes they presumably went to their last lecture in: a loose, light grey turtleneck, with an elegant belt and plain, black trousers.

The man who approaches them is in a simple black-and-white suit, with matching jet black hair, and a lanyard to hold his radio. The token straight bouncer, if my memory serves me well.

"Everything working okay? I'm not sure how great the WiFi is back here."

"I'm alright, it's holding its own."

"Y'know, if you need a pair of headphones at any time, I've always got some on me," Abolish continues. His lips curl into an amused, and somewhat dumbfounded, smile at the scene before him. Of a student typing away on his laptop and studying his textbooks whilst the rest of the room waits for the DJ to start blasting some camp music for them to get drunk to.

"It's no trouble, really. I'm a sucker for loud noises." Pyro holds their breath for a moment as they quite overtly resist the urge to make a lewd joke. Something about their love for loud noises or their self-ascribed identity as a 'sucker', no doubt. "It helps me work better."

Abolish is completely unfazed and simply nods in understanding.

"I see."

The air between them suddenly grows awkward as he continues to stand there, watching Pyro study and occasionally shifting his gaze away to survey the room. For a man sharp enough to be a security guard, it is strange how he fails to notice that awkwardness. If he does notice it, he must not care.

Like many of the staff Ren has employed since my…abrupt absence, I do not know Abolish, but I have watched him many a time. Despite that, he puzzles me. A quiet and secretive soul who is so good at being secretive that you wouldn't think he had any secrets to tell - you'd think him to be completely ordinary.

It must be a facade. There is no such thing as an ordinary freak, even if they are not a queer, and all who dance with us creatures of the night are also a part of the freak show. They, too, are members of our armed forces.

The way he assesses Pyro's form makes me wonder if he is disguising some fangs of his own; if he is hiding his disappointment at their attire blocking him from piercing their neck with said fangs. But that wouldn't be very 'token straight bouncer' of him. Not at all.

"Can I help you?"

Pyro's question is polite, but dripping with mild concern as to why a security guard, of all people, is lingering around him. Abolish looks like he's just been asked if he's committed a murder.

"Oh. No, I'm just standing here."

He proceeds to just stand there. A few moments pass.

"Is there a reason for tha-"

"My name's Abolish. He. You?"

Alright, this one may actually be worse at talking to strangers than the young fish from last night. (At what point can I drop the fish metaphor for him and call him a faggot, already?)

Understandably, Pyro is taken aback, coughing on nothing before he clears his throat and hurries out an answer.

"Jack. Everyone calls me Pyro. Oh, and he/they," he pauses to ensure that he won't be interrupted again, "Why do you as-"

"Cool."

Silence washes over them both again. Pyro has given up trying to make conversation with this man and just continues studying, feeling his eyes on them.

Since they first met Cherri at university, and then Apo through her, Pyro has heard a lot about the people of Vicious. More specifically, Apo complains about Abolish at every given opportunity. All of it comes rushing back to them as the name registers in their mind. Abolish is…ahem:

'Chronically offline, overwhelmingly heterosexual, scarily perceptive but not perceptive enough to realise how strange he's acting, and a total weirdo with so much situational awareness that he forgets how to actually exist within a situation and not just stand there like a creep.'

So why, pray tell, is he zoning in on Pyro like a bat preparing to swoop in and gobble up an insect in the dead of night?

"I like your sweater," Abolish says in a very matter-of-fact tone, not even looking in their direction anymore. It is a nice turtleneck - the swirling patterns on it are quite mesmerising - but what exactly is this man trying to do? Every word he utters only makes him harder to decipher.

"Um- thank you. It's a little too warm, but hey. The things I do for a little bit of flare."

Owen is looking over from the bar as Ren pours some drinks for a couple of dapperly-dressed drag kings. From their perspective, Abolish has just gone up to a handsome newcomer and started talking to them.

Abolish.

Abolish has initiated a conversation with a stranger. Not for work purposes, not because they started talking first, but for leisure.

If the person he's fixated on isn't a woman, Apo is about to owe them so much money. Should Owen and Apo be betting money on whether or not a co-worker is lying about their sexual orientation? Absolutely not. Have they done it anyway? Yes, in the case of Abolish and Abolish only.

The conversation between the two of them continues, with regular empty pauses in between whilst Abolish thinks of something else to say and Pyro attempts to actually get some studying done. Pyro isn't sure why he decides to ask another question after being interrupted several times already, but he does it anyway.

"So, why'd you pick up a job here? Everyone that's said hi to you so far has had a seventy percent chance of calling you the token straight bouncer instead of Abolish," they laugh.

"Just seemed like a nice place."

Something about this man is eating away at them. All of his words feel like pieces of paper he's cutting off from a larger portrait and rearranging to form only semi-conclusive sentences. He speaks so carefully, as if moving his lips without that care will expose the fangs lodged between the rest of his teeth.

Pyro does not want to assume anything, yet something about him makes them crave intel- any kind of definitive truth. Just something to cling on to that indicates his personhood. Something to satiate Pyro's appetite for knowledge.

"What do you like to do on your time off?"

Who the hell are you?

"I do tailoring."

"Oh? As a business?"

"Not really. I just make stuff for people."

"Like who?"

"Just people."

"Did you tailor your own suit? It fits really nicely."

"Yeah."

They are not going to get anything deeper out of this, are they? At least he's letting them ask questions, for once.

"Right, I'm just gonna be straight with you, ironically enough. I am really confused as to why you're still talking to m-"

"I'd like to talk to you again some night, when I'm not on duty. For now, I need to look around some more; it's getting crowded."

And he walks away.

Owen might as well cash in already, but they are quickly distracted from their possible victory when a familiar older man walks up to the bar. His eyes widen somewhat as he catches his first glimpse of Owen since the previous night. There is a glimmer in his eyes. As he approaches, I swear I almost see the fleeting outline of a pair of wings emerging from his back.

"Same whisky as last time, please. And you wouldn't happen to be free to dance later, would you? Do you get breaks?"

Finally, someone who appreciates Owen's utter beauty enough to show it a little. It isn't much, but he will get there. At least, Owen hopes he will.

I do, as well. I have been waiting for this.

Someone is going to have to do something about that elementary drink order, though.

Chapter Text

For once, it is Owen's turn to look flustered. It's an expression I haven't had the pleasure of seeing on them in a long time. They do not blush, per say, but their breath stops in its tracks and their mouth hangs slightly agape. Their eyelashes flutter around as they move to speak; no words come out.

Right, whisky.

They begin pouring Legs' drink and the familiarity of the task allows them to finally form a sentence.

"I'm off for a break in two hours, but I could try convincing Ren to let me have it early. It would be more convenient for me to have it before it gets too busy," they explain, trying to maintain their composure. "Check back with me in half an hour, so he gets some notice."

They set the glass of whisky down.

"Sounds good," Legs responds. He, too, looks flustered, as if he hadn't expected this to go well at all. In fact, he nearly trips over his own shoes as he stumbles into the small crowd forming around the stage and starts to mingle with some of the older patrons.

Ren fires a look of intrigue in Owen's direction that likely translates to some variant of 'I know what you are.' In exchange, they flash him a firm middle finger and an accidental smile.

They are adorable.

—-------------------------------------------

The DJ has arrived and the party has truly begun, with queers of all kinds dancing as some shout out the lyrics and others are too preoccupied with one another to do so. Drag artists, extravagant fashionistas, and those who dress for comfort all combine to create one hell of an atmosphere. (That statement can be either literal or figurative, depending on who you ask.)

Bold, coloured lights move and flash overhead, illuminating parts of the crowd in waves. A group of gay bears in rather revealing attire down their drinks and laugh loudly over the music - one of the particularly lively ones among them wears nothing but trans tape, a cropped fishnet top, and a pair of sparkly shorts. The lights move again, and a pair of young, androgynous folks are dancing as they look at one another with admiration, their eyes brimming with an intense emotion only felt here.

