Chapter Text
His apartment around him glowed amber in the fading light, every surface washed in the soft gold of sunset filtering through broad windows. Somewhere in the kitchen a kettle whistled, forgotten. A record crackled quietly from the shelf beside the couch, the melody dipping beneath the sound of laughter.
Scar's laughter.
Grian looked up from the stack of sketches spread across the coffee table.
"You've been staring at the same floor plan for ten minutes," Scar said, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I've been thinking."
"You've been doodling."
Grian glanced back down.
The corner of the page was covered in tiny birds and a few clouds.
"...Evidence?"
Scar snorted. "I have some very compelling evidence."
"You can't prove those are mine."
"They're wearing little sweaters."
"And? Your point?" Grian challenged.
"You've been spending more time doodling little birds than you have grading."
Grian folded his arms. "They could be anyone's birds," he protested.
Scar leaned across the table, resting comfortably on one elbow. His smile was crooked as he tapped one scarred hand on the page. "One of them has your glasses."
Grian looked again.
It did.
"...Okay, so maybe they're mine."
"I thought so."
Scar's grin settled into something quieter, softer. He looked unfairly nice like this. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair let down, curling up against his muscular neck. Comfortable.
Home.
Grian wondered, not for the first time, how anyone managed to look so effortlessly... His eyes drifted back to the sketches before they lingered too long.
"You know," Scar said after a moment, nudging another sheet toward him, "I still think this arch is too narrow."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"It literally isn't."
"It literally is."
"It meets code."
Scar gasped dramatically.
"Oh, forgive me. It meets code."
"It does."
"I'm sure the people using the building will be thrilled to hear that while squeezing through there."
"They won't be squeezing."
"They'll be shoulder-checking each other."
"They'll survive."
Scar hummed thoughtfully.
"...Maybe."
Grian rolled his eyes.
"I don't know why I bother asking your opinion."
"You don't."
"I don't?"
"You argue with it every single time."
"I argue because you're wrong."
"You argue because it's fun."
"...That too."
Scar laughed again.
There it was.
That laugh.
The one that always escaped before he could stop it, bright and completely unguarded.
Grian loved that laugh.
He'd spent longer than he cared to admit finding excuses to hear it.
Scar reached for one of the loose pencils scattered across the table.
Their fingers brushed.
It was barely anything.
An accident.
Scar didn't seem to notice.
Grian did.
Heat crept up the back of his neck as he quickly looked away, pretending to study the plans again. His pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
"You're blushing."
"I am not."
"You definitely are."
"It's warm in here."
Scar glanced toward the cracked window, blowing in a cool breeze from the city outside. "...Right."
"It's... the lighting."
"The lighting's making you blush?"
"Yes."
"Hm." Scar looked entirely unconvinced. "You are unbelievably easy to fluster."
"I am an adult."
"Barely."
"I teach architecture."
"You also own socks with ducks on them."
"They're comfortable."
"They're ducks."
"They're comfortable ducks."
Scar smiled so fondly Grian almost forgot how to breathe.
The apartment fell comfortably quiet again. The kettle had stopped whistling, the music crackled softly.
Outside, the city stretched toward the horizon, painted orange beneath the setting sun.
Grian could have stayed there forever.
Scar shifted beside him.
"C'mere."
Before Grian could ask why, Scar reached over. His hand brushed gently through Grian's hair, smoothing down a stubborn strand that had fallen into his eyes.
"There."
Grian blinked. "...There?" he asked.
"You looked windswept."
"The window is open."
Scar laughed, "I don't think there's nearly enough wind." Scar's hand lingered only a second before dropping back to the table.
It was nothing.
Barely even a touch.
Grian's pulse refused to believe that.
Scar noticed.
The smile tugging at his lips turned teasing. "You know..."
"Hm?" Grian asked, trying to play it cool.
"You're kind of cute."
Grian ducked his head to hide the smile threatening to escape. "I've been told."
"Oh?" He could hear the teasing grin dancing across Scar's face.
"My grandmother."
Scar laughed. "I'm sure she's right."
"I'll let her know you agree."
Silence settled again.
Comfortable.
Easy. The kind that only existed in dreams.
"...Cute guy."
Grian frowned.
Something about the words...
Scar hadn't changed, the smile gracing his lips hadn't soured. Not really. But the emphasis felt... Wrong. Grian couldn't meet the man's eyes.
Cute.
Guy.
The room seemed quieter than before.
The record still spun.
Only now he couldn't hear the music.
The apartment felt... emptier. The warm glow from the windows had dulled, the sunlight fading into a colder gray.
Scar tilted his head, he'd pulled his hair back up into a pony tail. Grian hadn't noticed him do that.
