Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Joker’s armor is not crafted with a hammer and anvil, but with the soft strokes of a makeup brush. Today it’s flawless—a small victory in a world of defeats. A carefully drawn teardrop beneath his left eye, and a little star on his right. It’s a shield against a city that doesn’t understand him. Doesn’t accept him.

He adjusts his scarf, pulling it higher to cover his face from the bitter wind. The cosmetics case in his hand feels heavier than usual as he makes his way toward the university. Winter break’s officially started, but the cosmetics department granted special access to serious and dedicated students who want to practice during the holidays. And it’s not like Joker has anyone to spend Chanukah with—he takes the opportunity.

After all, he’s nothing, if not serious, about his art.

The campus is nearly deserted, snowflakes dancing in the vintage lampposts. It reminds Joker a little bit of a snow globe — beautiful, contained… artificial. He pauses to watch a white camellia petal skitter across the frozen ground. In the language of flowers, Emma had once told him, white camellias symbolize waiting. Hardly appropriate.

He has been waiting for something—maybe even someone—to make sense of his fractured existence.

Inside the building, the hallways echo with emptiness. Joker navigates to the practice room, expecting full solitude, but instead he finds Norton hunched over a textbook, face illuminated by a desk lamp. His hair is a mess, his grey Ohio State hoodie a traitorous sight given the university location, and he looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Joker says, setting his case on the table.

Norton glimpses up from his textbook, expression unreadable as always, even in the light. “Could say the same to you. Thought you’d be off somewhere, acting all mysterious.”

“Being mysterious is exhausting.” Joker unpacks his supplies with methodical precision. There’s a few tubes of lipstick, some nail polish remover, and a couple of hair accessories like bows and barrettes. “Sometimes I just want to blend foundations.”

Norton huffs. “Sure. And I’m just here because I love studying.”

There’s a comfortable silence between them, the kind that doesn’t make things awkward but more peaceful. Norton returns to his textbook—something about metamorphic rocks—while Joker starts organizing his workspace. He lines his brushes up by size, sorts his lipstick tubes by color. It takes a while—a bit longer than applying makeup itself—but it’s routine. Ritual. Order from chaos.

“You’re doing the thing again,” Norton says without glancing up from his book.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you organize stuff to avoid thinking about what’s bothering you.”

Joker pauses, a kabuki brush suspended in mid-air. He attempts to counter, to reflect Norton’s words back at him. But he falls silent. The words are simply not there. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you don’t.” Norton finally closes his textbook, meeting Joker’s tired gaze. “Look, I’m not gonna pry, but if you need to—”

“I’m fine.”

Norton’s glare softens, his mouth twitching slightly into something akin to a half-smile. “Right. And I’m passing sedimentary geology with flying colors.” He rolls his eyes at his own joke, and despite his tone, Joker cracks a smile himself. It’s barely there, but Norton catches it. He’s always been observant like that—reading the earth, reading the people who walk across its surface. Finding what’s buried beneath.

"How is that class going?" Joker asks, deflecting. He sets up a small mannequin doll on the table—Charlotte, named after the spider from Charlotte's Web—and poses her in a slightly leaned posture, like she's listening.

Norton groans, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Don't even ask. I've got this final project due right after break and I can barely tell schist from slate anymore."

"That's a rock joke, isn't it?"

"The worst kind." Norton stretches, joints popping. "Why, you got study tips?"

Joker hums, casual and quiet. He turns Charlotte's head with careful fingers. "Have you tried playing Minecraft?"

Norton blinks at him. Then he actually laughs—short and surprised. "Are you seriously suggesting I learn geology from a block game?"

"I'm saying it might help with mineral identification." Joker's lips quirk. "And you won't fail if you punch the wrong rock."

"Fair point," Norton admits, a grudging smile tugging at his mouth. "Fair point."

The conversation lapses back into the same comfortable quiet Joker has familiarized himself with. He begins working on Charlotte, applying a base layer of foundation to her porcelain features. The repetitive motion, just like with sorting, soothes him—pat, blend, pat, blend. It’s meditative in a way that nothing else is. When he works with makeup, the world narrows just to this: color, texture. Transformation. It’s applying armor that washes off at the end of the day, each layer a temporary shield.

“You seeing Mike over break?” Norton asks after a while, his tone carefully casual in a way that means he’s clearly curious. He glances at Charlotte, as if studying her, but there’s no judgement in his expression, no snide remark about Joker and his “Barbie dolls”. Just a man who’s watching another person work.

Joker’s hands still for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know. Maybe? He practices most days…” He tries to return his focus, picking up a doll-sized comb, styling Charlotte’s hair into a braid. “The gymnastics showcase is in January.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I can give.” Joker sets the comb down and reaches for a burgundy cream brush, something deep, winter-appropriate. He applies it to the doll’s cheeks with precision. “We’re both pretty busy, what with the holidays coming up and—” He cuts himself off, his throat tightening, his hand trembling as he accidentally smears a bit of makeup clumsily on Charlotte’s face. “He’s just busy, that’s all.”

Norton makes a noncommittal sound that Joker has since learned to interpret as skepticism, maybe with a hint of sarcasm. “Uh-huh. You know, Jokester, for someone who’s supposed to be good at making things look a certain way, you’re terrible at hiding how you feel.”

Joker rolls his eyes at the nickname. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“Sure.” Norton reopens his textbook, but Joker can tell he isn’t reading at all. He’s barely even looking at the pictures. “Just saying, Mike’s a good guy. If something’s bothering you, he’d want to know.

Joker doesn't respond. What would he even say? That sometimes he feels like he's performing even when the makeup comes off? That he's terrified Mike will wake up one day and realize Joker is too much work, too complicated, too broken? That love shouldn't feel this exhausting but somehow it does?

He finishes Charlotte's face in silence, adding a delicate wing of eyeliner that swoops up like a bird in flight. When he's done, she looks almost alive—beautiful and sad and waiting for something that might never come.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to see a message from the group chat.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

GUCCI GANG 💯

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
guys guys GUYS i just had the BEST idea

norton got a rock:
this should be good.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
ok so u know how this break is boring as hell
what if we did a thing

Edgar Valden:
A “thing”. How wonderfully specific.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
A PARTY THING!!! at my place!!!
this saturday!!! ugly sweater theme, i’ll provide snacks & bad decisions

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
why is my username still censored
i’ve lodged like 50 complaints

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
because it’s FUNNY mike

Edgar Valden:
I find it amusing that this application itself has deemed you inappropriate.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i hate it here >:(
BUT YEAH i’m down for a party!!!! sounds fun

norton got a rock:
fine. i’ll come along if orpheus is going.

Edgar Valden:
How remarkably transparent.

norton got a rock:
sybau.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
can i go? ( ´ ω ` )

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
orpheus is DEFINITELY coming i begged him like a dog begs for bacon
he’s bringing his famous hot chocolate

Edgar Valden:
I suppose I can make an appearance. However, I’m not wearing anything “ugly”.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
edgar ur whole personality is ugly

Edgar Valden has blocked SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
I TAKE IT BACK
i need u there pookie how else will i have someone to kiss at midnight

Edgar Valden has unblocked SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡

Edgar Valden: It’s not New Year’s Eve, you absolute walnut.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
so we all good?? party at my place, dec 23, 8pm??
gonna be SICK
were gonna watch the nightmare before christmas

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
HELL YEAH cant wait!!!!
i’ll bring the cookies i made last time!!!

norton got a rock:
the ones that tasted like vanilla cement?

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
they were FINE norton u just have no taste buds

Edgar Valden:
They were... adequately edible.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i'll take it!!!!

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
perfect perfect love u all
this is gonna be AMAZING

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker stares at his phone screen, the conversation continuing at a rapid pace—logistics about who’s bringing what, Edgar blocking and unblocking Luca, Mike using far too many exclamation points as usual. But Joker’s eyes keep scanning back to the pinned message, to Luca’s initial message. Saturday, December 23rd. All good?

All.

That implies every single person in the group chat: Luca, Edgar, Mike, Norton. And then there’s Joker, whose status is always set to Idle, who changes his profile picture every couple of days. He waits, keeps reading. Watching the little typing indicator appear and disappear. Mike sends a GIF of a cat doing a backflip, while Edgar complains about the quality. Luca sends a clown emoji.

Joker’s name never comes up.

Even when he sent a single line of text, no one replied.

His chest tightens, like someone’s laced his ribs too close together. It’s fine, it’s probably an oversight. Luca’s scatterbrained on the best of days—brilliant with circuitry and code, disaster with everything else. He probably just assumed Joker knew he was invited. Obviously. They’re friends in the same group chat, so of course Joker’s invited.

Right?

His fingers hover over the keyboard, and he types:

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
sounds fun!! ( ╹▽╹ )

He backspaces. Tries again.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
should i bring anything? other than charlotte? (´ ω `♡)

He backspaces again. No one acknowledges him.

The conversation keeps moving without him—Norton sending a Charlie Brown Halloween reference about rocks, Mike posting screenshots of a hockey game he’s illegally pirating. Edgar and Luca are bickering in a way that sounds more affectionate, like an old married couple. Norton makes a dry comment about bringing his own food because he doesn’t trust any of them in the kitchen. He’s watched far too much Kitchen Nightmares.

Joker locks his phone and sets it face-down on the table.

“You good?” Norton asks, not looking up from his phone, but clearly attentive. He knows. He always knows when to ask. Norton may be a hard-ass, but he’s a hard-ass with a heart of gold. Ironic, considering gold is one of the elements he studies in his rock classes.

“Fine,” Joker answers mechanically. The words taste like chalk. “Just tired.”

Norton hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. That’s one other thing Joker appreciates about him—he knows when to let things lie, when to give somebody space to breathe or drown on their own terms. Sure, it’s probably not healthy, but it’s familiar. An unspoken form of kindness.

Joker picks up an eyebrow pencil and returns to Charlotte, sketching deliberate brows that arch in surprise. His hand is steadier, muscle memory taking over where his mind can’t focus. He adds a touch of highlighter to her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose. He makes her glow like she’s catching lamplight, like she’s real.

The practice room feels smaller suddenly. The fluorescent lights hum too loud. His phone sits on the table like an accusation.

"I'm gonna head out," Joker says abruptly, already packing his supplies with the same methodical care he used to unpack them. Everything in its place. Everything contained.

Norton finally looks at him properly, brow furrowed. "You just got here."

"I know. I just—" Joker fumbles for an excuse, for one of the dozens of easy lies he keeps catalogued for moments like this. "I forgot I have a thing. A... consultation. For a client." He hates how he lies better than he tells the truth, although it’s only a half-lie. He does take freelance appointments, building his portfolio for when he graduates and opens up his own studio. But there’s nothing scheduled today—not even his regular client has booked anything—but Norton’s expression suggests he knows it. Can confirm it.

“Right,” the other man says slowly. “Well, text me if you need anything.”

“I will.” That part’s a lie.

Outside, the cold hits him like a physical blow. He pulls his scarf tighter, but it doesn't help. The chill has already settled into his bones, or maybe it was always there, waiting. The snow has picked up, fat flakes that catch in his eyelashes and melt against his carefully applied makeup.

He walks without direction, letting his feet choose the path. The city moves around him—holiday shoppers with bags from Macy's and overpriced boutiques, tourists taking photos in front of decorated storefronts, couples holding hands and laughing about nothing. Everyone has somewhere to be, someone to be with.

Joker finds himself at Washington Square Park, nearly empty in the cold. He sits on a bench dusted with snow and pulls out his phone.

The group chat has quieted down for a change. The last message is from Mike, a GIF of an Olympic gymnast doing an elaborate routine, captioned "me showing up to the party." Edgar reacts to the GIF with an eye-roll emoji, and Luca sends a crying-laugh cat emoji. Joker scrolls back up through the conversation, counting each name: Luca organizing, Edgar reluctantly attending, Mike bringing cookies, Norton only going if Orpheus comes along. Orpheus bringing hot chocolate.

Five people. Five names explicitly mentioned, invited, included.

There’s six names in the chat.

His throat feels tight. He opens his camera, switches to the front-facing lens. His makeup is smudged from the snow—the careful teardrop beneath his left eye now streaking, the star on his right starting to fade. He looks like what he is: a clown who forgot the punchline.

He takes a photo anyway, with a fake smile. Posts it to his Instagram story with no caption, just the image. Within minutes, there are likes—acquaintances from his cosmetology courses, a few former clients, someone he met at a party once and never spoke to again. Hollow engagement from hollow connections.

Mike views it. Sends a DM immediately.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
you ok?? ur makeup is running babe

Joker stares at the message. At "babe"—casual, affectionate, probably meaningless. Mike calls everyone babe when he's in a good mood. Edgar. Luca. Sometimes even Norton when he's being particularly irritating.

Joker slowly types: i’m fine pookie <3. He backspaces. i’m good!!! Backspaces again. He sighs.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
i’m okay!! just got caught in the snow (✿◠‿◠)

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
u should get inside before u freeze!!!
im at the gym rn but i can meet up later if u want??

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
no no no its okay!!! i know you’re busy with practice. (⌒▽⌒)☆

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
are you SURE??
i can ditch, coach won’t even notice!!

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
i’m sure!!! focus on your routine, you’re gonna kill it at the showcase!! o(≧▽≦)o

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
ok pookie but if u change ur mind just say the word
love u!!!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker’s fingers hover over the keyboard. The words sit there, expectant, waiting for their echo. He struggles to reply, struggles to find the right response. Mike always says this to the chat—”Love u guys!”—but it’s solely platonic. Joker remembers at one point Luca had asked Mike to use a tonetag, and Mike sent a ‘/p’ for ‘platonic’.

He tries to type: i love you too! But can’t even get past the second word—love. He’s known Mike for God knows how long now, it must have been at least fifteen years, maybe even more. They grew up in the same neighborhood around the Little Italy area. Joker had introduced himself with his actual name—something ridiculous that he doesn’t care to remember—but Mike thought it was so funny he started calling him ‘Joker’.

And ever since, that’s the name Joker’s gone by—other than pet names like ‘pookie’ and ‘babe’. Solely platonic. Purely, simply platonic.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
love you too!! ♡

He locks his phone before he can see if Mike responds. Before he can overthink the fact that he didn’t use a tone indicator, didn’t clarify or protect himself from the weight of those three words. He considers putting his notifications on silent, or setting his Discord status to Do Not Disturb so he doesn’t have to anticipate seeing messages show up on his home screen.

Dusk settles over the park as streetlights blink to life in succession. Joker knows he should head back—to his Brooklyn studio apartment. It's a cozy one-bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city's pulse from behind the safety of glass and brick. His landlord, Victor, is a quiet boy around Joker's age who keeps to himself. He owns a dog called Wick, some unidentifiable mixed breed that even professional groomers can't place. The building has a pet-friendly policy that includes cats, which means Joker was able to bring Houdini, his emotional support kitten.

Joker can’t bring himself to turn back on his phone, but he caves in anyways. Opens Discord.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

GUCCI GANG 💯

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
OKAY headcount for snacks!!
who is DEFINITELY coming

Edgar Valden:
Unfortunately, yes. I will be there.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
ME ME ME ME!!!!! 100%!!!

norton got a rock:
Yep. I’ll be there.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
orpheus confirmed via carrier pigeon (he CALLED me on FACEBOOK MESSENGER like a BOOMER)
so that’s 5 people!!!
perfect number for my apartment

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Five.

The perfect number.

Joker’s hands shake as he locks his phone again, shoving it deep into his coat pocket. The cold has numbed his fingers, or maybe it’s just from the shock. It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Maybe Luca really did forget, and he’ll send a message later, apologetic and scattered like always. Maybe Joker really is overthinking this, and he’s reading malice into this simple oversight.

Or maybe… Joker just isn’t someone people remember to count.

He stands abruptly, brushing snow from his coat. His legs have gone stiff from sitting, and he stumbles slightly before catching his balance. A passerby gives him a concerned look—probably thinks he's drunk or high or both. He arranges his face into something that might pass for a smile and walks away with purpose, even though he still has nowhere to go.

His apartment, when he finally returns to it, is exactly as he left it: immaculate and empty. The kitchenette is spotless, dishes put away, counters wiped down. His makeup station is organized by color and type, brushes cleaned and stored properly. The bed is made with hospital corners, pillows fluffed and arranged just so. Houdini, his kitten, is lounging by the unlit fireplace, clearly in one of her very hostile moods as she lifts her head up slowly, her eyelids low.

Joker’s home looks like a stage set. A performance of domesticity for an audience of one.

He sets his cosmetics case on the vanity in his bedroom and catches sight of himself in the mirror. The makeup really has run now—the teardrop smeared into a bruise-like stain, the star barely visible. He looks broken, damaged. An unfixable porcelain doll, haunted by a ghost.

He should remove it properly, go through his full cleaning routine. Applying moisturizer and serums and all the steps that keep his skin healthy. Instead he grabs a makeup wipe and scrubs at his face with more force than necessary, watching his carefully constructed mask disappear in streaks of beige and burgundy and black.

Underneath, he looks tired. Physically young—he’s only twenty-four—but old at the same time, features that don’t quite match in a way that makes strangers do double-takes, trying to place what’s “off” about him. His smile is too weak, his face is too soft for what they expect. He exists in the spaces between categories, and some people find that fascinating.

Most find it uncomfortable.

Joker’s phone sits on the bathroom counter, ignored while he tries to shower. He stands under the water hot enough to hurt until his skin is pink and tender. The steam fogs up the mirror, obscuring his reflection—a small mercy—but when he finally emerges with a Kuromi towel wrapped around his frame, there are new messages. Dozens.

Mike sends a video of himself attempting a standing full in the gym, nearly crashing into a stack of mats. His laugh rings out even through the phone speaker—bright and proud and everything Joker isn't. Edgar posts a photo of a painting in progress: a melancholic self-portrait in deep blues and greys, moody as a winter sea.

Luca responds with a string of flame and eyeball emojis. Norton sends back a "whoa" and a smiley face.

The conversation continues without Joker. Mike shares that he learned how to cartwheel uphill. Luca's "project" was confiscated by the SWAT team, only to be returned when they discovered it was just a toaster programmed to play We Didn't Start the Fire. Norton mentions his library trip, but doesn't bring up Joker.

No one asks about Joker, or Charlotte, or anything related to Joker’s course. No one notices his silence.

Joker sets his phone down and focuses on his skincare routine instead—the one thing that feels controllable. Cleanser, toner, essence, serum, moisturizer. Each step deliberate, each product selected for a specific purpose. By the time he's finished, his skin is dewy and soft, and he looks almost healthy. Almost normal. Like someone who isn't falling apart at the seams.

He puts on a set of nightclothes—just an overpriced, oversized Hamilton t-shirt he’d bought when he saw Lin-Manuel Miranda live a few years ago, along with a pair of flannel sweatpants three sizes too big. They make him look smaller, younger. Fragile in a way he hates. Houdini finally deigns to acknowledge his existence, winding between his ankles with a demanding meow.

“I know, I know,” Joker murmurs, scooping her up. She’s a warm weight against his chest, her purr vibrating throughout his sternum. “Dinner’s late. I’m a terrible cat dad.”

Houdini meows again, clearly affirming.

Joker feeds her premium wet food—a brand that costs more than his own groceries—and watches her eat with the single-minded focus of a creature unburdened by existential dread. Oh, to be a spoiled eight month old kitten eating Purina cat food, and not have to worry about Discord DMs or being forgotten. It must be nice.

The apartment feels too quiet. He turns on the TV for background noise, some cooking competition where contestants and a Scottish chef are screaming about lamb sauce and idiot sandwiches. The chaos is oddly soothing. He curls up on the couch with Houdini, pulling a blanket over them both, and tries not to think about the group chat.

Five people. Perfect number.

The words echo in his head like a ricocheting bullet.

His phone buzzes. Against his better judgment, he checks it.

GUCCI GANG 💯

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
joker u there??
u went quiet!!

Joker stares at the message. Mike noticed. Mike actually noticed he stopped responding. Something warm unfurls in his chest—hope, maybe, or gratitude—before he ruthlessly crushes it down. Mike's just being nice. Mike is nice to everyone. It doesn't mean anything.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
sorry!!! was in the shower ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
what's up??

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
nothing just wanted to check on u!!
u seemed kinda off earlier

Joker’s throat tightens. He types and deletes three different responses. He types, i’m okay, really! before deleting it. He tries again, considering sending a GIF of a cat meowing with the caption ‘i’m good!’ He gives up before finally typing—

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
i’m totally fine!!! (◕‿◕✿)
you know how winter makes me sleepy lol.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
ok if ur sure!!!
get some rest ok?? don’t want you getting sick before the showcase!!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker blinks at his phone screen. Before the showcase. Not before the party—the party that Joker apparently isn't invited to—but before Mike's gymnastics showcase in January. Like Joker's health only matters insofar as it affects Mike's performance.

That's not fair. That's not what Mike meant. Joker knows that, logically, rationally. Mike is genuine and kind and wouldn't deliberately hurt anyone. But the irrational part of his brain—the part that keeps a running tally of every slight, every oversight, every moment of being forgotten—latches onto the phrasing and won't let go.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
will do!! good luck with practice tomorrow!! ٩(◕‿◕)۶

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
thanks babe!!!!!
sleep well!! 💕

Joker locks his phone and tosses it to the other end of the couch. The heart emoji stares at him from behind the dark screen, somehow accusatory. Houdini, disturbed by the sudden movement, gives him an affronted look and relocates herself to the armchair.

“Sorry,” he tells her. She ignores him.

The cooking show moves on to desserts. Someone's crème brûlée is weeping. Joker can relate.

He should sleep, he knows. But his mind is racing, replaying the group chat conversation over and over, analyzing every word for hidden meanings. Maybe Luca said “five people” because he was counting couples—Norton and Orpheus, Edgar and Luca, plus their single fifth-wheel friend Mike. Maybe he forgot Joker, because Joker never explicitly said he’d come. Maybe—

Maybe Joker just… isn’t the kind of person people think to include.

He's always been on the periphery of groups. The friend-of-a-friend, the plus-one, the afterthought. Growing up, he was the weird kid who played alone during recess, who talked to imaginary friends because the real ones didn't want him. In high school, he floated between social circles without ever truly belonging to any of them—too strange for the normies, too normal for the outcasts. College was supposed to be different. New York was supposed to be different.

And it was, for a while. Meeting Mike again after so many years felt like finding a piece of himself he didn't know was missing. They'd clicked immediately, falling back into the easy rhythm of their childhood friendship like no time had passed at all. Mike introduced him to his friends from eighth grade—Norton, Luca, Edgar, Orpheus—and for the first time in his life, Joker felt like he might actually belong somewhere.

But belonging is fragile. It can shatter at the slightest pressure, like ice on a winter pond.

Joker pulls his blanket tighter around himself and stares at the ceiling. The shadows shift and dance as headlights pass outside his window, cars carrying people to the places they’re wanted. The city never sleeps, but Joker is about to drift off alone.

At some point, exhaustion wins. He drifts off on the couch, the blanket tangled around his legs, the TV still murmuring about soufflés that won’t rise and Chef Ramsay locking himself in the freezer. His sleep is restless, punctuated by dreams he won’t remember—dark corridors, locked doors, voices calling names that aren’t his.

Chapter Text

Morning arrives grey and bitter, the sky pressing down on the city like a lid on an overflowing pot. Joker wakes with a crink in his neck and the distinct feeling that he’s forgotten something important. Houdini is sitting on his chest, staring at him with the patient judgement only cats can muster.

“Morning, Houdini,” Joker murmurs, scratching her chin.

She meows. It sounds like disappointment.

He checks his phone with the same reluctance one might have for opening an electricity bill. The group chat has been active—sixty-three new messages since last night. His stomach drops as he scrolls through them, scanning for his name, for any acknowledgment that he exists. His profile picture—an older selfie from AnthroCon in Pittsburgh, wearing elaborate cat makeup that made him look like a theatrical feline—sits in the member list on the right side of the screen. Visible. Present. Ignored.

The messages are mostly Luca and Mike going back and forth about party logistics, while Edgar interjects occasionally with cutting remarks that somehow manage to be both insulting and affectionate. Norton posts a few dry observations, and Orpheus—apparently awake at 3 AM for reason unknown—contributed a lengthy tangent about the symbolism of winter solstice celebrations. Everyone ignored him except for Edgar, who called it “surprisingly competent research.”

Joker’s name appears exactly zero times.

He sets the phone down and stares at the ceiling. The plaster has a crack running through it, hairline thin, that he's been meaning to report to Victor for months. It looks like a river on a map, branching and splitting, going nowhere.

Houdini meows again, more insistent.

"Right. Breakfast." Joker hauls himself upright, every joint protesting the night spent on the couch. "Coming, your majesty."

The morning routine is mechanical. Feed the cat. Make coffee. Stare at the coffee while it goes cold. Consider eating something. Decide against it. The kitchen feels too bright despite the overcast sky outside, the white cabinets and stainless steel appliances reflecting light in ways that make his head ache.

He honestly should practice today. The university is open, his access card works, and it’s not like anything—or anyone—is demanding his time. That’s the logical thing to do. Productive. The thing a serious and dedicated student would spend his holiday vacation doing.

Instead, Joker finds himself standing at his bedroom window, watching the snow fall. It’s lighter today, just a dusting, the flakes so small they’re almost invisible against the grey skies. Across the street, a florist is setting up their outdoor display despite the cold. He watches a young woman in a green apron arrange bouquets—roses, carnations, something white and delicate he can't identify from this distance.

White chrysanthemums, maybe. In hanakotoba—the Japanese flower language—white chrysanthemums mean truth. Honesty. Also death, in certain contexts. Also grief.

Joker learned about flower language from Emma, a girl he'd known briefly in high school. She was soft-spoken and gentle, with calloused hands from gardening and a way of looking at people like she could see straight through to their roots. They'd been friends for one semester before her family moved to Pennsylvania, and she'd given him a book on hanakotoba as a goodbye gift. He still has it somewhere, buried in a box of things he can't bring himself to unpack.

Yellow roses mean jealousy, Emma had told him once, pressing a bright bloom into his palm. And friendship. And sometimes infidelity. Flowers are complicated no matter what definition you choose.

Like people, he’d replied. And she’d smiled, sad and knowing.

Exactly like people.

His phone buzzes. Joker ignores it deliberately, trying to focus on anything but the obnoxious Discord ping notification. It buzzes again, and again. A rapid-fire succession that means either something important is happening, Mike was banned for more vulgar usernames with f-bombs in them, or Luca has discovered a brand new meme format.

Against his better judgment, he looks.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
@everyone EMERGENCY MEETING
THIS IS NOT A DRILL

norton got a rock:
it’s 9 am.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
TIME IS A CONSTRUCT NORTON
ANYWAY
i need everyone’s input on my ugly sweater idea for the party!!!
i found this website that does custom prints
we can all totally match!!!! gimme ur favorite color!!!!!!

Edgar Valden:
I refuse.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
EDGAR PLEEEEEEASE
it’ll be SO funny!!
imagine: all of us in matching sweaters with our faces on them
BUT IN THE ART STYLE OF JOJO’S BIZARRE ADVENTURE

Edgar Valden:
I would much rather commit arson.
And play with traffic with my cousins from Oklahoma.
They are… not very smart.
Hence why they are my cousins twice removed.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
fair fair

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
WAIT THATS ACTUALLY HILARIOUS
i'm in!!!!! gimme green!!!!

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
ooh red please!!!! („• ᴗ •„)

norton got a rock:
… Black. I'm only agreeing because I want to see Edgar's suffering.

Edgar Valden:
I despise you all.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
that's the spirit!!!
edgar what's ur fave color babe

Edgar Valden:
I refuse to participate in this indignity.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
i'll make you one anyway <3

Edgar Valden:
...
Purple. If you're going to humiliate me, at least get the color right.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
THATS MY BABY
orpheus said wants purple too
so that's 5 sweaters!!!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Five sweaters.

Joker reads the message over and over, waiting for the number to change, waiting for Luca to edit his message or send “oops, i mean six!!!” in the chat. Five sweaters, for five people, for a party meant for five, and no one—Not Luca, not Mike, not Norton who literally saw him last night—thinks to ask about the sixth member of the group chat.

His hands are shaking. That’s inconvenient. He sets the phone down carefully, deliberately, like it might shatter if he’s not gentle enough. Like he might shatter.

Joker struggles to move himself from the living room to the bathroom, where the mirror shows him a face he can barely recognize. And yet, it’s the same face as yesterday—same features, skin, eyes that have seen twenty-four years of not being enough. But something has shifted behind it, some fundamental light that’s flickered and dimmed. He looks hollowed out. Like someone scooped everything vital and left only the shell.

Houdini winds between his ankles, purring obliviously. She doesn’t understand human pain, doesn’t comprehend the weight of being uncounted. Joker envies her. Envies the simplicity of existing without the constant, gnawing need to be seen.

He goes through his morning skincare routine on autopilot—cleanser, toner, essence. He even adds a bit of sunscreen, even though the sky is grey and he has no intention of going outside. The ritual grounds him when nothing else does, each step a small anchor in the churning sea of his thoughts. His skin is dewy and healthy by the end, a canvas waiting for paint.

For armor.

Today's look takes forty-five minutes. He chooses a cool-toned palette—silver and charcoal, with hints of icy blue that match the winter outside. The teardrop beneath his left eye is there again, but today it's joined by three smaller ones, trailing down his cheek like a mini frozen Hudson River. On his right cheek, instead of the usual star, he paints a crescent moon. Waning, not waxing. Diminishing.

He doesn't analyze the symbolism. He doesn't have to.

The final touch is his lips—a deep burgundy that's almost black, vampiric and bold. War paint. A challenge to a world that keeps overlooking him: look at me, I dare you. See what you're missing. See what you keep forgetting exists.

His phone sits on the vanity, screen dark, silent for once. He should check it. He should respond to the group chat, insert himself into the conversation, stake his claim to inclusion. That's what a normal person would do—just say "hey, I want a sweater too!" and laugh it off when Luca inevitably apologizes for the oversight.

But Joker isn't normal. Has never been normal. And there's something bruised and wounded inside him that refuses to beg for scraps of attention, refuses to remind people that he deserves to be counted.

If they wanted him there, they would have said his name.

He picks up the phone anyway, muscle memory overriding his better judgment. The group chat has continued without him—of course it has. Luca is now debating sweater designs with Mike, whose enthusiasm seems to have increased exponentially based on his excessive use of exclamation points. Edgar is threatening various forms of violence, and Norton is egging them on with dry commentary and references to obscure internet memes.

Orpheus, who hasn’t said much in the group chat, finally contributes to the conversation with a GIF of Captain Jean-Luc Picard facepalming. Luca responds with at least a dozen Vulcan salute emojis.

Nobody mentions the empty sixth spot in their matching set.

Joker locks his phone and sets it face-down on the vanity. His reflection stares back at him—beautiful in a fractured way, all sharp lines and careful artistry. The makeup is perfect. Flawless. A masterpiece of concealment.

He wonders if anyone would notice if he stopped wearing it. If he showed up bare-faced and vulnerable, would they see him differently? Would they see him at all?

The morning stretches ahead of him, empty and formless. He could go to the university, practice on Charlotte, lose himself in the meditative rhythm of brush strokes. He could stay here, curled up with Houdini, watching reality TV until his brain goes numb. He could—

His phone buzzes.

Joker stares at it for a long moment before picking it up, bracing himself for more messages about five sweaters and five people and a party that apparently doesn't have room for him.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
goooood morning sunshine!!! 🌞🌞
whatcha up to today??

Something complicated twists in Joker's chest. Mike texted him directly—a deliberate one-on-one message. It shouldn't mean as much as it does. It shouldn't make his heart stutter like a skipped record, like a breath caught sideways.

He types back before he can overthink it.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
nothing much!! just finished my makeup (◕ᴗ◕✿)
you??

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
oooh show me show me!!!!
i have a late practice today so i'm just chilling rn
wanna hang??

Joker's fingers freeze over the keyboard. Hang. As in, spend time together. As in, Mike wants to see him, specifically, not as part of a group or an afterthought or a "oh, Joker's here too I guess." His throat tightens with something that might be hope, or might be terror, or might be some unholy combination of both.

He snaps a selfie—careful angle, good lighting, expression arranged into something playful and mysterious. The waning moon on his cheek catches the light like a secret. He sends it before he can second-guess himself.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
DUDEEEEE
THAT LOOKS SO COOL
how do u do that with ur FACE
i can barely draw a stick figure

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
practice!! lots and lots of practice (≧◡≦) ♡
and also a really good setting spray lol

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
ur so talented fr fr
so??? hangout?? i was thinking we could grab coffee or smth
theres this new place on bleecker that has those fancy foam art thingies

Joker should say no. He knows this with the same bone-deep certainty that tells him the sun rises in the east and that Houdini will knock something off his dresser before the day is over. Spending time with Mike when he's feeling this raw, this exposed beneath his carefully painted armor—it's a recipe for disaster. For saying something he can't take back. For shattering the fragile equilibrium of their friendship.

But Mike is asking. Mike remembered he exists. Mike wants to see him.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
sure!! sounds fun ♡(˃͈ દ ˂͈ ༶ )
what time??

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
YAY!!!!
like 11?? gives us time before i gotta head to the gym
i'll send u the address!!

Joker checks the time. 9:47 AM. That gives him about an hour to spiral, compose himself, and spiral again before he has to leave. Plenty of time.

He spends the next forty-five minutes changing outfits three times, second-guessing every clothing choice with the kind of obsessive attention he usually reserves for color-matching foundations. The first outfit is too casual—just jeans and an oversized sweater that makes him look like he's drowning. The second is too formal—a button-down shirt and slacks that scream "job interview," not "coffee with a friend." The third is somewhere in between, but the colors clash with his makeup.

In the end, he settles on black skinny jeans, a deep blue turtleneck that brings out the icy tones of his eyeshadow, and his favorite leather jacket—worn soft from years of use, with subtle studs along the collar that catch the light when he moves. It's an outfit that says "I'm not trying too hard" while absolutely trying too hard.

Houdini watches his fashion crisis from the bed, tail flicking with apparent judgment.

"Don't look at me like that," Joker tells her. "It's just coffee."

She blinks slowly. It feels like an accusation.

It probably is.

The walk to Bleecker Street is bitterly cold, the wind cutting through Joker's jacket like it isn't even there. He pulls his scarf higher, covering the lower half of his face, and hunches his shoulders against the chill. The city moves around him in its usual choreography—pedestrians with purpose, delivery trucks double-parked, a busker on the corner playing something melancholy on a battered guitar.

Joker drops a five into his open case without making eye contact. The busker nods, fingers never stopping on the strings.

The coffee shop is called "The Percolator," because of course it is. Brooklyn is full of places with names like that—clever wordplay that stops being clever after the hundredth iteration. But the windows are fogged with warmth, and through the glass Joker can see exposed brick and mismatched furniture and a chalkboard menu with drinks like "The Existential Espresso" and "Latte Da Vinci."

Mike is already there.

He's sitting at a corner table, hands wrapped around an oversized mug, bouncing slightly in his seat in that way he does when he's excited or caffeinated or both. His hair is a mess—copper curls escaping from a beanie that has a little pom-pom on top—and he's wearing a hoodie that says "FLIP YEAH" with a silhouette of a gymnast mid-backflip.

He looks up when the door opens, and his face splits into a grin so bright it makes Joker's chest ache.

"Hey! You made it!" Mike waves enthusiastically, nearly knocking over his mug in the process. "I already ordered—hope that's okay—I got you one of those fancy lavender things you like?"

Joker slides into the seat across from him, carefully arranging his scarf and jacket to buy himself time to compose his expression. "You remembered my order."

"Duh. You've been getting the same thing since high school." Mike pushes a mug toward him—pale purple liquid with delicate latte art in the shape of a flower. "Some things don't change."

Some things don't change.

Joker wraps his hands around the warm ceramic and doesn't say what he's thinking: everything changes. People change. They grow up and apart and forget the people who used to matter. They make new friends and new lives and leave the ghosts of their childhood behind.

"Thanks," he says instead. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to." Mike takes a sip of his own drink—something aggressively green that's probably matcha—and leans forward with his elbows on the table. "So! What's new? I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

"You saw me last week. At that thing for Luca's birthday."

"That doesn't count, there were like twenty people there. I barely got to talk to you." Mike's pout is exaggerated, theatrical. "You kept disappearing into corners."

Joker takes a sip of his lavender latte to avoid responding. It's good—sweet and floral and exactly what he needed. The warmth spreads through him, loosening some of the tension in his shoulders. "I don't like crowds."

"I know. But I missed you."