Welcome home, my friends.

The antithesis of all of that is, of course, Pyro, who is still typing away on their laptop in the corner of the room. As predicted by Apo, quite a few seem to wander over out of curiosity, including a rather strange man in a brown suit and pink tie. He carries an exotic-looking cocktail with him - a much gayer drink than is typical of Legs, for example.

"Hey handsome! Oo, you're not writing fanfiction or something, are you?"

For a man old enough to pull off such a scruffy beard, he sounds childishly enthralled by Pyro's antics. It is hard to tell if he is drunk or if he is just naturally this…unique.

"Um, no," they laugh, awkwardly. "Just getting some studying done. Why? Do you usually sit in here and write fanfiction?"

Pyro is not sure what compelled him to ask such a question knowing full well it will not be treated as the joke it was intended to be.

"From time to time! I'm M, by the way," he holds out a hand for Pyro to shake, but gets bored of waiting after under a second and pulls it back. "Hey, did you hear that the stage technician and the manager of this place are fucking?"

"I…don't know them, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were? We're all poofs here - we all drink at the same bar, we've all fucked our friends, and we've all heard about how good one another are in bed. Something about a small dating pool."

Their response is another joke that M takes as an invitation to keep talking about other people's sex lives.

From where Abolish is standing, it looks like poor Pyro is being flustered to death by this man (I am now learning that Apo is always right, though maybe not in the way she expected to be), and the expression on his face upon realising that is priceless. He stares daggers into M's back with a demeanour that makes him almost frightening to look at.

He does the same for the next man that comes along after M clambers back onto the dance floor with his drink in hand, turning heads as he shouts out another 'Hey handsome' at somebody else. Abolish does the same for the man after that, too. And the woman after that.

Most are simply curious as to what Pyro is up to, but a few make an obvious effort to flirt. Sometimes, Pyro even appears to reciprocate, smiling and looking around bashfully as colour rushes to their cheeks. He stares at those ones the hardest.

How this man ever managed to fool anyone is something I will never understand. He is practically sewing his lips closed in an effort to hide his fangs, only for them to stab uncomfortably into his tongue instead. Anyone perceptive enough could notice the discomfort behind his eyes as the sensation of restraining that part of himself tears through him.

He is in pain, yet he would rather that than put his teeth on display. In a place like this, that decision is beyond puzzling. He truly is a peculiar fellow.

—-------------------------------------------

As a familiar face begins to emerge from the dance floor, Owen can be heard calling out to Ren to announce their break before making their way around the bar.

For a moment, Legs does not speak. He just looks at them, for nothing separates them from one another anymore. It is a long, admiring look that allows him to take in the entirety of their form and the gorgeous pieces of clothing that decorate it. He has to snap his mouth shut when he realises it has opened in response to his amazement.

Even Owen looks a tad nervous, which is rare. Their gaze wanders to anywhere but the eyes that are taking them in.

"Right, so I'm in a lot of pain," they warn, laughing it off slightly. When Legs gives them a look of concern, they make sure to clarify. "I still wanna do it - I dance through pain all the time - I just thought you should know so it's not a massive shock when I start slow dancing to Lady Gaga."

The Owen-typical, charming tone they adopt sends them both into gentle laughter. It takes a bit of the edge off.

They position themselves on the outskirts of the crowd as a new song starts up. It is now that Legs realises he has to stop staring at Owen like a love-struck idiot and actually start dancing with them, as promised.

"I- uh-" he stammers, trying to find the words. I do not blame him; Owen is rather distracting. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

There is a mischievous glint in Owen's eyes as they eagerly seize the opportunity presented to them.

"That's quite raunchy of you, Doctor. You ought to dance with me first."

Their teasing remark causes Legs to let out a lighthearted sigh, ignoring the fluttering in the pit of his stomach as he takes their hand and slowly twirls them around. Owen moves with such grace, even as their body trembles to adjust to their increased activity.

"What am I going to do with you?" Legs chuckles, moving his feet in time with theirs.

"Dance, I hope. If you get any other ideas, though, I wouldn't mind hearing them."

It is always a treat to witness Owen be so audacious. Their voice is imbued with an elusive, alluring quality that most ordinary people would think is foreign coming from them. The fanged creatures here know better than that. This is Owen in their purest form.

The two of them laugh as they continue their slow, rhythmic movements that don't quite match the energy of the music, but Legs is left looking almost forlorn after a few moments.

He must be uncomfortable. Owen must have hit his limit.

A brief look of frustration crosses their face; they have ruined it.

"Sorry, am I being too much? You're welcome to tell me to stop."

Yet he does not tell them to stop. Instead, his hands settle on Owen's waist as he processes the words, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"So you're not joking?"

Owen sways back and forth, arms outstretched to reach the taller man's shoulders.

"Not really," they answer, eyes meeting his before flickering away. "That doesn't mean you have to accept it, though. I know you're not into me, I just naturally flirt with handsome men. It comes with the faggotry."

And thus, the energy between them has been restored as laughter washes over them again. As much as Owen hopes that there is something sharp under this man's soft exterior, it is not their place to search for it. Though, it never hurt anybody to make an effort in hopes that they can gently coax it out.

"You think I dance with all my bartenders?" Legs laughs, dipping Owen down slightly. They smile at the promising insinuation, but they will not push for fear of sending him swimming frantically back into the water from which he originated. Especially not after how he had reacted to their forwardness moments ago.

"I think you're a troubled man who could benefit from a bit of fun," they respond. It is the safe answer.

Owen continues to play it safe for a while longer as they focus on moving, their sleeves and bat wing corset attachments fluttering along with them.

Legs moves with more stiffness, and he certainly does not hide how transfixed he is as his gaze follows each tiny sway of Owen's body. If anything, his eyes are doing a far better job at dancing than he is.

If Owen were letting themself say whatever comes to mind, this would be a wonderful time for them to suggest that they do this more often as practice.

It is clear that Legs can sense the way in which Owen holds back just as they can sense his growing hesitancy. The fire that crackles between them with each touch is burning out with the absence of their charismatic little remarks.

"I don't have a problem with your flirting, it just feels…uncomfortable is the wrong word. Or maybe it's not."

A twirl. A pull. Owen says nothing yet, letting their body flow through the aches. The pain is progressing beyond just skin and bones now - they can feel it poisoning their mind. Have they been too much? Is this it?

"It's as if there's this monster in my chest that keeps biting me when I look at you," Legs continues. He directs Owen's head by their cheek to face him. He looks at them. He lets go.

"And when I touch you, it's like I'm touching a hot stove." His hands meet their body as he dips them down again. Owen shudders under his touch. He lets go.

"It feels wrong."

The dilapidated look in this man's eyes as he finally admits to the thought that has been plaguing his mind is one we have all seen. Whether cursing the face of somebody else, or staring back at us in our own distorted reflections, it has known us and we have known it.

It is an emotion that looms over everything - that contorts all of life's good things into the most monstrous of images. It yanks at the fangs it despises until they bleed so much that the blood becomes second nature and you don't even realise you're running out of it.

"But it's a nostalgic type of wrong. I've felt it before, somewhere."

He certainly has. It follows its victim through every passing moment. It does not miss a beat as it declaws your fingers and clips your wings. Not even when you cry out in unbearable pain, for it is convinced that it knows what is best for you everyone else.

And when your inhuman abnormalities grow back, as they are destined to do, it simply tries again and again and again.

It watches you age with devilish pride as you forget that there was ever a life in which you were not being puppeted by a force outside of yourself. With time, you begin to believe that there is no outside force - that you are the arbiter of your own destiny. These are your decisions and you are making the right ones. Well done. You should be happy now. Are you happy now? Tell it that you are happy. Now.

Owen has one question for Legs. It is their desperate attempt to wake him up from his eternal slumber. To show him.

"Has anything ever felt right before? Truly right?"

Their arms come to rest around the doctor's neck, who is now shaking. The sudden jolts of his body are only calmed by the way in which Owen increases the pressure of their hold on him.

