Chapter Text
His entrance is more of a tumble than anything else, but Yuuri makes it through the window and even gets it mostly closed behind him before his knees buckle, and he slides down the wall to land in an undignified heap by the bed. All he can feel in the moment is gratitude that he made it through the window safely this time, better than the close call he had last month when an elderly woman out feeding the stray cats literally stumbled across him in the alleyway. Thankfully, her screams woke him up in time for him to hide inside a dumpster before the rest of the building came running to see what the fuss was about. It was not the most glamorous night of his life, but also not the worst.
He lets himself just rest where he fell for a couple of minutes, waiting for the ebb and flow of dizziness to break long enough to consider moving again. When his head starts to clear, he quickly lurches back onto his feet, only to have to grab at the window sill for support as the dark static encroaches on the edges of his vision again. He closes his eyes and does a quick mental inventory. There’s that cut on his left bicep, plus there’s blood running along the side of his face from somewhere unknown, and his knees definitely aren’t in great shape either.
The blackouts are probably just fatigue, but could be the result of the mysterious head wound as well. Given that, he probably shouldn’t linger by the window too long. He lets himself slowly slide back to the floor, discards his coat onto the bed, and then starts to scoot himself toward the kitchen on his butt. The glamorous life of a vigilante behind the scenes, indeed. He’s glad his apartment is so small by American standards, because it means he doesn’t have far to travel to reach supplies. Still, he makes a mental note to put another first aid kit closer to the window, maybe under the bed.
Once he’s made it into the kitchen, he claws his way up the cabinets to lean on the counter. He pauses there to take a deep breath, then levers himself up, twisting to plant himself on the countertop beside the sink. The cut on his arm screams at the abuse, and he feels the darkness rush back at him from all direction, but he forces himself forward, putting his head into his hands. He focuses on his breathing, counting to three with each inhale. Slowly, the static clears from his vision, and he grabs the first aid kit from the top drawer between his dangling legs.
A cursory inspection of his sleeve indicates this is yet another black t-shirt donated to the cause of justice, so he uses the kitchen scissors to go ahead and just cut the shirt from collar to hem, saving himself the pain of having to pull it off over his head. His phone vibrates against his thigh, and he fishes it out from the cargo pocket, squinting at the screen.
Yuuko: This is your check in. Alive?
Yuuri: yeah, home.
Yuuko: Need help?
Yuuri swipes at the wetness on his face and feels dizzy again when he sees the bright red blood smeared across his fingertips. It’s not the first time its occurred to him that someone who gets queasy around blood should be in a different line of work.
Yuuri: yes if you can
Almost immediately he hears the footsteps in the hallway, followed by the familiar sound of Yuuko’s key in the lock. His heart still pounds as the door starts to open, and he clutches the edge of the counter reflexively, then exhales slowly and drops his shoulders the moment he sees Yuuko’s concerned face peering around the edge of the doorway. The brief hit of adrenaline just leaves him feeling even more drained in his wake.
“Oh, Yuuri,” she says gently, closing the door behind her and hurrying across the room. She’s in her pink striped pajamas, strands of hair flying loose around her face like she just crawled out of bed, and he’s immediately hit with guilt for keeping her up on a night off. “What on earth happened this time?”
Yuuri shrugs, making the cut on his arm protest again at his careless treatment. “The usual, I guess. I was too slow and too sloppy.” Yuuko hands him a bottle of water and some type of pill, waits for him to swallow, then sets to work wetting a towel and washing the blood off his arm. “Someone had a knife.”
“Hmm. The cut looks clean, but you’ll need stitches,” she scolds, wringing red-tinged water from the towel before dabbing at his hairline. “What about this one?”
“I’m not even sure,” he admits, staring past her at the postcards on his fridge, focusing on a photo of the Hasetsu coastline to distract himself. “I don’t remember getting cut anywhere else.” The towel finds a tender spot, and he flinches, then looks to see if she noticed.
Yuuko is frowning, a mixture of concentration and, he knows, disappointment. “I think you were hit, not cut. There’s not much of a wound here, just a lot of blood.” Now that she says it, he remembers the second mugger coming up behind him while he was busy getting the first guy away from the victim. The had been another knife. Something had connected with his face, but it wasn’t the blade - maybe he’d been struck with the handle instead? The goons certainly hadn’t been highly trained fighters, so it’s always possible.