The words land like a physical blow, soft and devastating. Joker looks up from his mug to find Mike watching him with an expression that's hard to read—fond, maybe, or concerned, or some combination that Joker doesn't have the emotional vocabulary to parse.

"I missed you too," Joker admits. It comes out quieter than he intended.

Mike's smile softens. "Good. That's... good." He clears his throat, suddenly awkward in a way that's unusual for him. Mike is rarely awkward—he moves through the world with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to question whether they belong. "So, um. About the party—"

Joker's stomach drops.

"—Luca's really going all out, you know? He's got this whole playlist planned, and apparently Orpheus is bringing, like, five different kinds of hot chocolate? And Edgar's been secretly working on decorations even though they keep saying they don't care—"

"Mike."

"—and Norton said he'd help set up early, which is honestly shocking because you know how he is about mornings—"

"Mike."

"—anyway I was thinking maybe we could coordinate on the sweater thing? Like if you want the same color as me we could match—"

"I wasn't invited."

The words fall into the space between them like stones into still water. Mike stops mid-sentence, mouth still open, brow furrowing in confusion.

"What?"

Joker sets his mug down carefully. His hands are steady, which is a small miracle. "I wasn't invited. To the party."

"That's—no, that's wrong." Mike shakes his head, curls bouncing. "Everyone's invited. It's in the group chat. You're in the group chat."

"Luca said five people. He counted—Luca, Edgar, you, Norton, Orpheus. Five people, five sweaters." Joker's voice is flat, reciting facts like a news report. Distant. Clinical. "He never mentioned me. Nobody did."

Mike's expression cycles through confusion, realization, and horror in rapid succession. "That's—I'm sure it was just—Luca's scattered, you know how he is, he probably just—"

"Forgot I exist?"

The question hangs in the air. Mike opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. For once in his life, he seems to have run out of words.

"It's fine," Joker says, even though it isn't. "It's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal. It's a huge deal." Mike reaches across the table like he's going to grab Joker's hand, then seems to think better of it and pulls back. "You're—you're part of the group. You're important. I'll talk to Luca, I'll—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than Joker intended. He softens it with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Seriously, Mike. It's fine. I probably would have been busy anyway."

"Busy with what?"

The question is innocent enough, but something about it makes Joker's carefully maintained composure crack at the edges. Busy with what? With his empty apartment and his judgmental cat and his endless scrolling through group chats where his name never appears? With practicing makeup on mannequins because he doesn't have anyone real to practice on? With lying awake at 3 AM wondering why he's never enough, never quite right, never the person people think to include?

"Just... stuff," he says lamely. "Client work. Practice."

"On Christmas?" Mike's voice is skeptical. "Come on, Joker. No one's booking makeup appointments on Christmas."

"It's not Christmas, it's the twenty-third."

"Close enough."

Joker takes another sip of his latte, buying time. The lavender tastes bitter suddenly, or maybe that's just his mood leaching into everything. "I told you, it's fine. I don't need a pity invite."

"It's not—" Mike makes a frustrated sound, running a hand through his hair and dislodging his beanie slightly. "God, why are you always like this?"

The question hits like a slap. "Like what?"

"Like—like you don't matter. Like you're not important." Mike's voice is rising, attracting glances from nearby tables. He doesn't seem to notice. "Like you have to pretend everything's fine when it's obviously not."

"I'm not pretending—"

"You're always pretending!" Mike gestures broadly, nearly knocking over his matcha. "You put on all this makeup and act like you're okay, but you're not, Joker. I can tell. I've known you since we were kids, and I can tell."

Joker's jaw tightens. "The makeup has nothing to do with—"

"Doesn't it?" Mike leans forward, voice dropping but intensity increasing. "You hide behind it. You use it like... like a wall. Like if you look perfect enough, no one will see what's actually going on."

The words land with surgical precision, cutting through Joker's carefully constructed defenses. Because Mike is right—of course he's right—but hearing it said out loud, in a coffee shop in Brooklyn, makes something inside Joker want to curl up and die.

"That's not—" Joker's voice catches. He clears his throat, tries again. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand!" Mike's frustration is palpable, radiating off him in waves. "I'm trying, Joker. I'm trying so hard to be here for you, but you won't let me in. You just—you disappear into yourself and I don't know how to reach you."

"Maybe I don't want to be reached."

The words hang between them, ugly and honest. Mike recoils like Joker just physically pushed him.

"You don't mean that."

"Maybe I do."

Joker's phone buzzes on the table. They both look at it—a Discord notification, the group chat lighting up again. Joker catches a glimpse of the preview before the screen goes dark:

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡: @everyone sweater designs are DONE...

He looks away.

"You should probably check that," Mike says quietly. "Sounds important."

"It's not." Joker picks up his mug again, staring into the dregs of lavender foam. "Nothing I have to say matters to them anyway."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Joker looks up, meeting Mike's eyes with a directness that surprises them both. "How many times have I said something in that chat and gotten zero response? How many times have I shared something and watched everyone just... scroll past? They don't care, Mike. None of them care. I'm just... background noise."

Mike's expression crumples. "Joker..."

"It's fine." The words are automatic now, a reflex. "I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be used to it!" Mike's voice cracks, and for a horrible moment Joker thinks he might actually cry. "You shouldn't—God, Joker, you deserve better than this. You deserve people who see you, who appreciate you, who—"

"Who what?" Joker's laugh is hollow, nothing like humor. "Who love me? Is that what you were going to say?"

Mike freezes.

The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. Joker watches Mike's face—the way his eyes widen, the way his mouth opens and closes without sound, the way color creeps up his neck and into his cheeks. He watches, and he knows. He's always known, really. Known that whatever Mike feels for him, it's not enough. Not the right kind. Not what Joker desperately, pathetically wants it to be.

"I..." Mike swallows hard. "Joker, I..."

Joker's phone buzzes again. And again. A rapid-fire string of notifications that shatters the moment like glass.

"You should check that," Joker says, voice carefully neutral. "Sounds like it's blowing up."

"Forget the stupid group chat." Mike's voice is strained. "We need to talk about—"

"There's nothing to talk about." Joker reaches for his phone, using the motion to look away from Mike's face. He can't bear to see the pity there, or worse, the guilt. "You're my friend. I appreciate that. End of story."

The group chat is indeed blowing up. Luca has posted the sweater designs—five cartoon portraits in the style of JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, each member of the group rendered in dramatic poses with their chosen colors as backgrounds. Green for Mike, black for Norton, purple for Edgar, purple (slightly different shade) for Orpheus, and yellow for Luca himself.

Five sweaters. Five people. Five portraits.

Joker's hand trembles as he scrolls.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
@everyone sweater designs are DONE
BEHOLD MY ARTISTIC GENIUS

[image: five dramatic portraits in JoJo style]

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
HOLY CRAP
I LOOK SO COOL

Edgar Valden:
...I am grudgingly impressed.

norton got a rock:
Not bad. You actually got my good side.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
norton u don't HAVE a good side :P
jk jk u look great babe

norton got a rock:
Don't call me babe.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
:( ok
ANYWAY these are gonna be so sick!!!
can't wait to see everyone wearing them saturday!!!

Edgar Valden:
I still maintain that matching sweaters are degrading, but I will admit the artistry is... acceptable.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
that's basically a compliment from edgar omg
screenshot saved forever

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker stares at the five portraits. Mike is there, grinning, mid-flip. Norton looks brooding and intense. Edgar is imperious, paintbrush raised like a sword. Orpheus is melancholic and poetic. Luca is chaotic, surrounded by cartoon lightning bolts.

There is no Joker.

There was never going to be a Joker.

He's not even an afterthought. He's not even a missing piece. He's just... not there. Like he never existed in the first place. Like he's a ghost haunting a group chat that doesn't remember his name.

"Oh shit." Mike has pulled out his own phone, looking at the same images. "Joker, I—I didn't realize—"

"It's fine."

"It's not fine! Luca didn't even—he didn't make one for you—" Mike is typing furiously, thumbs flying across his screen. "I'm going to say something, this is ridiculous—"

"Mike, don't—"

But it's too late. The typing indicator appears in the group chat, and Joker watches helplessly as Mike's message appears.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
wait luca
what about joker??
there's only 5 sweaters

The chat goes quiet. Joker can almost hear the sound of five people realizing, simultaneously, that they forgot someone existed.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
oh
OH
crap
i
i completely forgot

norton got a rock:
...shit.

Edgar Valden:
Ah. That's... unfortunate.

Unfortunate.

The word sits on Joker's screen like an epitaph. Not "I'm so sorry" or "how could we forget" or even "let me fix this immediately." Just unfortunate. Like Joker is a minor inconvenience, a scheduling conflict, a typo to be corrected.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
joker i'm so sorry!!!
i'll make another design tonight i promise!!!
what color do you want???

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
it's okay!! don't worry about it (◠‿◠)
i probably can't make it anyway, i have some client work

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
joker no
don't do that

Mike looks up from his phone, across the coffee shop table, meeting Joker's eyes. His expression is pleading.

"Don't do that," he repeats out loud. "Don't just... pretend it's okay."

"I'm not pretending." Joker's voice is perfectly level. The mask is back in place, painted and polished. "It really is fine. Things happen. People forget."

"You deserve better than being forgotten."

The words are too sincere, too raw. Joker looks away, focusing on the remnants of foam in his mug. "I'm used to it."

His phone buzzes again.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Edgar Valden:
Oh, for God's sake. Can we move on from this melodrama?
It was an honest mistake. Luca said he'll make another design. Problem solved.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
yeah!!! i'll have it done by tomorrow!!!
joker seriously what color??

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
really, it's fine. you don't have to go to the trouble ( ´ ▽ ` )

Edgar Valden:
See? He says it's fine. Can we please return to the actual party planning now?

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
edgar wtf
that's not cool

Edgar Valden:
What? I'm simply trying to keep us on track. The party is in five days and we still haven't finalized the menu.
Joker does this every time—creates a scene, makes everyone feel guilty, then martyrs himself so he can feel special. It's exhausting.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker's blood goes cold.

He reads the message once, twice, three times. The words don't change. They sit on his screen, black letters on a white background, carving themselves into his memory like a brand.

Creates a scene. Makes everyone feel guilty. Martyrs himself so he can feel special.

Mike is saying something across the table, but Joker can't hear him. The coffee shop has gone muffled, underwater, a million miles away. All he can see is his phone screen and Edgar's words and the silence from everyone else in the chat.

No one is defending him.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
edgar that's...

Edgar Valden:
That's what? True?
We've all been tiptoeing around it for months. The constant need for validation, the passive-aggressive absences, the way he never just SAYS what he wants but expects us to read his mind.
And let's not even start on the makeup. It's quite clearly a cry for attention—"look at me, I'm so different, so artistic, so misunderstood."
Some of us don't need to paint ourselves into someone else to feel worthwhile.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The words blur. Joker's vision is swimming, and he realizes with distant horror that he's crying. Tears are tracking down his cheeks, cutting through his carefully applied foundation, smearing the silver and blue eyeshadow, dissolving the waning moon like it was never there.

"Joker—" Mike's voice breaks through the static. "Hey, hey, look at me—"

But Joker is looking at his phone, at the group chat, at the deafening silence that follows Edgar's proclamation. Luca's typing indicator appears and disappears. Norton hasn't said anything. No one is telling Edgar they're wrong. No one is defending the weird kid with the painted face who thought, for one stupid moment, that he might actually belong somewhere.

He should put the phone down. He should walk away. He should do anything other than what he does next.

His hands move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought has abandoned him. He opens the GIF search function and types in three words: mister rogers clown.

The result appears immediately—a clip of Mister Rogers placing a clown mask over his face, calm and methodical, the visual metaphor so perfect it makes Joker want to scream.

He sends it.

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
[GIF: Mister Rogers putting on a clown mask]
haha #mood
you got me there edgar!! (〃ω〃)

Across the table, Mike makes a wounded sound. "Joker, you don't have to—"

But Joker is already standing, already gathering his jacket and scarf with hands that won't stop shaking. The tears are flowing freely now, ruining his makeup completely, destroying forty-five minutes of careful work in seconds. Other patrons are starting to stare, and some part of Joker's brain catalogs this as yet another humiliation, another scene he's creating, another moment where he's too much and not enough all at once.

"I have to go," he says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears—high and thin and nothing like himself. "Client work. You know."

"Joker, please—"

"Good luck with your practice." He forces his mouth into a smile, feeling his face fight him every step of the way. "You're going to crush it at the showcase."

"I don't care about the showcase—"

But Joker is already moving, already pushing through the coffee shop door and out into the bitter cold. The wind hits his tear-streaked face like a slap, and he welcomes it, welcomes anything that feels like something other than the hollow ache in his chest.

He walks.

He doesn't know where he's going. His feet carry him through streets he doesn't recognize, past storefronts he doesn't see, around corners he won't remember. The city blurs around him, becoming abstract, impressionistic—like one of Edgar's paintings, all color and emotion and no clear lines.

Edgar.

Some of us don't need to paint ourselves into someone else to feel worthwhile.

The words echo in his head, bouncing off the inside of his skull like a trapped bird. Is that what they all think? Is that what Mike thinks? That Joker's makeup is a cry for attention, a desperate plea from someone too pathetic to exist without external validation?

Maybe they're right.

Maybe that's all he's ever been—a performance. A show. A carefully constructed illusion with nothing real underneath. Strip away the foundation and the eyeshadow and the artistic flourishes, and what's left? Just a broken thing that doesn't know how to exist without armor.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it. It buzzes again, insistent, demanding attention he doesn't have to give. He pulls it out just long enough to see the notifications—Mike, calling. Luca, messaging. Norton, messaging. Even Edgar, though their message is probably just a dismissive response to the Mister Rogers GIF—before powering it off completely.

Silence.

The cold has seeped into his bones now, but he doesn't turn back. He walks until the streets start looking familiar, until he realizes he's in his own neighborhood, standing outside his own building like a ghost haunting his own life.

Victor is in the lobby when he enters, doing something complicated with the mailboxes. He looks up, nods politely, then does a double-take when he sees Joker's face.

"Joker?" He signs with his hands. He’s selectively mute, so Joker taught himself sign language over the few months he’s lived in this complex. "You look… sad."

"Just the cold," Joker manages. "I'm fine."

Victor doesn't look convinced, but he's not the type to push. He signs an ‘I understand’ gesture in sign language and returns to the mailboxes with a final concerned glance. Joker escapes to the elevator before any more questions can surface.

The apartment is exactly as he left it—immaculate, empty, waiting. Houdini emerges from the bedroom, takes one look at his face, and meows in a way that might be concern or might be judgment. With cats, it's hard to tell.

"I know," Joker tells her. "I look like a disaster."

She meows again and winds between his ankles, a warm weight against his calves. He bends down to pick her up, burying his face in her fur, and finally, finally lets himself fall apart.

The sobs come from somewhere deep, somewhere primal, somewhere he keeps locked away under layers of foundation and primer and setting spray. They wrack his body, making his chest heave and his shoulders shake, making sounds he didn't know he was capable of producing. He cries until his head pounds and his throat aches and his eyes are so swollen he can barely see.

Houdini tolerates this for approximately ninety seconds before squirming free and retreating to the couch with an offended air. Even his cat has limits.

Joker makes it to the bathroom, somehow. The mirror shows him a horror show—makeup smeared and streaked, tear tracks cutting through foundation, mascara running in black rivers down his cheeks. The waning moon is gone entirely. The teardrops he painted beneath his eye have multiplied, mixed with real ones, indistinguishable.

He looks at his reflection and doesn't recognize the person staring back.

"I love you," he whispers. The words are meant for Mike—for the memory of Mike's smile across the coffee shop table, for the way Mike said you deserve better than being forgotten, for fifteen years of friendship and longing and wanting something he can never have. "I love you, but I can't have you."

The words hang in the empty bathroom, unanswered. Unanswerable.

He should remove his makeup properly. Go through the full routine—oil cleanser, water cleanser, toner, the whole ritual. Take care of his skin even when his soul feels like it's dying. That's what he should do. That's what a serious, dedicated student of cosmetics would do.

Instead, he grabs a makeup wipe and scrubs at his face with vicious efficiency, erasing every trace of the person he tried to be today. The silver. The blue. The burgundy lips that were supposed to be war paint. All of it, gone, streaking across the white wipe like a canvas being destroyed.

Underneath, his face is red and blotchy and painfully ordinary. Just a person. Just a forgettable, unremarkable person who thought makeup could make them matter.

He throws the wipe in the trash and doesn't look at the mirror again.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. He feeds Houdini. He drinks water because he knows he should, even though everything tastes like nothing. He curls up on the couch under a blanket and stares at the ceiling, watching the light change as the afternoon fades into evening fades into night.

His phone stays off.

At some point, he must drift into something like sleep, because he dreams. In the dream, he's at Luca's party, wearing a sweater with his own face on it—but when he looks down, the portrait isn't him. It's Edgar, with their imperious expression and their cutting eyes, mouthing words Joker can't hear but somehow understands: cry for attention, cry for attention, cry for attention.

He wakes up gasping, heart pounding, the apartment dark around him.

The clock on the microwave reads 11:47 PM. He's been out for hours.

His phone is still off. He should probably turn it on, let people know he's alive, respond to whatever messages have undoubtedly accumulated. That would be the mature thing to do. The healthy thing. The thing someone who isn't falling apart at the seams would do.

He powers it on.

Forty-three missed messages. Twelve missed calls, all from Mike. A string of voicemails he can't bring himself to listen to.

The group chat is still active, because of course it is.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
joker please answer
i'm really worried

norton got a rock:
Joker, we know you're probably not okay. That's fair. But please let us know you're safe.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
yeah please
i'm so sorry about forgetting you for the party stuff
that was super shitty of me

Edgar Valden:
I may have... expressed myself poorly earlier. I apologize if my words caused undue distress.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
"undue distress"?? edgar you literally called him a cry for attention
what the hell is wrong with you

Edgar Valden:
I was frustrated. That doesn't excuse it, but it explains it.

norton got a rock:
Not really, Edgar.

Edgar Valden:
I said I apologized.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
saying "i apologize if my words caused distress" is not an apology!!
that's like saying "i'm sorry you felt that way"

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
guys can we not fight rn
joker still hasn't answered

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i know i'm just
i'm really scared
what if something happened to him

norton got a rock:
I can check his building. I know where he lives.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
would you??

norton got a rock:
On my way now.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The timestamp on that message is 10:23 PM. Almost an hour and a half ago.

As if on cue, there's a knock at Joker's door.

He doesn't move. Can't move. His body feels like it belongs to someone else, some distant puppet being controlled by strings he can't see. The knock comes again, louder this time.

"Joker?" Norton's voice, muffled through the door. "It's me. I just... I wanted to make sure you're okay."

Joker stares at the door. At the chain lock, still engaged. At the deadbolt, still turned. At all the barriers between himself and the world, keeping everything out, keeping him in.

He doesn't answer.

A long pause. Then Norton's voice again, quieter: "I get it if you don't want to talk. I just... I'm gonna leave something by your door, okay? You don't have to open it. I just want you to know someone's here."

Footsteps, retreating. The sound of something being placed on the ground—a soft thud, like a package. Then silence.

Joker waits five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Until he's absolutely certain Norton is gone, until the hallway has returned to its usual midnight emptiness.

Then he opens the door.

There's a small box on his doormat, wrapped in newspaper—Norton's signature wrapping style, practical and unassuming. Inside is a rock. A small, polished stone that catches the hallway light with flecks of silver and gold.

There's a note tucked beneath it, written in Norton's cramped handwriting:

This is pyrite. People call it fool's gold because it looks like something valuable but technically isn't. I think that's stupid. It's beautiful on its own merits—the crystal structure, the way it reflects light, the chemical composition. It doesn't need to be gold to be worth something.

Neither do you.

— N

Joker stares at the note until the words blur. Then he takes the rock and the note inside, closes the door, and cries all over again.

The night stretches on, endless and empty. Houdini eventually forgives him enough to curl up on his chest, her purr a small vibration against his sternum. The TV stays off. The lights stay off. Everything stays off except for Joker's brain, which refuses to stop replaying the day's events in excruciating detail.

Edgar's words. Mike's pity. The five sweaters without him. The GIF of Mister Rogers putting on a mask, like Joker is a joke even to himself.

I love you, but I can't have you.

He thinks of Mike's face across the coffee shop table—open and worried and so unbearably kind. He thinks of how Mike said you deserve better than being forgotten, like he genuinely believed it, like Joker was someone worth remembering. He thinks of the way Mike's voice cracked when he said I'm trying so hard to be here for you.

And then he thinks of himself, pulling away. Running. Hiding behind a makeup wipe and a dead phone and a locked door. Proving Edgar right—creating a scene, making everyone feel guilty, martyring himself.

Maybe that's all he knows how to do.

Maybe that's all he is.

At 3:47 AM, Joker finally powers his phone back on and types a message in the group chat:

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
i'm home. i'm okay. sorry for worrying everyone.
going to sleep now. talk tomorrow.

He doesn't wait for responses. He turns the phone off again, buries it under a pillow, and curls around Houdini's warm body.

Sleep, when it finally comes, is dreamless and cold.

The clock on his nightstand ticks toward dawn. Outside, the city never sleeps, but inside Joker's apartment, everything is silent. Waiting. The pyrite sits on his nightstand, catching the faint glow of streetlights through the window. Fool's gold. Worth something anyway.

Joker closes his eyes and tries to believe it.

Chapter Text

Joker doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He vaguely remembers the weight of Houdini on his chest, the faint glow of the pyrite on his nightstand, the way his eyes burned from crying. He remembers thinking about setting an alarm, try to maintain some semblance of a routine, do something other than lie in the dark and marinate in his own misery.

He didn’t even set the alarm.

When consciousness finally drags him back to the surface, the light filtering through his curtains is the pale, washed-out grey of late morning. His body feels like it’s been filled with sand—heavy, gritty, wrong. His eyes are crusted with dry tears, his throat raw, head pounding with that particular ache that comes from crying yourself to sleep.

Houdini’s gone. She probably found somewhere more comfortable than her pathetic owner. Smart girl.

For a long moment, Joker doesn't move. He stares at the ceiling, at the crack he still hasn't reported to Victor, at the way the light creates shadows that shift and merge like watercolors bleeding into each other. His phone is still buried under the pillow next to him, silent and dark. He should check it. He should see if anyone responded to his 3:47 AM message. He should—

He doesn't move.

The apartment is quiet in a way that feels oppressive, no traffic sounds from outside or the sounds of a piano coming from upstairs. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the soft tick of the clock on his nightstand. Joker counts the seconds between each tick, watching the minute hand crawl forward, measuring time in increments that feel both too fast and too slow.

Eventually, inevitably, his bladder forces him vertical.

The bathroom mirror is not kind. His face is puffy and blotched, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, his skin an unhealthy greyish pallor that no amount of foundation could fix. He looks sick. He looks broken. He looks like someone who cried themselves to sleep and woke up to find that nothing had changed.

Because nothing has changed.

Edgar's insult is still there, branded into his memory. The five sweaters still exist, portraits of people who belong to each other, with no space for a sixth. Mike's concerned face still haunts him, that expression of pity and frustration and something Joker can't name but desperately wants to understand. Norton's note still sits on his nightstand, next to the pyrite, promising him worth he doesn't feel.

Joker splashes cold water on his face and doesn't look at his reflection again.

The morning routine—if it can be called morning when it's nearly noon—is a hollow echo of normalcy. He feeds Houdini, who appears from wherever she'd been hiding to accept her tribute with regal disdain. He makes coffee and watches it go cold on the counter. He stands at the window and watches the city move without him, all those people with somewhere to be and someone to be with.

His phone stays buried under the pillow.

At some point, he realizes he should eat something. His stomach is a tight knot of anxiety and emptiness, and he can't remember the last time he had a proper meal. Yesterday's lavender latte, maybe. Or was that all he had? He opens the refrigerator and stares at the contents—leftover takeout from three days ago, a carton of eggs he bought with good intentions, some wilting vegetables he'll never cook. Nothing appeals. Nothing seems worth the effort.

He closes the refrigerator and doesn't eat.

The hours blur together. Joker finds himself in different places in the apartment without remembering how he got there—standing at the window, sitting on the couch, lying on the floor with Houdini investigating his prone form with concerned meows. Time becomes abstract, meaningless. The light changes, shadows lengthening, but it all feels the same.

Eventually, around 2 PM according to the microwave clock, he makes himself retrieve his phone.

The notifications are... overwhelming. Messages from Mike (seventeen), from Norton (four), from Luca (eight), from Orpheus (one, which is a lot for Orpheus). Even Edgar sent something, though Joker can't bring himself to look at it yet. There are missed calls, voicemails, Instagram DMs from people he barely knows asking if he's okay because apparently someone posted something somewhere about drama in their friend group.

The group chat has fifty-two new messages.

Joker doesn't read any of them.

Instead, he opens his camera roll and scrolls back. Back past the selfies from yesterday, last week, last month. Back past the photos of Charlotte and her wife Petunia, twin mannequins in various stages of painted completion. Past Houdini being photogenic. Past screenshots of Discord conversations he'd wanted to remember but probably shouldn't have saved. Back to the summer, when everything felt different.

There’s a photo from July 2018, a year before Joker graduated high school. A beach trip that Luca organized, when the weather was warm and the future felt possible. Six people crowded into the frame: Luca making a ridiculous face, Edgar looking annoyed but secretly pleased, Norton squinting against the sun, Orpheus somehow managing to look poetic even covered in sand, Mike grinning so wide it looks like his face might split.

And Joker. Standing at the edge of the group, half in shadow, his smile not quite reaching his eyes even then.

He zooms in on the photo, studying the distance between himself and the others. Physical distance, emotional distance. Even in the middle of a group activity, surrounded by people who were supposed to be his friends, he was separate. Apart. Looking at the photo now, he can't help but wonder if they even noticed he was there.

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he's always been on the edge of the frame, and he just didn't see it until now.

He scrolls further back, to photos from his and Mike's childhood. They'd reconnected on Instagram a few years ago, and Mike had sent him a whole folder of old pictures—Polaroids his mother had taken, school photos, snapshots from birthday parties and summer camps and all those moments that used to feel so significant.

There's one photo Joker keeps coming back to. He's maybe eight years old, standing next to Mike in someone's backyard. They're both wearing matching superhero capes—red for Mike, blue for Joker—and they're laughing at something the camera didn't capture. Mike has his arm around Joker's shoulders, and Joker is leaning into him, completely unselfconscious, completely happy.

He can't remember the last time he felt that way.

What happened to us? he thinks, staring at the photo until his vision blurs. What happened to me?

He knows the answer, of course. Time happened. Distance happened. They grew up in the same neighborhood, but Mike's family moved when they were twelve, and after that it was just Christmas cards and occasional phone calls that became less and less frequent until they stopped entirely. By the time they reconnected in college, they were different people. Mike had become confident and athletic and surrounded by friends. Joker had become... this.

Whatever this is.

The phone buzzes in his hand, startling him. A new message, directly from Mike:

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
hey
i know u probably dont wanna talk
but i just want you to know i’m here
whenever you’re ready
no pressure

Joker stares at the message for a long time. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, crafting and discarding responses he'll never send.

I'm not okay.

I don't know if I'll ever be ready.

I love you and it's killing me.

He locks his phone and sets it face-down on the coffee table.

The afternoon drags on. Joker tries to distract himself with television, but everything feels hollow—the laugh tracks too loud, the comedy too fabricated, the reality shows too aware of their own performance. He turns it off and sits in silence instead, listening to the tick of the clock and the soft sounds of Houdini grooming herself on the armchair.

At some point, he finds himself at his vanity.

He doesn't remember deciding to go there. One moment he was on the couch, the next he was sitting on the small stool in front of his mirror, staring at the array of brushes and palettes and tubes that usually bring him comfort. His armor. His art. The thing that makes him him, or at least the version of himself he shows to the world.

Some of us don't need to paint ourselves into someone else to feel worthwhile.

Edgar's words echo in the empty apartment, and Joker flinches like he's been struck.

He picks up a foundation brush, turning it over in his fingers. The bristles are soft, expensive—he’d saved up for months to buy this set, the same one Uche Natori recommended in one of her latest TikTok videos. He remembers the joy he felt when it arrived, the way he'd stayed up until 3 AM practicing blending techniques on his own face, watching tutorials and experimenting with colors. He remembers Mike's reaction the first time Joker showed him a finished look, the genuine awe in his voice when he said dude, that's incredible!

Was that a lie too?

Joker sets the brush down and opens a palette. This one is cool-toned, all silvers and greys and deep blues, perfect for winter. He traces his finger over the colors, feeling the silky texture of the pressed powder. Each shade has a name—Midnight, Frozen, Stardust, Eclipse. Pretty words for pretty colors that create pretty illusions.

Maybe that's all he is. An illusion.

He picks up the brush again. Without really thinking about it, he loads it with a soft grey and brings it to his face. The first stroke is tentative, hesitant. The second is more confident. By the third, muscle memory has taken over, and he's working on autopilot, applying and blending and building layers like he's done a thousand times before.

But something is different.

Usually, when Joker does his makeup, he's creating. He's building a version of himself that feels true, that feels powerful, that feels like armor against a world that wants to tear him apart. Today, though, the brush strokes feel mechanical. Empty. He's going through the motions without any of the intention, and the result is... wrong.

He stops halfway through, studying his reflection. One eye is done, shadowed and lined, a subtle gradient from lid to crease. The other is bare, untouched, vulnerable. Half-finished. Half a person.

That feels about right.

Joker sets down the brush and stares at his split reflection—the made-up side and the bare side, the performance and the reality. He thinks about what it would be like to just... stop. To never put on makeup again. To show up bare-faced and ordinary, to let people see the unremarkable person underneath all the color and artistry.

Would they still want him around? Would they notice the difference? Would they finally realize what Edgar apparently already knows—that Joker is just a sad, desperate person playing dress-up to feel special?

He reaches for a makeup wipe.

The removal is slow this time, almost ritualistic. He takes his time erasing each stroke of color, watching the grey and silver transfer to the white cloth. It feels like he's erasing himself. Like he's wiping away the only version of himself that matters, leaving nothing but the blank canvas underneath.

When he's done, his face is clean. Raw. Exposed in a way that makes his skin crawl.

He doesn't look at the mirror again.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a haze of nothingness. Joker lies on the couch, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between breaths. Houdini eventually joins him, curling up in the curve of his hip, her purr a steady vibration that's almost soothing. Almost.

His phone continues to buzz intermittently. He continues to ignore it.

At some point, the light outside begins to fade. The grey afternoon slips into a greyer evening, the city lights blinking to life beyond his window. Joker watches the transition with detached interest, like he's observing a nature documentary about a world he doesn't belong to.

Five people. Five sweaters. Five portraits.

The numbers run through his head on a loop, a cruel little mantra. Five, five, five. Never six. Never him.

He thinks about the party on the 23rd. Four days away. Close enough to dread, far enough to pretend it doesn't matter. Even if Luca makes him a sweater now, even if they add his portrait to the collection, he'll know. He'll know it was an afterthought. He'll know he wasn't supposed to be there.

Maybe he shouldn't go.

The thought settles into him like a stone sinking in water. Slow, inevitable, final. Maybe he shouldn't go to the party. Maybe he should just... disappear. Not in a dramatic way, nothing that would cause a scene or make people feel guilty. Just quietly, gradually, fade out of their lives like a song that's been playing too long in the background.

They probably wouldn't even notice.

The evening settles over the city like a burial shroud.

Joker hasn't moved from the couch in hours. Houdini has long since abandoned him, relocating to her favorite spot on the windowsill where she can watch the pigeons and pretend she's a mighty hunter instead of an eight-month-old kitten who gets spooked by the vacuum cleaner. The apartment is dark—Joker hasn't bothered to turn on any lights—and the only illumination comes from the city beyond his windows, that eternal electric glow that never quite reaches the corners of the room.

His phone buzzes again.

He's stopped counting how many times it's done that. The vibrations have become background noise, like the hum of the refrigerator or the distant sound of traffic. Just another thing happening in a world that keeps moving regardless of whether Joker participates in it.

But this buzz is different. Longer. A call, not a message.

He doesn't look at the screen. Doesn't need to. It's Mike—it's always Mike—calling for what must be the twentieth time today. Joker can picture him perfectly: pacing in his dorm room or maybe at the gym, phone pressed to his ear, that worried furrow between his brows that appears whenever something threatens the people he cares about.

Does he care about me? Joker wonders. Or does he just feel responsible?

The call goes to voicemail. The apartment returns to silence.

Eventually, hunger becomes impossible to ignore. Not actual hunger—Joker can't remember the last time he felt genuinely hungry—but a weakness, a shakiness in his limbs that warns him his body is running on empty. He forces himself vertical, which takes more effort than it should, and shuffles to the kitchen.

The refrigerator light is too bright. He squints against it, surveying his options with the enthusiasm of someone choosing their own execution method. The leftover takeout has definitely gone bad. The eggs are probably still fine. The vegetables have passed the point of no return.

He grabs a yogurt from the back of the fridge—strawberry, past its best-by date but probably still edible—and eats it standing at the counter in the dark. It tastes like nothing. Everything tastes like nothing lately.

His phone, still on the coffee table, lights up with another notification. The glow is visible even from the kitchen, a small beacon in the darkness. Joker ignores it. Finishes his yogurt. Throws away the container. Stands at the sink and stares at his reflection in the dark window, a ghost of a ghost.

The group chat, when he finally checks it hours later, is a study in uncomfortable silence.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

GUCCI GANG 💯

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
hey @joker (NOT arthur fleck)
i finished your sweater design
[image: a JoJo style portrait of Joker, dramatic pose, pink background]
i really am sorry about forgetting
that was super shitty of me

norton got a rock:
Looks good, Luca.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
thanks
joker lmk if you want any changes!!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The portrait stares back at Joker from his phone screen. Luca actually captured something—the theatrical flair, dramatic eyes, the hint of a smile that doesn’t quite reach. It’s well-done. Objectively, it’s just as good as the others, if not maybe even better. And Luca clearly put effort into it, mimicking the JoJo art style, Joker’s anime counterpart resembling Bruno Bucciarati.

But it’s still an afterthought, something made after someone else pointed out an absence. It was nothing but a correction rather than an intention.

Joker doesn't respond to the message.

He sets his phone down and stares at the ceiling again, watching the way the city lights create shifting patterns on the plaster. The crack above his bed seems longer than it was this morning, branching out like a river delta, like veins, like all the ways a person can break without anyone noticing.

The portrait was pink. Luca chose pink for him.

It's a small thing—insignificant, really—but it lodges in Joker's chest like a splinter. Pink. Not because Joker asked for pink, not because anyone consulted him, but because that's what Luca assumed. That's what they all assume. The clown with the painted face, of course he'd want something bright and theatrical and obvious.

They don't know me at all.

The thought isn't new, but tonight it hits differently. Tonight it feels less like a sad observation and more like a verdict. A final judgment rendered by a jury of people who never bothered to look past the surface.

Joker pulls the blanket tighter around himself, cocooning in darkness. Houdini has returned from her window perch and is investigating his blanket-covered form with the intense focus of a cat who suspects there might be treats hidden somewhere. When she finds none, she settles on his chest anyway, a warm weight that rises and falls with his breathing.

"At least you see me," Joker murmurs to her. "Even if you only see a can opener with legs."

She purrs. It's probably agreement.

The night stretches on, elastic and unforgiving.

At some point, Joker's body decides that consciousness is optional and drags him into a fitful half-sleep. It's not restful—his dreams are fragmented and strange, full of faces that blur and shift, voices that say things he can't quite hear. He dreams of the coffee shop, of Mike's face crumpling, of Edgar's comment appearing in the air like text on a screen, floating there, accusatory and permanent.

Cry for attention.

Feel special.

Paint yourself into someone else.

He wakes up gasping, chest tight, heart hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. The apartment is pitch black—even the city lights have dimmed to a low murmur—and for a long, disorienting moment, Joker doesn't know where he is. Doesn't know when he is. He could be eight years old again, hiding under the covers in his childhood bedroom, waiting for the monsters to go away.

The monsters never go away. They just learn to wear familiar faces.

Houdini meows, concerned or annoyed or hungry. Joker can't tell anymore. He reaches out blindly and finds her warm fur, anchoring himself to the present. He's in his apartment. He's twenty-four years old, born in August 2001. He's alone, and that's fine. That's how it should be. That’s how it should go.

His phone glows on the nightstand, notifications accumulated like sediment. He doesn't look at them.