"I…I don't think so. I think I've been mistaken for a long time."

To the two of them, there is no loud, blaring music. There is no claustrophobic crowd of wild dancers and drunken party-goers. They are moving to the gentle rhythm of one another's souls in a space that exists just for them.

"I don't want to see you as this…wrong thing. You're-" Legs cuts himself off. He loses the words to that same emotion as it devours them, maliciously. "Yeah, I can't-"

Owen cuts him off, staring into his eyes as they prick with tears.

"Legs, that isn't how you see me. That's how you see yourself."

All of the pieces come crashing into place like magnets that have finally been pushed close enough together.

Legs cannot bear it. Neither can the stubborn force that has been possessing his body for all this time.

"Let's go out the back for some fresh air," Owen offers before taking Legs' hand and pulling him over to the side door. As they close it behind them, the only sounds that remain are the muffled dance music and the quiet huffs of the older man's hurried breaths.

He leans back against the damp, brick wall, tilting his head up to the pitch-black sky and closing his eyes.

Owen does the same, except their gaze is locked on him, taking in the beauty of his face. The cold air sets their skin alight. They wait. He will speak when he is ready.

And he does.

"I can't go back in there tonight."

"That's alright."

Muffled dance music. Deep breaths.

"I need you to go back insi-."

"Can I at least give you my boss's number, first?"

And my own, so you're not getting my boss's number before mine, is the cheeky remark they would make if they weren't still trying to play it safe.

It takes more than one soldier to fight against the poison that's been tearing through the wings that try to emerge from Legs' back, no matter how sharp Owen's fangs are. Thankfully, they see that now.

They do not give Legs time to refuse their offer.

"He's always happy to have a chat about this kind of thing before work," they explain, handing him a small strip of paper before disappearing back into the building. They desperately try not to seem bitter about the situation, but their exhaustion makes it hard to do so.

Owen does so much for everybody else. It is clear how much it weighs down on them at times and raises them up at others. They struggle to allow anyone to do so much as give them advice when they need it, and yet they will dedicate so much of their time and energy fighting through unimaginable pain and a history as sharp as glass in order to comfort this man. To help him see himself.

It's no wonder that his inner turmoil rubs off on them, sending unexplained tears to their eyes as stress and dread and pure emotion rip through them.

You are not indebted to this place, Owen, for being allowed the freedom to come into your own. You did all of the hard parts yourself. Vicious was the backdrop - the catalyst - not the reason. We only watched as you flew.

You are the reason for your freedom. You should not have to feel guilty that others are not yet free, for it is not your fault.

Every time a new lost creature sets foot in this bar, you make it your mission to welcome them with open arms and see their journey through, because that is what we did for you. But dear, you can only bear the burdens of so many pained souls before you struggle to show them that uplifting smile of yours. Then what? Who will make you smile again?

There is no method by which I can send them this message. I can only hope that they will realise it with time.

They will get there.

Chapter Text

A few nights have gone by since then, each one just as free as the last. Notably, however, Ren is yet to hear anything from Legs. It is also Owen's much-needed night off, and things are expected to be busy because of the karaoke later, so he certainly has his work cut out for him.

He labours away behind the bar, refilling the drink dispensers before the doors open for the evening whilst Martyn lingers around him, wiping down the counters.

"Heard anything from the gent Backstory put in contact with you? He's supposed to be here early one of these evenings, right?"

"I haven't heard anything. He knows I'm always happy to talk before work, so now I just wait and hope, I suppose," Ren replies with a sigh. There's a solid chance that Legs will never come - that he will put himself back in water, ignore that he is drowning in it, and hope to forget about this place. It pains Ren to even think about it. "And call me a broken record, but you've gotta stop calling Owen 'Backstory.'"

"It's a force of habit!" Martyn shouts from the other end of the bar.

I remember that scene. The one in which Martyn first joins the crew at Vicious, only to be immediately dragged into a long conversation with Owen after asking them how they came upon the bar. They apologised when they realised that they'd been talking about their trauma for a tad too long. As a result, Martyn has called them 'Backstory' on and off for years - it appears that Owen will never live that interaction down.

"You're lucky I haven't slipped up and used one of my nicknames for you in front of someone," he teases, setting down his cleaning supplies on the counter. Ren knows what he means, and I wish I didn't.

Ren splutters at the insinuation, unsuccessfully hiding how it has caught him off guard.

"Keep it professional, love," he warns, clearing his throat.

"We're both technically still off the clock, so I can say what I like, thanks," Martyn responds with a smirk as he leans over the bar and looks up at Ren rather suggestively. "Unless you have a problem with that, boss?"

"Easy now."

"Why? What's wrong with this, boss?" He leans in close enough to pull on Ren's arm and tug on the suspenders he's wearing over his deep red shirt.

"There's no need to be mixing professional titles with whatever you're up to."

"That's not what you said this morning. Or last night, or-"

Ren pulls him up forcefully by his collar and slams their lips together to silence him. The kiss is hasty, but Ren knows exactly how to make it so that Martyn gets lost in it anyway. The abruptness with which he pulls away is simply evil.

"There. Are you satisfied?"

"If you think that alone's gonna finish me off, I'm starting to have doubts about our engagement."

Despite the bold response, Martyn is red in the face and breathless.

"Oh, you know what I meant," Ren sighs, moving to pick up a pile of fliers advertising the performers for the bar's next drag comedy night. He calls after Martyn.

"Can you put some of these out on the tables for me, dear?"

"On it, boss," he answers with a smirk, taking the pile of advertisements and spreading them out among the tables. He knows exactly what he is doing and Ren knows exactly how to counter it.

"You really do follow orders well."

That is all it takes for Martyn to bite his tongue and freeze in place. With that, Ren's vengeful little idea only seems to expand.

"Some orders. Still won't drop the demeaning nicknames for half the team, even when I ask nicely. Perhaps I'll have to give you a better incentive, pet."

He slides that nickname in with enough gentleness that it'd almost be non-threatening if not for the glaringly obvious innuendo that awakens each hair on Martyn's body. His skin covers itself in goosebumps and his lips are still frozen shut.

"Oh, sorry. Cat got your tongue? That's a shame; you were always so good at using it."

If there was a way to die from sheer homosexuality, Martyn would be discovering it right about now. Instead, he is having to dish out fliers and pretend that nothing is happening. The two of them are definitely going to discuss this later (perhaps 'discuss' isn't a strong enough word), but saying anything now would be like shooting himself in the foot - Ren has won…this time.

Before things can get any more heated between the lovebirds, a faint knock echoes through the strange quietness of the bar: it is Shelby and Drift, with Scott and Avid swiftly approaching from behind them. Each of them has arrived early, upon being granted permission from Ren. Call it favouritism, but he is more than happy to allow his friends to show up early and help with setup, or to chat and make the most of the calm atmosphere.

In particular, Scott arguably lays more of a claim to Vicious than Ren does, so it seems only fair that he has free roam of the place. He was dancing here long before even I was.

The older man welcomes them in before returning back to the bar as they all take a seat around a table together and burst into conversation. Meanwhile, Martyn is just trying to appear slightly less homosexual and focus on his work tasks. His level of success is debatable.

Upon arrival, even Apo and Abolish make their way over to the table to chat before the night begins. Drift is complaining and pointing to herself dramatically as they pull up some extra chairs.

"Binders are awful to wear under fitted suits, I can feel that thing clinging to me for dear life. I have enough layers on already!"

Tonight, she is wearing a very flashy blue suit that's covered in sequins and other embellishments. The jacket is cropped at the waist with gold buttons trailing down the side, and the slacks are a darker blue, adorned with silver rhinestones that resemble stars in the night sky. His drag-style makeup aligns with that comparison as well - dark blues and purples mixed with star-shaped glitters that form constellations on his face.

"I'll never understand how you drag kings are able to dance in them so well," Shelby says, wincing at the thought.

