Archive of Our Own ^beta

He’s been smiling for five hours now.

He wonders if the day will ever end, if the minutes will ever stop feeling like hours, if the simple act of standing will ever become easy. It seems, as he tries to fix his face for the camera, that the answer is no to every single one. He takes a deep internal breath, not allowing for a second for his smile to drop. 

The perfect hero has no eyebags, no droop in his shoulders, no slant of his spine. But his trust value does nothing to hamper the exhaustion that wears on his soul. He needs sleep. He will not get it. A spot among the top ten heroes does not come for those who sleep the day and night away. Every moment is a chance to advance and he cannot be caught slacking. Mr. Shang will not allow it. 

Public appearances and photoshoots are vital to idols and heroes, a way to bolster their image, to provide even more content towards fans.  He’s not sure which he is anymore. An idol or a hero. The jobs blur. But he hopes the man will like his initiative regardless, posing for these pictures.

 He glances past the camera man, who is still talking about his faulty smile, when he sees him. His smile jumps out first, because of course it does. It is wide, shifting the anatomy of his face into something innately jovial, so infectious that Nice can’t help but feel his heart pick up at the sight. What stands out next is the yellow: his hair, his hero uniform, so bright yet inviting,  his cape bobbing like a sunflower in the wind. His signature outfit brings back bouts of nostalgia, old figurines he’d swung around as a kid, still thinking that being a hero was all about flying and saving cats from trees. 

Smile walks towards him, and for a second Nice wonders if he’s been on set so long he started hallucinating. But Ms. J and the photographer pause in their onslaught of lighting, taking in Smile’s approaching figure. The hero commands the attention of the whole room.  

“A smile starts from a little glow deep inside you and radiates out to the surface. It’s so powerful your face muscles have to comply.” Smile is right in front of him now, so close he can see the hairs of his eyebrows and a little freckle on his forehead.  “That glow is the reason why a natural smile is hard to fake.” 

Nice can’t muster a single word, too dumbstruck and exhausted to do anything but smile in startled awe, pasting on the same trained expression. But the other hero simply wags his finger, “No, no, no, put that brand-deal smile away” 

Nice falters. Feels something like a crushing weight on all his limbs at the thought of doing another thing wrong, of disappointing another person, of Smile of all people seeing his failure at a task so simple. Not so perfect after all. 

But the man continues, his gaze still soft and kind.“Before you try again, think about what’s truly worthy of your joy.” 

He only humors the words because of who speaks them. He imagines being a little kid, flipping through hero magazines, Smile’s image—younger then—filling the page. He pulls at and teases every emotion out of the memory, that giddy excitement, that swelling of his heart. And then a new memory swells up, him and Wreck sitting together, those days when their time together was spent talking and laughing instead of throwing punches and reading out scripted lines. He can picture Wreck in vivid detail, the way his bangs swept against his forehead and the dimple on his cheek from his slanted smile. They jest and lean into each other, and he remembers that hopeful spark he had in him, a true desire to do good, to be good like Smile. 

His body loosens ever so slightly. The pressure in his head lightens. 

“Well son, did you think of a reason to smile?” Smile asks him, looking as if he’d done something momentous and puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s so warm and encompassing, and for a second, Nice feels small again, not in a scared way, but a protected way, like the touch is an assurance, a shield, a promise that he’ll be safe, and he has to resist with all his might to not melt into it. 

Eventually, Smile pulls away, and though he misses the pat, the warm afterglow has him light and energized. The man starts to walk away. “Well my work here is done.”

The camera flashes rapidly now, the photographer singing the praises of his new expression and maybe he’s on to something because it no longer feels like he’s mechanically raising each side of his mouth, a pulley in his facial muscles. Instead his smile comes naturally, radiating out from within. He thinks about Smile. About Wreck. It makes him warm. 

The calm lasts only a couple of moments. 

“Excuse me, I need a moment with Nice,” Mr. Shang says and every word is accompanied by the click of his shoes on the tile. His signature red suit is perfectly ironed and smooth, his hair gelled with not a single strand out of place, his beard trimmed straight and clean. The only thing that spells any sign of imperfection is the deep circles under his eyes like a permanent bruise. 

Mr. Shang’s gaze burns as it settles on him. 

Nice’s smile freezes, and then dies. 

It’s telling that Ms. J and the others waste no time ushering the photographer away, that Ms. J for all her face can’t hide the scrunch of her brows and the slight press of her lips. She doesn’t spare him another glance though, even as Mr. Shang approaches. 

Nice can’t help but bow his head, can’t bear to look into those eyes. The man makes clear he doesn’t approve when he grabs the sides of his face, cold hands pressing into his neck and forcing him to meet his gaze, a sick imitation of affection. 

“I thought I instructed you to lay low.” His voice is quiet enough no one hears. 

“I had to,” He swallows. “Ms. J made me.”

Nice had thought it looked good. To show initiative after—

“I haven’t even finished cleaning up your last mess.” His fingers dig into his skin, and his eyes drill into every pore on his face, finding every hidden imperfection that Nice spent hours trying to cure.  “But you might still be able to prove yourself to me. I need a weapon that can exact vengeance, not some useless ornamental piece.”

Nice has realized over the years that sometimes Mr. Shang doesn’t see him, that in Nice’s place is someone else, someone who must’ve been so utterly perfect that even his smallest mistake causes their overlaid images to grow discordant in Shang’s mind. 

He’s always meaner when that happens. His touch harsher, his words crueler. 

It’s almost clockwork, the way Mr. Shang’s hands squeeze so tight against his skull, yanking at his hair and jerking his head around, until the world starts to tilt and waver but all he can see are those eyes sunken back like a dead man, like some avenging ghost set on haunting him. 

He wonders why those cold fingers curling against his skin make him feel so sick. 

“Do you think I care to see you become a real hero?” he says, “You need to make the top ten,  get rid of E-Soul in the ranking matches and take down that bastard Rock. And it all starts with destroying him.” 

He doesn’t remember much of the day after that.

Mr. Shang takes him to the lab sometimes. 

When he first showed him, he said it was their little secret. That Nice alone was the only other person privy to his experiments and tests. That he trusted him out of everyone to understand. Nice, afterall, wanted to be a hero more than anything. 

He had been ecstatic. At the time. 

But then—

Then he saw. He heard. The pressure of the syringe as he plunged it into soft fur. The broken cries of creatures that now only knew how to fear. Their mutated and malformed bodies, squirming in pain and vicious terror. The cold apathy in Mr. Shang dark eyes The clinical scratch of his pen as he recorded death after death.

And it's the same today, yet it’s so much worse because he watches the dog, spasming and whining, the fear turning its limbs black and mucous, the frantic darting of its eyes as it looks for any form of mercy (it finds none) and knows that this is what he must do. 

He has to….

He shudders and wraps his arms around his middle, squeezing so tight like it might shield him from the sight, might keep the fear from oozing out. He can almost feel it inside him, can almost feel how it would dig and sink in like stomach acid, digesting him and spitting him out, half-chewed and broken. 