"...Cute guy?" he asked, something so utterly wrong, but impossible to place. The nickname landed strangely in Grian's chest. He laughed, though it came out weaker than intended. "You've never called me that."
"Haven't I?"
"No."
"I think it suits you."
Grian opened his mouth to answer. Something shifted against his back. He frowned, suddenly feeling so exposed.
Scar's eyes flickered briefly over his shoulder.
His back ached. He reached behind himself, his fingers caught against a tangle feathers.
His breath caught.
Scar didn't seem surprised. "They're beautiful."
Grian jerked around.
Great wings stretched behind him, half-furled across the couch, pink and black feathers spilling over the cushions and onto the floor.
No, he—
He hadn't had those a second ago.
Had he?
He couldn't remember.
Scar stood.
Or...
No.
Not stood.
The perspective felt wrong.
The apartment blurred at the edges.
The couch beneath Grian hardened, the evening breeze turned sharp and cold, the city lights blinked awake all at once beyond the edge of the rooftop.
Rooftop.
Why were they—
Scar stepped closer.
"You really are a Cute guy."
His smile hadn't changed.
Everything else had.
His clothes.
His posture.
The easy warmth in his expression.
The green of his eyes disappeared behind mirrored orange and cyan.
The words were still Scar's.
The voice wasn't.
Grian's stomach dropped.
Hotguy crouched in front of him.
"...Birdie."
His wrists were pinned above his head before he even realized he'd moved.
Concrete dug painfully into his back.
One wing bent awkwardly beneath him.
He tried to wrench free.
Nothing happened.
Hotguy sighed, almost disappointed.
"You always make this difficult."
Grian opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Not a joke.
Not an insult.
Not even a breath worth hearing.
A gloved hand brushed gently against his cheek.
Almost impossibly gentle.
His pinnae twitched.
"You know," Hotguy murmured, "I've always wondered."
His thumb traced slowly along Grian's jaw.
"So much effort pretending to be someone else."
Heat shimmered across Grian's vision.
The air around his face rippled.
His glamour.
No.
Hotguy smiled.
"So that's what it feels like."
His fingers hovered just in front of Grian's face, never quite touching.
The glamour warped beneath them anyway.
Like disturbed water.
"It starts to give way eventually."
Grian's breathing became ragged.
"No..."
"I've spent weeks wondering if you're as beautiful as I've imagined."
Another ripple.
"I thought maybe I'd have to catch you first."
His heartbeat thundered painfully in his ears.
"But maybe..."
Hotguy leaned closer.
"...I only needed to get close enough."
Grian squeezed his eyes shut.
He couldn't let this happen.
If the glamour broke—
His job.
His friends.
His apartment.
His life.
Everything.
He'd lose everything.
He'd be dragged beneath Hero Headquarters and locked away with every other vigilante who'd believed helping people was worth breaking the law. With every other villian desperately trying to scrape by, morals be damned.
"You know," Hotguy said quietly, "I could still pull a few strings."
The offer.
Again.
A place among the heroes.
Grian shook his head.
As much as the grip on his wrists allowed.
"No."
"The answer never changes."
"No."
"It really is a shame..."
The words came with quiet disappointment.
Not anger.
Not triumph.
Just disappointment.
"...Grian."
The glamour shattered.
And Grian woke with a gasp.
For one panicked heartbeat he was still there, concrete digging into his back, the shimmer of his glamour collapsing beneath unseen fingers. He jerked upright so suddenly the blankets tangled around his legs, his lungs dragging in air that refused to feel like enough.
Something soft thumped against his lap before darting across the bed with an offended mrrph, launching from the end of the mattress, claws scrabbling briefly against the duvet before disappearing into the dark apartment.
"...Sorry," he managed hoarsely.
Silence settled around him, broken only by the quiet rustling of two thoroughly unimpressed cats.
His pulse still thundered in his ears. He dragged both hands down his face, willing the image away. Scar's smile shining beneath Hotguy's visor. They bled together every time he tried to separate them until he couldn't remember where one had ended and the other had begun.
It had only been a dream. He knew that.
Dreams didn't mean anything. They were just his exhausted brain taking every stray thought, every embarrassing crush and every near miss on patrol, throwing them into a blender and seeing what came out.
It still left him feeling sick.
A quiet trill came from somewhere near his left. Pearl emerged cautiously from the shadows, front paws stretching onto the mattress before she climbed into his lap as though she'd never fled in the first place. She circled twice, bumping her head against his wrist with quiet insistence.
"I know," Grian murmured, scratching behind one ear. "I scared you."