Instead, he gets up—slowly, carefully, like his body is made of something fragile that might shatter with too sudden a movement—and makes his way to the bathroom. The light is brutal, fluorescent and unforgiving, and he has to close his eyes against it for a full thirty seconds before he can bear to look at his reflection.

The face that stares back is a stranger's. Hollow eyes, chapped lips, skin that looks grey and lifeless without its usual armor of color. He looks sick. He looks dead.

Maybe that's appropriate.

He goes through the motions of his nighttime skincare routine—the one he skipped earlier, the one he always does no matter how bad things get—because at least his skin shouldn't have to suffer for his emotional state. Cleanser, toner, essence, serum, moisturizer. Each step deliberate, mechanical, a ritual performed without feeling.

When he's done, his skin is hydrated and healthy-looking, which feels like a betrayal. The outside doesn't match the inside. It never does.

He returns to bed without turning off the bathroom light. Let it burn. Let the electricity bill skyrocket. What does it matter, in the grand scheme of things? What does anything matter?

The hours between 3 AM and dawn are the longest hours that exist.

Joker knows this from experience, spending too many nights locked away in this liminal space, this hollow pocket of time when the world feels suspended between states—neither fully night nor approaching day. It’s when the thoughts become the loudest, when the loneliness becomes a physical weight on his chest, when every regret and fear and inadequacy parades through his mind like a procession of ghosts.

Tonight’s no different.

He lies in bed, blanket pulled to his chin, and catalogs all the ways he's failed. Failed to be a good friend. Failed to be a real person. Failed to matter enough to be remembered, to be counted, to be included without prompting. Failed to love without wanting something in return. Failed to exist without making everything about himself.

Creates a scene, Edgar had said.

And they were right. Edgar is always right, with their cutting observations and their inability to coat truth in anything softer than broken glass. That's why it hurts so much. Not because Edgar was cruel—Edgar is always cruel, that's just how they can be—but because he saw through Joker. Saw the pathetic, needy thing underneath all the paint and color.

And said it out loud.

In front of everyone.

Joker wonders if this is what it feels like to be skinned alive. To have your protective layers stripped away, leaving nothing but raw nerve and exposed flesh. Every breath hurts. Every thought is a fresh wound.

He reaches for his phone, not to check messages but to open his photo gallery again. He scrolls back to that childhood picture—him and Mike in their superhero capes, laughing, happy, together. He stares at it until his eyes burn, the image blurs—until he can almost convince himself that the warmth he felt back then was real.

"I love you," he whispers to the photo. To the memory. To the ghost of a feeling that's haunted him for fifteen years. "I love you, but I can't have you."

The words evaporate into the darkness. No one hears them. No one responds.

That's probably for the best.

Dawn arrives without fanfare—just a gradual lightening of the grey, a slow transition from one shade of nothing to another. Joker watches it happen through his window, having given up on sleep entirely somewhere around 5 AM. The city comes to life in increments: delivery trucks rumbling past, early joggers with their determined expressions, a dog walker being dragged down the sidewalk by an enthusiastic golden retriever.

Everyone has somewhere to be. Someone to be with.

Joker simply has a cat, a cracked ceiling, a phone full of messages he can’t bring himself to read, and a television that plays cooking shows about Scottish chefs screaming about lamb sauce.

Joker should shower. He should eat, or at least move from this spot he’s occupied for the past twelve hours. But the thought of doing anything—anything at all—feels insurmountable, like climbing a mountain made of wet sand.

Instead he stays where he is, watching the light change, counting cracks in the ceiling. He listens to Houdini crunching her way through breakfast in the kitchen. At least one of them is functioning like a normal, healthy creature.

His phone buzzes.

The sound is almost startling after hours of silence—he’d forgotten it was even off Do Not Disturb. He glances at the screen, catches a glimpse of a name before he can stop himself:

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪

The preview shows only the first few words of the message: joker please i really need to…

He doesn't read the rest.

His thumb hovers over the notification, and for one weak, desperate moment, he almost opens it. Almost lets Mike's words in, almost reaches for the comfort being offered. Mike cares. Mike has been calling, messaging, trying to reach him since yesterday. Mike noticed he was missing before anyone else, Mike defended him in the group chat, Mike—

Mike deserves better than a broken thing that creates scenes and martyrs himself.

Joker swipes the notification away without reading it.

The morning passes in a blur of nothing.

Joker eventually makes it to the shower, more out of physical discomfort than any desire to feel clean. The water is too hot, but he doesn't adjust it. He stands under the spray until his skin is pink and stinging, until the bathroom is thick with steam, until he can pretend the wetness on his face is just water.

It's not.

When he finally emerges, wrapped in his Kuromi towel like a sad, kawaii burrito, his phone is buzzing again. Multiple notifications this time—the group chat has woken up. He can see the preview banners stacking on his lock screen like Jenga blocks:

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡: hope you like the design!! lmk about...

norton got a rock: Joker, just checking in. No pressure to...

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪: ok i know ur not answering but...

He turns the phone face-down without unlocking it.

The apartment feels smaller today. The walls closer. The ceiling lower. Joker moves through it like a ghost, touching surfaces without feeling them, existing without inhabiting. He feeds Houdini even though she's already eaten. He makes coffee and forgets about it until it's cold. He stands at his vanity and stares at his makeup collection, at the brushes and palettes and tubes that usually feel like power but today feel like indictments.

He picks up a palette—the same cool-toned one from yesterday, silvers and greys and deep blues—and holds it in his hands. Such a small thing. Such a stupid, insignificant thing. Pressed powder in plastic packaging, colors with pretty names, tools of transformation and concealment. It shouldn't matter this much. It shouldn't feel like his entire identity is sitting in his palm, small enough to crush.

But it does.

Joker thinks about what it would mean to never use this again. To wake up every day and face the world with nothing between him and its sharp edges. To let people see the unremarkable person underneath—the tired eyes, the uneven skin, the face that doesn't quite fit any category, that makes people do double-takes and uncomfortable assessments.

Would that be brave, or just another form of self-destruction?

He sets the palette down without opening it.

By afternoon, his phone has accumulated 78 new messages.

Joker knows this because he made the mistake of glancing at his lock screen while looking for the time. The number sits there, accusatory and overwhelming, a reminder of all the people trying to reach him and all the reaching he’s refused to accept. Most of them are from Mike, with the constant appearance of his censored username at the top of the stack.

Mike hasn’t given up. Hasn’t stopped trying. Doesn’t understand that some people just aren’t worth saving.

The group chat has been active too, though Joker can't bring himself to look at the specifics. He catches fragments in the previews—sweater order, party planning, hope joker's okay—but they feel distant, like transmissions from another planet. A planet where people care about ugly sweaters and hot chocolate and matching portraits, where Christmas parties matter and friendships are uncomplicated.

That planet isn't one Joker has ever lived on.

He’s in the kitchen, standing at the window, watching a woman across the street struggle to parallel park her Ford Explorer. That’s when the intercom buzzes, the sound so unexpected Joker actually jumps, sloshing the tea he’d made and forgotten about down his sleeve. Nobody visits him, nobody even knows he lives here except Victor and—

Norton.

Norton, who left the pyrite last night. Who knows where he lives. Who probably told Mike, which means—

The intercom buzzes again. Joker doesn't move.

A third buzz, longer this time, more insistent. Then a voice, crackling through the ancient speaker system: "Joker? It's Mike. I know you're up there. Please."

Joker's heart stops.

He stares at the intercom panel mounted on the wall near his door, at the little button that would let Mike in, that would open the door to everything Joker's been trying to avoid. He can picture Mike standing in the lobby, probably having sweet-talked Victor into letting him past the first set of doors, phone in hand, that worried expression on his face.

Please.

Mike said please.

Joker's hand twitches toward the button. His whole body aches with wanting—wanting to let Mike in, wanting to be held, wanting to cry into Mike's shoulder and have Mike tell him everything's okay even if it's a lie. He wants it so badly he can taste it, metallic and desperate, coating the back of his throat.

But.

Cry for attention.

Feel special.

Martyrs himself.

If he lets Mike in now, that's all he'll be proving. That Edgar was right. That Joker is exactly the kind of pathetic, needy creature who can't survive without external validation, who manufactures crises to force people to pay attention to him.

He can't do that to Mike. Can't make Mike responsible for fixing something that can't be fixed. Can't add one more burden to Mike's already full life—practice and showcases and friends and a future that doesn't have room for a broken clown who can't stop crying despite the elaborate show he puts on.

"Joker." Mike's voice again, smaller this time. "I can see your light's on. I just... I just want to know you're okay."

Joker reaches for the button.

His finger hovers.

He pulls his hand back.

A long silence. Then Mike's voice, so quiet it's almost lost in the static: "Okay. I get it. But I'm not going anywhere. I'll be at the coffee shop on the corner—the one with the good croissants—for the next few hours. If you change your mind... I'm here."

Footsteps. The exterior door opening and closing. Silence.

Joker slides down the wall until he's sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, knees drawn to his chest. Houdini appears from somewhere and headbutts his ankle with concern. He doesn't pet her. He can't move.

Mike came for him.

Mike is waiting for him.

And Joker is sitting on the floor of his kitchen, unable to move, unable to reach out, unable to do anything except exist in this frozen moment of wanting and not having.

I love you, he thinks again, the words a silent scream. I love you, and I'm ruining everything.

The afternoon stretches into evening.

Joker doesn't go to the coffee shop. He knows Mike is there—knows Mike is probably ordering drink after drink, checking his phone every few minutes, hoping—but he doesn't go. Can't go. The distance between his apartment and that coffee shop might as well be the distance between galaxies, infinite and untraversable.

Instead, he stays on the kitchen floor. For how long, he's not sure. His legs go numb, then tingly, then painful, but he doesn't move. The light changes around him, slanting through the window, shifting from afternoon gold to evening grey. Houdini gives up on him eventually, retreating to her food bowl, to her window perch, to anywhere that isn't next to her broken owner.

At some point, his phone buzzes with a new message. He knows without looking that it's Mike, updating him, reaching out one more time:

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪: 
leaving the coffee shop now. i waited as long as i could. i'm not giving up on you. please just... let me know you're alive.

Joker reads the preview through blurred eyes.

He should respond. He should at least send an emoji, a single letter, something to let Mike know he exists. That would be the decent thing to do. The kind thing. Mike has been trying so hard, has been so patient, has been everything Joker doesn't deserve.

He types: i'm here

He deletes it.

sorry

Deletes it.

i love you

Deletes it so fast his finger cramps.

In the end, he sends nothing. Mike's message sits there, unanswered, another small cruelty added to the list of cruelties Joker has committed today. Another person he's failed. Another relationship he's sabotaging because he doesn't know how to accept care without feeling like he's stealing something he hasn't earned.

The evening routine is a ghost of itself.

Joker eventually peels himself off the kitchen floor, limbs stiff and protesting. He goes through the motions—bathroom, skincare, pajamas—but none of it feels real. He's operating on autopilot, a machine running programs without consciousness, a body going through rituals that have lost all meaning.

He catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror and looks away immediately. He can't stand the sight of his own face tonight. Can't stand the bare, unadorned vulnerability of it, the way his eyes look bruised even without shadow, the way his lips are chapped and colorless. This is what he looks like without armor. This is who he is underneath.

No wonder people forget him.

He's not worth remembering.

The group chat has continued without him. He knows this because his phone keeps buzzing, keeps lighting up with notifications he refuses to read. Party planning. Sweater designs. All the normal, functional friendship activities that happen when people actually belong to each other.

Joker doesn't belong to anyone.

He curls up in bed, pulling the covers over his head like a child hiding from monsters. Houdini joins him after a while, a warm presence against his stomach, and he's grateful for her even if he can't express it. She doesn't judge. She doesn't expect anything from him except food and occasional attention. She doesn't need him to be okay.

No one needs him to be okay.

No one needs him at all.

Sleep comes eventually, not because Joker finds peace but because his body simply gives out.

The dreams are terrible.

He dreams of the party—Luca's apartment decorated with both Chanukah and Christmas decorations, blue and white lights mixed with the classic red and green of Christmas. It's an inclusive space for everybody, a few LGBT banners and flags hanging around the apartment with Edgar's nonbinary pride flag taking up half of the wall. The menorah on the windowsill glows with electric candles, and somewhere in the background, a playlist shuffles between holiday songs from every tradition Luca could think to include.

It should feel welcoming. It should feel like home.

But something is wrong.

Joker stands in the doorway, and no one looks up. The five sweaters are arranged on the couch like headless bodies—green for Mike, black for Norton, purple for Edgar, a slightly different purple for Orpheus, yellow for Luca. Five sweaters. Five people. The number feels like a bruise he keeps pressing.

He tries to speak, to announce his presence, but his voice won't come. His throat is full of something thick and heavy, like he's swallowed cotton, like he's drowning on dry land. He opens his mouth and nothing emerges but silence.

And then they notice him.

One by one, the heads turn. Luca first, his usual scattered energy replaced by something cold and pitying. Edgar next, their expression sharp as a scalpel. Norton, arms crossed, face unreadable. Orpheus, watching with those dark, knowing eyes. And Mike—

Mike doesn't turn at all.

"Oh," Luca says, and the single syllable carries the weight of disappointment. "You came."

Joker tries to respond, tries to explain that he was invited, that he belongs here, that he's part of this group too. But his voice remains trapped somewhere beneath his ribs, a bird beating against the cage of his chest.

"We should tell him," Edgar says. His voice is casual, almost bored, like they're discussing the weather rather than dismantling a person. "Don't you think? He deserves to know the truth."

The truth.

The word echoes through the apartment, bouncing off the festive decorations, multiplying until it fills every corner of the space. The truth, the truth, the truth. Joker wants to cover his ears, wants to run, but his body won't obey. He's rooted to the spot, frozen in the doorway like a statue made of ice and shame.

"I'll start," Luca says, and his face twists into something Joker has never seen before—not the scattered, affectionate chaos he's used to, but something colder. Crueler. "You want to know why I forgot to invite you? Why I counted five people instead of six?"

Joker shakes his head. No. He doesn't want to know. He can't—

"Because you're easy to forget." Luca's words are delivered with surgical precision. "You're background noise, Joker. You're the friend we keep around because it would be awkward to kick you out. Because you've been here so long we don't know how to get rid of you. But we don't actually want you here. We never did."

The words hit like physical blows. Joker staggers, reaching for something to hold onto, but his hands pass through the furniture like he's made of smoke. Like he's not really here at all.

"Yeah," Edgar says, stepping forward. Their artist's hands are stained with paint—purple and grey and black, the colors of bruises. "You thought I valued your talent, didn't you? Your precious makeup skills. Your art." He laughs, and it's nothing like their usual sardonic humor. It's mean. It's sharp. Designed to wound. "You were useful, Joker. That's all. A tool to borrow techniques from. A reference for my paintings. Do you know how many sketches I've done of you? Dozens. Because you make such a perfect picture of pathetic."

Edgar reaches behind them and produces a canvas. It's a portrait—Joker's face, rendered in excruciating detail. But the expression is wrong. The eyes are empty, hollow, desperate. The mouth is curved into a smile that looks more like a grimace. The tears beneath the left eye aren't painted; they're real, wet streaks cutting through the pigment.

"This is what you really look like," Edgar says. "Underneath all that makeup. Just a sad, broken thing pretending to be a person."

Joker tries to scream. Nothing comes out.

"He already knows that," Norton says, speaking for the first time. His voice is flat, disinterested, like he's reading a grocery list. "He's known it his whole life. That's why he paints himself into someone else every morning. Because he can't stand the face underneath."

Orpheus moves then, drifting forward with that ethereal grace that usually seems otherworldly and beautiful but now feels predatory. His dark eyes fix on Joker with an intensity that makes Joker want to crawl out of his own skin.

"I've been watching you," Orpheus says softly. "Studying you. You're fascinating, you know—in the way that tragedies are fascinating. All that pain, all that loneliness, all that desperate need to be seen and loved and valued. You're a perfect protagonist." He tilts his head, considering. "A perfect victim. The kind of character readers can pity without ever having to actually care about."

He pulls out a notebook—leather-bound, worn at the edges—and opens it to a page filled with dense handwriting.

"I've been writing your story," Orpheus continues. "Every sad moment. Every rejection. Every time your friends forgot you existed or said something cruel or looked right through you like you weren't even there. It's going to make a beautiful novel. Tragic and poetic and utterly, utterly hopeless."

He snaps the notebook shut.

"You're not a person to me, Joker. You're material. You're content. And the best part is, you'll never get better. You'll never heal. You'll just keep suffering, and I'll keep writing, and the story will never end because you don't know how to let it."

The room is spinning now. Joker's chest is tight, his lungs burning, his vision blurring at the edges. He tries to move, to escape, to find a door or a window or any way out of this nightmare, but his feet are rooted to the floor.

And then Mike finally turns around.

For one desperate, hopeful moment, Joker thinks Mike will save him. Mike, who's known him since childhood. Mike, who called him "babe" and "pookie" and said "love you" in the group chat. Mike, who waited at the coffee shop for hours, who buzzed the intercom, who said I'm not giving up on you.

But Mike's face isn't kind. It isn't worried, it’s blank—utterly, terrifyingly blank—like he's looking at a stranger. Like he's looking at nothing at all.

"I feel sorry for you," Mike says, and his voice is gentle in the worst way, the way you'd speak to a dying animal you can't be bothered to save. "I always have. Ever since we were kids, I've felt sorry for you. That's why I stayed friends with you. That's why I kept reaching out. Not because I wanted to—but because I knew no one else would."

No.

"You're exhausting, Joker. You're needy and broken and you take everything personally and you can never just be okay. I've been trying to fix you for fifteen years and you won't get better. You just... won't."

No.

"I'm tired." Mike's voice cracks, just slightly, and somehow that's worse than if he'd been angry. "I'm so tired of carrying you. I'm tired of worrying about you. I'm tired of trying to make you feel loved when you're determined to be miserable."

Joker is shaking. He can feel tears streaming down his face, hot and relentless, but he can't move to wipe them away. Can't move at all. His legs won't work. His voice won't work. He's trapped in this moment, this endless terrible moment, watching the last person he trusted look at him with the same pity he's always feared.

"So I'm done," Mike says. And then he does the worst thing of all.

He turns away.

He turns his back to Joker and walks to the couch, where the others are waiting. Five people. Five sweaters. Five friends who belong to each other, who fit together perfectly, who never needed a sixth.

Joker watches them settle into the cushions, laughing about something he can't hear. Norton puts his arm around Orpheus. Edgar leans against Luca. Mike sits in the center, where he belongs, surrounded by people who actually matter.

None of them look back.

And then the floor gives way.

Joker plunges into cold water—water that shouldn't be there, water that swallows him whole. The party disappears above him, shrinking to a pinprick of light as he sinks deeper and deeper into the dark. He can see the surface, can see the glow of the Christmas lights and the warmth of the gathering, but it's impossibly far away. Miles away. Unreachable.

He tries to swim up.

His arms won't work. His legs are heavy, weighted down by something invisible, something that wants him to fall. The water fills his mouth, his nose, his lungs, and he can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except sink.

Swim up, he tells himself. Just swim up. You can do this. You can—

But the surface is so far away. And he's so deep now, so impossibly deep, and it would take so much effort to fight his way back. Every stroke of his arms would be agony. Every kick of his legs would be a battle against the current dragging him down. And for what? To break through to a world where no one wants him? To gasp for air in a room full of people who wish he wasn't there?

The thought slides through his mind like a poisonous whisper: maybe it would be easier to just stop fighting. To let the water take him. To sink instead of swim.

“When you're in so deep,” something whispers—his own voice, or the voice of the darkness itself—”it feels easier to just swim down.”

And for one terrible, crystalline moment, Joker considers it. Considers letting go. Considers surrendering to the weight that's been dragging him under his whole life.

Above him, the light grows smaller. The laughter fades. The party continues without him, because it was never meant to include him, because he was never supposed to be there, because he is forgettable and pitiful and easy to forget—

He wakes up gasping.

The ceiling of his apartment stares back at him, cracked and familiar. His chest is heaving, his body drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. Houdini is next to him, awake and alert, her green eyes reflecting the faint city light with concern.

For a long moment, Joker just breathes.

In. Out. In. Out.

The dream was a dream. Just a dream. The words weren't real, the water wasn't real, the sinking sensation wasn't—

But it felt real. It felt true. Like his subconscious had finally stopped pretending and shown him what he really believes: that he's a burden, a pity case, a tragedy someone else is writing. That the people who claim to care about him are just tolerating him, waiting for him to leave, counting the days until they don't have to carry him anymore.

That Mike—

Joker's throat closes around a sob.

He curls onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Houdini presses against his back, a warm and steady presence, but it's not enough. Nothing is enough. The loneliness is a living thing inside him, a creature with teeth and claws, tearing him apart from the inside.

Doesn't it feel easier to just swim down?

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to forget that the thought ever occurred to him.

He doesn't move from his curled position for what feels like hours. The light outside his window shifts from the grey pre-dawn to something slightly warmer, slightly more alive, but Joker remains frozen in place, breathing through the residual panic that makes his chest feel too tight for his lungs. Houdini eventually gives up on providing comfort and relocates to the foot of the bed, her tail flicking with feline concern.

Doesn't it feel easier to just swim down?

The thought keeps circling back, a vulture waiting for something to die. Joker knows it's not real—knows his brain is just exhausted, just traumatized, just processing the accumulated weight of the past two days in the only way it knows how. Dreams don't mean anything. Intrusive thoughts are just that: intrusive. They're not instructions.

But knowing something intellectually and believing it emotionally are two very different things.

He forces himself to sit up eventually, if only because his bladder has become impossible to ignore. The bathroom is cold, the tile like ice against his bare feet, and he moves through the space without looking at the mirror. He can't bear to see his own face right now—the naked vulnerability of it, the way his eyes are probably still red from crying in his sleep.

His phone is on the nightstand when he returns to the bedroom. The screen is dark, but he knows what waits for him there: messages and missed calls and concern he doesn't know how to accept. He should check it. Should at least let someone know he's alive. Mike waited for hours yesterday, waited at that coffee shop with its fancy foam art and its overpriced croissants, and Joker couldn't even send a single emoji in response.

I'm not giving up on you.

The words echo in his memory, Mike's voice crackling through the intercom, and something in Joker's chest cracks a little further. Mike shouldn't have to not give up. Mike shouldn't have to try this hard, to work this much, to carry the weight of someone who can't seem to carry himself.

This is what Edgar was talking about. This is what Joker does—he creates crises, manufactures drama, forces people to expend emotional labor on his behalf. And then he feels guilty about it, which just creates more drama, which requires more labor, which generates more guilt. An endless spiral that drags everyone down with him.

Maybe it would be kinder to just... disappear.

Not in a permanent way. Not like that. Just... quietly. Gradually. Stop responding to messages until people stop sending them. Skip the party on the 23rd. Let the group chat continue without his participation until they forget he was ever part of it. They're already halfway there—Luca proved that with the five sweaters, the five portraits, the five-person headcount that didn't include Joker.

It would be so easy. He's already done most of the work.

Joker picks up his phone.

The lock screen is cluttered with notifications, more than he's ever seen in one place. Most of them are from Mike, a steady stream of messages that started last night and continued into the early hours of the morning:

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
leaving the coffee shop now. i waited as long as i could. i'm not giving up on you. please just... let me know you're alive.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
joker please
i'm really worried about you

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
can you just send me a thumbs up or something?? anything??

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
norton said you got his gift. the pyrite. so i know you're at least opening your door
i don't know what to do. i don't know how to help if you won't talk to me

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i'm sorry about what happened at the coffee shop. i shouldn't have pushed. i should have just let you be.
but i can't just let you be. i CAN'T. you're too important to me.
please joker. please just tell me you're okay.
even if you're not okay. tell me that too. tell me anything.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i miss you

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The messages continue, timestamps marching throughout the night: 11:47 PM, 12:23 AM, 1:15 AM, 2:04 AM. Mike was awake all night, worrying, reaching out across the digital void, and Joker was asleep, dreaming about drowning. About being told he was a burden by the very person who was staying up all night trying to save him.

The irony’s almost poetic. Orpheus would certainly appreciate it.

Joker scrolls through the rest of the messages without reading them closely. There are a few from the group chat—he catches glimpses of party planning, of sweater logistics, of someone asking if anyone has heard from Joker lately—but he doesn't open that conversation. Can't. The thought of seeing Edgar's username makes his stomach lurch with something between rage and shame.

There's a single message from Orpheus, sent at 2:47 AM:

orpheus 🤓:
"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." – Rumi

Joker stares at the quote for a long moment, trying to parse its meaning. Is it meant to be comforting? A philosophical observation? A judgment? With Orpheus, it's always hard to tell. The man speaks in riddles and poetry, his thoughts filtered through so many layers of literary reference that the original intent gets lost somewhere along the way.

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

Right now, Joker doesn't feel any light. He just feels the wound—raw and bleeding and impossible to close.

He sets the phone down without responding to anyone.

The day continues in fragments.

Joker exists in a kind of suspended animation, moving through his apartment like a ghost haunting his own life. He feeds Houdini when she demands it. He drinks water because some distant, still-functioning part of his brain reminds him that dehydration will only make everything worse. He stands at the window and watches the city move without him, all those people with their purposes and their connections, their lives knit together by threads he can't seem to find or hold.

At some point, he ends up at his vanity again.

He doesn't remember deciding to sit down, doesn't remember pulling out the stool and positioning himself in front of the mirror. But here he is, face-to-face with his own reflection, the bare canvas of his features staring back at him with tired, accusatory eyes.

Edgar's past insult, about painting on another face, are a brand burned into his memory. Every time Joker looks at his makeup collection—the palettes and brushes and tubes that used to feel like power—he hears those words. Feels them like fingers pressing into a bruise, testing to see if it still hurts.

It still hurts.

He picks up a brush anyway.

The motion is automatic, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought has failed. He loads the brush with a neutral shade—something subtle, something safe—and brings it to his face. The first stroke feels wrong. Not technically wrong—his hand is steady, his technique is fine—but wrong in some deeper way he can't articulate. Like he's performing a ritual that's lost its meaning.

He continues anyway.

Foundation first, a thin layer that evens out his skin tone and covers the worst of the damage from two days of crying. Concealer under his eyes, blending carefully to hide the purple shadows that have taken up permanent residence there. A light dusting of powder to set everything in place.

Already, he looks different. Less destroyed. More presentable. The kind of face you might glance at and think that person seems fine.

But it's not enough.

It's never enough.

Joker reaches for his eyeshadow palettes, fingers hovering over the collection before settling on something dark. Something that matches the hollow feeling in his chest. He applies the color with mechanical precision—grey on the lid, black in the crease, a hint of silver at the inner corner that might, in different circumstances, be beautiful.

The teardrop beneath his left eye is shaking when he draws it. His hand trembles, making the line uneven, imperfect. He tries to fix it, makes it worse, tries again. By the fourth attempt, the teardrop has become a smear of dark pigment that looks less like art and more like a bruise.

That's what you really look like, dream-Edgar says in his memory. Just a sad, broken thing pretending to be a person.

Joker stares at his reflection.

The makeup isn't armor anymore. It's a lie. A desperate, pathetic attempt to convince the world—to convince himself—that he's someone worth looking at. Someone worth remembering. Someone worth counting.

Five sweaters. Five people. Five.

He picks up a makeup wipe.

The removal is slow and deliberate, almost ceremonial. He drags the cloth across his face, watching the carefully applied layers dissolve into streaks of grey and brown and flesh tone. It feels like erasing himself. Like becoming nothing. Like admitting that Edgar was right, that all of this was just performance, just desperation disguised as art.

When he's done, his face is raw and red from scrubbing. He looks worse than he did before he started—skin irritated, eyes watery, the ghost of dark pigment still clinging to the creases around his eyes. He looks like someone who tried to paint over a crack in a wall and only made the damage more obvious.

He puts the makeup wipe in the trash. Puts the palettes back in their places.

He doesn't look at the mirror again.

His phone’s been buzzing intermittently all afternoon.

Joker knows it's Mike. It's always Mike, these days—the steady drumbeat of concern that won't stop no matter how many messages go unanswered. Part of Joker is grateful for it, in a twisted way. At least someone cares enough to keep trying. At least his silence is noticed, even if his presence wasn't.

But a larger part of him—the part that's been growing since Edgar's words landed like bombs in the group chat—resents it.

Not Mike. Never Mike. But the situation. The dynamic. The way Joker has become a problem to be solved, a crisis to be managed, a burden that Mike has apparently decided to shoulder whether Joker wants him to or not. Every message is a reminder that Joker is failing at basic human functionality. Every please tell me you're okay is evidence that Joker has once again made himself the center of attention, once again created a scene, once again forced someone to expend emotional labor on his behalf.

Martyrs himself so he can feel special.

Maybe if Joker stops responding entirely, Mike will eventually give up. That would be better for both of them. Mike could stop worrying, could focus on his showcase, could spend his energy on friends who actually add value to his life instead of just subtracting from it. And Joker could... could...

He doesn't know what he could do. Exist, maybe. Continue the mechanical process of breathing and eating and occupying space until... until what? Until he doesn't? Until something changes? Until he finally figures out how to be a person instead of just a problem?

The phone buzzes again.

Joker picks it up, meaning to turn it off entirely. But his traitorous eyes catch the preview of Mike's latest message before he can look away:

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i know you're reading these. or at least seeing them. i know you're there.
i'm not trying to pressure you. i just need you to know that i'm here.
and i'm not going anywhere.
take all the time you need. i'll be waiting.

Something in Joker's chest splinters.

I'll be waiting.

The words are too kind. Too patient. Too much like the thing Joker desperately wants but knows he doesn't deserve. He stares at the message until his vision blurs, until the letters swim and merge into meaningless shapes, until he has to blink to clear the tears that have gathered without his permission.

He should respond. He should tell Mike to stop waiting, to give up, to redirect all that care and concern toward someone who can actually receive it. He should set Mike free from whatever obligation or pity or misguided loyalty is keeping him tethered to Joker's sinking ship.

But he doesn't.

He locks the phone and sets it face-down on the coffee table.

And he continues not to respond.

Pretty soon, evening falls like a slow exhalation.

The light through Joker's windows shifts from grey to gold to the electric orange of the city at dusk. Streetlights blink on one by one, and the apartment grows darker around him in increments. He should turn on a lamp. Should eat something—his last meal was that yogurt, nearly twenty-four hours ago, and his body has moved past hunger into a hollow, shaky weakness that makes his hands tremble.

He doesn't move.

Houdini has given up on him entirely, retreating to her favorite spot on the windowsill where she can watch the pigeons and pretend her owner isn't falling apart. Smart girl. Self-preserving. Unlike Joker, who keeps digging his fingers into his own wounds just to confirm they're still there.

The pyrite is still on his nightstand. He can see it from where he's curled on the couch, a small glint of gold in the gathering darkness. Norton's gift. Norton's note.

It doesn't need to be gold to be worth something. Neither do you.

The words feel hollow now. Empty reassurances from someone who probably felt obligated to say something, to make some gesture toward the sad, broken clown who couldn't handle being forgotten. Norton is kind, but Norton is also practical. He fixes problems and moves on. He doesn't linger.

None of them linger.

Joker's phone lights up again. He doesn't look at it.

But sleep, when it finally comes, is a mercy and a curse.

Joker drifts off somewhere around 9 PM, too exhausted to stay conscious any longer but too wired to rest properly. His sleep is shallow and fitful, full of half-formed images and fragments of sound that never quite coalesce into dreams. He hears Mike's voice, distant and distorted: I'm not giving up on you. He hears Edgar: Cry for attention. He hears his own voice, small and desperate: I love you, but I can't have you.

At some point, he wakes up to wash his face in the bathroom. The apartment is dark except for the glow of his phone on the coffee table, the screen lit with notifications he refuses to read. He stumbles through the motions—bathroom, water, back to the couch—and doesn't check the time. Doesn't want to know how many hours have passed, how many messages have accumulated, how many people are worrying about him in a way that feels more like pressure than comfort.

He falls back asleep.

This time, the dreams are worse.

He dreams of the makeup counter.

Not his own vanity, with its organized palettes and careful arrangements, but a department store counter. Bright lights, glass cases, mirrors everywhere. The kind of place where people come to be transformed, to be beautified, to become the versions of themselves they want to see.

Joker is behind the counter. He's wearing his work apron, holding a brush, and there's a client in the chair in front of him. The client's face is blank—not featureless, exactly, but empty. Waiting to be filled in.

"Make me beautiful," the client says. The voice is familiar, but Joker can't place it. "Make me worth looking at."

Joker dips his brush into a palette and brings it to the client's face. The first stroke of color lands like a wound—red, too red, the color of fresh blood. He tries to blend it, to soften it, but the pigment spreads instead, seeping across the client's skin like an infection.

"That's wrong," the client says, voice sharpening. "You're doing it wrong."

"I'm sorry," Joker whispers. His hands are shaking. "I'm trying—"

"Try harder." The client's face twists, and suddenly Joker recognizes them. It's himself. His own face in the chair, his own features full with disappointment. "You're supposed to be good at this. You're supposed to be an artist."

"I am," Joker says, but his voice has gone weak. "I am an artist."

"You're a fraud." His reflection laughs, and the sound is nothing like Joker's own laugh—it's cruel, mocking, the same tone Edgar used in the coffee shop revelation. "You paint yourself into someone else because you can't stand who you really are. And everyone knows it. Everyone can see it."

The makeup is spreading now, crawling across the reflection's face like something alive. Reds and blacks and deep bruise-purples, swirling and merging into patterns that look less like art and more like damage. Less like transformation and more like decay.

"You're not an artist," the reflection says. "You're a mask. And one day, someone's going to peel you off and find nothing underneath."

Joker tries to put down the brush, but his hand won't obey. It keeps moving, keeps applying color, keeps layering pigment onto a face that's already over-saturated. The colors run together, bleeding into each other, until the reflection's features are completely obscured by a thick, muddy mess of makeup.

"Look what you've done," the reflection whispers, barely visible beneath the layers of paint. "Look what you always do. You ruin everything."

And then the reflection reaches up with one hand—Joker's hand, his own fingers, his own nails bitten down to the quick—and starts to peel.

The makeup comes off in strips, like wallpaper, like skin. Beneath it, there's nothing. Not emptiness, not a blank canvas, but literally nothing. A void where a face should be, dark and endless and hungry.

"This is what you are," the void says with no mouth. "This is what you've always been. Nothing. Nobody. Just an empty space wearing someone else's colors."

Joker wakes up screaming.

Or trying to scream—his throat is raw and closed, producing only a strangled wheeze that sounds more like dying than distress. He's tangled in the blanket on the couch, drenched in sweat, heart hammering so hard he can feel it in his temples. His vision is blurry with tears he doesn't remember crying.

Houdini is across the room, fur puffed up, staring at him with wide, alarmed eyes.

"I'm sorry," he gasps. To her. To himself. To nobody. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

The apartment is dark and silent and suffocating. Joker claws his way out of the blanket and staggers toward the bathroom, guided by muscle memory more than conscious thought. He needs light, needs water, needs something solid to anchor him to reality before the dream sucks him back under.

The bathroom light is blinding after the darkness. He squints against it, bracing himself on the sink, and makes the mistake of looking at the mirror.

His face is a wreck. Pale, puffy, streaked with dried tears. His eyes are bloodshot, his lips chapped, his skin the grey-green color of someone who hasn't seen sunlight or eaten properly in days. He looks sick. He looks wrong. He looks like someone who should be in a hospital, or a grave, or anywhere except standing in a Brooklyn bathroom at—

He glances at his phone, which he apparently brought with him without realizing.

3:17 AM.

The screen is cluttered with notifications. All from Mike. A steady stream of messages that continued long after Joker fell asleep:

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
good night joker. if you're sleeping, i hope it's peaceful.
or as peaceful as sleep can be right now.
i'm here when you wake up.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i can't sleep. i keep thinking about you.
about what edgar said. about how you reacted.
i should have defended you better. i should have shut them down immediately.
i'm so sorry.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
you know none of that stuff is true, right?
you're not a cry for attention. you're not performing.
you're just... you're hurting. and that's okay. it's okay to hurt.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i just wish you'd let me help.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i love you, joker.
i know i say that to everyone. but i mean it differently with you.
i always have.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker stares at that last message until the words blur into meaninglessness.

I mean it differently with you. I always have.

What does that mean? What is Mike trying to say? Is it just the platonic love of a childhood friend, trying to reassure someone in crisis? Or is it something more, something that mirrors the ache in Joker's chest whenever Mike smiles at him?