"They're actually kinda moveable, I just overheat in mine super fast. But I'm not a fan of how tape feels, so I gotta make do."

Then, the person who anyone would assume is the least likely to have any insight to provide on this topic of conversation speaks up.

"I should make you a suit sometime. I figured out a way to make dress shirts that bind well on their own," Abolish explains, gesturing to himself with a foreign sense of eagerness that none of them have heard from him before. That gesture is what eventually makes it click for everyone else. "They're still pretty warm, but it's just one layer so it feels more comfortable, and they bind the whole torso so nothing spills out. I've made loose-fitting ones before but they can look a little too boxy because of the material."

The others watch in astonishment as Abolish just continues rambling, possibly saying more now than he has said in the last several weeks. Drift is smiling as they nod enthusiastically in an effort to keep him talking, and out of genuine interest in his craft, of which he is clearly quite passionate about.

It appears that they have found something that can actually get Abolish to talk for longer than a few seconds at a time. A true miracle. The threads binding his lips together are quickly snapping apart.

"I've made binding suit jackets before, too. They're a little straighter and more stiff at the front so it gives off a flat effect. If you pair one of them with one of the dress shirts, it's honestly better than a regular binder. I'm good to hook you up with some."

"That'd be great!" Drift responds, still appearing shocked as their eyes light up with pride at Abolish's openness.

It doesn't take long for everyone to realise that said openness was completely accidental.

Abolish freezes for a second and his expression abruptly shifts from a slight smile, to a confused furrowing of his eyebrows, and then to a blank stare into the table. He moves to stand up from his chair, but Apo catches his arm on the way up and softly drags it back down.

"You're okay. Deep breaths," she coos - it is lighthearted, and there is a small amount of laughter in it. It says 'This does not have to be a big thing.' Beneath that, it whispers 'We love you.'

Apo's hand remains on his arm for a while as he just sits there for a moment, taking everything in.

He had hoped that he would never have to make his reality known to the universe, or himself, even. He had hoped that, if he pushed that part of his life to the back of his mind, he wouldn't have to face the fangs his manhood bares. Perhaps, with enough effort, he could forget about them entirely.

In telling anybody else, he would also have to acknowledge it. He might even be reminded each second as he senses the difference in how they approach him, speak to him, think about him. It is better to bury it like he did his past self, is it not?

Some creatures of darkness are strong enough to show off their fangs and claws like shining jewels - the sharpness compliments them beautifully.

Abolish cannot envision a world in which he could do such a thing. He is not proud, and he does not find himself to be beautiful. He simply wishes to forget, even if it means weaving a needle and thread through his lips and jamming the fangs wherever they will fit. Even if it means digging his claws into the palms of his hands and squeezing his wings into his suit jacket.

Like Owen, he loves himself an impossible wish to get lost in.

But he, too, cannot change what has already taken place.

"Do I still get a suit outta this or…"

Drift's comment lightens the mood a little - even Abolish laughs, though he tries to hide it with his hand.

"Yeah," he answers, speech somewhat muffled by his knuckles lightly pressing against his teeth. He looks comfortable, even more so than before he started talking.

"I mean this with all due respect, but I just lost a bet so forgive me if I'm not acting as proud of you as I actually am," Apo jokes, moving their hand down to hold Abolish's as he flashes them a look of disbelief for a second.

"You're not serious."

"I'm sorry, but I am so serious."

More laughter floods the air. Things are alright; nothing has changed. There are no shifts in the atmosphere or pestering questions, unless Abolish is counting the one Scott chimes in with, but that one has a pretty simple answer.

"So does this mean our token straight bouncer's also a queer?"

"In more ways than one," Abolish sighs. He is one admission down, he might as well make the second one purposeful.

"Well, dang it. There goes this bar's straight representation," Scott laughs. "The queers really do get all the hot people."

In time with his words, he glances at Avid (just to fluster him a tad) and then back at Abolish, who has surprisingly also been affected by the compliment. His ears blush red slightly as Apo speaks up again.

"This might be a bad time, but I just lost a second bet."

Abolish buries his face in his hands in disappointment, and to disguise the gentle giggles that he'd rather not have anyone hear.

He is alright.

He is happy, even.

And the universe is the same as it was before, only there is more joy in it. We have done our job well.

—-------------------------------------------

A familiar song plays through the speakers as the patron on stage and most of the crowd shout out the lyrics. Karaoke night is one of the most communal events Vicious throws and one of the only places where it is socially acceptable to sing all of the words to Green Day's American Idiot without question. It is true rebellion in its most ridiculous form.

There are no words that can properly describe the way in which emotions of all kinds possess each and every soul in this room.

Joy, for we are ourselves and no person, nor law, nor villainous force can truly take that away from us. Rage, for we are made out to be monsters when our fangs are only there to protect our brood. Melancholy, for this night will end and it may be nothing like the life we must return to. Hope, for there will be another night - there has to be. We live for such nights.

Scott is re-approaching his group's table after getting Martyn to sign him up for a turn. He takes a seat, and it does not take a particularly sharp eye to notice how his hand falls at his side to cradle Avid's, who is sat next to him. Avid jolts and turns pink at the unexpected touch.

These two have certainly been in contact since I last saw them here.

"Please tell me that you and Avid are gonna sing a duet for your obvious date. Drift and I deserve to get something funny out of putting up with this," Shelby pleads. She has a point; they are going to be insufferable.

"Don't act like this isn't a double date, hun," Scott jokes, only for Drift to make a face at the romantic implication and correct him.

"Um, we're representing the power of friendship and platonic lesbianism, actually. You two are representing the sin of lust. Gay lust." They pretend to be disgusted.

"Wait, so what do me and you represent?" Avid asks, trying to distract himself from how flustered this conversation is making him, and from Scott's nails tracing patterns into his hand.

"The power of friendship and platonic…genderfuckery I guess, when you're not too busy doing this whole romantic attraction thing."

Avid gives her a confused look.

"But my gender's not-"

"Mmmhm," she replies sarcastically as she looks him up and down. The green floral waistcoat and dainty silver necklace he is wearing today make him look slightly less underdressed next to Scott than previously. "Do I need to cite last year's Halloween?"

Scott's ears perk up at that, and a devious smirk graces his lips as he notices Avid's pretty look of embarrassment. He needs to get more of that face out of him.

"Oh, do tell."

The conversation continues, with Avid's likeness growing closer to that of a raspberry or some other pinkish-red fruit with each passing moment. There is a joke to be made about fruits in there, somewhere.

They have all gotten so distracted by the abrupt change of topic that nobody other than Scott is prepared for Martyn's announcement of the next karaoke performance.

"Next we have Scott and Shelby with Hopelessly Devoted to You."

Even Martyn smiles with the knowledge of what Scott has done as the crowd erupts, which is to be expected - queers who get excited about musicals (even the supposedly straight ones) are a particularly loud demographic. Shelby's expression is a strange concoction of displeasure and amusement.

"Scott, you did not do this."

"Oh but I did," he smirks, tugging at their arm to get them to stand up, "It's about time I actually showed you some appreciation."

"Hold the crap until later because I am not going up there with makeup running down my face," she complains as she drags herself to the stage with Scott still pulling her along. When the music starts and they break into song, it's as if they are the only two people in the world.

Their bond is one of more than just love, but Scott often fails to cherish the strength of it. Tonight is different. Tomorrow might be, too, though I would bet otherwise.

It is one of those friendships that becomes second nature to those within it. One where they become one person, almost, and forget to state aloud the love they feel because it's as if there is nobody else to state it to - they are one another, not in two halves but in a single whole. They are not 'half a person' when they are alone, they simply cease to be. They are nobody.

When the day for Scott to realise that this is all the love he needs comes around, he will be ready to take on anything. That day is not this one; I can see how this will go. Later, he will arrive at his and Shelby's shared apartment and go on a paranoid ramble about how Avid might not actually like him, and how it's possible that nobody will ever love him, and how lonely he is. Shelby will listen. He will be thankful, but he will not understand the irony.