Pearl answered with a purr that rumbled through the otherwise silent apartment.
Across the room Maui stared at him from the doorway, tail flicking back and forth in clear judgment.
"You too."
Maui blinked slowly.
"Traitor."
The cat yawned.
Grian huffed the closest thing to a laugh he could manage.
His breathing had finally begun to settle, though every now and then his shoulders still tightened on instinct. He leaned back against the headboard, letting Pearl's weight ground him.
Outside the broad windows the city glowed in every direction, thousands of windows stacked atop one another until the skyline looked less like buildings and more like constellations someone had dragged down to earth. Streetlights painted long ribbons of amber across empty roads.
Neon advertisements flickered against distant towers, bright enough to drown out almost every star.
He'd never decided whether he loved the view or hated it.
The city had given him nearly everything. A career he genuinely enjoyed. Friends he wouldn't trade for the world. Somewhere people actually needed him. Somewhere he could matter.
It had taken just as much.
Sometimes he caught himself wondering what the sky really looked like.
Pearl eventually hopped off his lap, apparently satisfied he wasn't dying after all. Grian sighed and let himself fall back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes closed.
...Cute guy.
They snapped open again.
"urgh," he mumbled.
He rolled onto his side, taking a moment to shift and get comfortable. Closed them once more. Heat shimmered across the inside of his eyelids.
"I've spent weeks wondering if you're as beautiful as I've imagined."
Grian sat upright for the second time that night.
"...Yeah," he muttered into the empty apartment. "Not happening."
Sleep was officially cancelled. it wasn't anything coffee couldn't fix.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, pausing only to flick on the small light above the stove. The apartment glowed softly around him, familiar in a way the dream never could have been.
Books sat in uneven stacks beside the couch. Half-finished lecture notes covered the dining table. A Lego bridge occupied entirely too much counter space because he'd promised himself he'd move it three weeks ago and simply... hadn't.
The coffee machine sat patiently beneath the cupboards.
He considered it.
It considered him.
"No," he decided after a moment. "Future me can deal with that."
Instead he wandered back toward the bedroom, peeling off the oversized sleep shirt he'd stolen years ago and never quite managed to return. The faded fabric had long since become softer than anything sold in stores, the graphic on the front nearly worn away after countless washes.
Scar had insisted he keep it after Grian had spilled an entire glass of orange soda down himself during one of Cleo's game nights, waving away every attempt to give it back.
"Looks better on you anyway." Scar had laughed when he said it, had meant nothing of it. Grian had spent the entire bus ride home trying not to read into a joke.
He folded it over the end of his bed before tugging on the black compression suit he wore beneath Cuteguy's costume. It had become second nature years ago. Most people wore an undershirt beneath their clothes. Grian wore body armour. Easier to disappear into an alley and become someone else when half the work had already been done.
Normally he'd continue. Pink shorts. Gloves. Utility belt. The familiar weight of his pistols settling comfortably at his hips before he'd throw himself into the night until exhaustion replaced whatever had been bothering him.
Tonight his hand stopped halfway into his pockets.
The dream lingered unpleasantly beneath his skin.
He couldn't stop thinking about his wings pinned beneath someone else's weight.
Couldn't stop imagining the glamour rippling.
His stomach turned.
"...Tomorrow," he whispered to himself, a promise he wasn't sure he'd keep.
Instead he pulled on an old grey hoodie, a pair of plaid pajama pants and the first trainers he found by the door.
Fresh air would do.
Probably.
Maybe.
It sounded healthier than spiralling alone in his apartment, anyway.
The hallway outside was quiet, most of the building asleep. Grian locked the door behind him and started down the stairs two at a time before remembering it was nearly three in the morning and forcing himself to slow down.
By the time he stepped outside, cool winter air had already begun chasing away the lingering heat of the nightmare.
He had no destination in mind.
That was the point.
He wandered wherever the sidewalks carried him, hands shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie as apartment buildings slowly gave way to taller offices and brighter storefronts. Downtown never truly slept.
There was always someone catching the last train home. Someone unloading crates into the back of a shop before sunrise. The city breathed differently at night, slower but never quieter.
Grian preferred it this way.
There was less pretending after midnight.
He found himself glancing upward almost immediately.
Habit.
Every rooftop, every fire escape, every comfortably familiar ledge tugged at the back of his mind. Usually he'd already be up there, boots pounding over concrete as his wings caught the wind between buildings. Flying always settled him. The rhythm of it. The freedom. The certainty that no matter how overwhelming the city became, all he had to do was jump.
Tonight he stayed on the pavement.
It felt... wrong.
Like walking with one shoe missing.