If the mugger had been holding the knife correctly, he could have dragged it down Yuuri’s face. He might have lost an eye at the right angle. He bites his lip.
Yuuko works away in comfortable silence, cleaning the small wound at his hairline. She doesn’t need him to remind her that what he does is dangerous, or that some night he might come back with a problem she can’t fix. He turns his head away and closes his eyes as she stitches up the long gash in his arm.
“There,” she says when she finishes pinning the last of the gauze around his bicep. “Is that everything, or are you hiding more from me?”
“Just some skinned knees,” he says, trying to force a reassuring smile. “I can handle those.”
“Good,” she pats him on the thigh, then tilts her head at him. The buttons on her pajama top are askew. “Are you okay? You seem a little…”
Yuuri nods, “I’m just tired, sorry. It was a rough night.”
“Do you need me to stay? I can take the couch. Takeshi can handle the girls solo if he needs to.”
He waves his hands, shaking his head, then drops an arm onto the counter faux-casually to support himself when the world starts to spin again in response to the movement. “I’ll be fine, Yuuko-chan, thank you. You go back to your babies.”
Yuuko smiles softly and ruffles his hair. “Okay, okay. I guess I really am acting like a mom now, huh? You get some sleep, and text me if you need anything else.” Yuuri crosses his heart solemnly, and watches her back as she heads back over to the neighboring apartment.
He slides to the floor once the door closes and is impressed when his legs decide to hold his weight long enough to make it to the couch. He sits before skimming out of his pants, just in case he gets dizzy again. His knees are skinned up, for sure, but he’s had worse. He picks a couple little bits of gravel out of the wounds, but they’ll be fine until he can stand long enough to shower, so he chucks the ripped jeans across the room, where they land on top of his discarded trench coat, then stretches out on the couch and turns on the TV.
The news anchors are clamoring about the Justice Friends having thwarted a massive alien threat yet again. In the shaky camera footage, this batch of aliens look a bit like a mad scientist cross-bred a zebra with a duck, then dropped the resulting offspring from a very tall building, so he can’t imagine that it was a stealth attack. Aura takes over the entire screen then, all gleaming silver hair and blue eyes, contrasted by that unmistakable magenta and gold costume. He’s saying something inspiring about the amazing power of teamwork, but Yuuri’s brain can’t resist the pain meds Yuuko gave him any longer. His eyelids start to droop, then his head, and finally he surrenders himself to much-needed sleep.
-
When his alarm goes off the next morning, the TV is still on, now full of perky morning show hosts making bad jokes about some competitive dancing show he’s never seen, because he’s never home during primetime. He pushes off from the couch and finds that, despite a persistent soreness in his thighs and some painful protests from the arm in particular, his legs are now holding him up and his head feels steady. He double checks his texts, and sees nothing but a reminder from his manager that he has a shift this afternoon.
He makes it to the bathroom at a hobble, wraps the bandage on his arm with the plastic wrap he keeps on top of the medicine cabinet, and gets in the shower. The wounds to his head and knees feel like they’ve been dipped in acid the moment the water hits them, and he hisses through the pain. Once it subsides, he gingerly cleans both injured areas before soaping up and washing the back alley filth from the rest of his body.
He towels off as gently as he washed, not wanting to start anything bleeding again at the moment, and wipes the condensation off the mirror with a dry corner of the towel. The scars and bruises glare back at him, stark white lines and dark splotches of chiaroscuro across his chest. He knows the arm will probably be another one, despite Yuuko’s best efforts. He pulls the spare first aid kit from the medicine cabinet and notes he’s running low on gauze again, then carefully applies the antibacterial ointment to his hairline and puts a couple of the big square band-aids on both knees. He never seems to have enough of those big square ones.
Once he’s certain he won’t bleed on his clothes, he puts on his workout gear, grabs his keys, and knocks on Yuuko’s door. After a moment, Takeshi’s red face squints out at him from above the door chain, dark circles haloing both eyes and hair sticking up every direction. His gaze darts down the hallway quickly before coming back to Yuuri. “What now? Yuuko’s asleep.”