Maybe then, she will speak. Maybe tonight is the night in which she tells Scott the things that I have been hoping he will hear, with this song they are sharing as the catalyst.

I can only pray.

The answer to his perceived loneliness is not that he needs somebody to seduce him, though he would enjoy that as a bonus. He needs somebody to be there, and so many people are, but it will not be enough for him until he finally understands the depth of their value. That they make him. That eros is beautiful, yes, but that philia is what allows it to be so.

He will get there one day. Then, and only then, will he not feel so alone.

"We need to do a song together. Power of friendship 'n' all," Drift announces to Avid, who can only express his dread with a deep sigh.

"I can't talk you outta this, can I?"

"Nope," they answer. "Scott will think it's cute."

He considers arguing back for a moment, but quickly concedes upon remembering that Drift is unbeatable when it comes to petty disputes.

"C'monnnn, don't you love me?" Drift adds, dramatically pouting like a lost puppy in an effort to further convince him. It works.

"Fine. But I need two shots first."

Chapter Text

It takes several nights more for Legs to finally show himself on the doorstep of Vicious - it has been almost a week since he last saw it. There doesn't appear to be anybody inside. The rain pours down in buckets full as he considers whether he should bother to follow through with any of this at all.

He has made no effort to contact Ren or notify him of his arrival; that would be admitting defeat, and he has not been defeated. Come to think of it, he doesn’t even need the help. Why is he here? He knows exactly how to live, otherwise he would be dead by now.

Living like this is completely satisfactory. He does not need to pursue this…fantasy. He is happy. He can make his own decisions in life and he will be making everything easier for everyone involved if he just puts this whole ordeal to rest. He ought to squeeze it all back into the same wardrobe it came spilling out of and abandon it there for eternity.

He isn't dying, so he need not change a thing about how he is living.

Raindrops slide down his face and block the view through his glasses as he turns around to begin his walk to the car. Rather frustratingly for him, he finds that he is not alone.

"Look who finally showed up!"

A soaking-wet Ren shouts out to him from the other side of the street, tightly wrapping a red flannel around himself in a failed effort to keep dry. His vision is being equally disturbed by the downpour as water drips down from his long, grey-brown hair onto his glasses.

It is clear that Legs' window for escape has now closed.

"I knew I should've taken the car. Martyn's lucky I let him have it," he mutters as he take out his keys, almost dropping them in the process.

"Is he not in today?"

"He's just getting here at his actual work start time for once. I figured he could take the car later and I'd take the bus before it gets busy…you can see where that left me," he laughs, pushing the doors open.

When Ren switches the lights on to illuminate the space, conflict brews in the pit of Legs' stomach. It's as if he cannot tell the difference between the bar and a silver dagger coming to pierce through his monstrous corpse. He is repelled further with each step, but something is stringing him along. It is a terrifying, addictive allure that almost convinces him that he has been hypnotised, for it does not make sense for him to feel such a way about this place.

He does not belong here.

He is living just fine without it.

But as I say, that allure only appears frightening to those who do not yet understand.

Legs does not yet understand. The force possessing him is trying so desperately to stop him from understanding. It is making quite the substantial effort, but our fangs are razor-sharp and this man is one of our own.

We must bite.

"Water?" Ren asks.

"Sure."

He pours both of them a glass of water before showing Legs to a seat at the bar as he takes one himself. The lights buzz softly, shining a warm light down onto them.

"Are you going to start this or shall I?"

That emotion - the one stronger than just denial, stronger than just self-hatred - wills Legs not to respond.

Ren takes a deep breath out as he looks at the man staring back at him with the eyes of someone who has been met with their own self in a dream. He speaks exactly how one would speak to somebody they have known for their entire life.

"Look, when you've lived so many years pretending to be somebody else without even realising it, you get too familiar with the fact that time will keep moving no matter what."

Time is moving, and Legs is wasting it by being here. None of this has been pretend - this is who he is and there has never been another him. He is a doctor, a writer, a man of science, a reliable friend, a respectable lover. All of that is hard evidence that there is nothing wrong with his life and he is happy and he is real.

His life is real.

"The world doesn't wait for you to stop tolerating that…that fabricated idea of what your life should be like. To the universe, it doesn't matter how you spend your time - when it's gone, it's gone."

But it isn't fabricated. It can't be.

Legs would have noticed by now if he'd been falsely believing that he is supposed to live this way for so long. It must be true, or else all of his effort to fit the human mould he has made for himself has been for nothing.

"So, you can either spend some of it breaking down this wall your mind's built around itself and spend the rest of it happier…or, you can spend it doing whatever you were doing before all of this and nothing ever changes."

Things were alright before all of this. Nothing needs to change. There is no wall.

If there was something as obvious as a wall encasing his mind in lies, Legs would be able to identify it. He is a doctor.

"It feels easier to stick with how things are, but you won't understand the conflicting joys and struggles of living freely and how worthwhile it all is until you dive the hell in."

This is freedom. Legs can do whatever he wants without anything holding him back. There is nothing holding him back.

Nothing.

"And are there really any joys of living how you do now? Is this worthwhile, lad?"

That trickery again; that familiar implication that Legs has never been satisfied. It got him last time, only for a moment when he mistakenly thought that, to him, nothing had ever felt truly right.

He knows better now. Of course this is right. It must be worthwhile. Otherwise, why would he have tolerated this life for so long?

This way, nothing has to be complicated. This way, he can act just like a normal human and think just like a normal human and live just like a normal human, because that is what he is. There are no abnormalities to be seen. No wings, no fangs, no claws.

That is because it ripped them away from you.

"There isn't an easy answer to any of it, but you only have one real choice. Being like this isn't all sunshine and roses, but whatcha gonna do? Try to change the unchangeable? Spend your life running away from yourself? Die?"

He isn't trying to change anything. This is who he is.

He isn't running away from himself. Running away from this frightening place is not the same.

He isn't dying. He is happy.

That is what you have to tell it to keep it from unleashing its rage.

"No, or at least I hope not. You're going to go ahead be gay, because that's what you are and that's all you can be."

Ren can't know that. Legs can't know that, either. This situation has been a fault in the system, a wrong turn on his life path that he will soon recover from. He wasn't attracted to his ex-wife, so what? Is she representative of every woman in the world?

Legs cannot be gay because he is not the type of person who would be gay and he has been perfectly satisfied with his life thus far. He knows himself. These people do not.

These monsters.

That emotion makes sure to correct itself - it is so overwhelmed by having to patch up the freshly-opened holes in its walls that it is beginning to lose its grip on Legs' psyche. Just a little bit. Enough to let the occasional free thought slip through the cracks. Each time one of them escapes, the grating crunch of a shovel hitting dirt rings in his ears.

What if Ren is right?

"Even if you aren't safe to be free anywhere else, you have this place, and you have one of the most genuine people I've known for a love interest."

‘Love interest’ is a strong term. It hits Legs like a bullet.

He is growing fond of Owen, yes. But even if the correct word for that is attraction, there is no need to make his life harder by chasing after them when there are plenty of safer picks out there. After all, he cannot be happy with Owen if everything he does with them feels wrong.

He is not pretending, he is deciding for himself. In fact, he is bringing himself more happiness by walking away from this, right? He is happy, isn't he?

"So stop waiting for your mind to give you permission, because it won't yet. It'll tell you you're not allowed - that'll be embedded in you for a while."

Nothing is holding him back. He can do whatever he pleases.

What is it that he wishes to do exactly? Does he really want to leave this place behind?

"Let the people here show you that you're allowed until you're truly able to feel like you are."

Of course he's allowed to be gay, he just knows what is best for him and this isn't it. Why wouldn't it be best for him, again? Does it really feel like he is allowed?

"You'll never know how happy it can make you if you don't give it a go. Take it from me."