He passed beneath one of the rooftops he frequented on patrol and instinctively tracked the route Cuteguy would have taken. Leap across the alley. Catch the updraft between the towers. Bank left around the communications mast before dropping toward the banker's district.
Dangerous, according to every news station in the country.
Grian snorted quietly to himself.
Dangerous his ass.
If anyone could see him now—hood pulled low, shuffling down the sidewalk because he couldn't sleep—they'd never believe he spent most nights launching himself off skyscrapers for fun.
Not that anyone knew.
Well.
Almost no one.
Mumbo had known from the beginning, mostly because it was difficult to explain away a pair of pink pistols covered in bows sitting on his workbench. Grian smiled despite himself as he remembered both of them absolutely covered in redstone dust, taking turns firing prototypes into a wall of hay bales while Mumbo rambled excitedly about something Grian had forgotten almost instantly.
Those had been simpler nights.
He rounded another corner and realized he'd wandered farther than intended. A convenience store glowed ahead, harsh fluorescent lights spilling onto the pavement through broad front windows.
His stomach gave an unimpressed grumble.
"Fair enough."
Inside, the hum of refrigerators replaced the distant sounds of traffic. The store was almost empty, save for a twenty-something behind the register who looked halfway through an overnight shift and deeply regretting every decision that had led them there.
Grian drifted aimlessly through the aisles.
He picked up a microwave dinner.
Put it back.
Considered instant noodles before remembering there were at least six packets sitting untouched in his cupboard.
An energy drink made it halfway to his hoodie pocket before Jimmy's inevitable lecture about caffeine echoed through his head.
Back onto the shelf it went.
Eventually he found himself standing in front of the ice cream freezer for an embarrassingly long time, trying to remember whether he actually preferred mint chocolate or if he'd simply bought it often enough to convince himself he did.
"...This one," he decided aloud, grabbing the first chocolate bar within reach before he could change his mind again.
A canned coffee joined it moments later.
Breakfast of champions.
Or depressed lecturers.
One of the two.
He carried both to the counter, only patting his hoodie pocket as the cashier finished scanning the last item.
...
Right.
His wallet.
At home.
His phone.
Also at home.
Grian stared at the two items sitting innocently on the counter before looking back up at the cashier with an apologetic smile.
"So..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "This is going to sound incredibly stupid."
The young cashier stared at him with the sort of exhausted expression that suggested this wasn't even the strangest thing they'd dealt with tonight.
Grian gave an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'll just... go put these ba—"
The cashier's eyes suddenly flicked past him.
Their face drained of colour.
Something cold pressed against the back of Grian's neck.
Metal.
A quiet, unmistakable click echoed through the tiny shop.
Every muscle in his body locked.
"Open the register," a low voice said behind him. Calm. Steady. "Nice and slow."
The cashier didn't move.
The barrel jabbed harder into Grian's neck.
"I said open it."
Shaking hands fumbled for the till.
"It'd be a real shame," the man continued conversationally, "if I had to redecorate your floor with his brains."
The register chimed open.
Grian swallowed.
His heart hammered against his ribs hard enough he was surprised the robber couldn't feel it. This wasn't unfamiliar.
People pointed guns at Cuteguy more often than he cared to count.
He'd had knives held to his throat. Been cornered on rooftops. Shot at.
Never like this.
Never without his wings.
He forced himself to breathe.
One. Two.
Three.
The man stood close enough that Grian could smell stale cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket.
Average height wearing heavy boots and breathing slightly too fast.
Nervous.
Must be his first time.
If he'd done this before, he wouldn't be gripping the pistol quite so tightly.
The cashier slowly gathered bills from the drawer, every movement painfully deliberate. Their eyes flicked toward Grian for barely a second before darting away again.
"Bag it."
The money disappeared into a plastic shopping bag.
"And a pack of reds."
The cashier nodded silently, almost dropping the cigarettes as they reached behind the counter.
Grian's gaze swept the store.
Front windows.
Too exposed.
His fingers twitched instinctively toward the hidden pocket sewn into his compression suit. The pocket dimension was there.
His pistols were there.
So close.
It would take less than two seconds.
Less if he panicked.
But then what?
The glamour would have to drop.
By morning every news station in the country would know Cuteguy had been buying ice cream in plaid pajama trousers.
...Not ideal.
The cheerful ding of the automatic doors cut through the silence.
Everyone froze.
Grian looked up.
The mirrored visor caught the fluorescent lights before the rest of the hero stepped into view.
Hotguy stopped just inside the entrance.
His bow was already in one hand.
Not drawn.
Of course it wouldnt be so easy.
"I'd recommend putting the gun down," Hotguy said evenly.