Mr. Shang spares him half a glance, his gaze a threat against looking away. Because if he can’t even watch, how was he supposed to do this? He knows that the man’s eyes are on him, cataloguing every flinch and tic, noting down his weakness in his impeccable memory that seemed to never forget a single mistake he made. 

He wonders sometimes why he even keeps him around. Why he invests this time when he has so clearly dismissed Nice in his mind. Why he pushes and pushes when Nice just fails again and again, even though he’s supposed to be perfect, an emblem of flawless heroism. He can’t even make it to the top ten. What a joke. 

What a joke he is to resort to this. Real heroes don’t need covert operations to bring them into the top ten. 

He leaves the lab with a vial of fear in hand and something like dread in heart. Mr. Shang’s orders echo in his head. 

He hides behind a tree. It feels eerily similar to the Ruins Incident, tucked away in the rafters, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to enter. Except it’s not quite the same because Phobiaclone had been there to do most of the dirty work, to spill the blood all while he distracted the child hero. He never even saw Ghostblade. 

Now it is just him and his will. There is no fallback. He had tailed Smile for a while; creeping in the shadows of rooftops where the man, half-drunk, never bothered to check. As silent as Nice kept, the fear still sloshed in its vial; his hands too shaky to keep it completely steady. He watches when Dragon Boy enters the scene, a saunter in his step. 

Dragon Boy holds something out now; voice muffled by the distance, but Nice can see well enough the shift from confusion to anger on Smile’s face even as his smile stays strong. It doesn’t take long for the first hit to fall and then the second and third. Smile seems to have the upper hand, throwing punch after punch, each landing with a resounding crack on the other’s body. But Shang made sure Nice was prepared, so he knows how this younger hero’s power worked; an odd type of rebound that took a decent amount of damage to activate. 

He worries the inside of his lip between his teeth. Does Smile know? Will he be able to counter Dragon Boy’s power? The other hero is number twelve, the man has to have heard at least some rumors. He frets and then comes back to himself. Remembers why he’s here, what his goal is, that even if Smile does win the fight, he’s here to make sure it doesn’t even matter. Smile won’t be going home tonight; not with the vial of fear in his hand ready to plunge into his side. 

Nice is not a hero right now. 

(Maybe he never was)

Dragon Boy, for a moment, seems to win back ground, his body glowing with the activation of his power, his fist swinging to hit Smile. But the older man catches the blow, talking in low tones to the other. Nice continues to wait for the right moment. The fear glows in the moonlight. 

Except—

Except a voice calls out, loud and mocking, “Hey, I know you have been watching us from the shadows.” 

He startles, but keeps his body still. 

“Let me do the work and you reap the reward.” Dragon Boy says and it makes his heart cave in on itself, that sickening feeling he had been barely warding off all night suddenly consuming him all at once. This is real and the vial of fear is heavy in his hands. There’s no amount of pretending he can do. Not when he is about to attack the only person he has ever truly looked up to. He is here and yet it all comes to nothing in his grasp, like vapor slipping out of his hands no matter how he clings to it. His childish fantasies like a piece of cotton candy dropped in a dirty puddle, gone before he could even try to salvage it. He steps out from behind the tree and it feels like someone else is pulling his strings. 

He barely even notices that he has flown over to them, standing in front of both Smile and Dragon Boy.

Smile’s expression lights up, like he’s happy to see him and that only makes the clawing in his chest worse. 

“Hey, Nice!” he grins at him, “Perfect time. Come and help me out, would you?” 

. Every bit of him wants to say yes, wants to run to the man’s side and join him, but his mouth stays closed and his body remains frozen. His limbs feel heavy and he can’t meet the other’s eyes. 

Dragon Boy laughs because he knows; he knows that they’re the same: scumbags cheating the system they couldn’t make it on their own. Except there is a difference, because Nice can’t even own his immorality, can’t flaunt the blood on his hands, can’t say the quiet part out loud. He’s the whimpering dog with red stained teeth, cowering in the corner like it made him better to feel the guilt of his own crimes.  

Dragon Boy turns to Smile. “How sad! Do you really think he’s here to save you?” He rolls his eyes at the older hero, “He came to steal your rank, gramps.” 

That’s true. That’s what he came here to do. That is what Mr. Shang told him to do. He must do it. 

But his body won’t stop shaking. And his brain is telling his feet to move, he knows it is, he needs to move, but nothing is happening. He is stuck, stuck like he always is except it’s real and he can’t do anything but shake and shake and the world is going blurry like a smudged camera lens and he can’t blink either, so frozen up—

“Wake up!” A voice breaks through, “Why are you just standing there? Nice? Nice!”

He has to—

“Do it. Kill him.” the other says, “I’ll even let you take his rank. C’mon Nice!”

He has to—

“Don’t listen to him, Nice. I know this isn’t you,” The voice is so familiar, “Think back, please.  What is the one thing that makes you a hero?” 

And for a moment, those nostalgic and comforting words envelop him and he wants to pull them close and shove them into his heart so the cold thing will finally burn on its own again. He wants to be warm. But he’s perfect, made of marble and stone, and he’s oh so cold. He’s the doll with the porcelain face with its limbs tied to too many strings, and everyone pulls and yanks until he’s ripped apart, but he can’t quite tell if he’ll fall to pieces with the spilling of stuffing or the breaking of pottery. It doesn’t matter in the end. A broken doll is a broken doll. Useless. 

He can almost feel it; the cracks and rips in him. Can almost trace his fingers where he’d split apart. He doesn’t know if he’s salvageable. Maybe that’s what Mr. Shang always saw. 

And maybe that’s why when Smile shouts out and his eyes snap to meet the two heroes, locked in arms again, he does what he does. 

He lets out something guttural and deep from his throat, a mimic of those experimented-on creatures, and he rushes forward. The moment slows until he can feel every tense of his muscles, every stretch of his tendons, every breath, every heart beat, all of it coming together in a symphony of instruments. For once, he is one. And the vial of fear hits right where he wants it. Not in Smile, but stabbed into Dragon Boy’s side. 

He shakes as he twists it in, not out of fear, but overwhelming relief. He did it. Something inside him sings. He thinks Dragon Boy spits some words at him, but they don’t reach him, not now when he’s taking in what he’s done. Mr. Shang would not like this. He would not like the thoughts going through his head. But that’s far away, distant. He saved Smile. He helped his idol and maybe that means something for him, means that he can claw his way back to being a hero.  A groan interrupts his thoughts. He looks toward Dragon Boy and the start of the Fear in his system, watches the other hero drag his own body away, pained grunts and groans escaping him. He doesn’t like how similar it is to watching the dog, doesn’t like how he can imagine Mr. Shang, pen in hand, noting down each pulse of the man’s skin and every labored breath. 

Smile stands beside him, his face no longer done up in a smile.  “What was in that vial?”

He doesn’t answer, too enraptured, too horrified to look away. Something is familiar about it, the way Dragon Boy reacts, the way his body contorts, different from the dog, like he knows it in some deep part of himself but he can’t grasp it, the memory slipping from his hands like a feather caught in the wind, teasing and taunting him. 