“I’m going to the gym,” Yuuri says, jingling his keys absently. “I was going to stop by the grocery store on the way home; do you need me to pick anything up?”
“Bananas,” Takeshi says, tension dropping from his expression. “The girls are meant to start eating more solid food and all they’ll touch this week is bananas - brown ones. As brown as you can get them. I’m gagging every time I have to peel one; it’s so gross.” Yuuri nods in understanding, then turns to go. “Also milk!” Takeshi calls after him down the hallway. Of course they need milk. They always need milk. It’s the least Yuuri can do to repay Yuuko for stitching him up so often.
He heads straight to the gym for his usual workout, mindful to stop anything that causes even the slightest twinge of protest from the cut on his arm, then finishes up by running the two kilometers from the gym to the grocery store, where he stocks up on food for himself, gauze, square band-aids, a third first aid kit to slide under the bed, and finally the much-needed brown bananas and milk for Takeshi and Yuuko’s triplets.
Back at the apartment building, he knocks at the Nishigoris’ door. Takeshi’s forehead just about touches the floor in gratitude when he hands over the bag of bananas and milk. The sounds of squealing, kids’ music, and high-pitched cartoon voices emanating through the walls of his studio help him to shake off a sharp pang of homesickness. At least he doesn’t have to live with other people’s noise anymore. Most of the time he prefers it that way. He puts the TV on mute and pops in his earbuds to jam out to some soothing white noise.
With the sounds of rain injecting calm into his bloodstream directly through his ears, he throws together a protein shake, because now that he’s home he’s suddenly starving, and grabs his jeans and coat from where he left them on the bed in the wee hours of this morning. He stuffs both into the kitchen sink and fills it with water and detergent, hoping some of the blood will soak out before he scrubs them. One of the many downsides to being a crimefighter with a secret identity and no million-dollar inheritance is that you can’t exactly take your vigilante outfits down to the local laundromat where anyone might spot your distinctive clothing - or at least notice the blood stains - and put everything together. The next time Yuuri moves, he’s definitely only looking at places with laundry in the unit.
That's what he said last time he moved, though. Places with laundry included are expensive. His phone vibrates in his jacket pocket, and he quickly towels his arms off to answer it.
Phichit: Are you watching me on TV???
Yuuri: No. Right now?
Phichit: Yes!! Right now!
Sure enough, he can see Phichit’s face in close up on the local news, grinning widely and talking about something. Yuuri turns the volume back up, but only catches, “- and then the ship blew up!” before the program cuts away to footage of the battle with the mushed zebra-ducks from the day before. Whoever caught this on their phone got Phichit in the background of the shot, standing on a park bench in his red and gold costume and distracting one of the creatures with his pyrotechnics show while Twister runs circles around it, showering the lumpy little alien with hits.
The foreground of the shot is Aura, of course, hovering several feet above the ground, beams of pure light shooting from both hands and cutting swaths through a small horde of aliens like it’s nothing. Yuuri tries to picture himself there, but the version of Night Owl he inserts into the fight just stands in the background, repeatedly kicking one of the ugly little creatures until a clump of them swarms him, pushing him to the ground, and he’s smothered under some squishy, stripey little lumps. No statues are built to honor his sacrifice.
The phone buzzes again in his hand.
Phichit: Did you see?
Yuuri: Just in time! You did great. There were a lot of those things, huh?
Phichit: So many!
Phichit: Aura’s having a party at his for us to celebrate tonight. You should come!
Yuuri: I wasn’t even there for the fight. It will be weird.
Phichit: You’re on the team too, Yuuri!
Phichit: The party starts early. you can leave plenty early to patrol!
Phichit: Please, Yuuri, I’ll be so happy if you come.
Yuuri sighs, rubbing his eyes. He really has no desire to be the odd man out at a party full of superheroes. He may or may not have had nightmares in which he shows up to a party at Aura’s headquarters, only to realize he’s completely naked. Phichit knows him too well though, and knows exactly how much trouble Yuuri has with telling him no.
Yuuri: Okay, fine. Pick me up at work?
Phichit: You know it!