The robber shifted, wrapping a strong arm around Grian's stomach and flipping them both around to face Hotguy in one swift but clumsy movement.
Cold steel dug upward against his throat.
"You take one more step," the robber warned, "and he dies."
Hotguy didn't move.
His posture changed almost imperceptibly.
Looking not at the robber, but at Grian.
At every reflection in the glass refrigerators lining the back wall.
Searching for a shot that didn't exist.
"I don't miss," Hotguy said quietly.
"No," The robber laughed. "But any shot at me is a shot at him—" he jerked the gun under Grian's head. "that's not something you'll risk."
The grip was awkward.
Terrified.
Grian could have broken it. Could've lifted one leg and stomped down on the mans foot, or kicked backwards into more sensitive areas.
If not for the pistol pressed beneath his chin.
"Look him in the eyes," the robber said, his voice was surprisingly even. It would have fooled Grian if not for the racing heart beating against his shoulder blades. He stared forward at Hotguy, they couldn't have been more than two meters apart.
It was strange.
He'd fought the man dozens of times. Traded quips across rooftops. Yet standing beneath harsh convenience store lighting somehow felt infinitely more intimate. He felt heat creep up the back of his neck at the reminder of his recent nightmare.
He looked human. The focused tilt of his lips was nothing like the grotesque Scar-smile he'd warn an hour ago.
"Bullets are faster than arrows," the robber said smugly.
"They are," Hotguy's voice remained frustratingly calm. "But you're shaking." So he'd noticed as well, Grian had to give the man props—as much as he wished he wouldn't—he'd been doing this a lot longer than Grian had.
The robber stiffened.
"You've never done this before."
"Shut up."
"You don't want to kill him."
"I said shut up," his voice was rising.
"You want money." Another tiny step, Grian wished he'd stop playing with his life like he was. "So take the money."
"I'll shoot."
"I know."
Silence.
Hotguy didn't lower the bow, but he didn't raise it either.
He couldn't make the shot.
Grian knew it. Hotguy knew it. The robber knew it.
"...Feed my cats."
The words escaped before Grian could think better of them.
Hotguy's head snapped toward him. "What?" he asked, incredulous. He hadn't expected Grian to be anything more than a prop. A damsel he'd rescue to fawn over him.
"I don't have a roommate." Grian offered the smallest shrug the gun would allow. "So... they'll probably be hungry."
"G—Sir," Hotguy corrected himself almost instantly. "We're getting you out."
Grian smiled weakly. "You don't sound convinced."
"I am."
"You've got a man with a gun under my chin."
"I know."
"You don't have a shot."
A beat.
"...No."
"So if this goes badly..." He swallowed.
Behind him, the robber's breathing grew quicker. More erratic. The arm around Grian tightened.
Not with confidence.
With panic.
Good.
Panicked people made mistakes.
He just needed one.
The air suddenly crackled.
Every hair on Grian's arms stood upright.
The smell of ozone flooded the shop. The robber jerked violently.
The pistol clattered too loudly across the tiled floor.
Grian stumbled forward, catching himself on shaking hands as white-hot pain raced through every nerve in his body.
Electricity.
Not enough to leave lasting damages, but more than enough to incapacitate.
His vision blurred, he heard Hotguy move.
Fast.
By the time Grian rolled onto his side, the robber was already face-down on the floor with his wrists secured behind his back.
The cashier stood frozen behind the counter. Their own hands glowed faintly blue. Tiny arcs of electricity danced involuntarily between trembling fingertips.
They looked down at themselves as though they couldn't quite believe what they'd done.
Then they burst into tears.
Grian let out a breathless, exhausted laugh.
Hotguy hadn't saved the day.
Someone else had.
He wasn't sure why that thought felt so satisfying.
The hero was suddenly kneeling beside him, saying something Grian couldn't quite make out.
His ears rang.
His vision swam.
The last coherent thought he managed before everything dissolved into fluorescent lights and distant voices was a single, miserable realization.
Hospital bills.
Consciousness returned in fragments.
The first thing Grian became aware of was the ringing in his ears. The second was the dull ache settled into every muscle in his body, as though someone had reached inside him and shaken every nerve loose. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
"...can you hear me?"
A hand rested carefully between his shoulder blades, steadying him as another guided a bottle of water into view.
"You should drink something."
Hotguy.
Grian's eyes cracked open.
The fluorescent lights overhead blurred together for a moment before they slowly sharpened into focus. The hero was crouched beside him, one knee on the tiled floor, his visor tilted downward in a way that almost looked... worried.
Grian accepted the bottle without a word.
Not because Hotguy had suggested it.
Because his throat felt like it'd been lined with gravel.