The crunching of the shovel against dirt comes to a halt and he can finally allow himself to speak. It is truly his decision.

"You're happier now?"

When he chokes out the words, he realises that he is crying. Tears have been steadily making their way down his face and onto the bar counter, a few making a soft splash as they land in his glass of water.

"By a thousand miles, lad," Ren beams.

There is a moment of silence as Legs waits for that emotion to quieten itself.

"So my life's been a lie? All of it?"

"Not everything. It's been designed to keep you safe from yourself, because you view your identity as a beast that needs to be fought against. It doesn't matter how much of it was what you really wanted, because it happened. You only have the future now. Please…make it yours, will you?"

Legs would respond if he wasn't too busy staring up at the exit to the hole he didn't know he was resting in. Somehow, his coffin has been dug up and pried open, exposing him to the blinding light of the moon - it had been a lot darker in there than he had realised.

He awakens with a fresh pair of fangs and claws that glimmer with the stars, and when he climbs out of the hole to stand for the first time, he has to push back against the instinct to tear them off. He wins. It is now that he understands that he had not been the one doing such things to himself alone. It was something bigger than him, stronger than him. Something he has now managed to overpower.

His claws catch on his clothes as he attempts to dust himself off; to rid himself of the years of hurt and suffering that brought him to this point. He quickly learns that the grit and dirt are here to stay. Not even the harsh, howling wind that's trying to sweep him off of his feet can separate it from him.

There is a world that embraces him now. He had been living before this, yes, but it was a lifeless life. One without conscious experience. One spent in a deep slumber imposed upon him by a force outside of himself that had robbed him of his truth for far too long.

Here, among the vastness of Earth above ground, there is truly a life to be lived.

That terrifying force is still lurking there, only it cannot control him so easily. He threateningly bares his fangs at it, as Ren and Owen had, and it shies away for a moment; its abstract, phantom-like form glides out of view, consuming the light that surrounds it. For now, the only voice in his head is his own.

After a long pause, he makes his declaration.

"I'll try."

That is all he can do. It is all any of us could ask of him.

Ren presents him with a prideful smile, as he has done many a time to the other fledglings who have begun to grow into their fangs on that same bar stool.

"So, will I be seeing you around tonight? Perhaps taking off with my bartender?"

"I-I'll come back later, maybe. I just need a couple hours to myself," Legs responds earnestly, trying to hide his blush by rushing to the door.

Both Ren and I know he will be back.

—-------------------------------------------

Things are looking rather quiet tonight, which makes it the perfect night for Abolish to spend as a patron of Vicious for the first time. Apo would be proud upon seeing him approach the door she is guarding, but she is instead distracted by the sight of Abolish wearing something other than a suit. Their mouth falls open as they stare at him, blankly.

"What the fuck is this alternate reality I've stepped into?"

"It's my day off."

"I know that!"

It is clearly an outfit that Abolish is nervous to be wearing, but I would bet all of the money in the world that he has high hopes about impressing that 'Pyro' individual. It consists of a dark grey, mid-sleeved shirt with the collar unbuttoned; a small, blue-black waistcoat that hones in on his hips; a long, black overcoat, of which he carries in his hand; and a pair of black jeans adorned with silver chains and held up by two overlapping belts. To top it all off, the shirt comes up at the front to display part of his midriff.

Who is this man and what has he done to the Abolish we equally know so very little about?

"Can I go in now?"

"Only when you confirm to me that you know what you're doing and you're prepared for the outcome of talking to Pyro whilst looking like this."

She does have a point. I cannot think of many who wouldn't struggle to get a word out whilst trying to talk to a man as beautiful as Abolish is currently.

Except lesbians, probably.

And some of our resident aromantic asexuals.

Abolish responds flatly, and it almost seems like he's attempting to purposefully annoy Apo as a joke. Perhaps he is aware of how to use that tone as a weapon.

"I don't know what I'm doing and I don't know what the outco-"

"Abolish fucking Veylocke, I am not joking." There goes the full-naming again. "You need to be ready to be gay in public. You cannot have a breakdown the second that twink flirts with you."

"Bisexual."

"Right, bisexual. You need to be ready to be-"

"I'll be fine, Apo," he responds gently, cutting her off. "I don't need you to be my mom right now. I just need a friend."

Apo breathes in for a moment, realising how often they do this when they do not need to. It is about time she had some faith in her friends, for if they trip and fall along the way, it is not her fault. She can be there for them after the fact; she need not feel responsible for preventing every mistake they may ever have the misfortune of making.

That is not how life goes, especially not when someone is twenty, thirty, forty-something and just now learning what it is to bare the fangs they have always had and will always have - when they are just now spreading their wings.

They are destined to hit the floor or prick their own tongue from time to time.

They will get there.

"Got it, yeah. You look incredible, you got this," they say, patting Abolish's shoulders as they speak. "Don't die from bi panic. Love you."

Abolish matches their smile with his own. The whole 'I love you' thing is a tad too emotionally-charged for him to admit, and Apo knows that, which is why they say it tenderly enough for both of them.

When Abolish enters the bar, he knows he isn't ready to walk over to the cute Australian who is (thankfully) sitting at his laptop in the same seat he's sat in each night he's been here. Instead, he makes his way over to Pearl and Cleo's table. The music is more relaxed tonight, but he still has to speak rather loudly in order for the two of them to notice his arrival.

"I wanna go up to Pyro but I can't right now; my anxiety's killing me. Can I sit here for a while?"

It is the most transparent I have ever seen him be. Well, ever seen him purposefully be - I am not counting the accidental coming out.

"Yeah, for sure," Pearl answers, smiling. "Long as you don't mind sitting next to this horny fucker."

She gestures towards Cleo, who acts as if they are very offended by the insult.

"You started it, hun. Try calling me princess again and you'll see where it gets you."

It appears that Abolish has caught them in the middle of one of those lovers' feuds that are not genuine feuds but are in fact some kind of heated foreplay. Wonderful. This will make it extremely easy to ask the question that is trapped in the back of his throat. (That was sarcasm.)

As I have come to expect from Abolish, he decides to make no effort to make the topic change a smooth one.

"How did you tell each other that you were trans before you started…y'know?"

Please do not tell me that this man cannot bring himself to utter the word 'dating.'

Please tell me that he is keeping it vague just in case they fucked first.

Pearl seems to ignore that part of it when she answers.

"I knew Cleo was non-binary when we first met and they told me their pronouns, so that was easy." She smiles at Cleo and Cleo smiles back, placing a hand on her thigh. Sometimes, the love between a few fanged freaks who have gnawed through such visceral hatred is so strong that it feels intrusive to watch it flourish. It takes up so much space that even onlookers feel uplifted by it. A room full of that same love thirty times over, in all of its beautiful forms, can certainly be overwhelming at times.

Abolish feels it. It aches and it comforts and it encourages. It calls him home.

"I wasn't comfortable enough until the second date," Pearl continues. "I just said 'I know it doesn't matter to you but I am a trans woman, in case you wanted to know.' I set boundaries when things came up - didn't wanna be put on the spot and say it all at once."

Abolish appears to get so lost in thought that he completely forgets to indicate that he has heard Pearl's answer. Despite that, she does not pry - she has been there.

But this fledgling cannot sit here and hide from what he desires forever. He must take that leap and hope that he can spread the wings he has spent so long haphazardly squeezing into the back of his suit jackets before he hits the ground.

And if hitting the ground is what must happen, then we will be there to get him back on his feet.

Chapter Text

There comes a time in which Abolish grows tired of listening to Pearl and Cleo's fight-flirting, and of watching Pyro type away adorably in the corner of the room. He eventually decides, in simple terms, to get over himself and talk to him already. The happy couple wave him off with encouraging words as he awkwardly shuffles over to Pyro's table, making them jump when they look up to see him standing there, looking like that.

"So…it's my day off," says Abolish. He has never sounded so shy.