Yuuri: You owe me
Yuuri groans as his stomach begins to churn already. Now he just has to survive another six hours of awkward anticipation without the sweet relief of cancelling. He wastes some time scrubbing the blood out of his clothes, lost in the monotony of cleaning, then hangs them to dry in the bathroom and showers again to wash off the sweat from the gym.
Once he’s safely disguised in his work uniform of awful khakis, sneakers, and a green polo shirt, he grabs his backpack to pack clothes for the Justice Friends party. His pants and coat are still wet and need repairs, so he has to dig through his wardrobe for backup options. He can clearly envision himself trying to walk into the party, only to get turned away at the door because he can’t convince anyone other than Phichit that he belongs there.
Unfortunately, he’s apparently decimated most of his “night job clothes” recently and can’t find much other than what he just washed. He settles for a pair of black skinny jeans he hasn’t worn in a couple years in place of his cargos, and with his last black t-shirt having been shredded the night before, he grabs a button-down off the hanger instead. On closer inspection it might be navy blue instead of black. He hold it up near the light, but still can’t be sure. Close enough.
He’s about to look like a real nerd by turning up in a cardigan too when he spots a black leather jacket in a crumpled heap on the top shelf of the closet. It was his ex’s. He only held onto it in case, someday, he got asked to return it, but it’s been two years and he hasn’t heard from Lee since. He hesitantly presses his nose to the collar of the jacket, but after so long in his closet it no longer holds any discernible trace of Lee’s scent. It might as well be his now. He stuffs it into the backpack with a spare domino mask, then grabs the bag and heads out to catch the bus.
When Yuuri was a little kid, he wanted to be a ballet dancer or a professional skater or maybe a puppy. Then Aura happened, and everything changed except for one thing: Yuuri was never good at having dreams he could actually hope to achieve. But he comforts himself that he didn’t land too far from his childhood goals. He’ll never be equal to Aura, but despite his failures, he’s going to be in Aura’s headquarters tonight. He’ll be there as a nobody, but he’s still living the dream to some extent, being in his idol’s home, maybe even in the same room. It's not how he pictured their meeting as a kid, but it’s a step.
And he works as a skater, as well, or at least, he works where there are skaters. And skates! Disgusting, well-used, foul-smelling rental skates.
The smell of stale sweat, wet cookies, and popcorn hits him the moment he steps through the automatic door into the roller rink, second in power only to the sound of screaming children and outdated music. He stuffs his backpack under the counter and nods to the guy working - Mike? Mark? - Yuuri has no idea, because as soon as Yuuri has his nametag on, the other guy grabs his stuff and clocks out without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.
Yuuri clocks in, and turns to find a couple kids already waiting at the counter for him. “Skate rental?” The kid in front nods. “What sizes?” There are no birthday party reservations on the schedule for the day. He settles in for a comfortably monotonous shift.
-
He clocks out at six, tagging in a blonde girl who looks like she’s barely out of high school. He’s never seen her before, but there’s a lot of turnover at the rink - kids come and go every season. It used to make him feel like a failure, still working a job normally occupied by teenagers, and he’s certain the other employees see him that way, but the fact is that it’s impossible to hold down a “real” job with the schedule his other work demands.
He grabs his bag and ducks into the men’s room to get changed. His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he doesn’t even need to check it to know that it’s Phichit, saying he’s on his way.
Yuuri folds up his regular work clothes on the back of the toilet and slides into the skinny jeans he brought. It’s been a long time since the concert these were purchased for, and it takes a couple hops and shimmies to get them comfortably in place. They’re a bit more snug in the thigh than he’d prefer, but it’s this or go to a superhero party in khakis. He pull on the shirt and finds that somehow it’s maybe a bit too big on him now, not exactly a tailored look. He leaves it untucked, and folds his glasses into the pocket of the leather jacket before putting in his contacts. His phone buzzes again, so he stuffs his uniform into the bag, sticks the domino mask in the pocket with his glasses, and tries to hurry out to Phichit’s car before any of his coworkers can see him.
He scans the parking lot, hesitating just outside the double doors. Phichit’s text said he was here, but Yuuri doesn’t see his car. His eyes sweep the parking lot again, and he finally sees a brown arm, frantically waving from the bright red sports car parked directly in front of the rink. “Yuuri,” his friend calls, beeping the horn. “Come on!”