The water was cool enough to sting. He took a few careful mouthfuls before lowering the bottle again, letting the silence stretch between them.
"You gave us a scare."
"So did he."
Hotguy huffed a quiet breath through his nose.
"...Fair."
Grian became painfully aware of the arm still supporting his back.
Strong. Warm.
Steady.
The dream came rushing back with uncomfortable clarity.
I've spent weeks wondering if you're as beautiful as I've imagined.
His stomach lurched.
He shifted away almost immediately, pulling himself free before Hotguy could offer any more help. The movement made the room tilt alarmingly, but he stubbornly ignored it.
Only then did he properly take in the store.
The robber lay unconscious near the entrance, wrists secured behind his back. Two officers had already arrived, one photographing the discarded pistol while the other spoke quietly into a radio.
Behind the counter, the cashier sat on the floor with their knees pulled tightly against their chest. A paramedic knelt nearby, speaking in the slow, careful voice reserved for frightened children and trauma patients.
Grian looked away.
"...How long?"
"You were only out for a moment."
Felt longer.
He planted a hand against one of the promotional displays and pushed himself upright.
His knees wobbled immediately.
A wave of dizziness washed over him hard enough that he had to squeeze his eyes shut.
"Easy."
Hotguy reached toward him on instinct.
Grian took a deliberate step back before the hand could land.
"I'm fine."
"You absolutely are not."
"I'm standing."
"Barely."
"I've done worse."
"I'm sure you have." There wasn't any sarcasm in Hotguy's voice. Only concern.
For some reason, that irritated Grian more.
He straightened as much as his trembling legs would allow. "I need to go home."
"You need to be looked over."
"I just got tased."
"You passed out."
"I got better."
Hotguy blinked. "...That's not usually how that works."
"It worked this time."
The hero folded his arms. "If you're trying to convince me you're fine, you're doing a terrible job."
"I'm alive."
"That's an incredibly low bar."
"It hasn't failed me yet."
A tiny smile tugged at one corner of Hotguy's mouth before disappearing almost as quickly as it'd appeared. "There are paramedics outside."
"I don't need one."
"You were held hostage."
"I noticed."
"You had a gun to your head."
"Yeah, I noticed that too."
"And then you were electrocuted."
"That one was harder to miss."
Hotguy sighed.
"You don't have to babysit me," Grian leveled.
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm making sure you don't collapse walking out the front door."
"I'm offended you'd think so little of me."
"You almost collapsed standing up."
"...That was unrelated."
"It looked pretty related."
Grian clicked the cap back onto the water bottle and set it on the nearest shelf.
"I appreciate the concern." The lie came easier than expected. "But I'm leaving."
"We still need a witness statement."
"Later."
"It'll only take—"
"Am I under arrest?"
Hotguy frowned.
"What?"
"Am I under arrest?"
"...No."
"Then I believe I'm free to leave."
He stepped around the hero before another argument could begin.
The automatic doors slid open with their cheerful little chime. the cold air met him almost immediately, flushing away any residual heat still lingering.
"Sir."
Hotguy's voice stopped him halfway onto the pavement.
Grian glanced back over one shoulder.
The hero hadn't followed.
He couldn't.
Not with police officers, paramedics and an unconscious robber still filling the convenience store. "...Take care of yourself."
Something about the sincerity in those five words caught Grian off guard.
He recovered quickly. "I'll certainly try." Then, after the briefest hesitation, he dipped into an exaggerated half bow. "Thank you for your service."
The doors slid shut before Hotguy could answer.
He didn't head home.
Not immediately.
His feet carried him three blocks in the wrong direction before the adrenaline finally began draining from his system.
His hands were still shaking.
Not enough that anyone passing would notice. But he shoved them deeper into his hoodie pockets regardless.
The alley he'd used a hundred times before waited between two office buildings, tucked neatly outside the reach of the nearest security cameras. Grian ducked inside, listening until the sounds of traffic swallowed the convenience store entirely.
Only then did he let out the breath he'd apparently been holding.
He closed his eyes.
Reached into the pocket dimension stitched neatly inside his compression suit.
The glamour settled over him first. Familiar.
Invisible.
The rest followed almost automatically.
The hoodie disappeared. Plaid pajama trousers dissolved into layers of pink fabric and ribbons. Fingerles gloves wrapped snugly around his hands. Last came the wings.
For the smallest fraction of a second— Nothing.
Panic clawed unexpectedly at his chest.
Then feathers burst free across his back with a rush of displaced air.
Grian staggered a step. "...Right."
They were still there.
Of course they were.
He climbed the nearest fire escape instead of taking off immediately.