He can't think about this right now. Can't process it, can't analyze it, can't add it to the already overwhelming pile of emotions he's been trying to suppress. If he starts to hope—if he lets himself believe that Mike might feel something beyond friendship—and he's wrong—

It would break him. Completely and irreparably.

He turns off the phone without responding.

He doesn't go back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Dawn arrives eventually, as it always does, indifferent to human suffering.

Joker watches it happen from the window by his bed, having given up on the couch sometime around 4 AM. The sky shifts from black to grey to a pale, washed-out pink that's almost pretty, if you ignore the context. The city comes to life in increments: early birds joggers, delivery trucks, the distant wail of an ambulance responding to someone else's crisis.

He hasn't slept since the nightmare. His body is exhausted in a way that goes beyond tiredness—a bone-deep depletion that makes every movement feel like wading through wet concrete. His eyes burn. His head aches. His stomach is a tight, twisted knot that's stopped asking for food and started simply existing in a state of constant low-grade nausea.

He should eat something. He knows this. His brain has been reminding him at irregular intervals, the same distant voice that told him to drink water yesterday: you need to eat, you need to take care of yourself, you need to—

But the thought of food makes him feel sicker. And the thought of taking care of himself feels like a joke, a punchline to a joke no one is laughing at. Why bother maintaining a body that's just a vessel for this much pain?

Houdini demands breakfast at 6:47 AM. This, at least, forces Joker into motion.

He shuffles to the kitchen on autopilot, opens the cabinet, retrieves the expensive wet food he'd splurged on during a better week. Houdini winds between his ankles, purring and meowing in equal measure, completely unbothered by her owner's existential collapse. Cats are good that way. They demand what they need without shame or apology.

Maybe Joker could learn something from her.

He sets the food bowl down and watches her eat, that single-minded focus that comes from being a creature without self-doubt or social anxiety. She doesn't worry about whether she's wanted. She doesn't analyze every interaction for hidden meanings or signs of rejection. She just exists, fully and completely, taking up exactly as much space as she needs.

Must be nice.

His phone buzzes on the counter.

Joker flinches at the sound, even though he's been expecting it. Mike's messages have become a kind of background radiation—constant, unavoidable, a reminder that at least one person in the world hasn't given up on him. He should feel grateful. He should feel loved.

Mostly, he just feels tired.

He picks up the phone anyway, against his better judgment. The notification is, predictably, from Mike:

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
good morning
i know you're probably not gonna respond to this either
but i wanted you to know i was thinking about you
first thing when i woke up
you were the first thing

Joker reads the message three times.

You were the first thing.

The words should be comforting. Should be evidence that he matters, that someone is holding space for him, that his absence has been noticed. But right now, in this moment, they just feel like pressure. Like another weight added to the pile. Like proof that he's being a burden, taking up real estate in Mike's mind that should be devoted to practice and showcases and friends who actually show up.

He doesn't respond.

He sets the phone down.

He goes back to watching his cat eat, because at least Houdini doesn't expect anything from him that he can't give.

The morning passes in a blur of nothing.

Joker eventually migrates to the couch, blanket pulled around his shoulders like a protective shell. The TV is on—some home renovation show where attractive people tear down walls and install new cabinets—but he's not really watching it. He's just letting the sound wash over him, a buffer between his thoughts and the oppressive silence of the apartment.

His phone continues to light up at irregular intervals. Mike's messages are relentless, a steady stream of care that Joker can't seem to accept:

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i'm at the gym rn. coach is making us run drills.
i keep looking at my phone between sets hoping you've texted

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i told norton you still haven't answered. he's worried too.
we all are.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
luca asked if you'd gotten his message about the sweater design
he really feels bad about forgetting. like genuinely really bad.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i defended you, you know. to edgar. after you left the coffee shop.
i told them they were completely out of line. that they had no right to say those things.
they... didn't really apologize. but they didn't argue either.
for edgar, that's almost admitting they were wrong.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i miss your face. your real face, but also your makeup face.
both faces. all your faces.
is that weird? that's probably weird.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i just miss you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker reads each message as it arrives, unable to look away, unable to respond. He's caught in some horrible limbo between wanting to reach out and being paralyzed by the conviction that he shouldn't. That doing so would just create more drama, more burden, more proof that Edgar was right about him.

Creates a scene. Makes everyone feel guilty. Martyrs himself so he can feel special.

He's doing it right now, isn't he? Staying silent, forcing Mike to worry, generating concern through absence instead of presence. It's just another form of attention-seeking, another manipulation tactic, another way of making himself the center of everyone's emotional energy.

Maybe if he just responded—sent a simple i'm fine—this would all stop. Mike would relax. The group chat would move on. Everything could return to normal, or whatever passes for normal in Joker's fractured life.

But he can't.

The words won't come. Every time he tries to type something, his fingers freeze over the keyboard, paralyzed by the weight of everything he can't say. He can't pretend to be fine when he's not. He can't ask for help when he doesn't believe he deserves it. He can't explain what's happening inside his head because he doesn't have the vocabulary, doesn't have the emotional literacy, doesn't have anything except this vast, crushing silence that swallows everything whole.

So he stays quiet.

And Mike keeps messaging.

And the day keeps passing.

By early afternoon, Joker has migrated from the couch to the floor.

Not deliberately—he just sort of... slid. The blanket came with him, pooling around his body like a cocoon, and now he's lying on the carpet and staring at the underside of his coffee table. There's a piece of gum stuck there, old and hardened, that he never noticed before. He wonders who put it there. A previous tenant? Himself, during some forgotten moment of carelessness?

Does it matter?

Nothing matters.

The thought arrives with disturbing clarity, settling into his brain like a stone sinking in water. Nothing matters. Not the gum under the table, not the messages on his phone, not the party in three days, not the showcase in January, not any of it. The world will keep spinning regardless of whether Joker participates in it. The sun will rise and set. The seasons will change. People will live their lives, form connections, build relationships, forget about the clown who couldn't figure out how to exist.

Maybe that would be easier. For everyone.

Joker's hand drifts to his forearm, where the sleeve of his sweater has ridden up slightly. The skin there is pale and unmarked, soft and vulnerable. He runs his fingernails across it lightly, not hard enough to leave a mark, just hard enough to feel something. A small, sharp sensation that cuts through the numbness.

He remembers doing this as a teenager. Finding little ways to externalize the internal pain, to make it visible, to prove to himself that he was still capable of feeling anything at all. He'd stopped, eventually. Gotten help. Learned coping mechanisms and grounding techniques and all the things you're supposed to learn.

But old habits have roots that go deep.

He presses a little harder. Just a little.

The sting is almost clarifying. A point of focus in the fog.

His phone buzzes.

The sound snaps him back to reality like a slap. He yanks his hand away from his arm, sudden guilt flooding through him, and stares at the phone with wide, shaking eyes. He didn't do anything—not really—just scratched a little, just enough to feel. But the impulse scares him. The fact that he went there at all scares him.

He picks up the phone.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
hey
i know you're still not answering
but orpheus said he might stop by your place later
just to check on you
i hope that's okay
i just... i need to know you're alright
even if i can't be the one to see it myself

Joker stares at the message.

Orpheus is coming. Orpheus, with his melancholic eyes and his poet's soul, his cryptic observations and his way of seeing things that others miss. The same mysterious writer who sent him that Rumi quote at 2:47 AM, who barely speaks in the group chat but somehow always notices when something is wrong.

Part of Joker wants to hide. Lock the door, turn off the lights, pretend he's not home. But a smaller, quieter part—the part that's still trying, however weakly, to survive—recognizes that he needs to see someone. Anyone. That the isolation is feeding the spiral, and the spiral is getting worse, and if he doesn't break the pattern somehow, he might end up somewhere he can't come back from.

He doesn't respond to Mike's message.

But he does get up off the floor.

The knock comes at around 4 PM sharp.

Joker knows this because he's been watching the clock obsessively for the past two hours, unable to focus on anything else. The television is off now. The apartment is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and Houdini's occasional chirps at birds outside the window. Joker has changed out of his sweaty pajamas into slightly cleaner sweats—not because he cares about his appearance, but because some residual shred of dignity refused to let him receive a visitor looking like he'd been wearing the same clothes for three days.

Which he had been. But still.

He approaches the door slowly, as if it might bite him. Through the peephole, he can see Orpheus standing in the hallway, looking exactly as ethereal and out of place as he always does. He's wearing a dark coat and a scarf that might be cashmere, his dark hair slightly wind-tousled, his expression thoughtful and distant.

Joker opens the door.

"Joker." the novelist’s voice is soft, measured, with that slight formality that never quite goes away even among friends. "May I come in?"

Joker steps aside without speaking.

Orpheus enters the apartment with the air of someone observing a museum exhibit—curious, respectful, slightly detached. His eyes sweep over the space, taking in the clutter of blankets on the couch, the unwashed dishes in the sink, the general atmosphere of someone who has stopped participating in their own life. He doesn't comment on any of it.

"Mike was worried," Orpheus says finally, settling into the armchair by the window as if he's been invited. Houdini eyes him from her perch on the windowsill but doesn't move. "He asked me to come. I said I would have come anyway."

Joker sinks onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around himself again. "Why?"

"Because I understand something about dwelling in shadows." Orpheus's dark eyes find his, and there's no pity in them—just a kind of recognition that makes Joker's chest ache. "You've been very quiet. That can mean many things."

"Or nothing."

"No." Orpheus shakes his head slowly. "Silence is never nothing. It's either a rest between notes or the absence of music entirely. I wasn't sure which yours was."

Joker doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. The silence stretches between them, but it's not uncomfortable—not like the loaded quiet of the group chat or the desperate void of unanswered messages. It's just... space. Room to exist without expectation.

After a while, Orpheus speaks again.

"You didn't do your makeup today."

It's not a question, but it feels like one. Joker's hand twitches toward his face reflexively, as if he'd forgotten—as if the bare, vulnerable canvas of his features had somehow slipped his mind.

"No," he says quietly. "I didn't."

"Why not?"

The question is gentle, almost casual, but something about it makes Joker's throat tighten. He thinks about Edgar's words—paint yourself into someone else—and about the dream, the void where his face should be, the accusation that he's nothing without his colors.

"I don't know," he whispers. Which is a lie.

Orpheus seems to sense this. He leans back in the armchair, looking at Joker with an expression that's half artist, half analyst.

"You know," he says thoughtfully, "I've always found your makeup fascinating. Not just the technical skill—though that's considerable—but the intent behind it." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You paint your face the way some people write poetry. As a barrier between inner self and outer world. A translation of something too raw to be expressed directly."

Joker's breath catches.

"The ancients understood this," Orpheus continues, voice dropping into that soft, rhythmic register he uses when he's thinking aloud. "Masks weren't disguises—they were amplifications. Ways of becoming more fully what you already were. The pain behind the painted smile. The wisdom behind the lined eyes." He tilts his head, studying Joker with unsettling intensity. "When you paint that teardrop beneath your eye... what are you becoming?"

The question hits like a physical blow.

What are you becoming?

Joker doesn't have an answer. He's never really thought about it—never questioned the ritual beyond this is what I do, this is who I am. But now, forced to articulate it, he finds himself lost.

"I don't know," he says again. And this time, it's the truth.

Orpheus nods slowly, as if this response was expected.

"There's a Japanese art form called kintsugi," he says. "The practice of repairing broken pottery with gold. The philosophy behind it suggests that breakage and repair are part of an object's history—not something to be disguised, but something to be highlighted. Made beautiful."

He pauses, and his dark eyes meet Joker's with something that might be compassion, or might just be observation.

"Your makeup, I think, is the opposite of kintsugi. You're not highlighting the cracks—you're covering them. Filling them with color so no one can see how fragmented you are underneath."

Joker feels like he's been cut open.

"I'm not saying that's wrong," Orpheus adds, almost gently. "Self-protection is a valid response to a world that wounds us. But I wonder..." He trails off, seeming to reconsider his words. "I wonder if you've built your barriers so high that even you can't see over them anymore. If the paint has become a prison as much as a shelter."

The apartment is very quiet.

Houdini has fallen asleep on the windowsill, her small chest rising and falling with peaceful regularity. Outside, the city continues its endless motion, cars and people and lives that have nothing to do with this moment. Joker sits on his couch, wrapped in a blanket, feeling more exposed than he's ever felt with his face completely bare.

"I don't know how to stop," he admits. His voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't know who I am without it."

"Perhaps that's the question worth sitting with." Orpheus rises from the armchair, smoothing his coat. "Not who are you without the paint, but who could you become if you stopped hiding from yourself?"

He moves toward the door, and Joker feels a sudden, desperate urge to ask him to stay. To not leave him alone with these questions, these thoughts, this vast and terrifying emptiness.

But the words don't come.

Orpheus pauses at the door, hand on the knob.

"You know," he says, not turning around, "isolation is a seductive thing. It whispers that you're protecting yourself, protecting others, that everyone's better off if you stay away. But isolation lies." He glances back, just briefly. "It tells you you're alone because you're unworthy of company. The truth is usually simpler: you're alone because you've forgotten how to let anyone in."

And then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him.

And Joker is alone again.

The silence after Orpheus leaves is different. It's not the comfortable quiet of solitude, or the weighted hush of the group chat. It's something heavier. More final. Like the closing of a door not just literally, but metaphorically—like something has been sealed off that can never be reopened.

Isolation is a seductive thing.

Joker sits on the couch, not moving, barely breathing. Orpheus's words echo in his skull, mingling with Edgar's accusations and the dream-void's pronouncements until he can't tell which voice is which anymore.

You're alone because you've forgotten how to let anyone in.

But that's not right, is it? He hasn't forgotten. He's chosen. He's built the walls deliberately, brick by brick, layer by layer, because letting people in means letting them close enough to hurt him. And they always hurt him. Always. Whether through thoughtlessness or cruelty or simple forgetting—five sweaters, five people, five—they always, eventually, leave wounds.

The makeup was supposed to protect him. Was supposed to be a buffer between his fragile interior and the sharp edges of the world. But Orpheus is right too—it's become a prison. A cage he's locked himself inside, bars made of pigment and primer, walls made of setting spray and highlight.

Who could you become if you stopped hiding from yourself?

Joker doesn't know.

He's terrified to find out.

His phone has been buzzing throughout the conversation, and continues to buzz now that he's alone. Mike, always Mike, reaching across the digital void with desperate frequency:

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
did orpheus get there ok?
is he with you?
please just tell me you're okay

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
joker please

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
i'm going crazy over here
i need to know you're alive

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
please

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The word please appears so many times it starts to lose meaning. Just letters, just sounds, just Mike pouring desperation into a void that doesn't answer.

Joker stares at the messages.

He should respond. He should tell Mike that Orpheus came, that they talked, that he's... what? Fine? He's not fine. Okay? He's not okay. Alive? That one, at least, is technically true.

But the thought of typing words, of constructing sentences, of engaging in the performative act of communication—it feels impossible. Like being asked to climb a mountain when he can barely stand up. Like being asked to speak a language he's forgotten how to translate.

He sets the phone down.

The evening comes, and with it, a deepening of everything.

Joker hasn't moved from the couch. His phone has stopped buzzing—Mike has finally, apparently, given up for the night, or at least paused to sleep. The apartment is dark except for the distant glow of streetlights through the window, casting everything in shades of grey and shadow.

Orpheus's words won't leave him alone.

The paint has become a prison.
You've forgotten how to let anyone in.
Isolation lies.

But if isolation lies, what's the truth? That he deserves connection? That he's worthy of care? That the people who forgot to count him still want him around?

The evidence suggests otherwise.

Five sweaters. Five people. Zero mentions of his name until Mike pointed out the absence.

Creates a scene. Makes everyone feel guilty. Martyrs himself.

Edgar was cruel, but they weren’t wrong. Everything Joker does—the silence, the withdrawal, the careful cultivation of his own misery—it all feeds into the same pattern. He makes himself a problem so people will pay attention. He performs suffering so someone will care.

Maybe if I stopped performing...

Maybe if I stopped existing...

The thought slithers in before he can block it, cold and seductive and terrifyingly logical. If he just... faded. Quietly. Without drama or scenes or guilt. If he just... stopped being a burden.

No.

He clamps down on the thought, hard, like slamming a door on something dangerous. He's not there. He's not that far gone. He's just tired, just overwhelmed, just trapped in a spiral that feeds on itself. He needs to ground. Needs to anchor. Needs to—

His hand drifts to his forearm again.

He catches himself this time. Pulls his hand back, curls both hands into fists, presses them against his thighs. The urge is there—that whispered promise of clarity through sensation—but he knows where that path leads. He's walked it before. He knows the temporary relief isn't worth the permanent scars.

You're okay, he tells himself. You're going to be okay.

He doesn't believe it.

But he says it anyway.

The hours between 2 AM and dawn are the loneliest hours that exist.

Joker sits by the window, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, watching the city sleep. A few lights are still on in the building across the street—insomniacs, night owls, people with their own private reasons for being awake when the world is quiet. He wonders what their stories are. Wonders if any of them are as broken as he is.

Probably not.

His phone sits on the windowsill, dark and silent. Mike's last message is from hours ago—a final please that went unanswered like all the others. Joker thinks about opening the chat, about typing something, about breaking the silence that's grown into a wall between himself and everyone who might have cared.

But the wall feels insurmountable now.

Orpheus's visit should have helped. Should have been a connection, a break in the isolation, proof that someone cared enough to show up. But instead, it just made everything worse. His words—all that talk of masks and prisons and hiding from yourself—they didn't comfort Joker. They confirmed everything he already feared.

You're alone because you've forgotten how to let anyone in.

Orpheus said it like it was something Joker could fix. Like forgetting was accidental, reversible, a simple matter of remembering how to open doors. But Joker didn't forget. He chose. He built those walls on purpose, reinforced them every day, because the alternative—letting people in, letting them see, letting them close enough to wound him—was too terrifying to contemplate.

And now he's trapped behind his own defenses, and he doesn't know how to tear them down.

Who could you become if you stopped hiding from yourself?

Nothing, probably. He could become nothing. The void from his dream, empty and hungry, wearing the shape of a person without any of the substance.

Maybe he already is nothing.

Maybe the paint was never armor—just decoration. Pretty colors on a hollow shell.

His phone lights up as the sun clears the horizon. A new message from Mike, the first of what will probably be another day of unanswered reaching:

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
good morning joker
i hope you slept okay
i hope you're okay
i love you
i'm not giving up

Joker reads the message.

He doesn't respond. But he doesn't delete it either.

He lets it sit there, glowing on his screen, a small beacon in the endless dark.

I love you. I'm not giving up.

The message sits on his screen like a pressed flower—beautiful, fragile, already dying.

Joker traces the words with his eyes, following each letter like a path through a forest he’s no longer sure he wants to navigate. Mike says I love you the way other people say goodbye or take care—it’s casual, reflective, a closing statement that means everything and nothing simultaneously. Joker has heard Mike say it to Luca after a particularly good meme. To Norton when he showed up with coffee that one time. To Edgar, even, in a moment of ironic affection that made Edgar visibly uncomfortable.

It's just something Mike does. It's just who Mike is.

And yet.

I love you.

The words burrow into Joker's chest like seeds searching for soil, desperate to take root in something fertile. But there's nothing fertile left inside him—just frozen ground, winter-hardened earth that can't sustain anything living. He's read about permafrost, about how the cold can preserve things for centuries, keeping them suspended in a state between life and death. That's what he feels like now. Preserved but not alive. Frozen in place while the world continues to turn around him.

Emma would know the flower for this. She always knew the right flower.

Cyclamen, he thinks distantly, the memory surfacing like a body from deep water. In hanakotoba, cyclamen means resignation and goodbye. The plant goes dormant in summer, retreating into itself when the world grows too warm, too bright, too demanding. It only blooms in the cold months, when everything else has given up. Even then, its flowers hang downward, as if ashamed to show their faces to the sky.

Joker hasn't thought about Emma in years, but suddenly he misses her with an intensity that steals his breath. She would have understood this. She would have sat with him in silence, pressing dried petals into his palm, explaining the language of things that couldn't speak for themselves. White chrysanthemums for truth, she'd told him once. But also for death. Flowers don't lie, Joker. They just say what they mean in ways people don't always want to hear.

He wonders what flower she would choose for him now. What silent message she would press into his hands if she could see him—unwashed, unfed, unmade, sitting by the window as the sun rises over a city that doesn't know his name.

Wilted carnation, probably. Disappointment. Rejection. A love that never quite bloomed.

Or maybe yellow chrysanthemum—neglected love. A flower given to someone you once cared about, before they became a stranger.

Joker closes his eyes against the morning light.

The hours after dawn are worse than the hours before.

At least in the darkness, he could pretend he was supposed to be inactive. Sleeping. Resting. Doing all the normal things that normal people do when the sun goes down. But daylight carries expectations. Daylight says get up, eat breakfast, shower, exist. Daylight says the world is moving and you should be moving with it.

Joker doesn't move.

He sits by the window as the sun climbs higher, watching the city perform its morning rituals without him. A woman walks her dog past the florist across the street—the same florist he noticed days ago, the one with the white chrysanthemums in the window. She pauses to look at the display, points something out to the small terrier at her feet, then continues on her way. The terrier doesn't care about flowers. The terrier only cares about the next interesting smell, the next opportunity for joy.

Joker envies the terrier.

He envies everyone, actually. Every person who walks past his window, bundled against the December cold, moving through their lives with purpose. They have places to be. People to see. Reasons to exist beyond the simple biological imperative of continuing to breathe. They wake up in the morning and they do things, without the crushing weight of asking themselves whether those things matter, whether they matter, whether the universe would notice if they simply stopped.

The world doesn't need another sad person taking up space.

The thought arrives unbidden, settling into his brain like snow settling on a grave. He recognizes it for what it is—the spiral, the pattern, the same destructive loop he's been caught in for days. But recognizing it doesn't make it less true. Doesn't make it easier to dismiss.

Because the world doesn't need him, does it? The group chat continued without him. The party is being planned without him. Five sweaters, five people, five portraits—the math worked perfectly before anyone remembered to add a sixth. He's an afterthought, an addendum, a footnote in the story of their friendship that no one bothers to read.

Orpheus said isolation lies.

But maybe isolation is the only thing telling the truth.

The phone eventually rings.

Joker stares at it like it's a foreign object, something that doesn't belong in his apartment, in his life, in this grey and endless day. The screen displays a name he wasn't expecting: LUCA with a lightning bolt emoji, a remnant of some joke he can't remember making.

Not Mike. Not another Discord message he can ignore and feel guilty about ignoring. An actual phone call, demanding immediate response, forcing him to choose in real-time whether to engage or retreat.

His thumb hovers over the decline button.

But something stops him. Maybe it's the exhaustion—the bone-deep weariness that's eroded his defenses until he doesn't have the energy to maintain them anymore. Maybe it's curiosity, morbid and unwelcome, about what Luca could possibly have to say. Maybe it's just that the silence has grown so loud he needs something, anything, to break it.

He answers.

"Joker?" Luca's voice is tinny through the speaker, slightly breathless, like he's been pacing. "Oh thank God, you actually picked up. I wasn't sure you would. Mike said you haven't been answering anyone and I—"

"What do you want, Luca?"

The words come out flat. Emotionless. The voice of someone who's used up all their feeling and has nothing left to spend.

There's a pause on the other end. Joker can hear background noise—the hum of electronics, the distant murmur of conversation. Luca's workshop, probably. His apartment that doubles as a laboratory, full of half-finished inventions and scattered blueprints and the comfortable chaos of a life being actively lived.

"I wanted to apologize," Luca says finally. His voice is smaller now, less manic, weighted with something that might be genuine remorse. "For the sweater thing. For not counting you. That was really shitty of me, and I've been feeling awful about it ever since Mike pointed it out."

Joker says nothing.

"I mean it," Luca continues, words tumbling over each other in that way he has when he's nervous. "I wasn't thinking. I was so focused on the logistics—yarn quantities and color schemes and making sure I had enough time to finish everything before the party—that I just... I don't know. I lost track. But that's not an excuse. You're my friend and I should have—"

"It's fine."

"It's not fine." Luca's voice sharpens with frustration. "Stop saying it's fine when it's obviously not! Mike told me you left the coffee shop crying. He told me what Edgar said to you. None of that is fine, Joker."

The mention of Edgar sends a spike of something through Joker's chest—not quite pain, not quite anger, just a dull ache in a place that's already bruised beyond recognition. He doesn't want to talk about Edgar. Doesn't want to think about the coffee shop, the words that cut him open, the way everyone sat there and watched it happen.

"I said it's fine," he repeats. His voice is steady. Empty. "You forgot. People forget things. It happens."

"Joker—"

"I'm not mad at you, Luca. I'm not mad at anyone." This is true, technically. Anger requires energy he doesn't have. "So you don't need to apologize. You don't need to feel guilty. Everything is fine."

The lie tastes like ash in his mouth.

There's silence on the other end of the line. Joker can picture Luca's face—that particular expression he gets when his brain is working overtime, trying to solve a problem that doesn't have a clear solution. Luca approaches everything like an equation, even emotions. Especially emotions. He wants to find the right combination of words that will fix this, balance the variables, return everything to equilibrium.

But there is no equation for this. No formula that accounts for years of accumulated loneliness, for the weight of being perpetually overlooked, for the specific and particular pain of being forgotten by the people who were supposed to remember.

"I don't believe you," Luca says quietly.

"That's not my problem."

"Joker, please. I'm trying here. I know I fucked up, and I know saying sorry doesn't magically fix anything, but I need you to know that I see it now. I see that we've been... that I've been..." He trails off, struggling. "You matter to me. To all of us. And I hate that my actions made you feel like you don't."

Something cracks, deep inside Joker's chest. A fracture in the wall he's built, threatening to spread.

"Prove it," he says.

The words come out before he can stop them. Sharper than he intended. Rawer. A challenge wrapped in a plea wrapped in a lifetime of wanting to believe that someone, anyone, might actually follow through.

"What?"

"You say I matter. You say you care. Prove it." His voice is shaking now, the emptiness giving way to something else—something desperate and ugly and too honest for this conversation. "Because from where I'm sitting, Luca, it doesn't look like I matter at all. It looks like I'm an afterthought. A footnote. Someone you only remember exists when I'm standing right in front of you, and even then—"

He stops. Breathes. Tries to pull himself back together.

"Even then, it's not enough."

Silence. Long and heavy and unbearable.

And then, distantly, through the phone speaker, a voice that isn't Luca's:

"Is he seriously still going on about this?"

Joker's blood turns to ice.

Edgar. Edgar's voice, unmistakable in its casual cruelty, drifting through the background of Luca's call like poison seeping through water.

"It's been two days," Edgar continues, apparently unaware—or uncaring—that the phone is still connected. "How long is he going to beg for sympathy? It's pathetic."

"Edgar—" Luca's voice, sharp with warning.

"No, I'm serious. We forgot to count his sweater. That's it. That's the whole tragedy. And now he's got Mike in hysterics, and Orpheus doing house calls, and you calling to grovel like you committed some unforgivable sin." A scoff. "It's manipulative is what it is. He's playing the victim because that's what he does. Paint on a sad face, literally, and wait for everyone to come running."

Something breaks inside Joker.

Not cracks this time. Not fractures. A full, catastrophic collapse, like a building finally succumbing to the weight it was never meant to bear.

"Tell him to put on his clown makeup and get over it," Edgar says, voice dripping with contempt. "Actually, never mind. He probably looks worse without it anyway. At least the paint gives him a personality."

"Edgar, shut up—"

Joker hangs up.

The phone slips from his fingers, clattering against the floor. He doesn't pick it up. He can't. His hands are shaking too hard, his vision blurring, his chest heaving with breaths that won't come deep enough.

Manipulative. Playing the victim. At least the paint gives him a personality.

The words echo in his head, bouncing off the walls of his mind, amplifying with each repetition. He knew Edgar thought these things. He knew. But hearing them spoken aloud, so casually, so dismissively—hearing them as the background noise of Luca's apology, undercutting every word of supposed remorse—

A sound escapes him. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Something animal and broken and entirely involuntary, wrenched from the deepest part of his chest.

He folds in on himself, knees coming up to his chest, arms wrapping around his legs, making himself as small as possible on the floor of his apartment. The tears come without warning, without permission—hot and violent and uncontrollable, streaming down his bare face, dripping onto his knees.

He can't breathe.

He can't think.

He can only feel, and what he feels is everything he's been trying not to feel for days, weeks, months, years—all of it crashing over him at once like a wave he can't outswim.

Is that true? Is that all he is? A blank canvas decorated with borrowed colors, worthless without the art painted over the emptiness?

Is that what they all think? Every kind word, every concerned message, every reaching out—is it all tinged with this? With resentment and suspicion and the unspoken belief that Joker is performing his pain for attention?

Tell him to put on his clown makeup and get over it.

Clown. That's what he is, isn't it? That's what he's always been. A joke. An entertainment. Someone who exists to be laughed at, not with. Someone whose purpose is to make others feel better about their own lives by comparison.

The sobs tear through him in waves. He buries his face in his knees, muffling the sounds against his own body, even though there's no one here to hear. Even in complete isolation, he can't fully let go. Can't fully allow himself to grieve without trying to make it smaller, quieter, less of a burden on a world that doesn't want him anyway.

Houdini appears from somewhere, drawn by the sound of distress. She bumps her head against his shin, meowing in confusion, and the small warmth of her presence only makes him cry harder. Because even his cat doesn't understand. Even his cat can't help. Even this tiny creature who loves him unconditionally can't bridge the vast and terrible distance between Joker and the rest of the world.

He cries until there's nothing left to cry. Then he keeps crying anyway.

Time becomes meaningless.

At some point, the tears stop—not because he feels better, but because his body simply runs out of them. He sits on the floor, back against the couch, staring at nothing. The phone lies where it fell, screen dark, silent. No new calls from Luca. No frantic messages asking if he's okay. Either Luca is giving him space, or Luca has given up, or Luca never really cared in the first place and Edgar was right all along.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

The thought doesn't frighten him this time. It settles into his brain like an old friend, familiar and almost comforting in its finality. Nothing matters. He doesn't matter. The world will continue spinning with or without him, and the only difference his existence makes is the inconvenience he causes to people who would be happier if he just disappeared.

I love you, but I can't have you.

The words surface from somewhere deep and unexpected, and Joker realizes with a jolt that they're his own. His own thoughts, his own feelings, crystallized into a sentence he didn't know he needed to say.

He thinks of Mike.

Mike, with his earnest messages and his desperate pleases and his refusal to give up even when Joker gives him every reason to. Mike, who defended him to Edgar. Mike, who sent Orpheus to check on him. Mike, who wakes up thinking of Joker first thing, who says I love you like it's simple, like it's easy, like it's something that could actually be true.

I love you, but I can't have you.

Because he can't. Because Mike deserves better than this—better than a hollow shell wrapped in colorful cloth, a performer without a real self, a clown whose whole personality is painted on and washes off at night. Mike deserves someone who can love him back without drowning. Someone who can accept care without questioning every motive. Someone who exists fully and completely, taking up space without apology, the way Houdini does, the way everyone seems to except for Joker.

“I love you, but I can't have you.”

He says it out loud this time, testing the shape of the words in his empty apartment.

They sound like goodbye.

The sun sets.

Joker barely remembers moving, but at some point he must have. He’s no longer on the floor by the couch, but in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, staring at a face he barely recognizes. He’s tired. So fucking tired. The shadows under his eyes have deepened into bruises, his skin taking on a greyish pallor that speaks of too little sleep, too little food. No care at all. His lips are chapped, his hair limp and unwashed, hanging in his face like a curtain he forgot to open.

At least the paint gives him a personality.

The mirror is merciless.

No makeup. No mask. Just him: hollow cheeks, cracked lips, eyes so bloodshot the whites look pink. He looks like something that crawled out of a grave and forgot to lie back down.

His reflection mouths Edgar’s words back at him in perfect sync.

At least the paint gives him a personality.

Joker’s hand moves before his mind catches up. The drawer slides open with a soft metallic rasp. Inside, nestled between half-empty tubes of foundation and a cracked compact of white greasepaint, is the little leather case he swore he’d thrown away years ago.

He didn’t throw it away.

Of course he didn’t.

The room spins. He slides down the cabinets until he’s sitting on the cold tile, legs splayed, arms draped over his knees like a broken marionette. Blood patters steadily onto the floor between his thighs.

He stays there until the bleeding slows, until the bathroom light flickers once and steadies, until Houdini’s worried meows filter in from the hallway like a lullaby.

He thinks, very clearly: Mike will find me like this and it will destroy him.

The thought should terrify him.

Instead it feels like mercy.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cabinet, letting the darkness come.

Chapter Text

The darkness doesn’t come.

Or rather, it comes, but it refuses to stay. It hovers at the edges of his consciousness, a thick black tide, but his body—traitorous, resilient thing that it is—keeps pulling him back to the surface. He doesn't pass out. He doesn't fade away. He just sits on the bathroom floor, shivering as the cold seeps into his bones, watching the blood on his arm dry into dark, flaky crusts.

It wasn't deep enough.

Of course it wasn't. Even in this, he's a failure. A performance of tragedy rather than the real thing.

Eventually, the numbness in his legs forces him to move. He stands, grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t look in the mirror this time, instead turns on the tap and splashes water on his face, then his arm. He watches the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, wrapping a smaller hand towel around the cut—a clumsy, makeshift bandage—and stumbles back into the living room.

The apartment is exactly as he left it. The phone is still on the floor where he dropped it.

It's ringing again.

Joker stares at the screen. It's vibrating against the hardwood, a frantic, persistent buzzing that feels like an insect trapped in a jar.

LUCA calling...

He lets it ring. It stops. Two seconds later, it starts again.

LUCA calling...

He can picture Luca on the other end—frantic, guilty, probably yelling at Edgar, probably pacing holes in his workshop floor. He can picture the panic setting in as Joker doesn't answer, picture them realizing that this time, maybe he's not just ignoring them. Maybe this time, something broke.

Good. Let them panic. Let them feel a fraction of the weight he's been carrying for days.

The thought is petty and bitter, but it's the only thing keeping him upright. Anger is better than the void. Anger is heat, however destructive.

He picks up the phone.

Not to answer it. To turn it off.

But as his thumb hovers over the power button, a notification slides down from the top of the screen. A voicemail.

Then a text. Not a Discord DM, but an iMessage text.

From Edgar.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Edgar:
Pick up the phone.
Luca is hyperventilating.
You're proving my point about the drama.
Just pick up.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker reads the message.

You're proving my point.

He laughs. It's a dry, hacking sound that hurts his throat. Of course. Of course that's how Edgar sees it. Not a reaction to cruelty, but a confirmation of character. Joker is bleeding in his bathroom, barely holding his sanity together with scotch tape and spite, and to Edgar, he's just making a scene.

He types back. His fingers are clumsy, shaking, smearing a little bit of blood on the screen.

leave me alone.

He sends it. Then he powers the phone off.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Night falls properly now. The city outside transforms into a grid of lights, indifferent and distant. Joker moves through the apartment like a ghost haunting his own life. He feeds Houdini again, because she meows at him and he can't bear to ignore her. He drinks a glass of water, because his throat feels like sandpaper. He doesn't eat.

He sits on the couch and stares at the wall.

He replays the phone call. Over and over. Luca's apology—clumsy, scientific, trying to solve the equation of Joker's sadness. And then Edgar. Edgar's voice cutting through the static like a scalpel.

At least the paint gives him a personality.

It hurts less now. Or maybe it hurts so much that the pain has simply become background noise, a constant hum he's learning to tune out.

He wonders if they're coming.

Mike would come if he knew. If Luca told him. But Luca might be too ashamed to tell Mike what happened. Or maybe Edgar convinced them all that Joker is just throwing a tantrum, that he needs "tough love" or space or whatever excuse allows them to go back to their comfortable lives without dealing with the mess they made.

He hopes they don't come. But he hopes they do. He doesn't know what he wants.

A knock at the door makes him jump so hard he nearly falls off the couch. It's not the polite, hesitant knock of Orpheus. It's not the frantic pounding he expects from Mike. It's a sharp, rhythmic rap. Tat-tat-tat. Precise. Irritated. Joker freezes, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, hiding his bandaged arm, his face, everything he can. "I know you're in there," a voice calls through the wood.

It's Edgar.

Joker stops breathing.

"I saw the light go off in the hallway," Edgar continues, his voice muffled but distinct. "And I know you read my text. Open the door, Joker."

Joker doesn't move. He stares at the door as if it's a bomb about to detonate. Why is Edgar here? Of all of them—why the one person who seemingly hates him the most?