He jogs over, dropping his bag in the floorboard before sliding into the passenger’s seat. “Phichit, where did this car come from?” He cranes his neck, looking into the back seat for clues. “Did you get rid of the Camry?”
Phichit grins, and beeps the horn again, showing off. “Yeah, I forgot to tell you. I just got it a few days ago. Like it?”
Yuuri looks around at the clean, tan leather seats and the red shiny hood, then up at the moon roof over his head. He takes a deep breath through his nose to get a whiff of that new car smell. “Wow,” he says reverently. There’s a rock in his stomach that rises to his throat, the mixed excitement for seeing a friend do well and dread at seeing them surpass you. “It’s great, Phichit.” He wants to ask how much it cost, how Phichit could afford this, but he doesn’t.
Phichit is his best friend, so he hears the question anyway. “It’s actually a couple years old, but you can’t tell, huh? My agent finally got a licensing deal. I guess they’ll be putting little light-up Sparkler action figures on the shelves any day now.” He laughs a bit self-consciously, pulling out onto the street, and Yuuri notices he’s gone a similar route in dressing, sticking to the red and gold colors of his costume but carried over into street clothes, noticeable but not obvious.
“You deserve it,” Yuuri says firmly, forcing a small smile. “Soon every kid in Thailand will be wearing Sparkler t-shirts to school.” Phichit blushes, but doesn’t argue, focusing on the road.
Aura’s house is no secret fortress in the Antarctic or camouflaged lodge out in the woods. Everyone in the world knows where it is, the gleaming white stone and red brick structure just outside the city, built on a hill overlooking everything like a father looking down at the face of his sleeping infant.
They park Phichit’s car on a random street in the suburban neighborhood that surrounds the house, mask up, and walk the rest of the way up the hill to get to the party. The houses on the way up are nearly as large as the headquarters building itself. The wealthy are all too happy to pay massive property taxes to be within screaming distance of the world’s most powerful superhero.
There’s a tall iron fence surrounding the building, a gate with a guardhouse, and no doubt half a dozen top of the line electronic security measures. On the street across from the gate, Yuuri recognizes the familiar logo of the local news station on a white van, but there are also a few big black cars with tinted windows and a suspiciously generic look about them. The fence and the gatehouse likely do more to keep out the press than to deter the bad guys.
At the gatehouse, Phichit goes through some sort of elaborate ritual with the uniformed guard involving his phone, an electronic scanning device, and possibly a blood sample, but eventually the guard presses the button to unlock the gate for them. Phichit, walking backwards through the gate, makes a few sparks fly from his fingers for the news van as they enter, just in case the cameras are rolling.
As soon as the gate closes behind them, Phichit grabs his hand and hauls him up the winding driveway at a jog. “Quick, let’s get a selfie with the house in the background!” Yuuri groans, but submits, flashing a peace sign for the camera with Aura’s house visible up the drive behind them. Then, they have to jump out of the way as a dark purple sports car roars up the road toward them.
The purple car squeals to a halt right in front of the steps to the house, and JJ climbs out of the driver’s seat in a lavender sequined blazer, khakis, and dark sunglasses. Yuuri hides a laugh behind his hand. “Of course Aura even invites that guy.”
“No one ever invites ‘Jeneral Justice’,” Phichit replies, complete with ironic air quotes. “Somehow, he always finds out and turns up anyway.”
Yuuri shakes his head, but at least he won’t be the only unwanted spare hanging around the party tonight. JJ’s presence actually makes him feel a little better, a feeling that lasts right up until the moment Phichit pulls open the heavy wooden door and Yuuri catches his first glimpse of the inside of Aura’s house.
It’s overwhelming… boring.
Outside, the white and red exterior and the looming golden gates all give the impression of incredible grandeur and presence. Inside, the place looks like a model home in any gated community. The walls are white, and the floors are a highly polished hardwood. It all looks very classy and expensive, but there are no rugs, no photographs, and very little furniture. The couple of tables Yuuri sees in the entryway are modern and sterile, and the centerpiece of blue roses and baby’s breath decorating the foyer is nothing but silk flowers, which someone forgot to dust.