Habit, ir perhaps caution.
Maybe both. It didnt matter.
Standing on the rooftop's edge, he hesitated.
Usually there wasn't any thought involved. He just jumped.
Though tonight...
Tonight he remembered calloused fingers hovering just in front of his glamour.
Remembered a voice asking what was real.
He jumped anyway.
The first glide was clumsy.
His wings caught uneven air before finding their rhythm again. The second rooftop came a lot easier.
The city opened beneath him exactly as it always had.
Traffic lights blinking lazily through empty intersections. The wind tugging at loose feathers.
There it was.
The feeling he'd been searching for all night. Weightlessness.
Freedom.
For a little while there were no robberies. No nightmares. No heroes. Just Cuteguy and the sky.
He stayed there until the eastern horizon began softening from black to deep blue.
Dawn.
With a drawn out sigh he banked toward home.
The apartment greeted him exactly as he'd left it.
Pearl appeared first, weaving figure-eights around his ankles before he'd even finished shutting the window. Maui followed several seconds later, considerably less graceful and significantly louder.
"I know, I know," Grian said as he smiled tiredly and scooped food into both bowls. "I'm late."
Maui attempted to climb his leg anyway, sharp claws digging into the stretchy fabric. "That's attempted murder."
The cat ignored him completely.
The coffee machine gurgled to life in the background while Grian stared into the fridge.
Leftover mushroom pizza.
Again.
He wasn't sure whether that made him predictable or simply efficient.
Ninety seconds later he watched the microwave spin lazily in the dim kitchen light.
The grease crackled, the cheese bubbled. His own reflection stared back at him from the dark glass. He looked exhausted.
When the timer beeped, he ate standing at the counter, barely tasting any of it.
He caught himself staring at his reflection a second time before leaving the bathroom.
Messy hair.
Red jumper.
Slightly crooked glasses.
The man looking back from the mirror in no way resembled the man who'd flown across rooftops ten minutes earlier.
Or the hostage from half an hour before.
He scratched Pearl absentmindedly beneath the chin before pulling open the apartment door.
"Behave yourselves." Maui immediately knocked a pen off the entry table. "...I walked into that one."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Grian rested his forehead against it for just a moment longer than necessary.
A pair of knuckles tapped lightly against his shoulder.
Grian blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts just in time to see Jimmy grinning at him.
"Mornin', Tim."
"Mornin'."
Jimmy's smile lingered for another second before his eyebrows pinched together ever so slightly.
"...Rough night?"
Grian resisted the urge to glance away.
Instead, he shrugged, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag.
"You could say that."
Jimmy hummed.
He didn't push.
That was one of the things Grian appreciated most about him. Jimmy had always been good at noticing when someone wasn't quite themselves without demanding they explain it.
The walk to Jimmy's car was comfortably familiar. Morning commuters filtered steadily along the pavement around them, coffee cups in hand, half-awake conversations drifting through the cool spring air. Grian climbed into the passenger seat with a quiet sigh, buckling himself in while Jimmy started the engine.
"You know," Jimmy said as they pulled away from the curb, "one of these days you should probably learn to drive."
"I know how."
Jimmy looked over.
"No, you don't."
"I know the theory."
"You've never sat behind a steering wheel."
"I've sat behind plenty."
"Stationary ones don't count."
Grian smiled faintly.
"I walk everywhere."
"You walk because you're stubborn."
"I walk because parking in the city is extortion."
"...That's also true."
The silence that settled afterward was easy.
Comfortable.
Jimmy had always been good at that too.
The university came into view scarcely seven minutes later, its collection of brick buildings already buzzing with the slow rhythm of students filtering between morning lectures. Jimmy circled once before finding an empty parking space near the faculty lot.
Grian reached for the door handle.
"Thanks, Tim."
"Anytime."
He stepped out onto the pavement. Before they'd managed more than a few strides toward campus, he felt it.
Gentle.
Almost imperceptible.
Like someone brushing fingertips against the edge of his thoughts.
Jimmy. Of course.
Grian fought the urge to smile.
His cousin had never been particularly subtle with his gift.
It wasn't malicious. Never had been. More like absent-minded curiosity than genuine intrusion. A gentle nudge, checking to see if everything was alright.
Grian let him find exactly what he expected.
A pile of half-finished essays. Students who apparently believed paragraphs were optional. Coffee.
Sleep deprivation courtesy of grading until far too late.
Nothing about convenience stores. Nothing about guns, nothing about Hotguy.
Satisfied. The pressure disappeared almost immediately.
Grian continued walking without looking back.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether Jimmy even realized his thoughts weren't as private as he believed them to be.