"I'm not leaving," Edgar says. "I have... things. To say. And Luca won't stop crying until I confirm you haven't done something stupid. So unless you want me to pick this lock—which I can do, by the way, painting requires dexterity—open the damn door."

Joker considers letting him stand there. Considers staying silent until Edgar gets bored and leaves. But there's a tone in Edgar's voice that he hasn't heard before. It's not softer, exactly. But it's... strained. Taut. Like a wire pulled too tight.

And the mention of Luca crying.

Joker stands up, legs legs heavy, disconnected from his body. He walks to the door. He unlocks it. He doesn't open it; he just unlocks it and turns his back, walking back to the couch to collapse into his blanket cocoon.

The door opens behind him.

Edgar steps into the apartment. He looks out of place in the mundane hallway, dressed in his usual impeccable style—a high-collared coat, silk scarf, gloves. He carries a wet umbrella, which he shakes off outside before closing the door.

He looks around the apartment with open distaste. He takes in the clutter, the dim lighting, the palpable atmosphere of depression. His gaze lands on Joker, huddled on the couch. Edgar sighs. It's a long, suffering sound.

"You look terrible.”

Joker doesn't look at him nor rise to the bait. "Get out."

"I can't," Edgar deadpans, stepping further into the room. They remove their gloves, finger by finger, peeling them off like a second skin. "As I said, I was sent on a mission. Recovery and reconnaissance."

"I don't need recovering."

"Debatable." Edgar walks over to the armchair—the one Orpheus sat in earlier—and inspects it for cat hair before sitting down gingerly on the edge. He sits with perfect posture, spine straight, hands folded in his lap. He looks at Joker. Really looks at him, dark eyes are sharp, analytical, dissecting Joker the way he dissects a canvas before applying the first brushstroke.

"You heard what I said," Edgar states. It's not a question.

"Hard to miss," Joker mutters into his knees. "Since you were shouting it."

"I wasn't shouting. I was projecting." Edgar pauses. They look uncomfortable, shifting slightly in the chair, smoothing a wrinkle in their trousers. "Luca didn't know the phone was still connected. That was... unfortunate timing."

"Unfortunate," Joker repeats. He laughs again, that dry, hacking sound. "Is that what you call it? Unfortunate?"

"Accidental," Edgar amends. "I didn't intend for you to hear it. I intended for Luca to hear it, so he would stop hyperventilating and focus on his work."

"Right. Because my feelings are just a distraction. Just noise."

Edgar presses their lips together. They look like they’re chewing on a lemon, like they’d rather be anywhere else in the world—getting a root canal, perhaps, or watching paint dry in a damp basement.

"I am not good at this," Edgar announces abruptly.

"Good at what? Insulting people? You seem pretty proficient to me."

"Comfort," Edgar snaps. "Apologies. Emotional... maintenance."

He stands up again, unable to sit still. He paces the small length of the living room, his heels clicking on the hardwood. He stops in front of the window, looking out at the night, his back to Joker.

"You are frustrating," Edgar says to the window. "You are loud. You are messy. You wear your emotions on your sleeve like cheap costume jewelry. You demand validation constantly, like a child pulling on a skirt hem."

Joker flinches. He curls tighter into himself. "If you just came here to insult me again, you can leave. I got the message the first time."

"I'm not finished," Edgar interrupts sharply. He turns around.

He looks angry. But not at Joker. Or at least, not only at Joker.

"You are all of those things," Edgar continues, his voice tight. "But you are also... vivid."

Joker lifts his head slightly. "What?"

"Vivid," Edgar repeats, as if explaining a simple concept to a toddler. "You possess a certain... chromatic intensity. Even without the paint. Your despair is loud. Your joy is loud. You take up space in a room simply by existing in a state of high contrast."

Edgar walks back to the chair but doesn't sit. He grips the back of it, his knuckles white.

"I do not like loud things," Edgar says quietly. "I prefer control. Precision. I prefer a world where I determine the focal point."

He looks at Joker, and for a second, the arrogance slips. Just a fraction. Beneath the snobbery, beneath the cruelty, Joker sees something else. Something defensive.

"You disrupt my focal point," Edgar admits. "You make everyone look at you. Mike. Luca. Norton. Even Orpheus. They gravitate toward you, worry about you. They spend their energy trying to fix you."

Edgar takes a deep breath.

"I was jealous."

The words hang in the air, heavier than the silence, heavier than the rain outside.

Joker stares at him. "You... were jealous? Of me?"

"Yes," Edgar sneers, though the venom is directed inward now. "Ridiculous, isn't it? Jealous of a clown who can't even pay his rent on time. But... yes."

Edgar looks down at their hands.

"I have spent my life perfecting my craft. I am a genius. Exceptional. And yet... I struggle to make people feel things. They admire my technique. They praise my composition. But they do not... bleed for me."

They look up at Joker.

"They bleed for you, Joker. Mike is beside himself. Luca is wrecking his lab out of guilt. You command a loyalty, an emotional resonance, that I cannot replicate no matter how perfectly I paint."

Edgar steps closer to the couch. He doesn't touch Joker. He wouldn't. But he stands within reach.

"I said those things because I wanted to minimize you," Edgar says. Their voice is flat, factual, devoid of the usual bite. "I wanted to reduce you to a caricature so I didn't have to acknowledge that you possess something I lack. It was... petty. And inaccurate."

They pause, glancing up and down at Joker's bare face—the dark circles, the raw skin, the undeniable misery.

"You are not nothing without the paint," Edgar says. "The paint is just... volume control. Underneath it, you are still loud. You are still... significant."

Joker doesn't know what to say. He feels like the world has tilted on its axis. Edgar Valden—the ice prince, the critic, the person who looked at Joker like he was a stain on the carpet—is standing in his living room, admitting to jealousy. Admitting that Joker matters.

It doesn't fix everything. It doesn't heal the cut on his arm or erase the words he heard over the phone. But it shifts something. It turns the monster into a person. A flawed, petty, insecure person who lashed out because he felt small.

"You're still an asshole," Joker whispers.

Edgar lets out a short, sharp breath that might be a laugh. "Yes. I am aware. It is part of my charm."

"You don't have charm."

"I have style. It is superior."

Edgar reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a small, flat object wrapped in brown paper. He holds it out to Joker.

"Here," Edgar says. "Take it."

Joker hesitates. He reaches out a trembling hand—his good arm—and takes the package. It's light. Rigid.

"What is it?"

"Open it."

Joker tears the paper.

It's a sketch. Small, done in charcoal on heavy cream paper.

It's him.

But not the clown. Not the performer with the painted smile. It's Joker as he is now—or maybe as he was a few days ago, before the spiral took him completely. He's sitting on a stool, looking off to the side, a slightly melancholic expression on his face. The lines are sparse but perfect, capturing the slope of his shoulders, the messy wave of his hair, the vulnerability in his eyes.

It's beautiful. It's undeniably him.

And at the bottom, in Edgar's sharp, angular handwriting: Study in Grey. December 2025.

"I drew it from memory," Edgar says stiffly, looking at the wall. "While Luca was panicking. To... prove a point to myself. That I could capture you without the colors."

Joker stares at the drawing. His thumb brushes the charcoal lines. He looks... real. He looks like a person worthy of being drawn.

"You drew me," Joker whispers.

"I draw many things," Edgar deflects. "Do not let it go to your head."

"Edgar."

"What?"

"Thank you."

Edgar huffs, adjusting their scarf. "Do not thank me. It is simply a sketch. And an apology. Of sorts."

He looks at Joker again, gaze dropping to the blanket, to where Joker is clutching it tightly with his left hand. They see the edge of the white towel peeking out from the sleeve. The makeshift bandage.

Edgar's eyes narrow. He stiffens.

"You're bleeding," he observes slowly. His voice is suddenly very cold, very sharp.

Joker pulls his arm back instantly, hiding it. "It's nothing. Just a scratch. From... the cat."

Edgar stares at him. He knows. Of course he does. He’s a genius with anatomy; knows what self-inflicted wounds look like versus cat scratches. He looks at the towel, then at Joker's face, then at the bathroom door which is slightly ajar, the light still on.

For a moment, Joker thinks Edgar is going to yell. Or leave in disgust. Or call an ambulance.

Instead, Edgar exhales slowly through their nose. They’re clearly tired.

"Do you have a first aid kit?"

"I... under the sink."

"Stay there."

Edgar marches into the bathroom, and Joker hears him rummaging around. He returns a moment later with the plastic box, a bottle of antiseptic, and a proper roll of gauze. He sits on the coffee table, facing Joker. He holds out his hand.

"Give me your arm."

"I can do it myself," Joker protests, shrinking back.

"Clearly you cannot," Edgar snaps. "Or you wouldn't be using a dirty hand towel. Give me your arm, Joker. Do not make me wrestle you for it. I will win, simply because I am more stubborn."

Joker hesitates, then slowly extends his arm. He lets the blanket fall away. He unwraps the towel.

The cut is ugly, angry red against his pale skin.

Edgar doesn't flinch, doesn't look disgusted. They seem... clinical. Like Aesop, Joker thinks. They pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad. "This will sting.”

They clean the wound, their touches surprisingly gentle—precise, efficient, careful not to press too hard. They soon apply some antibiotic ointment, wrapping the gauze around Joker's forearm, securing it with tape.

He works in silence. Joker watches him, watching the way Edgar's brow furrows in concentration, the way Edgar's hands—usually so protective of themselves—are touching Joker's blood without hesitation.

"Why?" Joker asks softly.

Edgar finishes the bandage. He smooths the tape down, doesn't let go of Joker's wrist immediately.

"Because," Edgar says, not looking up. "A masterpiece should not be damaged. Even a loud, frustrating one."

He releases Joker's arm before standing up, packing the supplies away.

"I called Luca," Edgar says, walking to the door. "Before I came in. I told him I found you. He is... relieved. Mike is on his way. He will be here in ten minutes. He has pizza, and probably tears. Prepare yourself."

Edgar puts his gloves back on. He opens the door. Soon he pauses, looking back at Joker one last time.

"Joker.”

"Hm?"

"For the record," Edgar starts, his hand on the doorknob. "The sweater design Luca made? It has red in it. A lot of red. He didn't forget you. He just... got the shade wrong. He was trying to match your hair."

And with that, Edgar Valden steps out into the rain and closes the door.

Joker sits on the couch. He looks at his bandaged arm. He looks at the sketch on the table.

Study in Grey.

He picks up the drawing, holding it carefully, afraid to smudge the charcoal.

Ten minutes until Mike gets here. Ten minutes until the noise comes back. Ten minutes until he has to be a person again.

But for the first time in three days, the silence in the apartment doesn't feel empty. It feels... paused. Like a rest between notes. Joker takes a breath. It’s shaky, but deep.

He waits for the knock.

The ten minutes stretch like elastic, pulling tight until the tension is a high-pitched whine.

He doesn’t move from the couch, but he tucks the sketch underneath a cushion, hidden like a secret. He pulls his sleeve down as far as it will go, hooking his thumb through a small hole in the cuff to keep the bandage covered. He pulls the blanket up to his chin.

He tries to prepare mentally. Not with paint—he doesn’t have any energy for that—but with his aching muscles from the lack of eating and proper sleep. He tries to relax, tries to look less like a boy who was just bleeding on his bathroom floor, and more like someone having simply a bad week.

It’s a flimsy mask, it won’t hold. But it’s all he has. So he counts the seconds. One Mississippi, two Mississippi—

He hears the elevator ding from the hallway, running footsteps—not walking, running.

The knock hits the door before the footsteps even stop, a frantic pounding that shakes the frame. It’s clearly not a request for entry; it’s a demand for proof of life. “Joker!”

Mike’s voice is muffled by the wood, pitchy and desperate. “Joker, I know you’re in there! Edgar said you’re in there, so open up!”

Joker closes his eyes for a second, gathers the scraps of his composure. He stands, almost mechanically, and walks to the door, undoing the bolts and locks. The first lock comes undone, then the second, and then the deadbolt Victor had installed after reports of break-ins in the Brooklyn area.

This time, he doesn’t have time to turn away. The moment the final lock clicks, the door is shoved open from the outside, and Mike bursts into the apartment like a localized hurricane. He’s soaking wet, clearly didn’t use an umbrella; his blond hair is plastered to his face, water dripping from his nose and chin. He’s wearing a coat that’s too thin for December, and he’s clutching a Domino’s box in one hand like a lifeline.

He looks like a rabid cat. His eyes are wide, darting around the room until they land on Joker.

For a second, nobody moves.

Mike stares at him, takes in the unwashed hair, the pale skin, the way Joker is hunched in on himself. He’s taking in the reality of the silence he’s been shouting into for these past few days. The pizza box drops. It hits the floor with a flat thud, landing upside down. Mike doesn’t even look at it.

“You’re alive,” Mike breathes.

And then he launches himself forward.

It’s not a hug, more of a collision. Mike slams into him, arms wrapping around Joker’s neck, burying his wet face in the taller boy’s shoulder. He’s shaking. Vibrating with a frequency that rattles Joker’s entire body. He smells like rain and pepperoni and cold, terrified sweat.

“You didn’t answer,” Mike chokes out, his voice wet and muffled against Joker’s sweatshirt. “You didn’t answer the phone. You didn’t answer the texts. I thought— I thought—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

Joker stands there, stiff as a board, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. He can feel the dampness of Mike’s clothes seeping into his own, cold and uncomfortable. He can feel Mike’s heart hammering against his chest, a rapid rhythm that nearly matches his own.

He should try to hug back, he knows this. That’s the script, what a friend does. But he can’t. His arms feel like lead weights. If he lifts them, if he engages, if he accepts this comfort, he feels like he might shatter completely.

“I’m here,” Joker says. His voice is flat. Mechanical.

Mike pulls back, but only an inch. He keeps his hands gripped tight on Joker’s shoulders, as if he’s afraid Joker might dissolve into smoke if he lets go. He searches Joker’s face, his eyes frantic, scanning every inch of bare skin.

“You look…” Mike starts, then stops. His lip quivers. “Edgar said you were bad. He said it was bad.”

“Edgar says a lot of things.”

“He said you were bleeding.”

The words hang in the air between them.

Joker flinches. He tries to pull away, to step back out of Mike’s grip, but Mike holds on. Mike’s gaze drops instantly, scanning Joker’s body, looking for the injury. He spots the left arm. The way Joker is holding it slightly stiff. The way the sleeve is pulled down aggressively tight.

Mike reaches out.

“Don’t,” Joker says sharply.

But Mike doesn’t listen. He’s never listened. He grabs Joker’s wrist—gentle, so gentle it makes Joker sick—and pulls the sleeve up.

The white gauze is stark against the pale skin, where Edgar’s taping job is neat, professional, a sharp contrast to the chaotic mess of Joker’s existence. Mike stares at the bandage, makes a sound that isn’t quite a word. It’s a high, thin whimper, like a dog that’s been kicked.

“Joker,” Mike whispers.

He looks up, and his face is crumpling. It’s an ugly transformation. Mike’s face is usually a beacon of brightness—a grin, a wink, a performance of joy. Now it’s red and blotchy and wet. His eyes are swimming.

“Why?” Mike asks. He sounds young. Terrified. “Why would you— why?”

Joker pulls his arm back, yanking the sleeve down. “It’s nothing. It’s just a scratch.”

“That’s a medical bandage,” Mike says, his voice rising, cracking. “Edgar put a medical bandage on you. You don’t do that for a scratch, you do that for—” He stops, swallowing a sob. “Were you trying to… leave?”

The question is blunt. Brutal.

Joker looks at the ground, where the fallen Domino’s box lays on the floor. “I don’t know,” Joker admits, his voice hoarse and his throat tight.

Mike breaks.

He starts to cry in earnest—not the silent, dignified weeping of the movies. It’s messy. He puts his hands over his face and sobs, his shoulders heaving, gasping for air between hitches. He sinks down, collapsing onto the floor right there in the hallway.

Joker watches.

He feels… distant. He knows he should be kneeling down. He knows he should be comforting Mike. After all, he is the cause of this pain, that his existence is the reason Mike is currently unraveling on his floorboards.

See? the voice in his head whispers, and it sounds too much like Edgar—despite them showing up, despite them wrapping a gauze around Joker’s wrist. This is what you do. You break people. You make them ugly.

But he can’t move. He feels frozen in a block of ice, watching the scene play out through a thick pane of glass. He feels exhausted. He just wants to lie down.

“I’m sorry,” Mike gasps through his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be cheering you up. I brought pizza. I brought Domino’s, I— I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Joker says, walking over to the couch and sits down heavily. He wraps the blanket around himself again. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I forgot you!” Mike uncovers his face. His eyes are bloodshot. “We all forgot you! We made you feel like— like you didn’t matter! And then I kept texting and texting and I knew I was annoying you but I couldn’t stop because I was so scared you were dead and—”

He hiccups, wiping his eyes on his wet sleeve.

“I love you,” Mike says. He says it forcefully. Like an accusation. Like a weapon.

“I love you, Joker. I love you so much. And I hate that that wasn’t enough. I hate that I wasn’t enough to make you want to stay.”

Joker closes his eyes. There it is again. That phrase.

I love you.

It sounds different when Mike is crying it from the floor. It sounds heavy. Less a confession, more a burden, a sinner confiding to a priest. It sounds like a chain that tethers Joker to this world when all he wants to do is float away.

“It’s not about you,” Joker whispers.

“It feels like it’s about me,” Mike counters. He crawls over to the couch, not standing up, just dragging himself across the rug until he’s sitting at Joker’s feet. He rests his cheek against Joker’s knee. He’s wet and cold and shivering. “It feels like I failed.”

Joker looks down at him. At the blond hair, darkened by rain, the curve of his spine, bowed under the weight of Joker’s sadness. "You didn't fail," Joker says. The words feel clumsy in his mouth, too small for the weight they need to carry. "Mike, come on. Look at me."

Mike doesn't lift his head. He keeps his cheek pressed to Joker's knee, his fingers curled loosely in the blanket's fringe. He's still shaking—from cold, from crying, from the adrenaline crash of panic finally meeting relief.

"Listen." Joker reaches down. His hand hovers over Mike's wet hair for a second before he lets it drop, his fingers threading through the damp strands. It's an awkward gesture, stilted, but it's contact. It's something. "The arm. It's… not what you think."

Mike goes very still.

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't—" Joker swallows. The words stick in his throat like broken glass. "I didn't do this to myself. It was… it was an accident."

Mike lifts his head slowly. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, but beneath the tears there's something sharp. Skeptical. Hopeful in a way that's almost painful to witness.

"An accident," Mike repeats.

"Yes." Joker pulls his hand back, tucking it under the blanket. "I was... I went for a walk. Earlier. After Orpheus left. I wasn't watching where I was going, and I slipped on ice near the construction site... There was scaffolding, and I caught my arm on something sharp when I fell."

He can see Mike processing this, can see the gears turning behind those watery eyes. Mike clearly wants to believe him. So desperately wants to believe him that it's radiating off him like heat.

"You fell," Mike says slowly.

"I fell," Joker lies through the skin of his teeth. "It was stupid. I was distracted, and it was dark, and the sidewalk was iced over. I came back here and wrapped it up. That's all."

Mike doesn’t buy it, it’s clear in the way his eyes narrow from the bandages to Joker’s tired eyes. “That’s all,” he echoes, although there is something heavy in the way he speaks. “Joker, I can tell the difference between a klutzy accident and…” He gestures to the cuts. “That. Don’t think that I don’t know.”

Joker's heart stutters in his chest, a frantic bird trapped under ribs that feel too tight, too fragile. He wants to look away from Mike's gaze—those piercing eyes that see too much, always have—but he can't. Not now. Not when Mike is kneeling there on the damp bathroom floor, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the spray of the shower they'd shared earlier, his top surgery scars faintly visible through the wet fabric like badges of a battle Joker envies and fears.

"It's not—" Joker starts, but the words crumble. His voice is hoarse, scraped raw from the lies he's been swallowing all night. The arm throbs under the fresh bandages Mike had insisted on re-wrapping, each cut a neat, deliberate line that screams the truth he won't voice. Not an accident. Not ice or scaffolding. Just me. Just secrets I keep hidden.

Mike shifts closer, his knees pressing into the bathmat. One hand reaches out, hesitant, and rests on Joker's good knee. The touch is warm, grounding, but it burns all the same. "Joker," Mike says softly, his voice cracking on the edges. "I've seen accidents. Hell, I've caused a few on stage—sawed myself in half once and nicked an artery for real." A ghost of his usual grin flickers, but it dies fast. "This? These are parallel. Even. Hesitant at first, then deeper. Like... like someone testing the waters."

Joker's breath hitches. He knows. Of course he knows. Magician's eyes, seeing through the illusions. The room spins a little, tile cool against his back where he's slumped against the tub. The shower's still dripping somewhere, a metronome to his unraveling. In his head, his thoughts spill like a bad reel: 

Why fight it? Let him see. Let him run. Better than dragging him down into this pit where the walls are slick with your own blood and the bottom is a mirror reflecting every failure. Orpheus left because you're poison. Mike will too. End it clean.

But Mike doesn't run. He leans in, forehead nearly touching Joker's, breath mingling in the humid air. "Talk to me. Please. I can't... I can't lose you to this shit." His free hand ghosts over the bandaged arm, not pressing, just hovering like he's afraid it'll shatter. "Was it after Orpheus? The fight?"

Joker nods before he can stop himself. The lie about the fall was thin; this truth slips out easier, greased by exhaustion. "He said I was too much. Too broken. That he couldn't keep picking up the pieces." Joker's laugh is bitter, wet. "He's right. Look at me. I’m just… I’m pathetic."

Mike's jaw tightens. "Don’t listen to him. He's a coward who bails when things get real." He cups Joker's face then, thumbs brushing away tears Joker didn't realize were falling. "You're not pathetic, you're here. With me. That's more than he ever deserved."

The contact sends sparks up Joker's spine, chasing away the cold fog in his mind for a moment. Mike's hands are rough from card tricks and wire-walking, but gentle now, tracing the soft line of Joker's jaw. "I don't deserve you either," he whispers, his good hand comes up, fingers tangling in Mike's damp curls. "You should go. Before I pull you under."

Mike shakes his head, stubborn as ever. "Not happening. We're in this together, yeah? Partners in crime. Or... partners in whatever this mess is."

“Yeah,” Joker nods slowly. He murmurs the last word so softly, he’s not even sure if Mike picks up on it, “Partners.”

The word hangs between them, loaded with everything Joker can't say. Mike's eyes flicker to his lips for just a moment—so briefly Joker thinks he might have imagined it—before he clears his throat and shifts slightly on the couch.

"You should eat something," Mike says, his voice a little rougher than before. "When's the last time you had an actual meal?"

Joker shrugs. "I had..." He tries to remember, but the past few days blur together in a haze of tears and sleep. "An apple? Maybe yesterday?"

Mike's expression darkens. "Jesus, Jokester. No wonder you look like you're about to pass out." He stands abruptly, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'm ordering pizza. Another one. The works, extra cheese, the pineapple toppings you like that nobody else understands."

"You don't have to—"

"Already dialing," Mike cuts him off, phone pressed to his ear. He paces the small living room as he places the order, one hand gesturing animatedly as he argues with the pizza place about whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn't, according to Mike's passionate defense—and yet he orders it anyway).

Joker watches him move, the familiar way Mike's whole body gets involved when he talks, how he runs his hand through his curls when he's trying to make a point. It's so achingly normal that Joker feels something loosen in his chest, some knot of tension he's been carrying for days.

When Mike hangs up, he flops back down on the couch, closer than before. "Forty minutes. Apparently half of Brooklyn decided they needed pizza tonight too."

"Thanks," Joker says, meaning it for more than just the food.

Mike's phone buzzes in his hand. He glances down, frowning slightly. "It's Luca."

Joker tenses. "You don't have to answer."

"I should though. He's been blowing up the group chat all day." Mike hesitates, then answers. "Hey, man... Yeah, I'm with him now... No, he's okay, just... Yeah... No, don't come over, it's not—" He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, just give him some space, alright? I've got this... Yeah, I'll tell him... Okay, later."

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the coffee table with more force than necessary. "Luca says he's sorry. Again. And that the party's still on if you want to come, but no pressure."

"What did you tell him about..." Joker gestures vaguely at his bandaged arm.

"Nothing specific. Just that you needed some time." Mike's eyes are serious when they meet Joker's. "It's not my story to tell."

The silence stretches between them, comfortable but charged with something Joker can't quite name. Finally, Mike reaches for the remote.

"So, I've been meaning to watch that new season of Jujutsu Kaisen. You in?" He's already navigating to Netflix, the question clearly rhetorical. "Fair warning, I might ask a million questions. You know I can never keep track of who has what power."

Joker feels a small smile tug at his lips. "That's because you fall asleep halfway through every episode."

"I do not!" Mike protests, then grins sheepishly. "Okay, maybe sometimes. But in my defense, those training montages get really long."

As the opening credits start to play, Mike settles in beside him, their shoulders touching. The familiar animation washes over them, and for the first time in days, Joker feels something like peace.

"This is the one with the cursed objects, right?" Mike asks, already confused.

"Cursed techniques," Joker corrects automatically. "And yes, but also no. It's complicated."

Mike laughs, the sound vibrating through the point where their shoulders meet. "Of course it is. Just promise to wake me up for the good fights."

"No promises," Joker says, but he's smiling now too.

Three episodes in, the pizza long since devoured, Joker doesn't remember falling asleep. One moment he's watching Jujutsu Kaisen with Mike, their shoulders pressed together on the couch, and the next he's drifting, head slowly tilting until it finds the warm curve of Mike's shoulder. The familiar scent of Mike's sandalwood cologne mingles with the faint chemical tang of hair product, and Joker's consciousness slips away like water through cupped hands.

He dreams of nothing for once. No drowning, no void, no makeup melting from his face—just darkness and the distant comfort of someone's fingers gently combing through his hair.

When he stirs, the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the TV. Mike has slumped sideways too, his breathing deep and even, one arm draped protectively across Joker's chest. On screen, the anime has long since ended, replaced by Netflix's "Are you still watching?" prompt.

Joker blinks slowly, careful not to move. This moment feels fragile, like a soap bubble that might burst at the slightest disturbance. Mike's face in sleep is softer, younger somehow—the worried creases smoothed away, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. For a heartbeat, Joker allows himself to imagine waking up like this every morning, to pretend that Mike's arm around him means what he wishes it did.

Houdini appears, leaping silently onto the coffee table, green eyes luminous in the darkness. He chirps softly, as if asking a question.

"I know," Joker whispers. "I'm being stupid again."

Mike stirs, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into sleep. Joker carefully extracts himself, wincing as his bandaged arm throbs. He drapes the throw blanket over Mike's sleeping form, then pads silently to his bedroom, Houdini trailing at his heels.

He’ll be here tomorrow, Joker reminds himself as he flicks the nightstand lamp off.

Tomorrow, and maybe whenever I need him.

Chapter Text

Morning arrives with pale winter sunlight through the blinds. Joker flutters his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t feel weighed down. Houdini is curled by his side, shaped like a little grey croissant with fur, purring up a storm. She never sleeps in Joker’s bed. He kicks from time to time, murmurs in his sleep. But for once in her nine lives, Houdini has decided she was so cold, that desperate times call for desperate measures.

There’s a light scent of coffee and the sound of someone moving around his kitchen, and for a disorienting moment, Joker thinks he’s still dreaming. "Mike?" he calls, voice rough with sleep.

"In here!" Mike's voice rings out cheerfully. "Hope you don't mind, I raided your fridge, ‘cause I'm making coffee."

Joker sits up slowly, running his good hand through his tangled hair. His makeup from yesterday is smeared across his pillowcase—a crime scene of foundation and eyeliner. The bandage on his arm is still intact, though slightly rumpled from sleep.

"You… you stayed," Joker says, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “All night.”

Mike looks up from the stove where he’s brewing coffee. He's wearing the same clothes from yesterday, hair sticking up at odd angles, but there's something youthful about him this morning. The usual tension he carries about upcoming performances and events has melted away, replaced by an easy comfort that reminds Joker of middle school days. Back when their biggest concerns were homework and planning elaborate pranks against their ancient maths teacher who looked more like she belonged in a museum exhibit than a classroom.

“Of course I stayed,” Mike says, and this time his voice is something softer—more quiet. Like he’s speaking to something precious. “I couldn't leave you, especially after… after—” His voice trails off. “—Never mind, but I made you some coffee! I noticed you had some of that really good stuff from Trader Joe’s so I brewed some for us.”

“Thank you.” Joker makes his way to the small kitchen island, leaning forward slightly. “But you didn't have to stay, Mike.”

“Right, I didn’t.” Mike pours some coffee from the scorching pot. “But I did, because I don’t want you left behind.”

“I don’t need pity—”

“It’s not pity, Jokester.” Mike sips from his coffee cup, giving Joker one of his signature I’m Not Fooling Around looks. Joker winces slightly at the nickname, the same one Norton gives him. "It's not pity," Mike repeats, and he steps around the island, invading Joker’s personal space with the same reckless abandon he uses on the balance beam. He sets his own mug down on the counter with a definitive clack. "You know I hate that word. Pity is looking down. It’s distance. I’m right here, I’m eye-level, maybe less by two inches."

He is. He’s actually a little shorter than Joker, but in this moment, Mike feels massive, like a gravitational force, pulling everything into his orbit.

"Then what is it?" Joker asks, his voice barely a whisper. He’s gripping his coffee mug so hard his knuckles are white, the ceramic warmth the only thing anchoring him to the floor. "Because I’m a mess, Mike. I’m a disaster, I’m bleeding under this sleeve and I haven’t showered in a few days and I look like a ghost."

"You look like Joker," Mike corrects. He reaches out, his hand hovering before settling gently on Joker’s waist, right over the oversized fabric of his sleep shirt. His thumb rubs a soothing circle against the cotton. "And yeah, you’re a mess. But you’re my mess. You’ve been my mess since we first met in kindergarten and pulled our first prank together."

His hand slides from Joker’s waist, drifting upward. It’s a slow, deliberate journey, mapping the terrain of Joker’s ribcage, the frantic beat of his heart beneath the layers of clothes and skin. Mike’s palm is warm, a stark contrast to the perpetual chill settling in Joker’s bones.

"I’m not…" Joker tries to counter weakly. Tries to turn his face away, conscious of the lack of foundation, the dark circles, the raw vulnerability of being seen without his armor. "I’m ugly like this. Empty."

"Hey." Mike’s other hand comes up, cupping Joker’s jaw, forcing him gently to look back. His fingers are rough—calloused from the trapeze bars and the endless hours of grip training—but his touch is reverent. "Don't say that. Not to me."

Mike steps closer, stepping into the V of Joker’s space until their thighs brush. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through Joker, sharp and terrifying and undeniably alive.

"Edgar was wrong," Mike murmurs, his eyes searching Joker’s face, cataloging every freckle, every line of exhaustion. "The paint doesn't give you a personality. The paint just… turns up the volume. But the song is always there. I can hear it."

Joker’s breath hitches. "You're talking like Orpheus."

"Don't insult me," Mike jokes, but his eyes are dark, dilated. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickening, changing from domestic comfort to something heavier. Something charged.

Mike leans in. He doesn't close the gap immediately; he pauses, hovering just an inch away, giving Joker every opportunity to pull back, to say no, to retreat into his fortress of solitude. Joker can smell the coffee on his breath, the sandalwood soap, the distinct, metallic scent of rain that still clings to Mike's jacket from the night before.

Joker doesn't pull back. He couldn't if he wanted to. He is frozen, magnetized, terrified.

"Can I?" Mike breathes the question against Joker’s lips.

Joker nods. A microscopic movement.

Mike closes the gap.

The kiss is nothing like Joker expected. He expected desperate, or frantic—a continuation of Mike's panic from the night before. Or maybe he expected chaste, a "friendship" kiss meant to comfort a broken thing.

This is neither.

This is slow. Deliberate. It’s a tasting, a savoring. Mike’s lips are soft and chapped, moving against Joker’s with a tenderness that makes Joker’s knees weak. It’s not demanding, but it is possessive. It says you are here, you are mine, you are real.

Joker lets out a shaky sigh, his lips parting, and Mike takes the invitation, deepening the kiss just a fraction. He tastes like coffee and longing.

Joker’s hands, which had been clutching the counter behind him for balance, flutter up uncertainly. He doesn't know where to put them. He feels clumsy, unpracticed. He settles them on Mike’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer.

Mike makes a low sound in his throat—a hum of approval—and his hands slide around to the small of Joker’s back, pulling him flush against his body. The contact is grounding. Solid. Mike is a wall of muscle and warmth, a physical reality that chases away the void threatening to swallow Joker whole.

They break apart for air, but only barely. Their foreheads rest against each other, breathing the same oxygen.

"I wasn't lying," Mike whispers, his eyes closed, lashes fanning against his cheeks. "When I said I loved you differently. I wasn't just saying it to stop you from... from leaving."

Joker swallows hard. "I know."

"Do you?" Mike pulls back enough to look him in the eye. "Because I need you to know. I’ve been in love with you for years, Joker. Since high school. Maybe before. I watched you turn yourself into art, and I loved the art, but I missed the canvas. I missed you."

"I'm not much of a prize right now," Joker deflects, looking down.

"Shut up," Mike says, but there's no heat in it. "Let me decide what's a prize."

He kisses him again, and this time, there’s heat.

Mike’s hands roam, restless and seeking. They slide up Joker’s back, under the hem of his oversized Hamilton shirt. Skin on skin. Mike’s palms are hot, friction-rough against the smooth, pale skin of Joker’s lower back.

Joker gasps, his spine arching instinctively away from the cold air of the kitchen and into the heat of Mike’s palms. It’s overwhelming. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He feels like a wire stripped of its insulation, every nerve ending exposed and buzzing.

"Mike," he chokes out, his head falling back, exposing the long, pale column of his throat.

Mike doesn't hesitate. He presses a kiss to the pulse point just below Joker’s jaw, his stubble grazing sensitive skin. "I've got you," Mike murmurs against his neck, the vibration traveling straight down Joker’s chest. "I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere."

Joker’s hands tighten on Mike’s shoulders. He feels unmoored, the kitchen island digging into his hip the only solid thing in a world that has suddenly tilted on its axis. "The coffee," Joker manages to whisper, a weak attempt to hold onto reality. "It’s going to get cold."

"Let it," Mike growls softly, biting lightly at the cord of muscle in Joker’s neck. "I don't care about the coffee. I care about you."

He pulls back just enough to look at Joker again, his eyes dark and dilated, pupils swallowing the iris. The playfulness is gone, replaced by a raw, hungry intensity that makes Joker’s stomach flip.

"Your room," Mike says. It’s not a question this time. It’s a statement of intent.

Joker nods, unable to find his voice.

Mike doesn't let go. He keeps one arm wrapped firmly around Joker’s waist, guiding him out of the kitchen and down the short hallway. The walk feels miles long, every step heavy with anticipation. Houdini watches them pass from her perch on the sofa, blinking slowly, before tucking her head back under her tail.

The bedroom’s dim, the blinds still drawn against the morning sun. The air is cool and still, smelling faintly of old paper and the lavender linen spray Joker uses when he can’t sleep. The bed is unmade, a nest of tangled sheets where Joker had spent the last few agonizing nights.

Mike guides him to the edge of the mattress. Joker sits, the springs creaking softly under his weight. He feels suddenly, painfully self-conscious. The daylight filtering through the cracks in the blinds illuminates dust motes dancing in the air, and Joker feels just as exposed—dusty, forgotten, needing to be cleaned.

"I haven't..." Joker starts, his hands twisting in his lap, mindful of the bandage on his arm. "I haven't showered properly in days. I'm gross, Mike. You don't want—"

Mike silences him with a finger to his lips.

"You are not gross," he says firmly. He stands between Joker’s spread knees, his hands resting on Joker’s thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. "You’re human. You’ve been surviving, and damn it I want you.” He leans in, closer, closer. Every version of you. The clean one, the messy one, the one that smells like sleep and sadness. I want all of it."

He kisses Joker again, slow and deep, swallowing Joker’s protest. Joker sighs into the kiss, his resistance melting away like snow in rain. It’s exhausting to fight Mike’s certainty. It’s so much easier to just... surrender. To let Mike carry the weight for a little while.

Mike’s hands move to the hem of Joker’s oversized t-shirt. "Arms up," he whispers against Joker’s lips.

Joker obliges, lifting his arms. He winces slightly as the movement pulls at the tape on his forearm, but Mike is careful. He slides the shirt up slowly, navigating around the bandaged limb with the precision of a bomb disposal expert, treating Joker like he’s made of glass.