Yuuri had often imagined what it might be like to meet Aura, to be his friend for real. Most of those fantasies hadn’t involved moving in together or picking out furniture, but this is certainly not what he would have pictured if asked to describe Aura’s taste. He cranes his neck to see up the stairs to the second floor landing, but it looks completely barren as well. He’s tempted to wander up and snoop. He looks around to ask Phichit, who is always ready to enable some bad decisions, but finds that his friend has vanished. Rather than follow his baser instincts up the stairs, he trails the sounds of music and chatter into the next room.
This area is clearly where the party is happening. It’s an impressively large open entertaining area, probably more than twice the size of Yuuri’s entire studio, but, like the entryway, it doesn’t feel like a space anyone actually lives in. The kitchen is open to the room, all steel fixtures, dark cabinets, and quartz counters, and the furniture in the living room is beautiful and elegant. Nevertheless, Yuuri can’t shake the feeling that it’s artificial, staged, like he’s just wandered into a very upscale IKEA showroom.
He also questions the wisdom of having all these people over and drinking near white sofas. His eyes widen as someone holding a glass of red wine attempts to flop down on the couch. The couch doesn’t seem to give to their weight at all, and the wine sloshes in the glass. Yuuri looks away quickly before his hospitality instincts kick in.
He glances around the room and quickly discerns three things: Aura isn’t in here, Yuuri is the only person in the room wearing a mask, and Phichit is already over by the wet bar. He’s glad he came with such a smart friend, and even happier when Phichit welcomes him to the party with a glass of white wine.
“You’re a good friend,” he says, just in case Phichit didn’t know already.
Phichit nods back, raising his own glass. “Welcome to the good life. I tried to tell you these parties are pretty relaxed. Everyone really just hangs out, has a couple drinks, and then eventually we’ll do some official business before we leave. You don’t have to talk to anyone but me if you don’t want to.”
“My kind of party,” Yuuri mutters. It is pretty quiet in the room, the few team members around all clustered in small groups to talk. “I feel a little out of place, though,” he admits gesturing to the rest of the room. Then he realizes even Phichit’s taken his domino off. “I’m the only one wearing a mask?”
“Oh, yeah probably,” Phichit says. “After a while, it was just like, what’s the point? We’re all friends here. It sort of fell by the wayside the first time we had a serious injury on the team and needed to notify emergency contacts.”
Yuuri can certainly understand that feeling; it’s not the first time he’s considered what might need to be done if something happened to him on a patrol. That’s part of how Phichit fits into his life these days, after all: a bridge between what he does in the daylight and his life after dark. If anything ever happened, if his family needed to be told, he knows Phichit would pull through for him.
It’s a bit of a shock to realize that other people have a whole team willing to fill that role, though. The idea of taking off his mask here, letting everyone in the room know who he really is, is a thought his stomach can’t tolerate at all. Of course, none of them would recognize him anyway. He doubts any of the real superheroes spend a lot of time renting skates at a roller rink in the bad part of town. He stares into his glass of wine and wonders if maybe he should trade it in for Sprite.
There’s a loud clatter of footsteps on the stairs in the next room, and then Aura himself finally appears in the doorway. The man is unmistakable, between his preternaturally silver hair and the fact that he literally glows. Even with those sure signs that he’s something special, he looks more human than usual in tailored grey slacks and a pale pink button-down. Yuuri feels his mouth go dry, and he drains his wine glass in one gulp.
Sure, Yuuri’s a member of Aura’s Justice Friends team too, but in the same way some people are members of a church - you go every so often, you nod to a few people you know, but you stay by the door and sneak out as soon as the service is over. Despite the size of the room, this is pretty much as close to his hero as Yuuri’s ever gotten, and all he can focus on is the way his hair falls, silver and soft over one eye, making him look so frail and gentle even though Yuuri knows, could never forget that he’s-
Yuuri is kneeling on the floor after school, eating a snack and watching cartoons, when the news interrupts his programs. There’s been an accident in the US, a train derailment. The footage is shaky, shot with someone’s hand-held camera. They’re panning across a railroad bridge where a train hangs, the engine and a few passenger cars dangling over a rushing river. The camera stops at the end of the train. The only thing holding it onto the bridge appears to be a bright light, so intense you can barely look at it long enough to make out the small shadow of a figure at the center, like a firefly. It holds the train anchored above the river as people climb out the back, scrambling madly to flee from the back door of the final car.