He can’t stop staring. He wants to stop staring. 

Smile is still next to him and his eyes are boring in him, questioning what he’s done and even though only moments before Dragon Boy had tried to kill him, a look of disgust colors his eyes. 

Eventually, Dragon Boy’s body goes limp and he wonders if he just killed him. It wouldn’t be the first time. But then the laughing starts and he flinches back because it makes no sense, the Fear should have disabled him, killed him most likely, and yet he laughs and laughs and then speaks. 

“My power,” he says, “lets me absorb all the damage you fools deal to me.” He raises himself up. “And deal it back on you twofold.” 

There’s that moment when you know something terrible is about to happen: your heart drops to your stomach, an anchor that threatens to pull the rest of you down with it and your hearing goes fuzzy, a static ringing in your ear. It’s that moment as he watches the other hero rear back, mouth open to spew Fear like fire. 

He steps in front of Smile.

Something wet splatters on his feet. On his clothes.

On his face. 

He shakes because there is nothing else to do. He keeps his eyes closed. He can’t face the idea of it on his skin, to see that haunting substance seeping in, infecting him like he’s witnessed countless times before. 

It’ll be any second now. Fear is fast-acting. 

“Nice, are you okay?” Smile’s voice is close, “Talk to me. Is it hurting you? Are you okay?”

He doesn’t speak. He’s not sure he can. 

“Oh, it’s way too late for him,” Dragon Boy says, “I can’t believe that idiot killed himself with his own weapon. That’s fucking hilarious.” 

“What—” 

He cuts off Smile with a groan.

The breaking starts. His body cracks and buckles, the fear oozing in and hardening until it fractures his skin, and muscles and bones and he starts to claw at himself like he can keep all the shards in place, like if he tries hard enough he can hold himself together with just two hands, but the pieces fall off and they shatter on the ground, he can hear it, he can hear it hit the concrete, but it’s him, he’s not whole, but maybe if he keeps pressing and scratching he can keep his head on his neck and his heart inside his chest, and his eyes in their sockets. What even is he anymore, just a disgusting amalgamation of flesh, ugly and useless, something only worthy to die and yet he still fights to stay whole, but he’s never been, and he can hear Shang, can feel his hands on his neck, tight, unforgiving, so cold, so cold to match his marble and stone heart, can hear him whisper sit still, isn’t there anything you can do right, do not whine it doesn’t hurt that much, you won’t even remember, this will be worth it, you will be worthy once you do this, don’t you want to make the top ten, even a dog can behave better than you—

He screams with a half-formed mouth and his nails dig into his skin and more fear flows out, he’s become it, he realizes, he’s just fear inside and out, and there’s nothing to salvage, it's too late, it had been too late for so long, and he had never wanted to admit it, but he knows, knows what he is, the monster he’s become, he’s the mutated dog, snarling and biting at the hands he’s supposed to nuzzle. 

He just wants it to be over. He’s so tired. Let him give up. 

This has to be enough. 

Maybe Mr. Shang would come. Put him down like he should have a while ago. Like he had been wanting to. Nice would accept that. He would welcome it. To just be gone from here, from this moment, from this life, would feel like a balm. 

He just needs to let go. To let himself fall apart. 

He dips into the darkness and it’s cold, but everything is always cold and his heart is stone and skin is porcelain, so it doesn’t really matter. He won’t feel it much longer. 

Someone will destroy an abomination like him soon enough.

He waits. 

He continues to break apart, but now he lets the pieces fall off one by one, until it feels like it's just his mind and there’s no body, no pain, just the dark and him and the cold. 

Maybe they already killed him. He can’t tell. 

Then—

Then, there’s—

Then, there’s warmth. 

It’s enveloping, like someone had scooped him from the darkness, wrapped him in a blanket so tight and laid him to rest in front of a fire. He can almost hear the lullaby in the background, a lilting and soft tune, can almost feel gentle fingers running through his hair, easing out the knots and caressing the soft skin of his scalp. It’s home, he thinks. It’s safe. Is this what death feels like?

He starts to cry. Because the sweetness of it aches, burns against his marble cold body, but he can’t help but lean into it, can’t help draw closer, a moth to the flame. The warmth reciprocates, wrapping him up more and more until all he can feel is that wondrous heat, soft yet blistering. Rumbling vibrations buzz through his chest and it's like the low murmur of your parents’ voices as you fall asleep in the other room, the cant of their words lulling you into that peaceful nothingness. 

He lets himself drop into it, lets his mind go. 

Everything is okay now. 

Defeating Dragon Boy wasn’t too hard. The other hero was talented for sure, hardy and nifty in a fight, but Smile hadn’t been in the top ten for so long for no reason. It also didn’t hurt that the crowds that eventually formed around the fight immediately took Smile’s side. A perk of his trust value, he supposes. 

It’s dealing with the aftermath that was the hard part. 

It’s doing the heroic thing when all he really wants to do is check on his daughter, to make sure that bastard was lying when said he hurt her. 

He approaches the crumpled form, footsteps light and cautious, yet it still feels too aggressive, too frightening. He watches for signs of a reaction, for a flinch or shaky breath, but the figure lies eerily still. It’s a contrast to how Nice acted before. When he’s only a few feet away, he squats down, the grass tickling at his ankles. 

“Nice, son, can you hear me?” No response. He scoots closer, “Nice. I need some sign if you’re listening.” Nothing. 

Icy dread wraps around his heart. Dragon Boy implied the substance was deadly, but it didn’t seem to have any physical effect on Nice. Just scared him half-to-death. Perhaps it was slow-acting and killed the kid while he was fighting? Just what in the hell was in that thing?

He takes a deep breath. He needs to be rational. He needs to treat this delicately despite his urge to check on his family. He edges closer until he’s only inches away and tilts the other hero’s head so he can feel for a pulse. He sighs in relief. It’s there, a bit fluttery, but there. He puts a finger to his nose and feels the tell-tale brush of air coming out. 

He’s not too late. The kid’s just unconscious.

He scoops Nice up, shivering a bit at the cold skin which touches him, and tucks him close to his chest. He’s light, not in a concerning way, but in the way that everyone felt to him after his trust value increased his strength. After all, what type of hero would he be if couldn’t carry citizens to safety? 

“It’s gonna be okay.” He says and it’s more for himself than anyone else. 

He’s brainstorming where to take the other hero—hero tower, or maybe the hospital? Did Treeman have some specialized center?–-when he looks down and sees the wet trails down Nice’s face. He stutters in his walk. His hands start to shift, prepared to look for some hidden injury, but then the kid shoves his face into his chest right where his heart beats, his whole body tilting closer to him. That makes him freeze for an entirely different reason. 

How long has it been since his daughter rested her head on his shoulder?

Something clenches in his heart. 

The other hero burrows closer and Smile can feel the silent tears through his shirt. 

Even before whatever was in that vial hit him, Nice had been acting odd. Shaking with empty eyes like he was somewhere else, his face so dull, only colored by split second flashes of sheer terror. He knew something was off. But when that substance hit him, when the realization set in…he’s never seen living look so much like dying.