When his shirt is off, the cool air hits Joker’s bare chest, raising goosebumps. He instinctively crosses his arms, trying to hide, to cover the softness of his stomach, the scars—both surgical and self-inflicted—the parts of himself he hasn’t learned to love yet.

But Mike is there. Mike is looking at him, and there is no judgment in his eyes. Only reverence.

"Beautiful," Mike breathes.

He leans in and presses a kiss to the center of Joker’s chest, right over his sternum. Then another, lower down. And another. He is mapping Joker’s body with his mouth, reclaiming territory that Joker had ceded to self-hatred.

"Mike..." Joker whimpers, his fingers tangling in Mike’s hair.

"I love this," Mike murmurs against his skin, kissing the slope of his ribs. "I love the way you’re built. I love the way you breathe."

He pushes Joker gently backward until he’s lying flat on the mattress, head pillowed on the mess of blankets. Mike hovers over him, bracing his weight on his forearms, creating a canopy of warmth and safety. He looks down at Joker, his expression open and agonizingly tender.

"Can I take these off?" Mike asks, his hand resting on the waistband of Joker’s sweatpants.

Joker stares up at him. At the familiar face he’s known for so many years, now flushed with desire and care. He tries to think about the void in his dream, the emptiness beneath the mask. But looking at Mike, feeling the heavy, grounding weight of him, the void feels far away.

"Yes," Joker whispers. "Please."

Mike moves efficiently, stripping them both down until they are skin against skin, heat against heat. When Mike settles back on top of him, the friction is electric. Joker gasps, his hips bucking instinctively, seeking more contact.

Mike’s own arousal presses hot and slick against Joker’s thigh, but he doesn’t chase his own pleasure yet—he’s too busy watching Joker’s face like it’s the first time he’s ever seen color. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his hips forward, letting their bodies slide together in one long, wet glide. Joker’s breath catches hard, a broken little sob escaping before he can stop it. He’s soaked, embarrassingly so, and the sound it makes is obscene in the quiet room.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mike whispers, kissing the corner of Joker’s mouth, his cheek, the salt-damp skin under his eye. “Listen to you. That’s the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.”

Joker tries to curl in on himself, mortified, but Mike doesn’t let him. He pins Joker’s wrists gently above his head with one hand—careful of the bandage—and uses the other to cup Joker’s jaw, forcing him to stay open, stay seen. “No hiding. Not from me.”

Another slow roll of Mike’s hips, another wet drag, and Joker’s thighs start to tremble. He can feel himself getting wetter, the slickness coating Mike’s skin, dripping down to the sheets. He wants to apologize for the mess, for being too much, too needy, too—

“Good boy,” Mike says, low and rough, right against his ear. The words hit like a spark to gasoline. Joker’s back arches off the bed, a strangled whine tearing out of him. “There he is. There’s my good boy.”

Mike releases his wrists only to slide both hands down Joker’s sides, thumbs tracing the soft curve where waist meets hip, reverent. He shifts lower, settling between Joker’s thighs, spreading them wider with gentle pressure. Joker’s cunt flutters visibly, puffy and glistening, and Mike actually groans like he’s in pain.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. “All swollen and pink and dripping for me. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Joker’s face burns. He turns his head into the pillow, but Mike tuts softly and turns it back. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see you fall apart.”

Mike is warm, solid. His chest, marked with his own faded scars, presses against Joker’s. It’s like a meeting of histories, of battles fought and won. Mike understands bodies—of course he would as a gymnast, but also as someone who understands how they change, how they betray us, how they can be reclaimed.

"You’re so warm," Joker murmurs, wrapping his good arm around Mike’s neck, pulling him down.

"Siphoning it off to you," Mike grins, a flash of his usual brightness, before he buries his face in the crook of Joker’s neck. He starts to suck a mark there, slow and rhythmic.

Joker moans, a broken sound that surprises even him. He feels... present. For the first time in days, he isn't floating above his body or sinking into the floor. He is right here, anchored by Mike’s weight, by the wet heat of Mike’s mouth, by the scuff of Mike’s hips grinding slowly against his own.

"You feel that?" Mike asks, his voice vibrating against Joker’s throat. "That’s you. You’re alive. You’re right here."

"I feel it," Joker breathes.

Mike shifts, his hand sliding down Joker’s side, over the curve of his hip, fingers digging in just enough to bruise. "Good. Stay with me."

Mike kisses his way down Joker’s body again, pausing at the bandage on his forearm. Joker tenses, waiting for the pity, for the lecture, for the sadness to return.

But Mike doesn't say anything. He just presses a soft, feather-light kiss to the white gauze. Then he kisses the skin just above it. Then the inside of Joker’s elbow. He treats the wound not as a failure, but as just another part of Joker that needs to be loved.

Joker creates scenes? Yeah. Maybe. But right now, the only scene is this: Mike worshipping him on a Tuesday morning, making a prayer out of his body.

"Mike," Joker gasps, his hips moving of their own accord, seeking friction. "Please. I need—"

"What do you need?" Mike asks, moving back up to hover over him, their faces inches apart. His hand slides between their bodies, warm and calloused, finding Joker.

Joker shudders, his eyes fluttering as Mike’s fingers part his folds, spreading the slickness up and over his clit in slow, patient circles. Joker’s hips jerk, chasing the pressure, but Mike pins him gently with a forearm across his lower belly.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Just feel.”

He circles once, twice, then dips lower, pressing one finger inside. Joker clenches instinctively, a panicked little sound catching in his throat—he hasn’t been touched like this in so long, hasn’t let anyone this close—and Mike stills immediately.

“Hey, hey—look at me.” Mike waits until Joker’s watery eyes meet his. “We go as slow as you need. You’re safe. Always safe with me.”

Joker nods, shaky, and Mike pushes in the rest of the way—slow, careful, perfect. Joker’s head falls back with a broken moan as Mike crooks his finger, finding that spot inside that makes Joker’s toes curl and his breath hitch.

“There we go,” Mike praises, voice trembling with restraint. “Good boy, taking me so well. So fucking perfect.”

He adds a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching him open while his thumb keeps up that damning rhythm on his clit. Joker’s thighs shake harder; he can’t stop the sounds spilling out of him—high, desperate, wrecked.

Mike curls his fingers again, harder this time, and Joker’s whole body seizes. “Mike—fuck—please—”

“I’ve got you,” Mike says, fierce and tender all at once. “Let it happen, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

"I need you," Joker confesses, the truth tearing out of him. "I just need you to… to not stop. I need you to make me feel real."

"You are 100% real," Mike murmurs again, picking up the pace, the friction building a fire in Joker’s chest. He kisses Joker hard, swallowing his moans, biting at his lower lip. "You’re the realest thing I know."

Mike’s sliding one free hand down Joker’s body, down to his thigh, where Joker feels a different kind of warmth.

Mike’s mouth follows his hand, kissing a wet trail down Joker’s chest, his stomach, until he’s settled between Joker’s thighs again. He doesn’t tease—he just spreads Joker open with both thumbs and licks a long, lazy stripe up his cunt, groaning at the taste like a starving man.

Joker cries out, hips bucking so hard Mike has to hold him down. He doesn’t stop—keeps licking, sucking, keeping Joker open on two fingers while his tongue flicks mercilessly over his clit. Joker’s hands scrabble at the sheets, at Mike’s hair, anywhere he can reach.

“Please, Mike—please—” He’s babbling now, tears streaking into his hairline. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m—”

“Do it,” Mike murmurs against him, voice muffled, lips slick. “Come on my tongue, sweetheart. Want to taste it. Want to feel you fall apart.”

One more hard suck, one more curl of his fingers, and Joker shatters—back bowing off the bed, a raw, broken sob ripping out of him as he comes harder than he ever has in his life. Mike doesn’t stop, just gentles him through it, licking softly until Joker’s pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and trembling.

The pleasure builds, a tide rising to meet the drowning man. But this time, the water isn't cold and dark. It’s golden. It’s warm. It’s 100%—just like how 100% real Joker is.

Joker clings to him, his good hand clutching Mike’s shoulder, his nails digging in. He focuses on the sensation—Mike’s mouth, the sound of their ragged breathing filling the quiet room. He focuses on the way Mike looks at him when he finally crawls back up, eyes locked on Joker’s face, watching every expression, catching every gasp like it’s precious currency.

"That’s it," Mike encourages, his voice rough. "Let go. I’ve got you. I promise I’ve got you."

And Joker believes him. For one impossible, crystalline moment, he believes him.

He lets go.

He comes, and it crashes over him, shattering the numbness, flooding his veins with white-hot light. He’s crying out, arching off the mattress, his body bowing like a pulled string. Mike holds him through it, grinding down, riding out the aftershocks with him, whispering praises into his ear.

"So good," Mike murmurs, kissing his temple, his wet cheek, his eyelids. "You’re so good. You’re so beautiful."

Joker lies there, panting, his heart hammering against his ribs. He feels raw, scraped clean, but not empty. Not anymore. He feels filled with something new. Something quiet and warm.

Mike collapses next to him, breathing hard, pulling Joker into his side. He arranges their limbs until they are a tangle of skin and sweat, Joker’s head resting on Mike’s chest, Mike’s arm draped protectively over Joker’s waist.

For a long time, neither of them speaks. The only sounds are their slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of traffic outside.

Joker traces the line of Mike’s collarbone with a trembling finger. "You didn't..." he starts, realizing Mike hadn't finished.

"Doesn't matter," Mike mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of Joker’s head. "I'm good. I just needed to be close to you. We can worry about me later. Or never, I'm just happy you're here."

Joker closes his eyes, fighting a fresh wave of tears. But these aren't the hot, stinging tears of the last few days. These are softer. Healing.

"I'm here," Joker whispers. "I'm not going anywhere."

He feels Mike squeeze him tighter.

"Good," Mike says, his voice thick with emotion. "Because I meant it, you know. Partners. In crime, in mess, in whatever comes next."

Joker thinks about the future. About the party in two days. About the group chat he still hasn't checked. About Edgar's sketch and Luca's apology and the long, difficult road of explaining himself that still lies ahead. It all seems exhausting.

But then he feels the steady thump of Mike’s heart under his cheek. He feels the warmth of Mike’s skin against his own. He feels the bandage on his arm, no longer a mark of shame, but a testament to survival.

"Partners," Joker agrees softly.

He drifts in the quiet, the morning sun finally breaking through the blinds to paint stripes of gold across the duvet. He isn't fixed. He knows that. The cracks are still there, deep and jagged. The paint is still stripped away.

But for the first time in a long time, he thinks that maybe—just maybe—he doesn't need to cover them up right now.

Maybe the grey is enough.

The television is playing the 1998 version of Trigun, because Mike insisted that the classics are classics for a reason, and also because there is something comforting about the grainy animation style and the over-saturated colors.

Joker is slumped into the corner of the sofa, his legs thrown over Mike’s lap. He feels floaty. Untethered. The afterglow of the morning has settled into his bones like a heavy, warm sediment, making his limbs feel pleasant and useless. He traces the hem of Mike’s hoodie with his thumb—the fabric is soft, worn thin at the cuffs, and smells so strongly of Mike (sweat, cedar, the metallic tang of the gym) that Joker feels a little drunk on it.

On screen, Vash the Stampede is currently flailing his limbs and crying over a donut.

"He's such a disaster," Mike comments around a mouthful of toast, gesturing at the screen with the crust. "Look at him. Sixty billion double dollars on his head and he's crying about pastries."

"It's a deflection," Joker murmurs, his eyes half-lidded. He watches Vash pull a face, a grotesque mask of idiocy designed to make people lower their guards. "He acts like a fool so no one looks too closely at the scars."

Mike pauses mid-chew. He glances at Joker, his expression softening. He knows. Of course he knows. He reaches out and squeezes Joker’s ankle, a grounding pressure.

"Yeah," Mike says softly. "Guess he does."

"Love and peace," Joker quotes quietly, the catchphrase tasting bitter and sweet on his tongue.

"Love and peace!" Mike repeats, but he does it with the finger guns, loud and boisterous, trying to pull the mood back from the edge of melancholy. "And donuts. Can't forget the donuts."

Joker smiles. It’s a small thing, barely a quirk of his lips, but it feels real. He feels safe here, in this little bubble of domesticity they’ve created. The apartment is messy, the air is stale, and his arm throbs with a dull, distant ache under the bandage, but Mike is here. Mike is warm. Mike is currently trying to balance a throw pillow on his head while watching Nicholas D. Wolfwood drag his massive cross across the desert.

"That cross is so impractical," Mike observes. "The center of gravity is all off. His back must be killing him."

"It's full of mercy," Joker says sleepily. "And guns."

"Mostly guns. Which, knowing Wolfwood, counts as mercy."

Joker hums, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment. He feels... quiet. The static that usually fills his head—the constant buzzing of anxiety, of self-hatred, of what do they think of me—has been dialed down to a low hum. It’s not gone, but it’s manageable. It’s background noise to the sound of Mike’s breathing and the gunshots on the TV.

Mike’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, vibrating against the wood.

Joker flinches instinctively, his eyes snapping open. The outside world. He’d forgotten about it for almost two hours. The bubble threatens to pop.

"Ignore it," Joker whispers, pulling his knees up slightly, withdrawing.

Mike glances at the screen. His face does a complicated thing—a frown, then a softening, then a look of determination.

"It’s Norton," Mike says. He picks up the phone but doesn't unlock it yet. "He’s asking... well, he’s being Norton."

"‘Is he dead?’" Joker guesses dryly.

"Close. ‘Status report.’" Mike rolls his eyes. "He treats everything like a mining expedition. Assessing structural integrity."

Joker wraps his arms around his knees, pulling Mike’s hoodie tighter around himself. He feels small again. "Tell him... tell him I'm fine."

Mike looks at him. He looks at the messy hair, the red-rimmed eyes, the way Joker is curling in on himself like a defensive pillbug.

"I’m not gonna lie to him," Mike says. "But I’m not gonna tell him everything either." He unlocks the phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. "I’m telling him you’re alive, you’re eating toast, and we’re watching anime. That’s enough data for his rock-brain to process."

Joker watches him type. "Does he know? About..." He gestures vaguely to his arm.

"No," Mike says firmly. "And he won't. Unless you want him to."

"I don't."

"Then he doesn't know." Mike sets the phone down, but keeps his hand on it. He looks at Joker, really looks at him, with that intense, scrutinizing gaze that sees right through the walls Joker tries to build.

"Come here," Mike says suddenly.

Joker blinks. "I am here."

"Closer." Mike pats the cushion right next to him. "Come on. Squeeze in."

Joker hesitates, then unfolds his legs and scoots across the couch until he’s pressed against Mike’s side. Mike immediately wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in tight, burying his nose in Joker’s unwashed hair.

"You smell like me," Mike murmurs, sounding satisfied.

"I’m wearing your clothes," Joker points out. "And I haven't showered in three days. I probably smell like a locker room."

"Best locker room I've ever been in." Mike pulls back slightly, raising his phone. He flips the camera to front-facing. "Smile."

Joker recoils like he’s been burned. He throws a hand up to cover his face, ducking his head. "No! Mike, no—don't."

"Why not?"

"Look at me!" Joker’s voice pitches up, panic bleeding into the edges. "I look—I look hideous. My eyes are swollen, I have no makeup on, my skin is grey, I’m greasy—"

"You look like a person," Mike interrupts, his voice stubborn. He gently pries Joker’s hand away from his face. "You look like someone who survived a really bad week. And you look beautiful."

"You're just saying that because—"

"Because I love you?" Mike raises an eyebrow. "Yeah. Exactly. I love you, which means I see you. The real you. Not the clown, not the mask. Just Joker. And totally not Arthur Fleck."

He shifts the angle of the phone. On the screen, Joker can see himself—pale, exhausted, looking fragile in the oversized hoodie. But next to him is Mike, grinning that lopsided, radiant grin, his cheek pressed against Joker’s temple, his eyes bright and defiant.

In the frame, Joker doesn't look alone. He looks... held.

"Just one," Mike pleads softly, doing his best impersonation of the pleading emoji. "For us. And maybe to shut Norton up so he doesn't come break down the door with a pickaxe."

Joker bites his lip. He hates being photographed without his armor. He hates the permanence of it, the evidence of his own imperfection. But he looks at Mike’s face—the hope there, the pride—and the fight drains out of him.

"Okay," Joker whispers. "But don't... don't tag me. Please."

"Deal."

Mike raises the phone again. He doesn't ask Joker to smile this time. He just leans his head against Joker’s, wraps his arm tighter, and snaps the picture.

In the photo, Mike is beaming. Joker isn't smiling, but he isn't hiding either. He’s looking at the camera with wide, weary eyes, his head resting on Mike’s shoulder. He looks tired. He looks sad. But he also looks safe.

Mike types a quick caption—all good!—and hits send.

"There," Mike says, tossing the phone onto the other end of the couch. "Proof of life. Now they can all calm down."

Joker stares at the phone. "You lied."

"What?"

"The caption. 'All good.' It's not all good."

Mike shifts, turning so he can pull Joker fully into his lap. He wraps both arms around Joker’s waist, resting his chin on Joker’s shoulder.

"It's a simplified truth," Mike murmurs against his neck. "We're here. We're together. You're safe. Considering where we were twenty-four hours ago? That counts as 'all good' in my book."

Joker leans back into him, letting the weight of Mike’s body anchor him. "I guess."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching Vash dodge bullets with impossible grace. Joker feels the sticky residue of the last few days clinging to his skin—the dried sweat, the stale tears, the general grime of depression. He feels itchy in his own skin, uncomfortable in a way that goes beyond the physical.

He shifts restlessly, scratching at his neck.

"You okay?" Mike asks, sensing the change in tension immediately.

"Just..." Joker sighs. "I feel gross. Really gross. The hoodie helps, but... I feel like I'm wearing a layer of slime."

Mike hums, thoughtful. He runs a hand up and down Joker’s back. "Well, we can fix that."

"I don't have the energy to stand in the shower," Joker admits, the shame burning low in his gut. "I feel like if I stand up for too long, I'll just... collapse again."

"Who said anything about standing?" Mike gently nudges Joker forward so he can stand up. "Stay here. Don't move. I'm initiating Protocol: Squeaky Clean."

"Mike, what are you—"

"Sit. Stay. Watch Vash be an idiot." Mike presses a quick kiss to Joker’s forehead and disappears into the bathroom.

Joker listens. He hears the sound of the tap turning on—the loud, rushing sound of the tub filling, not the shower. He hears cabinets opening and closing. He hears Mike humming something under his breath, a tune that sounds suspiciously like the Trigun opening theme.

A bath.

The thought is simultaneously appealing and terrifying. The idea of hot water soaking away the ache in his bones sounds like heaven. But the idea of being naked again—fully naked, in the light, without the haze of arousal to blur the edges—makes his stomach twist.

Mike pops his head back into the living room. "Your bubbles are pathetic, by the way. I had to use half the bottle of that lavender stuff to get any foam action."

"It's organic," Joker defends weakly. "It doesn't foam as much."

"It's sad soap. But I fixed it. Come on."

Mike holds out a hand.

Joker takes it.

The bathroom is transformed. It’s steamy, the mirror already fogged over. The air smells intensely of lavender and steam. The tub is full, mounds of white bubbles rising above the rim like clouds.

"I didn't think..." Joker starts, looking at the tub. "I mean, thank you."

"We're doing this properly," Mike says. He reaches for the hem of the hoodie Joker is wearing. "Do you want help? Or do you want me to wait outside?"

Joker hesitates. The shame is there, the desire to hide. But the memory of Mike’s hands on him earlier, the feeling of being worshipped, is stronger. He doesn't want to be alone in here. He doesn't want to look at his body in the harsh bathroom light and start dissecting his flaws again.

"Stay," Joker whispers. "Please."

"Always."

Mike helps him out of the hoodie, then the sweatpants. Joker shivers as the cool air hits his skin, instinctively crossing his arms over his chest again. Mike doesn't comment on it. He just steadies Joker as he steps into the tub, holding his arm—the good one—until Joker sinks into the hot water with a groan of pure relief.

The heat surrounds him instantly, seeping into his muscles, loosening the tight knots in his back. He sinks down until the bubbles are up to his chin, hiding him.

Mike sits on the edge of the tub, rolling up his sleeves.

"Okay," Mike says briskly. "Hair first. You look like a bird that got caught in an oil spill."

Joker manages a weak laugh. "Thanks."

"Lean back."

Joker leans his head back against the porcelain rim. Mike scoops up a cup of water and pours it gently over Joker’s hair. The water is warm, soothing. Mike does it again, and again, until Joker’s hair is soaked. Then he squirts shampoo into his hands and starts to work it in.

This is... intimate.

It’s more intimate than the sex, in a way. Sex is friction and heat and need, yeah. But… this is service. This is care. A different kind, but still care. Mike’s fingers are strong against Joker’s scalp, massaging in slow, circular motions that make Joker’s eyes feel heavy.

"Feels good?" Mike asks softly.

"Mmm," Joker hums, unable to form words.

"Good. You carry so much tension right here." Mike digs his thumbs into the nape of Joker’s shoulder, working out a knot that’s probably been there since finals week. "Just let it go, Jokester. I got you."

Joker closes his eyes. He listens to the sound of the water, the pop of the bubbles. He feels the steam curling around his face. For the first time in days, he doesn't feel like a tragedy. He just feels like a body being cared for.

After the hair is rinsed, Mike picks up a washcloth. He soaps it up.

"Can I?" he asks, gesturing to Joker’s chest.

Joker nods, lowering his arms.

Mike washes him with methodical tenderness. He scrubs Joker’s shoulders, his chest, his arms. He’s careful around the bandage on the left arm, keeping it propped up on the rim of the tub so it stays dry. He doesn't look away from the scars on Joker’s chest—the faint white lines of his own top surgery, healed years ago but still a map of his history. He traces them with the cloth, a silent acknowledgment.

"I remember when you got these," Mike says quietly, washing over the scars. "You were so scared the drains wouldn't come out right."

"I was scared of everything back then," Joker murmurs. “I still am.”

"You were brave," Mike corrects. "You were the bravest guy I knew. Still are."

"I don't feel brave," Joker says, looking at the bubbles covering his legs. "I feel... tired. And weak. Brave people don't end up on the bathroom floor, Mike."

Mike stops scrubbing. He rests his hand, warm and wet, right over Joker’s heart.

"Brave people fall down," Mike says fiercely. "That's part of the job description. Being brave isn't about never crashing. It's about letting someone pick you up when you do."

Joker looks up at him. Mike’s face is flushed from the steam, his hair curling in the humidity. He looks so solid. So sure.

"Why?" Joker asks, the question that’s been haunting him. "Why me? Why do you bother? You could have anyone. Someone uncomplicated. Someone happy."

Mike sighs, dipping the cloth back into the water. "Uncomplicated is boring. And 'happy' isn't a personality trait, it's a mood. I don't want someone else, I want you."

He starts washing Joker’s back, leaning over the tub to reach.

"I love the way you see the world," Mike continues, his voice murmuring close to Joker’s ear. "I love that you notice the colors in a shadow. I love that you care about things so much it hurts you. I love your art, your stupid cat who hates everyone but herself."

Houdini, who has wandered into the bathroom to investigate the humidity, meows from the bathmat.

"See?" Mike grins. "She agrees."

Joker feels a lump form in his throat, but it’s not painful this time. It’s gratitude. It’s love, swelling up so big he thinks his ribs might crack.

"I'm getting in," Mike announces suddenly.

"What?" Joker blinks, turning his head. "The tub is tiny. We won't fit."

"We'll fit. Physics is a suggestion." Mike is already shucking off his clothes—Joker’s sweatpants, the hoodie. He tosses them into a pile in the corner.

He steps into the tub behind Joker. It’s a tight squeeze. Water sloshes over the overflow drain. Mike settles down, legs bracketing Joker’s hips, chest pressing against Joker’s back. He wraps his arms around Joker’s waist, pulling him back until they’re slotted together like spoons.

It shouldn't work. It’s cramped. Mike’s knees are probably hitting the faucet. But it feels perfect.

Mike rests his chin on Joker’s wet shoulder. "Better," he sighs.

Joker leans back against him. He can feel every inch of Mike—the solid muscle, the steady heartbeat, the warmth radiating off him like a furnace. He feels surrounded. Protected.

"You're going to get water everywhere," Joker murmurs, but he's smiling.

"Worth it." Mike kisses the side of his neck, right below the ear.

They sit there for a long time, the water slowly cooling around them. Mike idly traces patterns on Joker’s chest with his fingers, drawing invisible shapes in the bubbles. Joker watches his hand, fascinated by the contrast—Mike’s tanned, calloused hand against his own pale, wet skin.

"Partners," Joker whispers, testing the word again.

"Partners," Mike agrees, tightening his hold.

"Does that mean..." Joker hesitates. "Does that mean you're going to tell Edgar to stop being a dick?"

Mike laughs, a loud, barking sound that bounces off the tiled walls. "I already did. But I'll do it again. I'll make him a sweater that says 'Be Nice to Joker or Die' and force him to wear it."

"He'd burn it."

"Then I'll paint it on his forehead."

Joker laughs too, and it feels lighter this time. Less rusty.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, pookie?"

"Thank you." Joker turns his head slightly, pressing his cheek against Mike’s. "For staying. For... everything."

Mike kisses his cheek, wet and warm. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

Joker closes his eyes. The steam, the lavender, the weight of Mike’s arms around him. For the first time in what feels like forever, the void is quiet. The paint is washed away, the mask is gone, and he is still here. He is still whole.

He is still loved.

And that, he decides as he leans back into the embrace, is a color he wants to wear for a long, long time.

By the time the water turns tepid, their skin is pruned and the bathroom mirror has started to clear. Getting out of the tub is a clumsy, slippery affair that involves a lot of elbows and muffled laughter, but eventually, they are dried off and standing in the bedroom again.

Getting dressed feels different this time. Usually, for Joker, getting dressed is the first step of the ritual—the armor plating before the war paint. But today, standing in his shorts while Mike rummages through his closet for clean socks, Joker feels less like a soldier and more like a civilian.

He pulls on a clean pair of jeans—black, ripped at the knees—and a thick, oversized cable-knit sweater that hides the bandage on his left arm completely. He catches his reflection in the full-length mirror.

Bare face. Clean hair falling soft and product-free around his ears. He looks tired, yes. There are definitely some purple shadows under his eyes that no amount of sleep will fix in a single day. But he looks… soft. Human. Like he’s not performing, but trying.

He reaches for his makeup bag on the vanity. His hand hovers.

Mike, who is currently hopping on one foot trying to pull on a boot, pauses. He doesn't say anything. He just watches, waiting to see what Joker will do.

Joker’s fingers brush the cool glass of a foundation bottle. He thinks about Edgar’s sketch. Study in Grey. He thinks about Mike’s hands in the bath, washing him clean.

He drops his hand.

"Just moisturizer," Joker decides aloud, his voice sounding a little surprised at his own bravery. "And maybe some lip balm. It's cold out."

Mike beams, a smile so bright it could rival the midday sun. "Sounds perfect."

They bundle up against the December chill—scarves, gloves, Joker’s old. and traitorous Columbus Blue Jackets beanie that Norton would likely approve of. Joker grabs his leather jacket, the familiar weight of it settling on his shoulders like a hug. It’s armor, sure, but it’s the kind that protects him from the wind, not from being seen.

"Where are we going?" Joker asks as they step out of the apartment building, the cold air biting at his exposed cheeks.

"It's a surprise," Mike says, grabbing Joker’s gloved hand and tucking it into his own coat pocket. "But trust me. It’s a classic."

They take the subway into Manhattan, huddled together on the orange plastic seats, knees knocking as the train rattles over the bridge. Joker rests his head on Mike’s shoulder, ignoring the curious glances of tourists and tired commuters. For once, he doesn't care who is looking. He only cares about the solid warmth of the man beside him.

They emerge near 60th Street, amidst the chaos of holiday shoppers and tourists gawking at the Bloomingdale's windows. Mike navigates the crowds with the agility of an acrobat, pulling Joker along in his wake until they stop in front of a narrow, whimsical storefront on East 60th.

Serendipity 3.

Joker blinks up at the sign. "Mike. This place is… it’s a tourist trap."

"It is a legendary establishment," Mike corrects with mock dignity, pulling the door open. "And besides, you have a sweet tooth the size of Texas, and I crave sugar. It’s fate. It’s serendipity."

“I would say my sweet tooth is the size of Russia.”

“Potato, potato.”

Inside, the restaurant is a sensory overload in the best possible way. It’s cluttered, chaotic, and aggressively cheerful. Tiffany lamps hang from the ceiling in a riot of colors, oversized clocks adorn the walls, and the air smells like chocolate, sugar, and fried food. It feels like stepping inside a kaleidoscope—or perhaps inside the mind of a very happy, very hungry artist.

"I made a reservation while you were in the bathroom," Mike whispers conspiratorially to the host, who leads them past tables of excited families and couples taking selfies.

They’re seated at a small marble table near the back, under a lamp that casts a warm, stained-glass glow over everything. It feels cozy. Private, despite the noise.

Joker unwinds his scarf, suddenly feeling exposed again. Here, under the bright lights, surrounded by people dressed up for holiday lunches, he feels the urge to hide his bare face. He ducks his head, fiddling with the menu.

"Hey," Mike says softly. He reaches across the table, tapping the top of the menu until Joker lowers it. "You okay?"

"Everyone is looking," Joker murmurs.

"They're looking at the giant sundaes," Mike says. "Or they're looking at us because we make a hot couple. Probably the second one."

Joker feels a flush rise to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the heating. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious. You fit right in here, Jokester. Look around." Mike gestures to the eclectic decor. "This place is weird. It’s loud. It’s colorful. It’s a mess of styles that shouldn't work together but somehow do. It’s kinda your vibe."

Joker looks around. He sees a disco ball next to an antique mirror. He sees pink walls and checkered floors. It is a mess. A beautiful, unapologetic mess.

"Okay," Joker admits, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe a little."

A waitress appears, looking tired but cheerful. "Know what you want, folks?"

"Two Frozen Hot Chocolates," Mike says immediately. "And an order of truffle fries. We need the salt to balance the sugar. It’s science."

When the drinks arrive, they are literally architectural marvels—massive goblets filled with icy chocolate slush, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and chocolate shavings that defies gravity.

Joker stares at it. "How are we supposed to eat this?"

"With determination," Mike says, grabbing a spoon. "Let’s eat!”

They eat. And for the first time in days—maybe a full week—Joker actually eats. The cold chocolate shocks his system awake, the sugar hitting his bloodstream like a jumpstart. He eats the fries, too, laughing when Mike tries to dip a fry into the chocolate and makes a face that reminds Joker of a cat sniffing a lemon. Or a really wet dog.

Midway through the meal, Mike stops. He has a smear of whipped cream on his upper lip, looking ridiculous and endearing. He watches Joker sip from the straw, his expression softening into something serious.

"You know," Mike says, swirling his spoon in the melting chocolate. "We don't have to go to the party tomorrow. If you're not up for it. We can stay in, order food, watch the rest of Trigun."

Joker pauses. He thinks about the group chat, which he still hasn't checked. He thinks about the five sweaters. He thinks about Luca’s genuine apology and Edgar’s strange, prickly kindness.

He looks at Mike—Mike, who stayed. Mike, who washed his hair. Who dragged him out into the world and bought him a goblet of chocolate the size of his head just to see him smile.

Joker realizes he isn't afraid anymore. Or at least, the fear isn't the only thing in the room.

"I think..." Joker starts, tracing the condensation on the glass. "I think I want to go."

Mike blinks. "Really? You sure?"

"Yeah." Joker looks up, meeting Mike's eyes. "I'm not going for them. I'm going for me. And for you." He takes a breath. "And besides, if I don't go, Edgar will probably break into my apartment again to critique my furniture, and I can't handle that."

Mike barks out a laugh, grabbing Joker’s hand across the table. His thumb brushes over Joker’s knuckles, warm and rough.

"Okay," Mike says, squeezing his hand. "We go. Together. And if anyone makes you feel weird, or if you get overwhelmed, or if you just want to leave—we bail. Immediately. No questions asked. My escape signal is 'cauliflower'."

"Cauliflower?"

"It's a terrible vegetable. It screams emergency."

Joker smiles, and this time, it reaches his eyes. He feels the warmth of the restaurant, the sugar in his veins, and the solid, undeniable reality of Mike’s hand in his. He thinks about the bandages under his sweater, the scars on his soul, and the void that tried to swallow him whole. The void is still there, somewhere deep down. Maybe it always will be. But right now, it’s filled with frozen hot chocolate and the smell of truffle fries. Right now, sitting in a booth at Serendipity 3 with his partner-in-crime—boyfriend?—Joker feels vivid. He feels loud.

He feels counted.

"Deal," Joker says, squeezing Mike’s hand back. He picks up his spoon and points it at Mike’s whipped cream mustache. "Now wipe your face. You look like a clown."

Mike grins, unrepentant, and licks the cream off his lip. "Takes one to know one, babe."

And as they sit there, amidst the clatter of silverware and the hum of the city, Joker thinks that maybe, just maybe, being known—fully, truly known—is the best kind of serendipity there is.

Chapter Text

They leave the restaurant around midnight, Mike holding Joker's hand as the two navigate through the bustling streets. Mike's trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue, and Joker watches the entire time, unable to contain his laughter. It's a soft sound, rusty from disuse, but it's there.

The city is alive in the way only New York can be in the days leading up to Christmas—a frantic, glittering beast that refuses to sleep. Storefronts blaze with fairy lights, and even at this hour, people rush about with bags and purpose.

Joker squeezes Mike's hand, grounding himself. The sugar rush from the frozen hot chocolate is fading, leaving behind a comfortable exhaustion. But beneath that, the old anxieties are starting to wake. He thinks about tomorrow. The party. All of his friends who watched him unravel in 4K resolution via group chat.

At least the paint gives him a personality.

The memory of Edgar's voice is sudden and sharp, cutting through the cold air like a knife. Joker flinches, physically stumbling a step.

"You okay?" Mike asks immediately, steadying him. "Slipped?"

"Yeah," Joker lies, though the phantom echo of the insult rings in his ears. "Just ice."

They turn the corner onto 5th Avenue, passing the high-end window displays. And that's when they see them.

Standing in front of the Saks Fifth Avenue light show, illuminated by the flashing LEDs of a castle projection, are two familiar figures. They're holding hands—Edgar's gloved fingers interlaced with Luca's bare, oil-stained ones.

But it's the clothes that make Joker stop dead in his tracks.

Luca is wearing a sweater that's aggressively festive, featuring the Mandalorian helmet with a Santa hat. But Edgar… Edgar Valden, the arbiter of taste, the person who called matching sweaters "degrading," is wearing a knitted monstrosity. It's green. It features a large, wide-eyed Grogu holding a candy cane. The text beneath reads: MERRY FORCE BE WITH YOU.

Joker stares. A bubble of hysteria rises in his throat.

"Is that..." Mike whispers, squinting. "Is that Baby Yoda?"

At that moment, Luca spots them. He waves his free arm frantically, looking like a chaotic windmill. "Guys!! Over here!"

Edgar stiffens. Joker sees the exact moment they realize who's approaching. Their posture corrects instantly—spine snapping straight, chin lifting. They look like an aristocrat caught dumpster diving.

Joker's stomach drops. The warmth of the restaurant evaporates, and suddenly, he's not the partner walking hand-in-hand with Mike; he's the problem. He's the scene. The person Edgar ridiculed to an open phone line less than forty-eight hours ago.

Manipulative. Pathetic.

Joker tries to pull his hand away from Mike's, the instinct to hide kicking in hard. But Mike holds on tighter. An anchor.

"Hey," Mike says easily as they close the distance, though his body is tense, angled slightly in front of Joker. A shield. "Nice sweaters. Very... avant-garde."

"It was a… compromise," Edgar says stiffly. They refuse to make eye contact, staring somewhere over Mike's left shoulder. "Luca agreed to stop re-wiring the toaster if I wore this textile disaster for one evening."

"It's cute!" Luca beams, tugging on Edgar's hand. His expression softens into something anxious and hopeful as he looks at Joker. "Hi, Joker. I... I like your hair. Without the hat."

Joker reaches up self-consciously to touch his hair. He feels exposed. Naked. "Thanks."

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. The flashing lights of the department store play over their faces—red, green, red, green. Joker stares at Edgar's boots. He can't look at their face. If he sees contempt there, or pity, he thinks he might dissolve into the slush on the sidewalk.

"We were just finishing up," Edgar announces abruptly. They shift a shopping bag from their left hand to their right, moving it behind their back. It's a subtle movement, but jerky. "Come along, Luca. It's cold and this acrylic fabric is making me itch."