Suddenly, the firefly drops, faltering in the air. There’s a sound of metal against metal. The camera falls.
Yuuri realizes with a jolt that he’s been staring. Aura’s blue eyes are focused in on him, curious and confused. He turns his back, flushing, and pours a new drink. When he glances back over his shoulder, the other man has wandered off into a corner, talking with Twister. Yuuri nods to Phichit and they find their own space against a nearby wall.
There are less than a dozen people at the party so far, all presumably members of the team, but if Yuuri knows them then he doesn’t recognize most of them out of costume. Twister is easy enough to spot with that distinctive curly blond hair, apparently introducing Aura to some tiny kid with a two-toned dye job who looks way too young to be in here considering the amount of alcohol floating around. Team Incredible is an easy guess as well, since they’re the opposite of quiet about being siblings even during a fight and share the same unmistakable violet eyes. Yuuri considers waving to them briefly, but they seem preoccupied with each other.
And then there’s JJ, playing it subtle as usual, trying to talk up an athletic red-haired woman he doesn’t know who looks ready to rip his heart out and stomp on it at any moment. As he watches, JJ showily extends his arm all the way across the room to grab himself a chip from the bowl on the kitchen counter. He seems oblivious to the fact that most people are vaguely nauseated by his weird elastic body, rather than impressed.
JJ is the only hero in the room aside from Aura that Yuuri knows is out about his identity in public. The difference between the two of them couldn’t be more profound to Yuuri, though. JJ outed himself because he’s a showboat and wants the credit for his achievements. Aura never had a choice in whether to go public or not.
That footage of the accident had been broadcast all over the world. Everyone knew about the firefly kid, Victor Nikiforov, son of Russian dignitaries who were tragically killed in the derailment. Even if someone missed the video on the news live or the replays the next day, it nearly impossible to miss the ensuing custody battles as the US and Russia each placed warring claims on the life of the first public superhero, who just so happened to also be a twelve year-old boy with few living relatives. Aura hadn’t had the opportunity to hide from the world.
Yuuri hears a strangled gasp from Phichit and looks over to find him staring intently at his phone, looking pale and alarmed as he types, thumbs flying over the screen. “Is everything okay?”
“My roommate just texted me,” Phichit says, biting his lip but not looking up from his phone screen for a second. “Ngein got out of the cage somehow, and he can’t find her.” He finally looks up from the phone and Yuuri can see that his deep brown eyes are wide and filled with fear. It’s the most distressed Yuuri has seen him, and they’ve fought a swarm of mutated giant wasps together. “I’m so sorry, Yuuri, but I have to go. What if the dog finds Ngein before we do? What if she squeezes under the door and gets outside? She’s too small for the world!”
Yuuri puts his arm around Phichit’s shoulders, stroking his arm in an awkward attempt to soothe him. “Hey, it’s okay. Of course, you should go to her right away. You know best where she might be.”
Phichit slumps with relief, resting his head against Yuuri’s shoulder for a moment. “Thank you for understanding,” he says, a slight hitch to his voice. “I’m sorry. I know we just got here. If you want to leave with me it might be awhile before I can take you home, though. I know you wanted to patrol tonight still.”
Yuuri starts to say he’ll leave, but he’s interrupted by the sound of Aura, calling his name. He whips his head around, only to see the petite blond teen he knows as Lynx waving briefly in Aura’s direction from a corner. Of course, no one was talking to him.
Phichit is starting to wiggle impatiently in his grip when he looks back down, and to Yuuri’s alarm there’s a faint glow coming from his hands. “Don’t worry about me,” he says quickly. “I’d just get in the way if I came along. You go home and find that hamster.” He’s pretty sure Phichit’s roommate hates him anyway.
Phichit immediately squirms out from under Yuuri’s arm and grabs his keys from the table, but then he hesitates. “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you with no way to get home.”