"I-" I am beginning to worry that Pyro may not live to see the end of this interaction. "Well I thought so, yeah. Otherwise you wouldn't be here," he laughs. In time with his speech, he looks Abolish up and down in both shock and awe.

Abolish does not respond, but smiles kindly instead. It becomes extremely clear that he will, once again, not be leading the conversation.

"No suit today?"

"No. Those are for work."

"I see, I see."

His outfit is far more revealing than Pyro had imagined it being - not that they've been imagining what this moment would be like, or anything. The way his shirt dips down at his neck and rides up at his waist, the way his sleeves stop at his elbows and show off his forearms, the way his collar hangs lop-sided and loosely enough to display part of his collarbone and shoulder - all of it is frankly unfair to Pyro.

Tonight is a good night to be a complete and utter faggot. Or a bad one, depending on how much they want to be able to focus on their work.

It has been a few days, but Pyro seems to remember Abolish having a slightly more rectangular figure. Now, however, his clothes appear to zone in on his hips and accentuate his waist a lot more. What is he, a shape-shifter?

When Abolish still doesn't have anything to say, Pyro makes an attempt to compliment him. It goes…well, this is how it goes.

"You look hot by the way, without the suit. Shit, I mean good. You look good." The words are rushed and disorganised and I would assume that Pyro cannot dig this hole any deeper. I would be wrong in doing so, however.

"The suit looked great too, don't get me wrong, I just thought I'd say this also looks good on you. Because it does, not just because I thought I'd say it for no reason. Yeah."

That was certainly something. Pyro has to stop himself from ducking under the table and staying there for the rest of the night. He's glad that the room is empty enough for nobody else to have heard him.

Abolish knows that if he says anything now, it will be extremely obvious how much Pyro has flattered him, as well as how much he wants to hear them stumble over their words again.

"So - um - why did you wanna talk to me again?" Pyro asks in a desperate attempt to save this interaction. The signals he is receiving are not just mixed, but completely tangled together like a box of unidentifiable cables. It is a good thing that Abolish is pretty enough to make a good distraction aid, otherwise Pyro would be utterly perplexed by all of this.

"I…just wanted to, I guess."

"About what, if I can ask?"

"Anything. I just wanted to talk to you again."

His response is almost endearing and, though they won't admit it, it brings a soft smile to Pyro's face. He just wants to talk to them - to hear their voice, for whatever reason. If that isn't the gayest thing this side of Oakhurst, I don't know what is.

"Why?"

"You already asked me that."

"Right, noted."

No more words are exchanged for a while, until Pyro looks up from their laptop and notices that Abolish is just standing there, right next to the seat opposite them. He doesn't even sway to the loud music or move in the subtle ways that humans do when they stand still - he is stiffly frozen in place.

What is he doing? And why is it adorable?

"Y-You can take a seat, y'know. No need to stand up the whole time looking lost," they assure him.

Abolish does just that, taking the seat opposite them and reading the stickers that plaster the back of their laptop as they continue studying.

Good. Now that Pyro can see slightly less of his bare skin, they might just be able to correctly type out a full word or two.

"Queer panic," he reads aloud. Ah, the perfect summary of Pyro's horrendous attempt at complimenting Abolish earlier.

"Yep, I swing all ways pretty violently. It's my downfall," Pyro laughs.

"I think I'm a lot less violent about it myself. I'm not usually one to panic."

That was…an admission of sorts. One that is confusing Pyro beyond belief, considering Abolish's reputation around here. Someone really should have updated him on the situation, but it seems that he will have to figure it out himself.

"Oh! I didn't know you were-"

"Being trans makes you hotter," he reads aloud again from the laptop. Of course. What made Pyro think they would get any clear answers out of this man?

"That's my trans one, yeah."

"You're trans?"

"I'm sort of non-binary, but I don't really do the labels stuff. I'm just a tranny who likes other trannies. They're attractive."

"Oh. Good to know."

Good to know?

Pyro isn't sure whether he's trying to imply something or not. In fact, they aren't sure what anything he's saying truly means. All they know is that he's currently smiling a little, as if satisfied with the possible hints he is dropping.

After long enough of Abolish just staring at them with a not-so-subtle sense of admiration, Pyro snaps their laptop shut and stuffs it into their bag. Nothing productive is going to get done tonight. They stare back at him, though their eyes wander down to his neck and the exposed part of his chest a lot more than necessary.

Abolish does not seem to find the act strange at all. In fact, he gets lost in the inconsistent eye contact and how hungry Pyro looks and how starved he feels - it has clearly been a while since he last did anything about that starvation. His wings, finally free from their confines, splay out further, crying out for him to take flight.

"I'm going to ask a really forward question followed by a less forward question, if that's okay."

Lord have mercy, for Pyro is already flustered. He hides it well in his speech, however.

"Oh yeah? Hit me with it, I can handle forward," he challenges, and what a challenge it is. The words are almost erotic in tone as they wrap around Abolish's neck and pull him in with a force so hot that it would burn him if it dared to take on a physical form. Blood rushes to his face and he can feel his nervous sweat worsening, his breaths growing more rapid and shallow.

"Okay…uh- first, I'm a…guy. I'm a trans, like, guy. That's not one of the questions."

It is not the most gracious of disclosures, but it is his. I have hope that there will come a day where he can tell this story to the people who have become his family and laugh at himself with both pride and amusement.

"Can I-"

Pyro takes the chance to turn the tables and cut him off, for once.

"Thanks for trusting me with that. You already know how I feel about people being trans, though," they tease as Abolish lets out an incoherent, flustered sound before taking a deep breath. If he were not so focused on his current goal, he would probably be embarrassed by it.

"Can I kiss you later tonight?"

Pyro freezes, eyes blinking rapidly. He is completely dumbfounded and, in all honesty, so am I.

"I just wanna know what to expect," Abolish clarifies.

What to expect? Dear, this isn't a business negotiation.

Understandably, Pyro still lacks any coherent answer to provide. So much for being able to handle forwardness.

"And are you free for another date this Saturday?"

"Another?" Pyro asks, fully distracted from the equally-jarring question that preceded this one.

"Yeah. This is basically a date, right?"

"Y'know what? Sure," they concede. It is a leap and their wings are proud of them for it.

Abolish leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"To which question?"

"To all of them?" Answering several questions at once was not Pyro's intention, but they are clearly feeling brave this evening. They join him in leaning on the table, and that bravery shines through again. "Although, nobody said you had to wait until late-."

Surprisingly, it is Abolish who is brave enough to make the next move. He reaches across the table to pull Pyro closer by their shirt collar, silencing them when he tilts his head to the side so his lips meet theirs. The kiss is soft, hesitant, and filled with nerves. It makes me wonder if this is either of their first times doing this, or if they just make each other so nervous that it mistakenly seems that way.

Owen, now a slightly wealthier individual after cashing in on their bets with Apo, would keep occasionally glancing over at the two of them if not for the man who timidly stumbles through the door next.

They notice that their boss has also spotted him when they turn to say, "Ren, I will never ask you for anything again in my whole entire life."

He laughs before making his way behind the bar and taking their place. His proud smile is back.

In many ways, he really does run this place as I did.

"Go on. Be the air beneath his wings."

A fire lights somewhere in the depths of Owen's soul as they walk over to meet Legs - they can only hope that they are not overstepping in doing so. They wait for him to speak first, just in case.

"You're beautiful. That's what I wanted to tell you last time," he whispers when he sees them. It is barely audible, but it is there. Along with it comes the indescribable sensation of his fangs sinking into that harrowing emotion he once called himself. But it was never him - he was only its puppet, its host.

His judgement about Owen is correct, for they really are beautiful. Freshly-groomed, wavy hair that flows down their back and in front of their ears, eyeliner almost as sharp as the fangs they are so proud of, a blood-red dress with an open back and flared black sleeves made from lace…

I am surprised that Legs is still breathing, even if he is doing so rather shakily.