"Wait," Luca says, planting his feet. "Give it to him."

Edgar freezes. "No."

"Edgar," Luca warns. "We walked six blocks for it. Give it to him."

Joker looks up, confused. "Give me what?"

Edgar glares at Luca—a look that promises retribution involving tedious chores—before sighing. It's the sound of someone accepting defeat. They whip the bag out from behind their back and thrust it toward Joker, practically shoving it into his chest.

"Take it," Edgar snaps. "Before I change my mind and throw it in the Hudson."

Joker fumbles to catch it with his good hand. It's a heavy, rectangular bag from an expensive art supply store in SoHo. "What is this?"

"It's a bribe," Edgar says flatly. "Or a peace offering. Or whatever social construct requires me to purchase goods to alleviate guilt."

Joker looks at Mike, who appears just as baffled, then back at the bag. He opens it carefully.

Inside is a set of brushes. Not makeup brushes—painting brushes. But not just any brushes. These are Kolinsky sable, the kind that cost more than Joker's rent. And nestled beneath them is a set of heavy body paints—professional grade, theatrical quality. The kind used by special effects artists in movies.

"You..." Joker starts, his voice trembling.

"You require better tools," Edgar interrupts, his voice tight. He’s staring at a streetlamp now, cheeks flushed pink, and Joker suspects it's not just from the cold. "If you're going to paint your face, you should stop using that drugstore garbage. It oxidizes poorly and the pigment load is insulting."

Joker stares at the paints. At least the paint gives him a personality.

"I thought you hated it," Joker whispers. "The makeup."

Edgar finally looks at him, his dark eyes sharp, critical, but the malice is gone. In its place is something awkward—something that looks painfully like respect, struggling to breathe under layers of pretension.

"I hate incompetence," Edgar corrects. "And I hate wasted potential. And..." They pause, gritting their teeth. "I hate that I made you feel like your art was invalid simply because the canvas was breathing."

They gesture vaguely at the bag.

"Those are for tomorrow. Or whenever. Use them, don't use them. I don't care." Edgar adjusts his Baby Yoda sweater with aggressive dignity. "Just stop looking at me like I'm going to bite you. It's tedious."

Joker clutches the bag to his chest. The brushes rattle softly. They feel heavy. Real.

"Thank you," Joker says. And he means it.

"Yes, well." Edgar shrugs. "Don't get sentimental. It ruins the composition." He tugs on Luca's hand. "We're leaving. My dignity is currently being eroded by a green alien."

"Bye guys!" Luca chirps, waving frantically as Edgar drags him away into the crowd. "See you tonight!!"

Joker watches them go—the Mandalorian and the Baby Yoda, hand in hand, disappearing into the Christmas chaos.

The tension in his shoulders slowly unspools. He looks down at the bag, then up at Mike. Mike is grinning, a look of pure, unadulterated fondness on his face.

"They're such a disaster," Mike says affectionately.

"They're wearing a Baby Yoda sweater," Joker murmurs, the reality finally sinking in. A laugh bubbles up in his throat—unexpected, genuine. "Mike. Edgar Valden was wearing a Baby Yoda sweater."

"I know." Mike grabs his hand again. "Cauliflower?"

Joker thinks about it. The echo of the insults is still there, but quieter now—drowned out by the weight of the brushes in his hand and the warmth of Mike's palm against his. He almost laughs, remembering their agreed-upon safe word for when things get rough.

"No," Joker says softly, leaning his head on Mike's shoulder. "No cauliflower. Just... serendipity."

They continue the rest of the way home in comfortable silence. The bag from Edgar is clutched against Joker's chest like something precious. The snow has picked up, flakes drifting down in lazy spirals, catching the light from streetlamps and storefront windows. Joker watches them fall, the way they settle on Mike's shoulders and melt into the fabric of his coat.

When they reach Joker's building, Mike fumbles with the keys while Joker stands on the stoop, tilting his face up to the sky. The snowflakes land on his bare cheeks, his forehead, his closed eyelids. Cold little kisses. He used to hate the feeling of anything touching his face when he wasn't wearing makeup. Now, in this moment, it just feels clean.

"You coming?" Mike asks from the doorway.

Joker opens his eyes. Mike is silhouetted against the warm light of the lobby, snow dusting his hair like powdered sugar. He looks like something out of a holiday movie—the kind Joker used to watch alone on Christmas Eve, curled up with Houdini and a bottle of wine, pretending he didn't want what the characters had.

Now he has it. The thought is terrifying in the best possible way.

"Yeah," Joker says, climbing the steps. "Yeah, I'm coming."

The apartment is warm and smells faintly of the lavender candle Joker lit before they left. Houdini is waiting by the door, her orange tail flicking with feline irritation at their extended absence. She meows pointedly as they enter, then immediately begins weaving between Joker's ankles.

"I know, I know," Joker murmurs, bending to scratch behind her ears. "We were gone forever. A tragedy. You nearly perished of loneliness."

Houdini purrs aggressively, accepting the apology.

Mike locks the door behind them and shrugs off his coat. "I'm going to make tea. You want some?"

"Please."

Joker carries the bag to the small dining table, clearing aside a stack of cosmetology textbooks to make room. He pulls out the contents carefully, reverently: the brushes first, each one nestled in its own protective sleeve, then the body paints. There are twelve colors in the set, each jar heavy and satisfying in his palm. The pigments are dense, saturated—nothing like the drugstore palettes he's been fighting against.

He opens one of the jars—a deep crimson—and tests the texture on the back of his hand. It's smooth, blendable, with none of the chalky undertones he's used to battling. The color practically glows against his skin.

"That looks expensive."

Joker looks up to find Mike leaning against the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. He's watching Joker with that soft expression again, the one that makes Joker's chest ache.

"It is," Joker admits. "These brushes alone are probably three hundred dollars."

Mike whistles. "Guilt must be one hell of a motivator."

"Edgar doesn't do guilt," Joker says slowly, turning one of the brushes over in his hand. The handle is smooth, perfectly weighted. "They do... obligation. Debt. They probably calculated exactly how much emotional damage they caused and converted it into a dollar amount."

"That's a very Edgar way of apologizing."

"It is." Joker sets the brush down, staring at the spread of supplies before him. "But it's still an apology. An actual one. Not just words."

The kettle clicks off, and Mike pours water into two mugs. The smell of chamomile drifts across the apartment. "How do you feel about it?"

Joker considers the question. How does he feel? Three days ago, he was scrubbing his makeup off in the bathroom, convinced that everything Edgar said about him was true. That the paint was a lie, a performance, a desperate bid for attention from people who didn't actually want him around.

Now he's holding professional-grade body paints, given to him by the same person who tried to strip him of them.

"Confused," Joker admits. "And... I don't know. Hopeful? Which feels stupid."

Mike carries the mugs over, setting Joker's tea down carefully beside the paints. "Why stupid?"

"Because it's just stuff." Joker gestures at the supplies. "It doesn't actually fix anything. Edgar still said those things. Luca still forgot me. I still—" He stops, his hand drifting unconsciously toward his bandaged arm.

Mike catches his wrist gently. "You still what?"

Joker swallows. "I still did what I did."

The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the radiator and the distant sounds of the city outside. Houdini has settled on the couch, her tail twitching in her sleep.

Mike pulls out a chair and sits down across from Joker, not releasing his wrist. His thumb traces small circles over Joker's pulse point. "The stuff doesn't fix it," he agrees. "But it's not about the stuff. It's about someone seeing you. Really seeing you, and saying 'I was wrong about what I saw.'"

Joker thinks about the sketch Edgar left. Study in Grey. A portrait without the makeup, without the performance. Just a person.

"Edgar called it art," Joker says quietly. "What I do. They've never called it that before."

"Because Edgar is a pretentious asshole who takes forever to admit when they're wrong." Mike grins. "But they get there eventually. That's the thing about them—they're cruel, but they're not dishonest. If they're giving you those brushes, it's because they actually respect what you do with them."

Joker picks up the crimson paint again, watching the way the light catches the pigment. "I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"For the party. My face." Joker sets the jar down, pressing his palms flat against the table. "I went out bare today, and it was... it was okay. More than okay. But that was just us. Tomorrow's everyone—Luca, Edgar. All of them, looking at me, knowing what happened."

"You don't have to decide right now."

"I know." Joker exhales slowly. "But I keep thinking about it. If I show up with makeup, does that mean I'm hiding again? Does it mean I didn't learn anything? But if I show up without it, does that mean I'm trying to prove something? Like I'm performing recovery instead of actually recovering?"

Mike is quiet for a moment, considering. Then he reaches across the table and picks up one of the brushes, turning it over in his hands. "Remember sophomore year?" he asks. "When you did that project for theater class—the one where you had to transform yourself into a character for a whole day?"

Joker frowns. "The one where I went as the Phantom of the Opera and scared Professor Lorenz so badly he spilled coffee on the attendance sheet?"

"That's the one." Mike grins. "You spent, like, six hours on that makeup. The prosthetics, shading, everything. And when you walked into class, everyone lost their minds. Not 'cause you were hiding, but 'cause you were creating something."

"That was different. A character."

"Was it?" Mike sets the brush down carefully. "You told me once that when you do your makeup, you're not putting on a mask. You're making the outside match the inside, making the invisible visible."

Joker stares at him. He doesn't remember saying that—it must have been years ago, one of those late-night conversations that blur together in memory. But it sounds right. It sounds true.

"The point," Mike continues, "is that you don't have to choose between makeup and no makeup. They're both you. Tomorrow, you can show up however you want, and it'll be real either way. Because you're real. The paint doesn't change that."

Joker feels his eyes burning. He blinks rapidly, looking away. "When did you get so wise?"

"I'm dating a cosmetology student. It rubs off." Mike stands up, circling the table to wrap his arms around Joker from behind. He rests his chin on Joker's shoulder, looking down at the spread of paints and brushes. "For what it's worth, I think you should do whatever makes you feel like yourself. Not what makes everyone else comfortable. Not what proves something to Edgar or Luca or anyone. Just... whatever feels right."

Joker leans back into Mike's warmth, letting himself be held. The tea is cooling beside him, untouched, but he doesn't care. This—the solid weight of Mike's arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing—is more than enough. It's what grounds him. Still…

"I'm scared," Joker admits. The words come out barely above a whisper. "Not of the party, exactly. Of... after. When all of this—" he gestures vaguely at the apartment, at Mike, at the fragile peace they've built over the last few days—"has to become real life again."

Mike presses a kiss to the side of his neck. "This is real life."

"You know what I mean." Joker turns slightly, catching Mike's eyes. "You have to go back to training eventually. I have classes after break, and we can't just... we can't stay in this bubble forever."

"No," Mike agrees. "But that doesn't mean we're going back to how things were. We're not gonna erase the last few days—we're building on them."

Joker falls silent for a moment. He considers Mike's words, his promise—that all of this, whatever this is, is not temporary. When winter break ends on the sixth of January, everyone will return to their normal routines. Mike with his gymnastics showcase, Luca tinkering with toasters that play Billy Joel songs, Norton with his rocks, Edgar with... whatever Edgar does, and Orpheus with his literary quotes that he uses to sound mysterious and wise.

And then there's Joker—who seems to have the easiest schedule of all—returning to the cosmetology department alongside his trusty practice mannequins Charlotte and Petunia.

Joker smiles faintly at the thought. To be fair to Charlotte and Petunia, they have seen him at his worst—crying over blending techniques at 2AM, practicing elaborate designs that no one would ever see. But they're patient, in the way that only inanimate objects (and sometimes aloof kittens) can be. Non-judgmental. Safe.

But they're not Mike.

"We should probably head to sleep," Mike suggests, pulling Joker back to reality. He yawns, stretching dramatically—his shirt riding up slightly—like a cat that hasn't moved in over twenty hours. "Don't wanna show up to the party half-asleep or else Luca's gonna think we're zombies and put on Night of the Living Dead and make us suffer through it together."

"I've suffered through worse," Joker says, and there's some humor in his voice for a change.

"Yeah, like what?"

"Orpheus's poetry slam."

"You, sir, are braver than any US Marine for that one."

Joker laughs, the sound startled out of him. Mike looks entirely too pleased with himself as he grabs the remote from the coffee table and flops onto the couch, patting the space beside him.

"C'mere. We're watching something before bed. Gotta decompress."

"Decompress from what? We just ate ice cream for three hours."

"From existing, Joker. It's been a long week." Mike's already scrolling through the streaming options, and Joker knows exactly where this is heading. "Ooh, look what's still in my continue watching."

Kuroko no Basuke. Of course.

Joker settles onto the couch beside him, and Mike immediately rearranges them so that Joker's back is against his chest, Mike's arms wrapped loosely around his waist. Houdini, sensing an opportunity, leaps up and claims the remaining space on Joker's lap.

"We're picking up where we left off," Mike announces. "Seirin versus Touou. Kagami's about to go beast mode."

"You say that about every episode."

"Because he does go beast mode in every episode. That's his whole thing." Mike presses play. "Also, Aomine's in this one, and I know you think he's hot."

"I do not—"

"You literally said, and I quote, 'if that man asked me to commit crimes, I would simply say yes.'"

Joker feels his face heat. "That was taken out of context."

"What context makes that better?"

"...Shut up and watch your basketball boys."

The episode starts, and Joker tries to focus on the screen. The animation is fluid—it always is during the important matches—and the music swells dramatically as Kagami faces off against Aomine. There's something almost hypnotic about it, the way the show treats basketball like life-or-death combat.

"See, this is what I don't get," Joker murmurs, already feeling the pull of exhaustion. "How is Kuroko even on the team? He can barely shoot."

"That's the point. He's the shadow. He makes everyone else better." Mike's chin rests on Joker's shoulder. "It's like... he doesn't need to be the star. He just needs to be there, doing his thing, and suddenly the whole team works. Kind of like... Midoriya in My Hero Academia."

Joker considers this. On screen, Kuroko executes one of his signature passes—misdirection in motion, the ball appearing in Kagami's hands like magic. The crowd in the anime goes wild.

"I guess that's kinda beautiful," Joker admits. "Being essential without being seen."

"You'd like Midorima," Mike says. "He's the dramatic one. Carries around lucky items and shoots from across the entire court."

"That sounds fake."

"It's anime, babe. Everything's fake and also incredibly sincere."

The match continues. Joker watches Aomine move across the court—all arrogance and raw talent, the kind of player who makes everything look effortless because for him, it is. There's something almost lonely about it, being so far above everyone else that no one can reach you.

At least until Kagami does, Joker thinks drowsily. At least until someone refuses to give up.

His eyelids are getting heavy. The warmth of Mike's body behind him, the soft weight of Houdini on his lap, the familiar rhythm of the anime's soundtrack—it's all conspiring to pull him under.

"Kise's coming up next arc," Mike is saying, his voice going distant. "The one who copies everyone's moves. You'll like him, he's got that whole pretty-boy thing going on, very theatrical..."

"Mm," Joker manages.

"And then there's Murasakibara—he's like eight feet tall and just doesn't care about anything except snacks. Total mood, honestly. Akashi's the scary one, though. Red hair, god complex. Very 'I will destroy you and look elegant doing it.'"

"Sounds like Edgar," Joker mumbles.

Mike laughs softly. "Oh my god, you're right. Edgar is absolutely an Akashi. I'm telling him that tomorrow."

"He'll kill you."

"Worth it."

The episode blurs into the next. Joker is vaguely aware of Kagami scoring a decisive point, of the crowd's cheers, of Mike's quiet commentary about zone states and potential and the beauty of rivals who make each other better.

But mostly, he's aware of how safe he feels. How warm. How, for the first time in what feels like forever, the darkness at the edges of his mind has gone quiet. The last thing he registers before sleep claims him is Mike's hand finding his, their fingers interlacing over Houdini's fur.

"Night, Joker," Mike whispers.

Joker doesn't respond. He's already gone, curled into the curve of Mike's body like he was made to fit there, the sounds of anime basketball fading into the soft static of dreams.

The morning of December 23rd isn’t something momentous, but to Joker, it’s everything he’s wanted for such a long, long time.

He feels a sensation of warmth pressing against his back and the softest brush of lips against the skin of his ear. He groans softly, stirring as he tries to bury his face further into the pillows. But the warmth is still there, moving from the softness of Joker’s jawline, then to the corner of his mouth, insistent and tender.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Mike murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and affection.

Joker makes a little sound, something like a sigh and a groan. “Time’s it?”

“Almost nine.” Another kiss, this one pressed to Joker’s temple. “You slept through, like, three alarms.”

“Didn’t hear them.”

“That’s ‘cause you sleep like the dead.” Mike’s arm tightens around Joker’s waist, pulling him closer. “You really should consider a different alarm to wake up to. Ever thought of ‘Funeral March for a Marionette’?”

“The Alfred Hitchcock song?” Joker huffs, a quiet, humored sound.

“The very same!” Mike grins against Joker’s shoulder. “Classic, timeless. Guaranteed to give you nightmares about being murdered in the shower.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

And the terrifying thing is, Joker does. He loves all of it—the terrible jokes, the easy affection, the way Mike’s chubby body curves around his like they were made to fit together. It’s overwhelming and wonderful and absolutely terrifying, all at once.

Joker finally rolls over in Mike’s arms, facing him properly, taking in the disaster next to him. Mike’s hair is frizzled, sticking up in every direction like he’s lost a fight with the pillows, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the sheets, and his eyes are still half-lidded, warm and sleepy. He looks so dumb, Joker wants to kiss him stupid.

“Hi,” Joker murmurs.

“Hi yourself.” Mike brushes a strand of red hair from Joker’s forehead, his touch feather-light. “How’re you feeling?”

It’s that question Mike asks every morning—but different this time. This time, he doesn’t mean it casually or as a greeting, but genuinely, carefully, like the answer matters more than anything else in the world. And maybe it does. Maybe to Mike, it really, truly does.

Joker takes stock. His body aches in the familiar way it does after days of tension finally releasing. His arm throbs dully beneath the bandage, a reminder he tries not to think about too hard. But beneath all of that, there's something else. Something fragile and new, like the first green shoot pushing through winter soil.

"Okay," he says, and means it. "I think I'm okay."

Mike's smile is like sunrise breaking through clouds. He pulls Joker closer, tucking him against his chest, and Joker goes willingly—melting into the embrace like he's been waiting his whole life for exactly this. He presses his face into the warm curve of Mike's neck, breathing in the scent of him. Something clean and familiar, like fabric softener and something uniquely Mike.

They lie there for a long moment, tangled together beneath the blankets. Joker can feel Mike's heartbeat against his cheek, steady and strong. He matches his breathing to it, letting the rhythm anchor him to the present moment. Here. Now. Safe.

"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up," Joker admits quietly, his voice muffled against Mike's skin. "And this will all have been some kind of fever dream. You'll be back at your dorm, and I'll be here alone, and none of this—" he gestures vaguely between them, "—will have happened."

Mike's hand finds the back of Joker's head, fingers threading through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," Joker murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet Mike's eyes. "I just... I want this to last. I want us to last. For a long time."

"Then we will." Mike leans in, pressing a soft kiss against Joker's temple. "What's that thing Luke Skywalker said? Live long and prosper?"

Joker blinks at him. "...That's Star Trek."

"Same thing."

"It is absolutely not the same thing. One has Jedi, the other has Vulcans—"

"Space is space, babe."

Joker's laughing now, quiet and genuine, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. "You're impossible."

"And yet here you are, wanting to keep me around for a long time." Mike grins, entirely too pleased with himself. "Sounds like I'm doing something totally right. The impossible’s becoming possible and all of that."

"Your logic is deeply flawed."

"My logic is impeccable. I'm like that Sherlock guy. Elementary, my dear Joker."

"Sherlock Holmes never actually said that in the original stories."

"How do you even know that?"

"Orpheus." Joker settles back against Mike's chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Mike's arm. "He went through a detective fan-fiction phase sophomore year. I learned more about Arthur Conan Doyle than any person should reasonably know."

"That tracks." Mike's hand resumes its slow path through Joker's hair, gentle and rhythmic. "Speaking of. You feeling okay about today? We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but..."

The question hangs in the air between them. Today. The party. The apartment full of people who've seen Joker at his worst and his most broken.

"I'm nervous," Joker admits. "But I think... I think I want to go. I think I need to."

"Yeah?"

"If I don't do it now, I'll just keep finding reasons not to. And then it becomes this thing, you know? This big scary thing that gets bigger the longer I avoid it." Joker exhales slowly. "Better to just... rip the bandage off."

"Okay." Mike presses a kiss to the top of his head. "But we go at your pace. And if at any point you need to leave—"

“Cauliflower.” Joker tilts his head up, catching Mike’s eye. “You’ve mentioned it approximately sixty-two times.”

“I’ll mention it sixty-two more times if I have to.”

“That would take a lifetime.”

“Nah.” Mike’s grin is soft, fond. “I’ve got stamina, remember? All those hours on the parallel bars.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope! Not a chance.”

Houdini chooses this moment to make her presence known, leaping onto the bed with a demanding meow as she pads across the blanket. She positions herself directly between Joker and Mike, her tail flicking with unmistakable impatience.

"Someone's jealous," Mike observes.

"She's not jealous. She's hungry." Joker reaches out to scratch behind Houdini's ears, and she immediately begins purring, arching into the touch. "We've disrupted her feeding schedule. This is an unforgivable crime against cat-kind."

"The cat comes first. I understand my place in the hierarchy." Mike stretches, his joints popping audibly, and Joker definitely does not stare at the strip of stomach revealed when his shirt rides up. He fails completely. "Okay. We should probably actually get up. Party's tonight, we still need gifts, and I'm pretty sure we both need showers."

"Such a complex itinerary."

"I'm basically a tactical genius." Mike rolls out of bed with the kind of effortless grace that comes from years of gymnastics training, landing on his feet like a cat. He extends a hand to Joker. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to face the day."

Joker looks at the offered hand. At Mike, standing there in the pale morning light, hair a disaster and smile warm and real.

He takes it.

Breakfast, they decide, can wait until after showers. Joker takes his first, letting the hot water work out the remaining tension in his shoulders while Mike handles Houdini's morning feeding ritual. By the time he emerges wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, Mike has already set out fresh water for the cat and is scrolling through his phone on the couch.

"Your turn," Joker says. "Try not to use all the hot water."

"No promises." Mike hops up, stealing a quick kiss as he passes. "Don't get dressed without me. I want to help pick something."

"That's ominous."

"It's festive."

While Mike showers, Joker towels off his hair and stares at his closet. The cyan sweater from yesterday is draped over a chair, but he's not sure he wants to repeat the exact same look. He needs something that feels like him—not armor, not performance, just... comfortable.

His eyes drift to the lower shelves, where he keeps things that don't quite fit the usual rotation. Skirts he bought on impulse. Leggings in various colors. A few pieces he made himself during that sewing phase two years ago, when he'd been convinced he could design his own clothing line and had churned out approximately fifteen items before burning out spectacularly.

He pulls out a pair of black leggings—thick, warm, perfect for winter—and a deep burgundy skirt that hits just above the knee. It's simple, but the color is rich, and the way the fabric moves when he walks has always made him feel a little more like himself.

He's just finishing getting dressed when Mike emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist.

"Okay," Mike announces, making a beeline for the closet. "Operation: Find Mike Clothes is now commencing."

"You could just… wear what you wore yesterday."

"Joker. Babe. Light of my life." Mike turns to look at him with exaggerated solemnity. "It's a party. I need to look good."

"You always look good."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, but it won't stop me from raiding your closet."

Joker settles on the edge of the bed, watching in amusement as Mike digs through his clothes with the focus of an archaeologist uncovering ancient artifacts. Shirts are examined and discarded. Sweaters are held up, considered, and tossed aside. At one point, Mike pulls out a sequined jacket Joker wore exactly once to a drag show and stares at it for a full thirty seconds before reluctantly putting it back.

"What's this?"

Mike has extracted something from the back of the closet—a chunky knit sweater in cream and forest green, with a pattern of pine trees and snowflakes worked into the design. The yarn is soft, a little uneven in places, clearly handmade.

Joker's chest does something complicated. "Oh. That's... I made that. During my sewing phase."

"You made this?" Mike holds it up, examining the stitching. "Joker, this is amazing."

"It's not that good. The tension's uneven in places, and I messed up the pattern on the back—"

"It's amazing," Mike repeats firmly. He holds it up against his chest, checking the size. "Can I wear it?"

"It probably won't fit me anymore anyway." Joker shrugs, trying to seem casual about it. "I’m too tall for it now, anyways."

Mike's expression softens. He doesn't comment on that directly—doesn't push—just pulls the sweater over his head and tugs it into place. It fits him almost perfectly, the cream and green complementing his complexion, the handmade quality giving it a cozy, lived-in look.

"How do I look?" Mike does a little spin, arms outstretched.

"Like a Christmas catalogue." Joker can't help the smile tugging at his lips. "The kind that sells hot chocolate and family values."

"I'm taking that as a compliment." Mike crosses to the bed and leans down, pressing a kiss to Joker's forehead. "You look incredible, by the way. The skirt is everything."

Joker ducks his head, feeling warmth spread through his chest. "It's just clothes."

"It's you. That's what makes it everything."

They end up at the Dunkin’ Donuts three blocks from Joker’s apartment, all ‘cause Mike insists that proper gift-shopping requires proper fuel, and “proper fuel” apparently means an alarming quantity of sugar and artificial food coloring.

The shop is busy with the usual morning rush—harried commuters grabbing coffee, a group of teenagers clustered around a table sharing a box of munchkins, an elderly man reading a newspaper in the corner like he's been there since 1987 and has no intention of leaving. Christmas music plays softly from the speakers, something jazzy and inoffensive.

Joker orders a medium peppermint mocha and finds a table by the window while Mike approaches the counter with the energy of a man on a mission.

"Hi, yes, hello," Mike says to the bemused cashier. "I need one of every Christmas donut you have."

The cashier blinks. "One of... every...?"

"Every Christmas-themed donut. It's for quality control purposes." Mike nods seriously. "Very important research."

"Mike," Joker calls from the table, "you don't need to—"

"Science waits for no one, Joker!"

Five minutes later, Mike arrives at the table carrying a tray laden with an frankly absurd assortment of donuts. There's a frosted sugar cookie donut, a peppermint bark donut, something with cranberries and white chocolate, a gingerbread glazed, and at least three others Joker can't immediately identify.

"This is excessive," Joker says.

“This is necessary.” Mike slides into the seat across from him, already reaching for the peppermint bark one. “How else will we know which one’s the best?”

“We could’ve just… picked one?”

"Where's the fun in that?" Mike's hands sweep dramatically through the air, tracing an invisible rainbow. "Where's your sense of imagination?"

"Did you just—"

"I did. And I'll do it again."

Joker’s phone buzzes before he can respond. Then it buzzes again. And again.

He pulls it out, and the notification preview makes his head ache.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

GUCCI GANG 💯

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
GOOD MORNING PARTY PEOPLE
TODAY IS THE DAY
I REPEAT
TODAY IS THE DAY

norton got a rock:
it's 9am luca. use your inside voice.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
I DON'T HAVE AN INSIDE VOICE
I ONLY HAVE EXCITEMENT

Edgar Valden:
Some of us are attempting to enjoy our morning coffee in peace.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
some of us need to get HYPED
speaking of which
everyone still coming tonight right?? 8pm?? my place??

norton got a rock:
i'll be there.

Edgar Valden:
Unfortunately, yes.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
"unfortunately" edgar ur literally dating me

Edgar Valden:
I'm aware. The "unfortunately" stands.

orpheus 🤓:
I shall attend, bearing the promised hot chocolate.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
ORPHEUS MY BELOVED
ur hot chocolate keeps this friend group alive

norton got a rock:
that and spite.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
that and spite yes correct
OKAY so that's me, edgar, norton, orpheus
mike?? joker?? u guys coming??

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker stares at the screen. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Mike leans over, reading the messages upside down. "You gonna reply?"

"I..." Joker swallows. "Yeah. I should."

He types slowly, carefully. Deletes. Types again.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
we'll be there!!! 🎄🎄🎄

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
yeah (ㆁᴗㆁ✿)
we're coming

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
!!!!!!!
JOKER
HI
UR ALIVE

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
i'm alive lol
currently at dunkin with mike
he's eating approximately 47 donuts

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
QUALITY CONTROL JOKER
it's for SCIENCE

norton got a rock:
that doesn't sound like science.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
delicious delicious science

Edgar Valden:
I'm genuinely concerned about your morning breakfast choices, Morton.
Dunkin’ Donuts? Traitorous.
You ought to be ashamed.
The Doughnut Plant is far more chic.

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
dude i have the metabolism of a hummingbird on crack and the budget of a college kid living in literal new york city

Edgar Valden:
That is neither reassuring… nor anatomically accurate.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
ANYWAY
joker i'm so glad ur coming
i have something for u btw
made u something special 👀

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
oh?
( °ω° )

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
u'll see tonight!!!
it's a SURPRISE
no spoilers

orpheus 🤓:
The anticipation builds. How delightfully theatrical.

norton got a rock:
please tell me you didn't build another robot.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
i didn't build another robot
...
i built something BETTER than a robot

Edgar Valden:
That's ominous.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
it's FESTIVE
trust the process babe

Edgar Valden:
The last time I "trusted the process," my toaster started playing Uptown Girl at 3am.

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
AND IT WAS GLORIOUS

MAGIC F##KIN MIKE 🎪:
okay but that IS kind of iconic actually

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
i'm kind of scared now but also excited?
we'll see you all tonight (´• ω •`)

SPARKY GUY LUCA ⚡:
YAYYYY
okay i gotta go finish setting up
SEE U ALL AT 8
BRING UR FESTIVE ENERGY
AND MAYBE SNACKS
DEFINITELY SNACKS

norton got a rock:
noted.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker sets his phone down, exhaling slowly. His hands are only trembling a little.

"See?" Mike says through a mouthful of gingerbread donut. "That wasn't so bad."

"They seemed... normal." Joker picks up his peppermint mocha, wrapping his hands around the warm cup. "Like nothing happened."

"Maybe that's a good thing? They're not making it weird."

"Or they're all just pretending everything's fine because they don't know how to talk about it." Joker takes a sip of his coffee, the peppermint sharp and sweet on his tongue. "I don't know which is worse."

Mike reaches across the table, covering Joker's hand with his own. "We'll find out tonight. And whatever happens, we handle it together. Right?"

Joker looks at their joined hands. At the ridiculous pile of Christmas donuts. At Mike, wearing the sweater Joker made with his own hands two years ago, looking at him like he's something worth looking at.

"Right," Joker says softly. "Together."

Mike grins and pushes the tray toward him. "Now try the sugar cookie one. It's life-changing."

"You said that about the peppermint bark one."

"They're ALL life-changing, Joker. That's the point."

Joker rolls his eyes, but he takes the donut anyway.

The shopping trip begins in earnest after Mike demolished half the donut collection and Joker has finished his peppermint mocha. Mike insists on carrying the remaining donuts in a paper bag—”for later”—which Joker suspects he really wants an extra snack for the subway ride.

New York on the 23rd is not a city that encourages leisurely browsing. The streets are packed with last-minute shoppers, the stores overflowing with desperate customers. There’s a palpable sense of panic in the air—the kind that only emerges when people realize Christmas is in two days and they still haven't bought anything for their mother-in-law.

"Okay," Mike says as they emerge from the subway at Columbus Circle, breath fogging in the cold air. "Game plan. Who are we shopping for?"

Joker mentally runs through the list. "Luca, Norton, Orpheus, and..." He hesitates, something tightening in his chest. "Edgar."

"Four gifts. Totally doable." Mike pumps his fist, narrowly missing a passing woman with an armful of shopping bags. She glares at him. He doesn't notice. "We're strategic. We're efficient. We're—"

"Going to spend three hours agonizing over every choice?"

"I was going to say 'unstoppable,' but sure, that works too."

They start walking, weaving through the crowds. The city is a symphony of noise—car horns, snippets of conversation, the persistent jingle of a Salvation Army bell somewhere nearby. Christmas lights are strung between lampposts, and every window display seems to be competing for the title of Most Aggressively Festive.

"Let's start with Luca," Joker suggests. "He's usually the most straightforward."

"The LEGO store?"

"The LEGO store."

By the time they make it back to Joker's apartment, it's nearly five-thirty. The sun is already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reflect off the snow-covered streets. They're laden with shopping bags, and Mike insists on carrying the heaviest one—a massive LEGO set that weighs approximately a thousand pounds—up all four flights of stairs.

"You don't have to prove anything," Joker says, watching Mike struggle with the box.

"I'm not proving anything. I'm being chivalrous." Mike adjusts his grip. "Also, my arms look great when I carry heavy things. It's a win-win."

Houdini greets them at the door with an expression of profound betrayal, having been abandoned for the entire day. Joker scoops her up and endures her reproachful purring while Mike deposits the bags on the dining table with exaggerated relief.

"Okay," Mike says, stretching his arms. "We did it. We're officially responsible adults who buy gifts for their friends."

Joker surveys the haul, something warm settling in his chest despite the lingering anxiety. They'd found something for everyone—carefully chosen, thoughtfully considered. Not just obligatory purchases, but real gifts. The kind that say I know you. I see you. I thought about what would make you happy.

For Luca: the Back to the Future DeLorean LEGO set, over 1,800 pieces of intricate building that will keep him occupied for weeks. Something to take apart and put back together, to tinker with and modify and make his own. Because Luca processes everything through his hands, through creation, through the joy of making something work. And maybe—just maybe—it's also a peace offering. A way of saying I know you didn't mean to forget me. I know you're trying to make it right.

Next was Norton, who’s getting an ametrine crystal cluster, purple and gold intertwined in natural gradients. Unity of opposites is what Ada, the woman at the shop, had called it. The analytical and the intuitive, working in harmony. It had reminded Joker of the pyrite Norton left outside his door—fool's gold, worthless by some standards, precious by others. A message in mineral form: worth isn't always obvious, but that doesn't make it less real. Norton speaks through actions more than words, and Joker wants to speak back in a language he'll understand.

Then there’s Orpheus: a bilingual edition of Anna Akhmatova's complete poems, the pages thick, the binding solid despite its age. A poet who survived persecution, memorized her own work because writing it down was too dangerous, who refused to stop creating even when the world tried to silence her. Words cannot be killed, Orpheus had quoted once. Joker thinks Orpheus will understand why he chose this one.

And for Edgar...

Joker's eyes drift to the long cardboard tube leaning against the wall. Inside is a museum-quality print of Pierrot by Juan Gris—the sad clown rendered in Cubist fragments, muted blues and roses and ochres. The melancholy harlequin who wears his heart on his sleeve and is forever mocked for his sincerity.

At least the paint gives him a personality.

The memory still stings, but differently now. Because here is Pierrot, preserved for over a century, studied and celebrated and valued. Not dismissed, but seen. And maybe that's the message Joker wants to send: You think clowns are pathetic? Here's a sad clown painted by a master. Here's proof that even the melancholy ones have worth.

Or maybe the message is softer: I heard what you were trying to say beneath what you actually said. Here's proof that I understood.

Or maybe it's simply: Here's something beautiful. Make of it what you will.

"You good?" Mike asks, appearing at his elbow.

Joker blinks, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

"About?"

"Whether any of this matters." Joker gestures at the gifts. "Whether showing up with presents is going to fix anything, or if it's just... going through the motions."

Mike is quiet for a moment. Then he wraps an arm around Joker's waist, pulling him close.

"It matters because you chose to do it," he says. "You could've shown up empty-handed and no one would've blamed you. But you didn't. You thought about each of them, what they'd like, what would mean something. That's not going through the motions. That's... caring. Even when it's hard."

“When did you get so wise?” Joker leans into himm, letting himself be held.

“I ate, like, fourteen donuts today. Sugar rush wisdom.”

“That… is not a thing.”

“It’s absolutely a thing! I’m basically a philosopher now.”

Joker laughs—soft, surprised—and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "We should probably wrap these. And I still need to figure out..." He gestures vaguely at his face.

"The makeup situation?"

"Yup."

Mike presses a kiss to his temple. "I'll find wrapping paper if you figure out your face. Deal?"

"Deal."

Joker settles at his vanity, the paints from Edgar spread before him. In the mirror, his face looks bare and strange—no foundation, no contour, no dramatic color. Just skin and freckles and the fading shadows under his eyes.

He thinks about what Mike said last night. About makeup not being a mask, but a way of making the outside match the inside. About both versions of him being real.

His eyes drift to the window, where snow is still falling in lazy spirals. Snowflakes, delicate and temporary. Each one unique.