If he did...
He'd never said anything.
The faculty break room was already beginning to fill by the time Grian slipped inside. Someone had claimed the good armchair by the window, a conversation about departmental budgets drifted from one corner, and the ancient coffee machine rattled away like it was threatening to retire on the spot.
It was, unofficially, where half the arts department started every morning, joined by a few stragglers from the larger science departments.
Grian's eyes swept the room almost on instinct.
No Scar.
He tried very hard not to look disappointed.
The coffee machine sputtered indignantly as he filled a mug.
Jimmy noticed anyway.
"You know," he said, leaning against the counter with entirely too much amusement, "one day you'll walk in here and look for literally anyone else first." His voice was low enough to keep the conversation private, something Grian was eternally grateful for.
"I was looking for coffee."
"You looked for Scar."
"I looked in Scar's general direction."
"...Before he was even here."
"...Coincidence."
Jimmy laughed.
"I'll be sure to tell him that."
"You'll do no such thing."
"I make no promises."
Grian nudged him lightly with an elbow.
Jimmy laughed again before glancing toward the hallway.
"I should actually go pretend I'm busy."
"Pretend?"
"Exactly."
"Thought so."
Jimmy pointed accusingly at him.
"I work very hard."
"You complain very hard."
"I can do both."
"You excel at both."
With one final dramatic sigh, Jimmy disappeared down the corridor toward the stairs.
The room felt noticeably quieter without him.
Grian wrapped both hands around his coffee mug, welcoming the warmth.
He'd barely taken a sip when the door opened again.
Scar rolled inside.
Every single morning, Grian expected the feeling to lessen.
Every single morning, it didn't.
Scar looked effortlessly put together despite the early hour, shoulder-length hair tied loosely back to keep it out of his face.
He was smiling.
Gods.
Grian was hopeless.
Scar spotted him almost immediately.
Something flickered across his expression.
A tiny crease between his brows.
Concern?
Confusion?
It disappeared so quickly Grian wondered if he'd imagined it.
Then Scar smiled fully, warm enough to brighten the entire room, and lifted one hand in greeting.
"Morning, G."
Grian's brain stopped functioning.
He raised his own hand a beat too late.
"...Morning."
Smooth.
Incredibly smooth.
He immediately took another drink of coffee.
It was far too hot.
He regretted every decision that had led him to that moment.
Before either of them could bridge the distance, Cleo swept into the room carrying a stack of folders.
"There you are," they said, making a beeline for Scar. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
Scar turned toward them immediately.
"Oh?"
"The accessibility committee finally got back to us."
His attention shifted completely.
Grian looked down into his coffee.
He told himself it didn't matter.
Of course Scar would stop to talk with Cleo.
They'd known each other longer.
Worked together more closely.
Were actually friends.
Grian...
Grian occasionally got invited to board game nights.
He wasn't exactly competing.
Still.
Some embarrassingly optimistic part of him had imagined Scar might wander over.
Ask how his morning was.
Maybe complain about first-year students together for a few minutes.
Normal coworker things.
He shook the thought away before it had the chance to settle.
The mug suddenly felt very interesting.
He busied himself reorganizing papers that didn't need reorganizing, finished the last of his coffee and quietly gathered his things.
No one stopped him.
Not because nobody cared.
Simply because everyone else was already in the middle of their own conversations.
Scar was laughing at something Cleo had said.
The sound followed Grian into the hallway.
He couldn't help smiling anyway.
Pathetic.
Cuteguy would've had the whole room hanging off every word before breakfast.
He would've walked over with that easy confidence Grian had never managed to fake, thrown an arm over Scar's shoulders, made him laugh within thirty seconds.
Grian...
Grian could barely survive saying good morning.
It was ridiculous, really.
He could throw himself off skyscrapers without a second thought.
Stand between civilians and armed criminals.
Trade sarcastic insults with the city's strongest hero.
Yet one smile from an architecture professor left him feeling like a freshman with a schoolboy crush.
He'd loved Scar quietly for long enough to know nothing would ever come of it.
The dreams certainly didn't help.
Most of them were harmless.
Shared dinners.
Late nights marking assignments together.
Falling asleep on opposite ends of the sofa.
Others...
He chose not to think too hard about those.
If Scar ever found out the extent of Grian's hopeless infatuation, he'd probably never look at him the same way again.
The thought alone was enough to knot unpleasantly in his stomach.
Grian sighed, pushing a hand through already unruly hair as he headed toward his lecture hall.
One hour until class.
One hour to become Professor Grian instead of the idiot currently pining after the man laughing two corridors away.
He'd managed it tuesday.
He could manage it again today.
Probably.