(It had started with those animal noises. A choked off groans like the other hero was trying to scream with no lungs. Then the thrashing, flailing, frantic limbs doing everything to scrape off the liquid from his skin, his own nails digging into his flesh and leaving bloody cuts behind. But even as both Smile and Dragon Boy waited for whatever effect to set in, it didn’t. No horrifying poisoned skin, no awful transformation. Nice just crumpled, crying to ground, and the the fighting continued again.)

He rubs some gentle circles into the other’s back. “It’s okay. We’ll get you somewhere safe.” It’s like holding his daughter again.

Some of the bystanders’ cameras flash and he has no doubt that pictures of him carrying Nice will spread all across FOMO. It doesn’t matter to him, not much can shake his reputation these days, but he can imagine the embarrassment for Nice. New heroes were all sorts of sensitive toward that stuff. But looking down at his torn and bloodied form, all at his own hand, he thinks maybe the other wouldn’t care too much. It’s always heartwarming to see heroes coming together to support each other. He’s sure the bystanders would agree. 

He contemplates simply flying to the nearest hospital and dropping the kid off. It would be the fastest way to get him off his hands and get to searching for Zhao Lian. It’s the rational choice. But the thought of leaving him alone… he couldn’t help but think the other would implode left to his own devices. 

(Smile hadn’t even had time to process Dragon Boy’s actions. One moment he stood up, the next black liquid spewed out of him. It wasn’t until it splattered all over Nice, in his face and his hair, and even on his delicate eyelashes that Smile realized what happened. The other hero had taken a hit for him. In that split second, he had stepped between Dragon Boy and Smile, covering him with his own body.)

How can he leave him alone after that?

He’s just about to say fuck it and bring the unconscious Nice with him while he searches for his daughter when he spots the figure still sleepy-eyed and hair-mused among the crowd. He almost laughs but any joviality has long been drained out by the fight, so he simply cocks his head to the nearest alley way and flies over. 

He waits. Of course, this stupid idiot isn’t using his powers. Finally, that man makes his way over, his ambling pace speaking to his continued drunkenness. Smile sighs, though his heart starts to feel warm for the first time since he left the apartment. Even if he’s a bit lazy, this man is always someone to count on. 

“It’s almost impressive how you managed to get in a fight just driving home.”

Smile huffs, “It wasn’t my fault. Dragon Boy had some sort of hit on me before the tournament.” 

“And that one?” X’s chin jerks to Nice. 

“Who knows?” He steps closer, “But you’re taking him.”

“What.” It doesn’t sound like a question.

“I need to check on my daughter. Dragon Boy said he hurt her. I’m hoping it was just empty threats, but I—” He closes his eyes, “I can’t take that chance.” 

A quiet falls over them. 

X’s face pulled into something more serious, “Ok. But why am I taking him? Can’t you just leave him here?”

“He saved my life.” It’s close enough to the truth, “And there’s something off about him. I can’t explain it right now. Just put him on the couch or something until I come back.” 

He shoves Nice into X’s grip, uncaring of the groan given by the other man. X sags like the kid is heavy, holding him so awkwardly Smile has to wonder if he’s ever even picked up a civilian. Well, it’s not his problem. He gives X a little salute. 

“Thanks, Bud.” 

He flies off.

Nice wakes to the murmur of voices. 

They’re far away, everything is far away like he’s sunk to the bottom of the pool and the pressure quietly envelops him. It shields him away from the outside, just him and the water together, intertwined with no need for anything else. He likes it here, floating so deep. He doesn’t want to surface. But ever so slowly, the buoyancy drags him closer and closer to air, and he starts to feel the fabric against his cheek, the itching of dried blood, the tickle of a hair out of place, how his arm lays dangling and the slight swoosh of air as someone walks by. 

The voices begin to become clear. 

“---many times have you even interacted with this guy?”

“Twice.” A pause, “I know, I know. But he seems like a good kid, I couldn’t just leave him bleeding on the ground.”

“So you decide to make it my problem? Didn’t you say Dragon Boy called him over to team up against you?” 

“Yes, but he sided with me. And he let himself get hit by who-knows-what just to save me.”

A sigh, “You could have just called someone to pick him up. He’s Treeman’s pet, let them deal with him.”

“Maybe—But you didn’t see him. He just had this empty look in his eyes. The entire fight. Something just feels wrong and well, you know me.” 

“Yes, I do.” A shuffle. “Fine. I guess we can help him out. Just be careful—”

“I always am. You’re my ‘best friend from college’ and you just happened to be there to help me out.”

“Aren’t you a little old for us to have been classmates?”

“Shut up.” A pause, “You…You just look very young for your age.”

“With those lying skills, I might as well just tell him who I am right now.” 

“Shut up.” A groan, “Should I check up on him?” 

“Sure. It’ll probably be the same as the last ten times.”

Footsteps come closer. Nice’s pinky twitches, but the rest of his body refuses to move. And then there’s a warm hand in his hair and a thumb stroking his temple and then more fingers prodding at his neck, and he’s confused but they’re warm. But they’re at his throat and that’s never good, and he’s almost at the surface now, just about to break the water’s flatness, so he makes some low, distressed noise, and those hands freeze. 

“Nice?”

He fights to open his eyes, only getting them to half-lidded and one slips close while he tries to widen the other and he almost lets the deep take him again, but the voice speaks again. 

“You alright there?” 

He tries again, and now he can see a blob of yellow, familiar like the color of his childhood room. He blinks, trying to clear the image. 

“Smile?” He says, voice raspy from sleep. 

“That’s me.” The man smiles wide at him, “How are you feeling, kid? Hurting anywhere?”

Nice takes stock of his body. There’s a heaviness to his limbs accompanied by a low ache in his muscles that pulses with the beat of his heart. That’s okay, he decides, he’s felt worse. It’s the subcutaneous itch that overwhelms him. It’s not just the dried blood on him which rubs against his skin, no, it’s the crawling sensation in his veins, in his muscles, in the divots of his bones. As if there’s something lurking under the layers of the flesh and it’s there, he can feel it, wants to rip it out of himself to relieve the itch.

 It’s so familiar and he hates it. 

“It’s itchy.” is all he says. His hands follow the familiar path on their own to the cuts, ones he knows without proof were made by his own hand, and begin to scratch. His nails catch on a partially-healed scab and he scrapes it off, reopening the wound. Blood begins to well. The itching settles ever so slightly. 

“Hey, take it easy there.” Hands grab his own, pulling them away from himself. “Do you wanna get changed out of that costume? Would that feel better?”

He blinks. His head feels so heavy, “I…I don’t know.” 

“Let’s just say yes.” 

Arms wrap around him and hoist him up from what he realizes is a couch. His legs wobble under their own weight. The world spins around him. 

“You have any old clothes he can borrow?” Smile asks.

There’s a huff. “First, my house, now my clothes. Are you gonna give him my bank card next?” A pause, “There’s probably some old stuff in the drawer.” 