He reaches for the white paint.

The first stroke is tentative—white against pale skin, subtle but present. He adds another line, angling it carefully, then another. A pattern emerges: crystalline, intricate.

A snowflake, blooming on his cheek.

He paints one just below his cheekbone, then another near the corner of his eye—smaller, more detailed. A third trails toward his jaw. Each one is slightly different, the way real snowflakes are. Unique patterns that will never quite repeat.

When he's done with his face, his eyes drift to his left arm. To the sleeve covering the bandage beneath. Slowly, he pushes the sleeve down to reveal the back of his hand—the same arm, but unmarked skin. Still connected to what happened, but not the wound itself.

He dips the brush back into the paint.

This snowflake is larger, more elaborate. He adds silver accents, making it shimmer. It spreads across his skin like frost on glass—delicate, intentional, unmistakably art.

When he's finished, he sets the brush down and looks at himself in the mirror. The effect is striking but quiet. Whimsical. The snowflakes catch the light when he moves, matching the winter outside. It's not armor. It's not a mask.

It's decoration. Ornaments on a tree that's already complete.

"Mike," Joker says softly. "What do you think?"

Mike appears behind him in the mirror, a roll of wrapping paper tucked under one arm. His expression shifts—something between awe and reverence.

"I think," he says slowly, "that you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

Joker's throat tightens. "You're biased."

"Completely." Mike presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Doesn't make it less true."

They spend the next hour wrapping gifts—Joker with precise folds and careful ribbon, Mike with enthusiasm that makes up for his complete lack of technique. By the time they're finished, there's a neat pile of presents on the table, each one tagged with a name.

"Not bad," Mike says, surveying their work. "Very professional."

"Yours looks like it was wrapped by a raccoon."

"A very festive raccoon."

Joker's phone buzzes, a private message this time. He glances at the screen, and his stomach drops.

norton got a rock:
hey. orpheus and i are gonna swing by around 6:30 to pick you guys up. that work?

6:30. That's—that’s less than an hour. Less than an hour until Norton and Orpheus are at his door, until he has to walk outside and get in a car and go to a party where everyone will be looking at him—

"Hey." Mike's voice cuts through the static. Suddenly he's there, hands on Joker's shoulders, steady and grounding. "What's wrong?"

Joker tries to speak, but his throat is closing. His chest feels tight, too tight, like there's not enough room for air.

"Can't," he manages. "I can't—"

"Okay. That's okay." Mike's voice is calm. An anchor. "We're gonna breathe, remember? In for four. One... two... three..."

Joker forces air into his lungs.

"Hold for seven. One... two... three..."

His chest burns, but he holds.

They repeat the cycle. Once. Twice. Three times. Slowly, the vice around Joker's chest begins to loosen.

Mike guides him to the couch. Houdini immediately jumps into his lap, kneading with her paws.

"There you go," Mike murmurs. "You're okay. It was just a text."

"They're coming here," Joker whispers. "And then I have to—"

"You don't have to do anything." Mike takes his hand. "We can cancel. Stay here with Houdini. Order bad takeout."

The escape hatch is right there.

But the part of Joker that painted snowflakes on his skin—the part that's trying to be brave—doesn't want to run.

"No," he says. Shaky, but real. "I just... I need a minute."

"Take all the time you need."

Joker breathes. In and out. In and out.

"I'm scared they're all going to look at me and think about what happened," he finally says. "About how I ruined everything. About how they have to pretend to be happy I'm there."

"Is that what you think is happening?"

"Isn't it?"

Mike is quiet for a moment. Then: "Can I tell you what I think?"

Joker nods.

"I think Luca made that sweater 'cause building things is how he says sorry. I think Edgar gave you those brushes because they actually respect your art. I think Norton left that pyrite because he knows what it's like to feel undervalued." Mike squeezes his hand. "And I think they're all hoping you show up tonight. Not because they feel obligated—because they want you there."

"But what if you're wrong?"

"Then we leave. Cauliflower, and we're gone." Mike's eyes are steady. "But you won't know until you try."

Joker looks at him—this ridiculous, wonderful person who keeps showing up, keeps staying, keeps refusing to let go.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Let me text Norton back."

He picks up his phone.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

joker (NOT arthur fleck):
6:30 works (´• ω •`)
we'll be ready

norton got a rock:
good. looking forward to seeing you.
we all are.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joker shows Mike the messages. Mike's smile is soft and proud.

"See?" he says. "They want you there."

"We'll see."

Joker looks at the wrapped gifts on the table. At the snowflakes painted on his hand. At Mike, wearing the sweater Joker made two years ago, looking at him like he's something worth looking at.

"We should probably finish getting ready," Joker says. "Before they get here."

"We've got time." Mike pulls him closer. "We've got time."

And for now, in this moment, with the snow falling outside and the future stretching uncertain ahead—

That's enough.

Chapter Text

The intercom buzzes at exactly 6:30 PM. Of course it does. Norton Campbell has never been late to anything in his life, though he also refuses to be excessively early on principle. The sudden noise cuts through the quiet apartment, and Joker stares at the little plastic speaker box on the wall like it has personally threatened him.

“That’s them,” Mike says, unnecessarily helpful.

“Yeah... I know.” Joker doesn’t move. His feet feel rooted to the floorboards, a sudden wave of inertia pinning him in place.

Houdini, sensing the shift in energy—or perhaps just offended by the noise—hops off the couch and winds between Joker’s ankles, tail twitching. It’s either a gesture of comfort or a calculated attempt to trip him; with cats, the distinction is usually negligible. He bends down and scoops her up, burying his nose briefly in her fur while scratching her favorite spot behind her ear.

The intercom buzzes again, insistent. Norton’s voice crackles through, tinny and distorted by the old wiring but unmistakable. “You guys ready, or do we need a minute?”

We. Right. Orpheus is with him.

A minute. Joker thinks. A year. Or, better yet—a complete restructuring of my personality.

“We’re coming down!” Mike calls back, pressing the talk button and holding it for a second too long. He releases it and turns to Joker, his expression softening into something devastatingly gentle. “You’ve got this. And if you don’t, you’ve got me. And cauliflower.”

“You really need to stop making cauliflower sound romantic.”

“Nah.” Mike waves a hand nonchalantly, grinning. “It’s, like, the best safe word ever! Other than Edgar’s middle name. That turns me off instantly.”

Joker stifles a nervous laugh, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. “What is their middle name?”

“Bartholomew.”

“You made that up just now, didn’t you?”

“Yup,” Mike says, popping the ‘p’ with a confident click of his tongue.

The silence that follows is fairly comfortable for a change, filled only by the sound of Mike rambling about nonsense to fill the air. He jumps from Kuroko no Basuke spoilers to a completely different topic—Luca’s promise to put on The Nightmare Before Christmas during the party.

Joker glances toward his bedroom door, which is slightly ajar. Through the crack, he can see his vanity. Usually, that table is a workspace for construction, a place where he builds the mask that lets him face the world. Tonight, the brushes lie clean, the heavy foundations capped and put away. The thought of the movie—Tim Burton’s melancholy dramatics—usually inspires him. Tonight, it just makes his stomach flip.

Mike seems to catch the drift of his gaze. “Hey.” He tugs gently on Joker’s shirt sleeve, grounding him. “You look fine. Better than fine. You look awesome.”

“Awesome?” Joker echoes, though his tone is lighter. He touches his cheek, careful of the paint. “I was expecting a ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ from you.”

“Joker, that sounds like a Pokémon name.”

It takes a few more minutes to corral their belongings. While Mike performs a high-stakes balancing act with the wrapped DeLorean LEGO set perched precariously on his head, Joker conducts a final inventory. He gives the white box on the counter a gentle shake—just enough to ensure the chocolate babka hasn’t slid. It’s from the good Jewish bakery three blocks over, the one that smells of yeast and comfort; a small, edible tether to his own traditions amidst the incoming tide of Christmas chaos.

Satisfied, he turns his attention to the bag at his feet. The book of poetry is safe, nestled against the frame of Edgar’s Pierrot print. Even Norton’s healing crystals are accounted for—the ones Ada had insisted he pay double for to ensure "an even greater spiritual journey," whatever that meant. Joker zips the bag shut; they’re ready.

He's not even sure if he's ready for the party, or ready to face his friends after almost a week of spiraling in the silence of his apartment. But Norton and Orpheus are waiting, and the engine is running.

Joker opens the door to the hallway. Norton is leaning against the wall, a pair of large headphones wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Blasting from the speakers, loud enough to be heard three feet away, is a heavy metal cover of “All I Want For Christmas Is You”—a stark, aggressive contrast to the original that assaults Joker every time he walks past Macy’s.

“You all set?” Norton asks, not looking up from his phone, his thumb scrolling rapidly.

“Yep!” Mike chirps, pivoting and nearly whacking both Joker and Norton with the giant gift. Norton ducks with impressive reflexes just as the corner of the box swings past his ear.

“Jesus. What is that, a dead body?” Norton asks, straightening up. His voice is gruff, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “Aesop doesn’t do Christmas, you know.”

“It’s a surprise!” Mike cuts him off, wrestling the box back into alignment. “A surprise for Luca, specifically. But don’t worry, Nort. Joker’s hooked you up, too.”

“You make it sound like a drug deal,” Norton grumbles, finally slipping his phone into his pocket.

He and Joker watch as Mike attempts to lug the giant box down the first flight of stairs, his limbs a flurry of movement. “Need help?” Norton calls down, not moving an inch.

“Nope! I’ve got it!” Mike’s voice echoes up from the second-floor landing, followed by an ominous thud, a shout, and a self-censored, “Fudge! I’m okay!”

Norton exhales through his nose—something between a sigh and a laugh. “He’s going to die before we get there.”

“He’s determined,” Joker says. He steps out, locking the door behind him. Then, he pauses. He brings his fingers to his lips and presses them against the mezuzah nailed to the doorframe. It is a quiet, grounding ritual he has done a thousand times, but tonight, his fingers linger against the wood for a second longer. It feels heavier, and more necessary, than usual. A reminder of who he is, beneath the paint and the panic.

“I’m sure.” Norton turns to head down the stairs, but then stops and finally looks at Joker properly.

His gaze lingers on the painted snowflakes dotting Joker’s cheekbone, the delicate white lines trailing down the back of his hand like frost. He doesn’t comment on the artistry or the lack of foundation. Instead, he just nods once, like he’s checking something vital off a mental list.

“You good?”

It’s not a throwaway question. Norton Campbell doesn’t do throwaway questions. He knows exactly what the last few days have looked like.

Joker considers lying. It would be easy—a bright smile, a quick “of course!” But Norton had left pyrite outside his door when Joker felt worthless. Norton had seen him at his absolute lowest and hadn’t flinched.

“I’m getting there,” Joker says honestly, adjusting his grip on the babka box.

Norton holds his gaze for a moment, then nods again. “Good enough.”

They catch up to Mike at the building’s entrance, where he’s somehow managed to wedge the LEGO box against the heavy front door.

“It’s stuck,” Mike announces, panting slightly.

“It’s not stuck. You’re just holding it wrong.” Norton reaches over and tilts the box on a diagonal, freeing it easily. “Come on. Car’s down the block.”

The December air hits Joker the moment they step outside—sharp and biting, tunneling between the buildings. It carries the smoky scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor and the exhaust of a thousand taxis. The city is dressed for the season: warm golden lights strung between lampposts, wreaths hanging from apartment windows, and a giant inflatable Santa waving lazily from a fire escape across the street.

Norton’s car is a dark gray Subaru that’s seen better days, parked somewhat illegally near a hydrant. As they approach, Joker sees the silhouette in the passenger seat.

Orpheus is waiting inside, looking characteristically poised despite the setting. He’s wearing a long, elegant wool coat, though a hint of purple fabric peeks out from the collar—his own assigned ugly sweater, Joker realizes with a small, private smile.

Mike insists on sitting in the back with Joker, the LEGO box taking up the remaining space like an unwanted third passenger. Norton slides into the driver's seat, bringing a gust of cold air with him.

“Everyone in?” Norton asks, checking the mirrors.

“Present!” Mike announces from behind the LEGO wall.

Orpheus turns in his seat, offering a polite, reserved nod to the backseat. “Good evening, you two.” He looks at Norton then, his expression softening just a fraction—a blink-and-you’d-miss-it shift in his usually stoic demeanor. “Is the heater sufficient? You look cold.”

“I’m fine,” Norton grunts, but he immediately reaches out and turns the dial up anyway. His hand brushes against Orpheus’s knee—a touch that lasts barely a second, casual and practiced—before shifting to the gear stick.

Orpheus doesn't react visibly, but he settles back into his seat with a quiet contentment that speaks volumes.

The drive through Manhattan feels surreal. The heavy metal Christmas music is still playing, but Norton has turned the volume down low—likely a concession for Orpheus’s sake. Joker stares out the window at the blur of red taillights and thinks about how strange it is to be here. A week ago, he wasn’t sure he’d ever leave his apartment again. Now he’s in the back of Norton’s car, wearing snowflakes on his skin instead of armor, holding Mike’s hand beneath a giant box of toys.

“Edgar’s place is ridiculous, by the way,” Norton says, breaking the silence as he merges aggressively into traffic. “Just so you’re prepared.”

“Ridiculous how?” Mike asks.

“Ridiculous like, ‘I have a view of Central Park and an elevator that opens directly into my living room’ ridiculous.”

“It is rather ostentatious,” Orpheus adds smoothly from the front seat. He glances sideways at Norton. “Though the view is admittedly impressive.”

Mike whistles. “Rich people are wild.”

“Edgar’s not just rich. Edgar’s ‘my family has a wing in the Met’ rich.” Norton glances at them through the rearview mirror, his eyes serious. “Don’t touch anything that looks expensive.”

“So... don’t touch anything,” Joker translates dryly.

“Precisely,” Orpheus agrees. “Though I believe Luca has already compromised the integrity of the aesthetic with… tinsel. A significant amount of it.”

The building is exactly as intimidating as Norton promised—a sleek high-rise near the park, all glass and steel and doormen in actual uniforms who open the doors before you can even reach for the handle. Joker feels distinctly out of place as they cross the marble lobby, his secondhand coat and thrifted skirt suddenly feeling very inadequate under the crystal chandeliers.

But Mike’s hand finds his, their fingers lacing together tightly, and Joker remembers to breathe.

The elevator ride is smooth and silent, the numbers climbing rapidly until they reach the top floor. When the doors slide open, they reveal—

“Finally!”

Luca’s voice hits them before they even step inside. He is a beacon of chaos, dressed in a blindingly yellow sweater that features a portrait of his own face rendered with the intense shading and dramatic, heavy lines of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure. His real face matches the grin on the wool, wide enough to split his cheeks.

“Get in here, it’s freezing in that hallway!”

Joker steps into Edgar’s penthouse, and his breath catches.

The space is enormous—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering expanse of Central Park, modern furniture in muted tones, and art displayed on the walls with museum-quality lighting. It screams of old money and austere taste. But someone—definitely Luca—has waged war on the minimalism. Fairy lights are strung across every available surface, tinsel is draped haphazardly over the bookshelves, and a Christmas tree in the corner is absolutely drowning in mismatched ornaments.

It’s chaos. Beautiful, warm, ridiculous chaos.

But then Joker spots it.

On the sleek marble mantelpiece, carefully cleared of tinsel and holly, sits a silver menorah. It isn’t hidden away or pushed to the side; it has pride of place in the center of the room. The candles are burned low—Chanukah ended just yesterday—but seeing it there, giving his heritage a designated space amidst the explosion of red and green, makes Joker’s chest ache in a way that threatens to bring tears to his eyes. He hadn’t asked for it. They had just… made room for him.

And standing near the kitchen island, holding a glass of wine with an expression of practiced disinterest, is Edgar.

They’re wearing the purple sweater—the one Luca designed. It’s a deep, regal shade, darker than the slightly lighter violet one Orpheus is revealing as he sheds his coat, but hideous nonetheless. Edgar's gaze finds Joker across the room, and for a moment, neither of them moves. The echo of Edgar’s harsh words from the cafe hangs in the air between them, faint but present.

Then Edgar raises their glass in a small, almost imperceptible toast. “You came,” they say. Not a question. Not quite a welcome, either. But there’s something softer in the words than Joker expects. Acknowledgment.

“I came,” Joker echoes, lifting the white bakery box slightly in return. “And I brought babka. Chocolate. I figured we needed something to counteract the candy canes.”

Edgar’s lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough. “Thank God. If I have to eat another gingerbread man, I’m evicting everyone.” He takes a sip of wine, his eyes dropping to scan Joker’s face. “Also, the snowflakes are a nice touch. Very… you.”

It’s not a grand apology. It’s not even a compliment, exactly. But coming from Edgar Valden, it feels like an olive branch extended across a chasm.

Orpheus moves further into the room, his gaze sweeping over the eclectic mix of high-end decor and discount-bin holiday cheer with the critical eye of an appraiser. "The Feng Shui is a nightmare," he observes dryly, though he carefully hangs his coat on the rack rather than draping it over a chair.

Beside him, Norton looks like he wants to phase through the floorboards. He keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his posture stiff; Joker knows that look. It’s the look of someone who grew up counting pennies, suddenly standing in a room that costs more than their entire childhood existence. Norton eyes a pristine white sofa like it might bite him, clearly calculating the cost of a spill, before moving to the furthest, darkest corner of the sectional.

But as the group settles, the tension bleeds out of Norton's shoulders. Within twenty minutes, he has produced his Nintendo Switch and is deeply engrossed in Fire Emblem: Three Houses. In a display of public affection so rare it almost feels intrusive to witness, Norton slides down until his head rests in Orpheus’s lap. Orpheus doesn't even look up from the hardcover novel he’s produced from thin air; he simply rests one hand absently on Norton’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against the collar of the ugly purple sweater, grounding him while Norton commands pixelated armies.

"Alright, enough loitering!" Luca claps his hands together, the sound sharp and eager. He dives behind the Christmas tree, emerging with an armful of haphazardly wrapped packages. "We're doing this. Mandatory joy enforcement, starting now." He tosses a small box to Mike, who catches it as if it’s a baseball, before shoving a neatly wrapped package toward Joker. "Open it. It’s not an apology, because apologies are boring, but it is a bribe."

Joker opens it to find a set of high-quality blending sponges and a gift card to Sephora with a staggering amount written on the back. He looks up, throat tight, but before he can speak, Luca is already vibrating with impatience. "Your turn! What did you bring? Is it food? Please tell me it's not just the babka."

Joker reaches for his bag, the familiar weight of it anchoring him. As he pulls out the gifts, the anxiety that had been coiling in his stomach begins to unravel. He hands the largest box to Luca first. The inventor tears into the paper with the ferocity of a wild animal, gasping audibly when he sees the Back to the Future logo. "No way," Luca breathes, fingers already tracing the image of the flux capacitor on the box art. "Is this the Ultimate Collector's Series? Joker, this has almost two thousand pieces. I'm going to lose my mind. I love it." He looks up, his eyes bright and frantic with joy. "We are building this immediately! Well, after the movie. Maybe during the movie."

Next is Norton. Joker slides the small, heavy velvet pouch across the coffee table. Norton pauses his game, sitting up slightly to undo the drawstring. He tips the contents into his palm, the raw cluster of purple and gold catching the fairy lights. He turns the stone over in his calloused fingers, inspecting the natural gradient with a geologist's eye. "Ametrine," Norton murmurs, recognizing it instantly. He runs his thumb over a jagged edge, seeming to appreciate the weight of it, the rough, unpolished reality of the mineral. He meets Joker's eyes and nods once—a quiet, solid gesture that carries more weight than a thank you.

For Orpheus, Joker presents the book. Orpheus takes it with reverence, his eyebrows raising as he reads the spine. He runs a hand over the matte cover, checking the binding, before flipping to a random page to inspect the Russian text alongside the English translation. "The bilingual edition," Orpheus notes, his voice softening. "It is rare to find a copy that hasn't been butchered by modern reinterpretations. This is... thoughtful, Joker. Truly." He closes the book, resting it protectively on his knee, his expression shifting from scholarly detachment to something warmer.

And finally, for Edgar.

The room goes quiet as Joker picks up the long cardboard tube leaning against the wall. Edgar looks at it suspiciously, swirling his wine. "If that’s a weapon or an explosive, I’m calling security."

"Just open it," Joker says, his voice wavering only slightly.

Edgar pops the cap and slides the rolled paper out, unfurling it on the kitchen island. They stare at the Cubist lines, the muted blues and ochres of the sad harlequin, and goes very still. They trace the fractured lines of the guitar with a hovering finger, not daring to touch the ink. It’s a silence that stretches, heavy but not hostile.

Finally, Edgar carefully weights the corners down with silver salt shakers so it won't roll back up. "Juan Gris," they say slowly, identifying the artist immediately. They don’t look at Joker, but their shoulders lose some of their defensive line. "The composition is... acceptable. I'll have to frame this."

Coming from Edgar, it's a glowing review.

"Okay, emotions! Too many emotions!" Luca announces, breaking the spell. "Time for cake. But, uh, full disclosure…" He runs to the kitchen and returns with a round, yellow cake that looks decidedly un-Christmas-like. In bright blue icing, it reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

"Luca," Edgar says, staring at the cake with profound exhaustion. "Whose birthday is it?"

"Nobody's!" Luca chirps, cutting massive slices. "Sam's Club was out of the holiday ones. It’s a pineapple upside-down cake. Just pretend it says 'Happy Birthday Jesus' or something."

"I hate you," Edgar groans, though they accept a plate. "I hate all of you. Pineapple? On the twenty-third of December? This is a culinary embarrassment."

The sugar rush eventually gives way to the main event. Luca dims the lights, plunging the penthouse into a soft gloom illuminated only by the fairy lights and the glow of the massive television screen. The opening notes of The Nightmare Before Christmas drift through the room—Danny Elfman’s haunting, whimsical score filling the silence.

Joker sits on the floor, leaning back against the couch between Mike’s legs. As the movie plays, with Jack Skellington lamenting his emptiness and longing for something more, Joker feels his focus begin to drift. The screen blurs. The lyrics start to feel too loud, too close. The exhaustion of the week, the emotional expenditure of the gifts, the sheer effort of being present threatens to pull him under.

He feels transparent again, like a ghost haunting his own life.

But then Mike’s hands are in his hair. They aren't demanding; they’re just there, fingers gently scratching him like he’s an oversized red Houdini, playing with the red curls. A tactile anchor. Joker breathes out, leaning his head back into the touch, letting the sensation ground him in his body. From the corner of his eye, he sees movement.

He turns his head slightly and catches Edgar watching him. They aren't looking at the screen; he’s looking at Joker. In the shifting shadows cast by the TV, Edgar's expression is unreadable—calculating, perhaps, or maybe just curious. Finally acknowledging the canvas that breathes, and deciding not to look away.

Joker decides that now is not the moment to bridge that gap, or even to look across it. He has felt the weight of Edgar’s scrutiny for days—the memory of their sharp words still a dull ache in the back of his head—and he knows better than to speak first. Any attempt to reach out would likely be met with a cold shoulder, or a blade masked as a witticism, and Joker isn't sure he has the armor to survive that right now.

After all, his current armor consists of nothing but a few painted snowflakes and the warmth of Mike’s hands in his hair. Mike can’t protect him forever—he’s been trying to protect everyone for too long—but Joker can feel the exhaustion radiating off him. It's there in the way Mike’s fingers slow their rhythm, dragging lazily through the curls. He is clearly tired.

Tired of worrying, tired of the drama, the silence. He’s tired of his friends drifting apart no matter how hard he and Luca try to superglue them back together.

And Joker is tired for him, too.

The movie ends with a triumphant flourish of snow and song, and the room settles into that comfortable post-credits lethargy. Luca has already migrated to the floor, tearing into the DeLorean LEGO set with the focus of a surgeon, instruction booklet spread before him like sacred scripture. Tiny plastic pieces scatter across the hardwood in organized chaos. Mike, after being bodily removed from "Luca's building zone," has commandeered the inventor's hacked Nintendo Wii and is now deeply embroiled in a solo round of Mario Kart, tongue poking out in concentration as Princess Peach drifts around Rainbow Road.

Joker watches from his spot on the couch, nursing a mug of hot cocoa that Luca had shoved into his hands earlier. The warmth seeps through the ceramic, grounding him. Norton and Orpheus have migrated to the window seat, speaking in low murmurs about something Joker can't quite catch. The fairy lights cast everything in a soft, golden haze. For a moment—just a moment—Joker lets himself believe that this is okay. That he belongs here.

Edgar is on his sixth glass of wine.

Joker notices this only because they've been tracking the bottle's steady depletion from across the room—a nervous habit, cataloging potential threats. Edgar is sprawled in an armchair now, one leg draped over the armrest, the empty glass dangling from their fingers like an afterthought. Their eyes are half-lidded, glassy, their usually razor-sharp posture softened into something almost vulnerable. The wine has loosened the rigid set of their jaw, blurred the calculating edge of their gaze.

It should make Edgar less intimidating. It doesn't.

"Honestly," Edgar mutters, swirling the dregs of his wine, his voice low but not low enough, "I don't understand why everyone insists on walking on eggshells. It's exhausting. All this coddling for someone who can't even function without a painted mask to hide behind—"

The words hit Joker like a slap.

For a moment, the room continues as if nothing has happened. Luca snaps another LEGO piece into place. Mike whoops as he crosses the finish line. Norton says something dry to Orpheus, who huffs in quiet amusement.

No one else heard.

But Joker heard. Every syllable.

The cocoa in his hands goes cold. Or maybe his hands have gone cold—he can't tell anymore. The warmth that had been settling in his chest crystallizes into something sharp and jagged, pressing against his ribs.

Can't even function—

A flash. The café. Edgar's voice, amplified by the group chat's silence: "It's a cry for attention. Everything he does is a cry for attention."

—painted mask to hide behind—

Another flash. The phone call with Luca. Edgar's laughter in the background, cruel and careless: "Without the makeup, he has no personality."

—exhausting—

The bathroom floor. Blood on his fingers. The way the world had gone quiet and soft and merciful, even as it fell apart.

Joker's breath catches. His chest tightens, a vice grip that won't release. His hands are shaking—when did they start shaking?—and the cocoa sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug. He sets it down on the side table with trembling fingers, the ceramic clinking too loudly against the wood.

No one looks up. No one notices.

Of course they don't.

He is invisible again. A ghost at his own haunting.

The panic claws up his throat, stealing his air. He can feel it building—the pressure behind his eyes, the way his lungs refuse to expand properly, the static creeping in at the edges of his vision. Not here. Not now. Not in front of everyone, in Edgar's pristine penthouse, surrounded by fairy lights and laughter and people who might finally be starting to accept him.

He can't fall apart here. He won't.

"I—" His voice comes out wrong, too high and too thin. He clears his throat, forces a smile that feels like cracking porcelain. "I need to—my makeup. It's smearing. From the heat."

The lie tastes like ash on his tongue. His makeup isn't smearing. The snowflakes are water-resistant, set with powder and sealed with spray. But it's the only excuse he can think of, the only door he can open without inviting questions.

"There's a guest bathroom down the hall," Edgar says absently, not even looking up from their wine glass. They gesture vaguely toward a corridor. "Second door on the left."

Joker nods jerkily and rises on unsteady legs. He doesn't look at Mike. He can't. If he looks at Mike, he'll break completely, and he needs to hold it together for just a few more seconds, just until he's behind a locked door where no one can see him shatter.

The hallway feels endless. His footsteps echo on the hardwood, too loud in the muffled quiet away from the main room. Second door on the left. He finds it, pushes inside, locks the door behind him with fingers that won't stop trembling.

The bathroom is as ostentatious as the rest of the penthouse—marble countertops, gold fixtures, a mirror that spans the entire wall and reflects his panic back at him in merciless high definition. He looks wrong. Pale beneath the painted snowflakes, eyes too wide, chest heaving.

The sob tears out of him before he can stop it.

He clamps a hand over his mouth, muffling the sound, and slides down against the door until he's sitting on the cold tile floor. The tears come hot and fast, blurring his vision, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't—

Painted mask. Exhausting. Can't even function.

Edgar's words loop in his head, overlapping with every other cruel thing they've ever said, a cacophony of criticism that drowns out everything else. Joker pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, making himself as small as possible. As if shrinking might make him invisible for real. As if invisibility might finally, finally be a mercy instead of a curse.

He doesn't know how long he sits there. Time becomes elastic, stretching and compressing in ways that don't make sense. The sobs quiet eventually, leaving him hollow and raw, his throat aching and his eyes burning.

From somewhere beyond the bathroom door, he hears footsteps. Then voices—muffled by the walls but close. Too close.

"—need to talk to you about something." Edgar's voice, slurred slightly at the edges. "Something deeply concerning."

"Can it wait?" That's Mike. Mike followed him. Mike noticed. "I was just going to check on—"

"It can't wait." There's a shuffling sound, a door closing. They're in the guest room. The room attached to this bathroom. "It's about him. About... all of this."

Joker freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He presses his back harder against the bathroom door, straining to hear.

The voices are muffled, indistinct. He catches fragments—his own name, the word fragile, something that sounds like burden—but he can't piece them together into anything coherent. Just murmurs. Just the low hum of a conversation he isn't meant to hear.

Then Mike's voice, sharp and clear:

"Back off, Edgar."

Joker flinches at the tone. He's never heard Mike sound like that—hard and cold, stripped of all his usual warmth. Mike, who defuses every conflict with a joke. Mike, who bends over backward to keep everyone happy, who smiles through exhaustion and pretends everything is fine even when it isn't.

Mike, who sounds like he's barely restraining himself from violence.

"I'm just saying—" Edgar's voice rises, defensive and wine-loose. He stumbles over a word, catches himself. "Someone has to say it. You can't keep—"

There's a sound. Glass shattering. The distinctive, crystalline crash of a wine glass hitting the floor.

"I said back off."

Mike is yelling now. Actually yelling. The sound punches through the walls, through the bathroom door, through the fragile shell Joker has built around himself. He can hear the ragged edge in Mike's voice, the way it cracks and splinters.

"You don't get to do this." Mike's voice is shaking. "You don't get to keep hurting him and then act like you're the reasonable one. You don't get to pretend that your cruelty is some kind of honesty—"

"I wasn't—" Edgar sputters.

Then another voice. Norton.

"What the hell is going on in here?"

Norton's voice is an explosion, a thunderclap that silences everything else. Joker can picture him in the doorway, shoulders squared, eyes blazing with that particular fury that only surfaces when someone he cares about is threatened.

For a moment, there's nothing. Just the aftermath of the crash, the echo of raised voices, the heavy silence that follows a storm.

Joker wraps his arms tighter around his knees and waits.

The silence presses against the bathroom door, heavy and taut, a wire pulled to its breaking point. Joker leans his forehead against the painted wood, his breath hitching in his chest.

Then, Edgar laughs.

Even through the door, the sound makes Joker’s stomach turn. It’s ugly—brittle and wet, stripping away Edgar’s usual sardonic polish to reveal something jagged underneath. There’s a stumbling noise, the heavy thud of a hip checking the dresser, and then Edgar’s voice again, pitched higher than Joker has ever heard it.

“What’s going on,” Edgar repeats, the words slurring into a mess. “What’s going on is that I’m—I’m the villain, apparently. Again. Always.”

Joker hears a wild, sweeping sound—a gesture that sends something fragile crashing to the floorboards. He flinches.

“Edgar Valden, resident monster,” Edgar announces to the room. “Destroyer of delicate things. Is that what you want to hear?”

Fabric rustles. That must be Mike stepping forward. “That’s not—Edgar, stop. You’re fucking wasted. You need to sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself?” Edgar’s voice pitches up, dangerously close to hysteria. He’s laughing again, but it sounds like he’s choking on the air. “That’s rich. That’s—God, Mike, do you even hear yourself? You’re so busy playing savior you can’t see that I’m not the one who needs—”

Smack!

The sharp crack of skin on skin vibrates through the doorframe.

Joker’s hands fly up to his mouth, stifling a gasp. The impact is unmistakable. It echoes off the bathroom tiles, harsh and violent.

“Snap out of it.” Norton’s voice is rough, but Joker hears the desperation buried under the grit. “You’re spiraling.”

“Jesus, Norton!” Mike sounds shocked. “You didn’t have to—”

“They needed it,” Norton says flatly.

A terrible quiet falls over the suite. Then, a small, choked sound from Edgar—pain or surprise, Joker can’t tell. When the painter speaks again, the manic edge has been slapped right out of them.

“You... you didn't pull that punch, did you.”

“I don’t know how,” Norton admits. He sounds almost apologetic. Almost. “Now sit on the bed and shut up before I have to do it again.”

The mattress springs creak; Edgar has complied.

Joker presses his ear harder against the wood, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“I wasn't going to say anything cruel,” Edgar mumbles finally, their voice small and exhausted. “I was going to say... I'm not the one who needs saving. I'm the one who ruins things. It's what I do. It's all I—”

“Stop.” Mike’s voice has shifted—softer, but firm. “Just stop talking, Edgar. Please.”

Mike sighs, a long, heavy exhale that Joker can feel in his own lungs. “I'm so tired, Edgar.”

Tired. The word sinks into Joker like a stone.

“I'm tired of translating your cruelty into 'oh, that's just how Edgar is.' I'm sick of making excuses for you. And I'm done watching Joker flinch every time you open your mouth because he's waiting for the next cut."

Joker squeezes his eyes shut. The tiles are cold under his feet, but his face burns. They know. Of course they know.

“I’m tired of watching him flinch,” Mike says again, his voice dropping lower, dragging the words out. “Every time you open your goddamn mouth, Edgar, he waits for the blade. And you always give it to him.”

A wet, broken laugh comes from the bed. “Oh, that’s perfect. Blame me for the scars he puts on himself. As if I’m the one holding the—”

“No.” Mike’s voice cracks like a whip. “Don’t even fucking go there. You don’t get to weaponize his pain just because you’re drowning in yours tonight.”

Norton growls, a low rumble. “Edgar. Shut it.”

But Edgar is drunk, and drunk Edgar is a lit fuse with no bomb—just fire.

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” Edgar’s voice climbs, slurring but vicious. “He cries in the bathroom like a child, seeks attention by putting on exaggerated makeup annd acting like he’s all perfectly fine, and I’m the monster? I’m the one who—”

Joker grips the doorknob. His fingers are trembling, but his resolve hardens into something brittle. He turns the handle.

He throws the door open so hard it slams against the bathroom wall, shaking the frame.

He steps out into the bedroom light.

The sudden brightness stings his swollen eyes. He knows what he looks like—red-rimmed, pathetic, tears still clinging to his lashes. He hasn't pulled his sleeves down. The pale ladders of old cuts march up his forearms like tally marks, exposed to the air. He doesn’t bother hiding them. Not anymore.

Edgar’s mouth is still open, the last word dying on his tongue. The drunken bravado leaks out of him in one visible shudder as he stares at Joker.

Joker’s voice is barely a whisper, but in the dead silence of the room, it cuts like a knife.

“…Say it.”

He fixes his gaze on Edgar, unflinching.

“Go on. Say what you think I am. I want to hear it sober tomorrow when you remember.”

Edgar sways on the edge of the bed. The color drains from his face so fast it looks painful.

“I’m sorry,” Edgar blurts, the words tumbling over each other, frantic and small. “I’m—I didn’t mean—”

“Half-assed,” Norton mutters from the corner, sounding disgusted.

Edgar’s head snaps toward Norton, then back to Joker. Their eyes are glassy with panic and gin. Joker watches as something inside the painter fractures wide open.

“I’m sorry you’re nothing more than a weeping clown!” Edgar shouts.

The voice is raw, splintering in the air. Edgar immediately clamps both hands over his mouth as if he can shove the words back in, horror flooding his face the instant they leave it.

The bedroom goes dead.

Mike looks like he’s been shot. Norton’s fists are clenched so tight his knuckles are white.

Joker just stands there. He takes the hit square in the chest. He waits for the tears to start again, but they don't. Instead, something in his chest doesn’t break—it calcifies. It turns to stone.

Then, very softly:

“Thank you,” Joker says. “For finally saying the quiet part out loud.”

He turns his back on them. He walks past Mike, past Norton, without touching anyone, and heads for the hallway door. He closes it behind him with a click so gentle it sounds louder than a gunshot in the silence he leaves behind.

From the other side of the door, as he walks away, Joker hears the sound of Edgar sliding off the bed and hitting the floor. It isn’t crying. It’s worse.

It’s the sound of someone realizing the knife was in their own hand the whole time.

Chapter Text