Owen cannot help the immediate smile that graces their face; it is a smile so forceful that their nose wrinkles with it. I stand by the view that the Earth really should have stopped turning by now. It is beyond me how it manages to avoid veering off course when a creature such as Owen is inhabiting it.

"Whisky?"

"No, no. I need all my sanity tonight," Legs chuckles. The struggle behind it is audible, like he's having to force himself out of his coffin again or hold it open with a stick so that it cannot slam shut. He will be struggling for a while; it is only natural.

Do I not already drive you insane, Doctor? Is what I imagine Owen would say if not for how things left off. It would be witty and suggestive and said with a killer smirk that only adds to their unrivalled charm. Several nights without seeing that side of them has felt like an eternity, and I can only hope that Legs agrees.

There is a gaping hole where Owen's flirtatiousness should be.

"Care to dance? I promise I won't give into my fear this time."

It is a promise I hope he can stick to.

"Nobody else is dancing, Legs," Owen points out, acting as if they want nothing less than to go through with this. Despite that, the way in which they allow Legs to take their hands in his tells a different story.

"And? I think this music suits our rhythm a lot better," he says smoothly, pulling them gently over to a small open space between the tables.

The music is a lot slower tonight. It allows them to blend in just a bit more, though only as much as they can do whilst being the only ones dancing in the bar on an off-peak night like this.

Whether due to having practised since or just being less nervous, Legs' movements are noticeably less stiff as he cradles Owen's waist with one hand and entangles the fingers of the other with theirs. His claws are slashing at the phantom in his mind along with his movements. It is a battle, but it is one he is willing to fight.

"I didn't know you wore dresses," he says with pure admiration in his eyes.

"I didn't know you could actually dance," they tease before pausing to take a breath, swaying to the tune in the background. "It doesn't make me more like a woman in your eyes, does it?"

It is a fair concern. Legs hates that it is.

His response is immediate.

"No. It makes you more like…you." He swings the hand that's holding Owen's back and forth to the beat and pulls them in closer. They relax into his embrace, resting their head on his shoulder as he takes another bite out of his former puppeteer. "And I think it's stunning. It suits your beauty well."

Owen buries their face further into Legs' black suit jacket in an effort to mask how the compliments flatter them. They always used to do that sort of thing.

"Dare I say you look ravishing in a suit," they murmur into the crook of his neck after tilting their head to the side. Their words buzz against his skin, sending shivers down his spine whilst sharp claws dig into that once-insurmountable guilt again. It feels right.

It feels right.

Something feels right.

"I- don't you try to shift the attention over to me now," he responds, defensively.

They both laugh - I had forgotten how wonderful their shared laughter sounds.

I wonder if there was once somebody watching over Owen and I, too, marvelling at how our laughter melded together. Perhaps they were not so envious and proud as I am now, but I hope that vision brought them some comfort.

If I can no longer share a laugh with the greatest of this world's creatures, then I can watch as this man does, for he is willing to bare his fangs at his own mind to pursue them. To dance with them. To be their third place of refuge. First Vicious, then myself, and now him.

It is very possible that they are his first, before even this place.

Legs moves his hand up from Owen's waist to feel the skin on their back. It is covered in marks and spots that make it rough and sore in places, yet soft and smooth in others. He does not ask about it, but it is clear that they make an effort to cover it up on their face, neck, and arms.

His claws tear off another small piece of that abstract darkness.

"You're beautiful," he says once more, the words swimming through the air like an elegant gust of wind. He rushes to speak again before Owen has the chance to deflect the compliment by throwing one back at him.

"Can I pick you up?"

"Can you what?" They huff in bewilderment. "You must be joki-"

Owen's own soft shout cuts them off when they are suddenly hoisted upwards by the back of their thighs so that they are dangling slightly above ground. They have no choice but to wrap their arms around Legs' neck for some stability, and they almost blush as he spins them around before dropping them back down.

"You tell the jokes around here," Legs says, slyly.

"Don't know what you mean. I've never told you a joke in my life," Owen retorts, briefly breaking away from him to twirl around. Their dress dances with them. It is mesmerising.

In response, Legs barks out a laugh and takes their hand, pulling them close.

"I'm serious! You were always free to interpret things as a joke, but that doesn't mean they actually were." They look up at him, eyes filled with yet another thing I miss seeing from them. "I meant all my flirting, thank you very much."

Desire.

"Also, if you're gonna be rude enough to pick me up from that position again, try it a little more gently, will you? I know my arse is soft, but there are still bones in it."

The smug look on Owen's face only makes things worse for Legs. The poor man starts choking on air as he turns bright red and lets go of them, turning around and then turning back upon realising that there is no escape and he would rather have Owen see him like this than anyone else.

"I am so sorry, really. I wasn't trying to-"

"I know it was just part of the lift, dear, I'm messing with you. Don't stress about it," Owen laughs. They make sure to finish their thought before Legs has time to process what they just referred to him as. "It doesn't particularly have to stay part of the lift though."

For once, that phantom isn't plaguing Legs' mind enough to stop him from enjoying this - enjoying Owen. He does wish that they would give him a moment to breathe, however, but I suppose this is the natural consequence of chewing through his own strings and thinking for himself.

Legs is very much gay. Ergo, thinking for himself means thinking like a faggot. Ergo, he is losing his goddamn mind over this breathtaking entity.

They pull him in; a starved siren and a starved sailor, both of whom fail to hide how smitten they are with one another.

"You are going to be the death of me," Legs whispers. Following on from the invitation, his hands roam down Owen's body as if there is no audience; there might as well not be. They have created their own space once again.

"Would you at least do me the pleasure of taking me with you this time?" they whisper back.

As they press their lips to his, any thoughts he could've had about what that really means are lost to the same harsh wind that sweeps the phantom in his mind even further away. It feels right, again. Legs could get used to things feeling right.

Their hands explore one another like that is what they exist to do, their wings spring out from their backs to feel the air beneath them, and the relief that washes over them both is obvious. For Legs, it is the relief of knowing that he is winning his battle and he truly wants Owen and nothing is holding him back. It is all real, this time. For Owen, it is the relief of knowing that they are not a lost cause nor a sorrowful tale, that their story did not end with me. Here stands a gorgeous man who has not once pitied them. Instead, he called them beautiful.

This might just be the only place where the two of them can be like this: queer and stupidly into one another and fierce about it. Everyone in the room could have their eyes locked on them right now, and not one of them would look on in fear of the sharp edges they both have, nor with disdain for the loudness of their abnormalities.

Each of them would smile wide and proud, because this is the dance of two free creatures who are strong enough to bite back. Two of our own.

I am not sorry that I could not bring you with me, Owen. Legs should not be sorry either, if the universe must add to your suffering by dooming history to repeat itself. Right now, you belong here. Your life is not yet finished, and who will live it if not you? It is yours, after all. Nobody else could live it like you do.

Ren catches a glimpse of their kiss (and then several kisses) from behind the bar - he appears to be just as inquisitive as I when it comes to these things. He smiles, proudly. It is a smile I used to see in the mirror each morning before work, when I would think about the bar and its patrons and all of their journeys.

I have watched hundreds of lost souls seek shelter here. Some of them do not even realise that shelter is what they are seeking, and some of them do not even know that their soul is without a home - that is how deep in the ground their resting place is.

But now, look at them. Seriously, look at all of them as they bask in the feeling of being alive, even the ones who sought their shelter before I could even be there to observe.

Unlike however they were surviving before, this form of living is what lasts.

We take a shovel to their graves and show them a life filled with love and joy and fangs and claws, and wings so big it can take years to unfurl them. There is pain, but we sharpen our inbuilt weapons and fight it together. We are vicious. We are relentless. We leave no room for argument.

To them, it is a new life. A life that will not feel new once they start living it, for it is the life they should have been living since the start.

They have it now.

We have given them the tools they need to finally burst through the rotting wood of their coffins.

They have reclaimed their souls. They have gotten there. They are alive, and they are not monsters.

They are home.