He almost falls asleep again, leaned up against Smile’s side, but the itching keeps him awake. The man stops any attempts for him to scratch and that makes him squirm, though it does nothing against the other man. 

He ends up in the bathroom. He doesn’t really remember the walk there. Smile helps him, tugging off his hero suit, and there might have even been a wash cloth involved because the blood is now gone. The man might be speaking but he can’t tell. He barely keeps his eyes open, seated on the toilet, taking long blinks that last long enough that he’s shirtless one second and the next a sweater is being pulled over his head. A hand steadies him on his shoulder when his body begins to droop, his limbs and head yearning for the ground, so weighed down by gravity. 

Smile tugs him up from the toilet, arm under his shoulder as they hobble back to the couch. He sits down. He still wants to itch, but the impulse is quieter, a dull nag instead of a sharp demand. Instead, he blinks away some of the blurriness from his vision, taking in the room he’s in. White walls, some decorations. Two couches and a table between them, littered with food containers and empty beer cans. A scuff on the floor. A very large TV. He blinks again. Whoever lives here is a slob.  He doesn’t know where he is. 

He looks at Smile, cocks his head. “Where…”

The man startles a bit at his voice and rubs the back of his head, “Oh, this is just a friend’s house. Sorry, I didn’t mean to kidnap you or anything. You were unconscious after the fight, didn’t feel right to leave you alone there.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

A silence settles over them. The itching gets worse. 

“I should go—”

“—Do you want some food?”

Another silence. Nice honestly wishes he’d be swallowed up by the couch. Anything to save himself from this utter humiliation in front of his idol.

Smile breaks it first, “I’m not sure that’s the greatest idea. You’re in pretty rough shape right now, kid. Can you even stand?” 

“I…” His fingers start to twitch, “I need to see Mr. Shang. I have to tell him…” Nice trails off. What was he going to tell Mr. Shang?

“Is that your boss?” Nice nods, “Look, I get there’s a lot of pressure. The industry can be tough, don’t I know it… But you’re in no state to give a report, I mean, look at you. You can’t even sit up on the couch. I’m sure this ‘Mr. Shang’ can wait a couple more hours.”

He shakes his head, “No, no, no. He’s expecting me. I can’t keep him waiting. I—I failed.” 

Smile sighs and his hand rubs at his face, even while the small smile stays in place. “How about you eat something, at least. You must’ve worked up an appetite in that fight, what’s a couple more minutes gonna do?”

He knows Mr. Shang would want him to decline, to come to him immediately, but Nice actively disobeyed a direct order and Mr. Shang would know, would sniff it out of him by his trembling hands and averted gaze. But the softness of Smile’s eyes and that nostalgic face melt his resolve, reducing it down to a sad little puddle that his mind can simply step right over. 

“Ok.” He says.

Smile grins and bustles over to the kitchen. “Let’s see what this shut-in has…” He opens the fridge, “Hmm, some left over rice, might be some chicken and broccoli in there. What else…Oh! Sushi, though the expiration date is a little iffy. An orange. Some celery. Is that a cheesecake? Any of that sound appetizing?” 

He clutches at his stomach like it could tell him what he wants. Is he hungry? He can’t tell. 

“Maybe the orange?”

“Perfect.” The man grabs the orange and then rummages for a knife. He starts to peel the fruit. Nice blinks. It’s been so long since someone had done something like that for him…He can’t help but stare. Even once it’s been peeled, Smile splits the orange into even pieces, arranging it nicely in the bowl. He comes back over and sits it on Nice’s lap, taking the seat across from him. He feels like a child again.

Closer up, he can see how neatly the orange has been peeled. All the rind is gone just like how he likes it, the nagging voice in his head silent in the face of its perfection.

His hands just lie limp by his side, unable to reach for a slice of fruit. He doesn’t understand this man at all. 

Smile’s brow furrows, “You okay, son?”

“Why…” He starts to shake, “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what? Feeding you?”

“Encouraging me, feeding me, saving me.” The itching grows worse, “You should have left me there. Why? Why didn’t you leave me there? You don’t know me, you don’t know me at all. I’m—I’m not worth this. I was there to kill you, I was going to kill you. Don’t you understand? Do you get what I am? Why would you save something like—”

Big hands wrap around his shoulders, stilling his frantic itching at his skin. Thumbs rub circles in the soft flesh under his collarbone and it loosens something within him. He takes a deep rattling breath. 

“There you go,” Smile kneels in front of him, “Steady in-and-out for me, okay? Just focus on calming down.” 

He inhales, almost wheezing. But the air cools off his mind and with each breath, the fog over him clears until the world becomes sharp again. Smile’s hands continue to soothe him. The minutes pass and his body starts to list to the side, all his muscles going loose.

“Here, have a slice.” Smile put a piece of the orange in his hand, “I think it will make you feel better.” 

His fingers fumble taking it from him, but the fruit ends up in his mouth regardless, the juice bursting in his mouth and it’s so sweet and he can’t remember the last time he ate something that didn’t feel like heavy sand on his tongue, that zinged on his taste buds like it was really there. His eyes burn but he refuses to cry. 

“Thank you.” he says quietly. 

Smile hums. Offers another slice. He takes it. 

Another silence settles over them. 

He should apologize, he realizes. What a nuisance he’s been to this man. His idol. Almost killing him and then forcing him to deal with his neuroses and he knew how his issues grated at people, how they were nails at the chalkboard, loud, attention-grabbing, stop it, stop it, stop it. 

He looks down at his lap, one eye hidden by his bangs, his hands clenched at his pants. 

“I…”

“Yes?” Smile pauses from taking another silence of the orange. 

“I…I’m sorry.” He can’t even look at the other man, “For being so much trouble.”

There’s quiet moment then—

Laughter. 

Smile chuckles to himself. “Oh, you think you’re trouble? A friend of mine, the friend’s place we’re at right now actually, once called me drunk out of his mind and told me to pick him up. He was three hours away. Three. Hours. I drive, I get there, you know what he does? Immediately throw up all over me. Then yells at me to get him some chicken. And I did. I drove him all the way back to his place, tucked him in, the whole nine-yards. So, I promise you, carrying you around and cutting up some fruit is no problem. It’s all in a day’s work as a hero.” 

“I’m not some innocent civilian.” he says, “I’m—”

“---The man who saved my life.” Smile gives him his full attention,  “You took that hit for me. And it seemed pretty dangerous, from what Dragon Boy implied.” 

“I wouldn’t have had to if I hadn’t been there in the first place.” He can scarcely look at the other hero, “I…I wasn’t there with good intentions. You heard what I said.” 

“Yes,” Smile pauses, “I did. But you made the right choice in the end.”

He grimaces, his shoulders curling inward like he could ward off the man’s warm gaze. How dirty he is, compared to this hero. How disgusting and imperfect he is inside, a Trojan Horse, standing tall and divine, so, so enticing, only to be swollen with bloodied weapons and slaughter-lusting hands. It would have been better if Smile left him to rot in the dirt, let the darkness swallow him whole, let the cold take him and smother the last of his heat. 

(The fear should have killed him, why didn’t it?)

“If you’re really feeling that worked up about it, how about you do me a favor?” Smile says, “There’s parts of last night that are still confusing me. I think you could give me some answers. How about it?”

He nods, even though it’s not what Mr. Shang would want. He’s done a lot of things Mr. Shang would not like recently. One more feels like just another grain in the hourglass. 

“First, what was in that vial? Both you and Dragon Boy seemed to know about it.”

He takes a deep breath, “It was Fear. Highly concentrated. It was supposed to infect the victim and turn them into a mindless beast.”

Silence. 

“Wow…. Didn’t know the competition was that steep.” Smile chuckles, but it's missing its usual joy. “Damn. I guess you new heroes don’t mess around, do you? So your orders were to take me out with Fear?”

He nods. “You or Dragon Boy. I—I was supposed to catch the other off guard after the fight and…elimate them.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“And then you blocked the hit meant for me. Potentially, no, definitely infecting yourself with a deadly substance.” 

“Yes.”

A pause. “Do you know why it didn’t affect you?”

“I…” He wraps his arms around himself, hunching a bit, “No. Maybe.” 

The quiet settles heavy, a held breath, a looming countdown, a snap of rope on the guillotine. He’s on the edge, looking at the bottomless pit, and toeing at the unknowable void before him. Smile waits, watches. 

“I—I’m not sure.” He continues, “It just felt…familiar.”

“Familiar?”

“The feeling of the Fear infecting me.” He rubs his thumb against his pointer finger, “It was like—I knew it. Like it had happened before.”

Smile’s brows crease. “It has been becoming pretty prevalent lately. You were involved in the Ruin’s Incident, right? Could you have been exposed then?”

He flinches, just slightly. “No. It wasn’t that.”

There’s a quiet after that. He peeks from behind the bangs of his hair to see Smile’s face, his expression, trying to tell whether he’s been too obvious and the other man is looking at him, really looking at him and it’s like Nice is a stuffed animal with all his cotton torn out and strewn across the floor, half-collapsed with his stitching exposed. 

“Nice…” Smile starts, “I think you might know.” 

“No—” he says, “I just…”

He just…

“Nice, please, what happened?”

It’s the fifth time Mr. Shang takes him to the lab that the man gives him a drink. It’s some electrolyte-loaded thing and Mr. Shang hands it to him without a word, shoving it into his hands, his face expectant and already tinged with impatience. Nice drinks it because he knows not to question orders. They sit down at the bench, a shift in their usual routine, and Mr. Shang’s hand lingers on his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his back.  He opens his mouth to ask what they were doing today, not yet educated on keeping quiet, but the words never leave his mouth. 

When he wakes up, he’s laid out like a slab of meat on a metal table. He’s sweat through his clothes and it’s cold, so cold, and he feels raw inside and out like someone had grated off his skin and scooped out his organs. Every breath burns, every brush against his skin sears, and even the vibration of his vocal cords from the rising whine in his throat throbs. All of it pales in comparison to the itch under his skin, like something other than him lives between his flesh and bones, plucking at his blood vessels and scraping against his muscles. 

He starts to scratch at his clothes, the force ripping the fabric, anything to get to the itch, anything to make it stop, but it does nothing, only makes the itch multiply and intensify and that makes him scratch all the harder, blood coming up underneath his nails. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

He flinches at the sudden voice, but almost cries at relief when he sees who it is. 

“Mr. Shang—Please, I–I think there’s something wrong.” He wraps his arms around himself, “Everything hurts and I don’t remember what happened…”

“What happened,” His voice is cold, “is that you collapsed during our meeting. For no discernable reason. Do you think that type of behavior will get you in the top ten? Do you think I have time to take care of you every time you faint like some damsel? Don’t make me reconsider your place in this company, Nice.”

His thoughts stutter. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just—I just—”

Mr. Shang strides towards him, the thud of each foot fall ratcheting through his body, and yet he still has this foolish hope that the other man will notice the way his body trembles and how the blood oozes from his face where he scratched deep cuts into his skin. He dreams of the gentle touches Mr. Shang used to give: a soft pat on the back, the practiced adjustment of his bangs, an arm thrown around his shoulders. Maybe, he thinks, the man will—

The slap hits him so hard he falls off the table. 

He lands in a crumpled heap, hand cradling his throbbing cheek. Some high and wounded sound leaves his mouth. 

Mr. Shang walks right past him.

“Pathetic.” He spits.

………………………………………..

It happens again a couple weeks later. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

He doesn’t question it. He doesn’t say anything when Mr. Shang hands him the same drink. No, he swallows it down even as his stomach coils tightly, careful not to look the other man in the eyes. 

He knows how to listen. To obey. 

It’s what he is made for. 

He only falters when he wakes up, when the raw and the itch overwhelm and he cries and whines, and Mr. Shang looks at him with those eyes, like he's the filthiest piece of trash he’s ever seen, like he’s some haggard lame dog nipping at his feet, begging for a scrap. He always tries to keep silent. He always fails. Mr. Shang reminds him of his failure every time. A slap. A grab. A yank. 

At some point, the man’s touch becomes something to be dreaded. Because his skin on his means the lab, it means those empty spaces of time where something void in him grows, where all he remembers is an imprint of terror upon his mind and body, a half-washed away footprint upon his soul, a lingering bruise that aches with every prod. 

It’s because of the reminder that he starts to flinch away from him. But Mr. Shang doesn’t like it. He makes it very clear. So Nice goes still instead, freezes up like some pathetic prey animal before salivating teeth and bloodied claws, helpless and stupid, and Mr. Shang, for all his stoicness, gets a gleam in his eyes, a self-satisfied look that has Nice’s stomach twisting. 

He likes it, he realizes. Likes the way Nice goes limp like a puppet with dropped strings, his maneuverable limbs there for him to position and to place, his mouth there for him to put words in, his body there for him to—

Experiment,use,hurt,whatever he wants 

He likes it and Nice accepts it like he does everything else. 

Anything for this dream, he thinks. 

Anything for Mr. Shang. 

Heroism has taught Smile many things. 

One is patience. 

It’s the patience it takes to talk down the frightened civilian, to not blow your lid at the hot shit rookie, to sit through meeting after meeting discussing exactly what people were saying about you on FOMO. It’s prodding at your aching cheeks, begging for the tight grip of Trust to let go of your smile, yet smiling all the brighter when a rambunctious fan runs up. There is no end to it; the work, the struggle, the getting-out-bed. All you have is patience.

So as he stares at the far-off eyes of his fellow hero,  the kid, still searching for the answer to his question, he finds no rush or hurry and instead settles himself more comfortably on the floor and waits. 

At one point, in the quiet, X pokes his head in, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Smile shrugs ever so slightly and the other man frowns, almost makes a move to approach but backs off in the end, retreating back into the bedroom. He’ll update him later when there’s no risk of exposure. 

Now is just for waiting, for giving Nice the patience he clearly needs. 

Because if he thought something was wrong before during the fight, there is no doubt in his mind now. Something is rotten and it’s got its claws in Nice, festering inside the kid until the moment it burst out last night. 

Obviously, there seems to be pressure from the other hero’s boss given his urgency to leave at first and that doesn’t even scratch the surface of how he was ordered to take out both Smile himself and Dragon Boy. Foul play isn’t uncommon among heroes. Smile isn’t so naive to not know about it, but still the severity, the sheer cruelty…. it is far more extreme than he has seen before. 

Exactly what kind of man is this Mr. Shang? He feels like he might not like the answer. 

It takes another minute before Nice’s mouth opens. 

No words come out at first. But Smile can hear the slight clatter of his teeth, see the tremble in his lips and the shudder of his eyes. 

“I—I think…” Nice starts. “Mr. Shang, I think, he…”

Smile nods, trying to exude as much encouragement as possible. 

“...he’s drugged me.” It’s barely a whisper. “A lot.”

He doesn’t let his smile slip even as something like dread settles deep in his stomach. “Can you tell me more, son?”

“He has this lab. He brings me there sometimes.” Nice’s shoulders curl inward, “It’s where he experiments with Fear. And he—” He breaks off, clenching the hem of his shirt. A moment passes and he gathers himself again, “Sometimes, he gives me a drink. And then I wake up on the table and have no memory of what happened.”

Smile takes a deep breath and holds onto the tiny speck of calm within himself, “So you think Shang has been using you for Fear experiments.”

“I—I don’t know for sure.” the kids says, “It could be something else, I wouldn’t want to falsely accuse him.”

“It doesn’t matter if he was doing something else, son.” His voice becomes tight, “You understand that, right?”

“But I…” Nice tugs at a strand of hair, hard enough some strands come away in his fingers “I agreed to it, didn’t I? I let him. Does it even matter that he did it? I’ve done so much worse for him. At least, this was helpful. I would have died if he hadn’t made me immune.”

The words act like a weight on his soul, a heavy festering thing that makes him all too aware of the years aged on his face and the weariness in his bones. Maybe it was the rose-tinted glasses of his youth but he swears that the hero industry did not have the same level of sinister corruption when he first debuted. There was rivalry, competition, sabotage at times, yes, even a couple of scandals that shook the country. But he can say confidently that the story Nice hinted at would have trumped them all. At what point did they as heroes degrade into this? When did the industry get to the point that young heroes accept being drugged and experimented on as part of the job? And the kid even implied worse things had happened under his boss…

His mind wars between wanting to be sick or punch down a wall. Instead, he simply clenches his fists, trying to reign down the welling tide of blood rush that surges throughout him. Nice watches him from behind the swoop of his bangs, looking small and pitiful in X’s bigger sweater with his face all scratched up from his own hands. 

Smile knows from Nice’s own words and what he observed on his own that the other hero is no innocent. He knows that the kid  probably went along with some orders that would have his stomach turning. But his actions obviously torment him and the fear he holds towards Shang hints at something darker and the man did save his life and well…

Smile is never one to let down fans. 

So he grabs one of Nice’s hands, the one laying limp in his lap, and squeezes it, a silent comfort. He tries to gather his thoughts. 

“I think you need to quit,” is what comes out.

The kid’s head shoots up, eyes wide, “What?”

He winces. “What I mean is that the situation you’re in…it isn’t sustainable, kid. You’re not gonna make it if you continue like this. I have a lot of connections. I can get you out of your contract with Treeman, out from under Shang’s thumb. You might have to lay low for a bit but you’d be free.”

Nice’s eyes go a bit glassy, “I—I can’t give up being a hero. This is what I did everything for. If I quit—” his voice cracks, “then it’d all be nothing. I would be like this for no reason.” 

Smile took a deep breath and prepared himself for the words about to leave his mouth. “It won’t get better, Nice. You’re never going to reach that point where everything will be worth it because Treeman and Shang are simply going to keep asking more and more of you until there is nothing left. You’ll never be a true hero like that, you’ll never feel that joy. You’ll just be their puppet. Is that what you want?” 

The look the kid gives him is devastating. It makes him want to eat his own words but they need to be said. He knows they do. It doesn’t stop his heart from aching. Those glassy eyes finally let go of their tears, two at the same time, both racing down the smooth skin of his cheeks before dropping down from his jaw. It starts silent but soon low whines escape from the other hero, whole body shaking to keep down the sobs that are no doubt welling up. 

“I—I hate being a hero.” Nice spits it out like a curse, “I hate it so much. I thought—I thought I would make people happy. Make them smile like you. But all I do are PR stunts and follow Mr. Shang’s orders and do these horrible things. I hate it.”

Smile surges up, unable to help himself, and wraps his arms around the kid’s shaking shoulders. There’s a moment of tension as Nice freezes under his embrace, a moment where Smile almost pulls back because maybe this isn’t the right move, but then the other hero melts into him, his face nestling into the crook of his neck, his body going limp against his chest. The hot tears soak into his shirt and it reminds him of the few times his daughter has ever cried into his arms, so small and tiny and fragile that he feared breaking her in his large hands. That stopped happening when she got older, when she grew resentful of his constant absence and preoccupation with heroism. He held crying children all the time, just not his own. He supposes that hasn’t changed. He runs a hand up and down Nice’s back, careful to not catch on any of his injuries, and tries to soothe the hiccup of his sobs. 

“You’ll be okay,” he says, “You’ll be okay. I’ve got you. We’re gonna get you out there, okay? You won’t ever have to do things you don’t want to do again.” 

Nice somehow curls even further into him, hands coming to grab the fabric of his shirt like he’s scared that Smile will leave him behind. He only hugs the kid tighter. Soon, the cries and sobs peter out, leaving only an occasional sniff. He continues to rub circles on his back until all the tension bleeds out of his shoulders and Smile can’t be sure whether Nice has fallen asleep in his arms. 

It’s only when his soft and cracked voice breaks the quiet that he knows.

“Do you promise that it’ll feel better? Not being a hero?”

He stills his hand and stays quiet for a moment, thinking. “There will be ups and downs to it. You’ll need time to adjust. But one day you’ll look back to this moment, the one you decided to leave and you’ll be so grateful that you did. You’ll realize all the pleasures that you have gained and all the burdens you have left behind. I promise that.”

A pause. Almost silent breathing.

“Okay. I’ll do it.” A whisper, “I’ll quit.”

The smell of cookies wafts from the oven when Bai Lian opens it. He palms for the ratty oven mitts on the counter, slipping them on, before awkwardly grabbing at the tray. The heat tickles at his skin. 

He pulls it all the way out and rests it on the stove, eyes roving over each row. The third to the left is heavily asymmetrical and another below it has a burnt edge where dough became too thin. Unlike before, he does not throw out these ones even if looking at them makes his fingers twitch. Instead, one by one, he lays them out on the cooling rack and lets himself arrange them in a perfect grid. He admires his work for a second, letting the sweet aroma fill him up. He resists the urge to eat one. Now, onto the dishes. He’d gotten better over the months at not relentlessly scrubbing the plates and utensils until a layer of the varnish had come off, now taking an acceptable amount of time cleaning his cutlery. It’s almost soothing now, the rush of hot water against his skin and the grey noise of the faucet running. He likes it, he thinks. 

Once that chore is finished, he finds himself loitering in the kitchen, his eyes ever so often flicking over to the cooling cookies. He puts the dishes away, scrubs the counter down of the flour and sugar, even cleans the sink though there isn’t so much of a speck in there. The cookies still taunt him. 

It couldn’t hurt, he considers, to eat the slightly burnt one. He’s just getting rid of the imperfect one. It doesn’t take much more bargaining than that before he picks up the cookie and begins to nibble on it. The warmth of it spreads through him, the chocolate chips melting into his mouth as he chews. When he’s done, the melted chocolate stains his fingers, sticky and hot. His first instinct is to wash it off immediately. He hates the feeling of it on his skin. But he sits with the sensation instead and stares at the stains. He brings his fingers to his mouth and contemplates. With a dart of his tongue, he licks at the chocolate, eyes closed like the action would blow up in his face but all he gets is the taste of chocolate and the salty tinge of his skin. He goes back for another taste and soon licks away the splotch. 

It’s really not as bad as he thought it would be. He still washes his hands afterwards though. He wanders to the living room, sitting on the couch while his eyes dart to the door. His leg jumps up and down. Any second now…

The doorbell rings. 

He jolts up, a bounce in his step that makes him feel a bit like an overeager golden retriever, but his excitement overrides any embarrassment. Undoing the lock, he opens the door, unable to hold back the smile creeping on his lips. The figure in the doorway has a rather conspicuous helmet on, one that matched with the biking jacket, both a very telling yellow. In his hand, he holds a brown bag that brings a savory scent of fried meat into the apartment. 

“Takeout delivery? For Bai Lian?” The familiar voice says. 

He grins and jerks his head for the man to come in. Smile lets out a chuckle and follows him in as he leads them toward the couch. Both of them sit, silent for a moment as they settle. 

Smile is the first to break the quiet. “Are those cookies I smell?” 

Bai Lian nods, “I thought they’d be good to have as we caught up.” 

“They’ll go nicely with the chicken. Though, I will warn you I did get enough to feed a small army.” 

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” he smiles rather smug, “I ate an entire large pizza all by myself last week.” 

Smile shakes his head, “Those are rookie numbers. I myself hold the record at 3 large pizzas and an entire container of mozzarella sticks. If you beat that, then you can brag.” 

Bai Lian puts on a rather sulky expression but it's quickly replaced by laughter when he spots Smile with a skewer of chicken already half down his throat. He slaps the other man’s shoulder for his bad manners and grabs a skewer of his own, taking much more restrained bites of the meat. 

“So…” Smile starts, “How has it been going?”

He takes a moment to chew  another mouthful of his food, mulling over the question, “I threw out the entire basket of clothes because I found a mouse in it. And the other day, I scared some poor granny because I thought I saw Shang in the grocery store. I’m confident I haven’t had a single full night of sleep— too many nightmares— and now the eyebags show because I don’t have Trust to fix it. Oh, and some car splashed water all over me and it got in my mouth.” He looks over at the other man and smiles, “But I can lick the chocolate off my fingers now and I got a mole back that disappeared when I became Nice. And last week, I had such a nice conversation with this woman at the store. I joined a ballet studio too, and I’ve been going every week.” 

Smile laughs, “Now, that’s what life is. It’s so much more nonsensical than you think. You know, the other day, I was trying to cut an onion and realized I was using the wrong side of the knife, fully just pressing the dull side into the onion, expecting it to slice it in half.” He waves around his skewer, “I’m not old enough to be having these senior moments. It’s embarrassing. Come on, make me feel better. You do things like that too, don’t you?” 

“Hmm, I don’t know. It sounds like that might be a you–problem.” Bai Lian says, “Do I need to check you into the nursing home? I have one written down here just in case—”

Smile drags him over, arm hooked around his neck and Bai Lian kicks a little in fake protest. The other man ruffles his hair with a wild hand, not stopping until he is sure that his hair must look like it had a date with electricity. 

“What is this disrespect for your elders? Is this the thanks I get for bringing you wonderful food?”

Bai Lian wriggles out of his hold, “I’m simply showing a proper amount of caution. We never know what day your back may give out—” He ducks out of the way of another grab, “or when your knees will buckle.” 

“You really know how to hit man where it hurts, don’t you?” Smile collapsed back down as if wounded, “For that, I’m eating the last pork skewer, you little menace.” 

“I like the chicken best anyway.” 

Smile glares and just gnaws on the meat. 

“Oh, I almost forgot. I have a little friend for you.” He hurried into his room, grabbing the toy from his drawer. He did it behind his back as he entered again. “Ta-da!”

He held it out for Smile to see. It was a plush of the other hero, exceptionally cutesy in form, even down to the little heart pupils in its eyes. One of its hands gave a tiny thumb up. It fit nicely in his palms, almost standing upright in grip. “I found him at a vendor on the street.”

It gets a chuckle from Smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that one before.”

“It’s handmade, I believe. The vendor must have been a dedicated fan.”

“Well, I can’t let down a fan, can I?” Smile grabs the plush from him and sits the soft toy on his shoulder like a parody of a parrot. Bai Lian can’t help but grin at the sight. He not-so subtly takes a picture on his phone which earns a shake of Smile’s head. 

“I’m beginning to think I’m nothing more than a joke to you.”

“A very funny one.” 

“Well, I guess it’s okay as long as you’re smiling.” He says, eyes fond, and suddenly Bai Lian is rooted to the spot. “It’s good to see it, you know. Your true smile. It suits you.” 

Bai Lian flusters, “I—I, uh, thank you.” 

“You’re doing really well for yourself, kid.” Smile puts a hand on his shoulder, “The progress you’ve made—It’s incredible.”

His eyes burn, but it's from the warmth now instead of the cold, and he can’t help but lean closer to the other hero, letting his head rest against his shoulder. Smile’s arms wrap around him without hesitation, the weight of his limbs like a heavy blanket on chilly winter day. He goes limp in the embrace. 

“I’m doing good?”

“You’re doing so good, kid.” 

“I’m trying really hard,” He swallows,  “to not be Nice anymore. I only took twenty minutes washing the dishes today. And I don’t think about Shang as much. I still itch sometimes though. I haven’t found a way to ignore it.” 

“That’s okay.” Smile says, “The itching—well it’s definitely not your fault. It just takes time for things to fade. What matters are the steps forward you’ve taken. And what can I say? I’m rather proud of how far you’ve come.” 

Bai Lian takes a deep breath like it’s his first in decades, something inside of him settling. Smile’s hand rubs up and down his back. He’s not sure he’s ever felt safer, more content than being here, in Smile’s arms. There’s something about being held by a hero, by your hero that leaves you nothing more than a child again. 

With his face still tucked away, he whispers, “How can I ever repay you?”

“Just live for me.” Smile says, “That’s all I ask.”