“I’ll take the bus or something. I’m an adult. I promise I find my own way home all the time.” He pats his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t waste time worrying about me, just focus on Ngein. And text me to let me know when you find her, okay?”
“I will,” Phichit says, then quickly embraces Yuuri. “Thank you again. Have a good night!” He makes for the door like he’s being chased, and Yuuri just hopes he remembers to mask up again before the news crews spot him.
He tries to take a sip of his drink to clear his head, but the glass is empty, so he mixes himself another and finds an empty chair in easy reach of the bar.
-
It’s not the worst party that Yuuri’s ever been to, mostly because he’s been left to sit in his chair and drink in peace. A couple of the other guests have recognized him well enough to wave or shout hello, but that’s about it. Phichit texted not long after he got home that he found the missing hamster hiding in a closet behind a pile of laundry, and Yuuri toasts the air to his success, then texts Phichit a picture of the raised glass. His drink empties again, and he’s starting to think of finding his way home when he hears someone suddenly say, “You! Night Owl!”
He looks up from his glass to see Lynx facing him down. There’s another guy standing behind him with black hair and dark eyes that Yuuri doesn’t recognize. If he passed them on the street, he might assume that the boy in the leather jacket he was the slender blond’s bodyguard, but Yuuri knows first hand how incredibly vicious Lynx can be in a fight. The only person in the room with less need of a bodyguard is Aura himself.
The Justice Friends technically have a junior squad for teen members who’ve just manifested their abilities. Yuuri knows this, but he can’t remember the name of it off the top of his head, and has never really known any of the kids involved. He thinks the little blond with the red streak in his hair who’s been following Twister around all night might be one of them, but he’s not positive it’s not just some Make A Wish kid.
Lynx had been on the junior team for about a month, but his skillset had made him far too lethal for the kind of fights the trainees occasionally got assigned, and at only fifteen Lynx had been graduated to full Justice Friends membership already. Yuuri’s seen him basically gouge a kaiju’s eyes out with his claws and then do a backflip off its snout. Aura had caught him before he hit the ground, but it was close. Teenagers are terrifying, and Lynx especially so.
But Yuuri’s never actually spoken to the kid before, so he’s not sure why they’re suddenly talking now. He shakes his head to clear it. His thoughts are getting fuzzy around the edges from the drinks. “Yes?”
“You need to vote Otabek in as a member later,” Lynx says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then you won’t be totally useless for once.”
Yuuri winces, but looks over at the new guy. He barely looks older than Lynx, but projects a sense of calm certainty that Yuuri notes with a little envy. “You’re Otabek? Is that your code name?”
The boy flushes and his eyes suddenly flash from brown to yellow and back again. He licks his teeth, flashing fangs. “They told me Wolfman was taken,” he mumbles, barely audible over the music and other conversations in the room. Yuuri wonders absently if the fangs make it hard to enunciate.
“We’re calling him Man-Wolf for now,” Lynx says, slamming his hand down onto the table next to Yuuri. He jumps at the noise, and the drink in Lynx’s other hand starts to slosh, splashing the table. “His name isn’t important, though. You have to vote for him to join!”
Yuuri narrows his eyes at the kid, focus shifted. “Wait, what do you have in that glass? Aren’t you fifteen?”
Lynx huffs, pushing his hair back with one hand, then shoves the drink into Yuuri’s shoulder instead. “Fine, you have it then. Will you vote for him or not?”
Yuuri grabs the drink and dips his head to take a sip from the straw, then nearly chokes. It must be pure vodka, possibly rubbing alcohol. What the hell? “Sure,” he coughs, eyes watering behind his mask. “That’s fine.”
Lynx just nods at him and stalks off, but Otabek pauses and pats him gingerly on the back while he coughs. “Thanks,” Yuuri says. “Have you and Lynx been… friends for very long?”
Otabek looks down at the floor, his face gravely serious. “We trained together when he was still on the Little Friends.”
Yuuri looks the boy over closely. He doesn’t know him, and admittedly doesn’t even know Lynx that well aside from his skill in battles, but Man-Wolf or whatever he calls himself seems calm and stable. That’s exactly what Lynx needs more of on this team. God knows Twister and JJ won’t be winning any awards for psychological consistency. He’s not sure anyone on this team qualifies as a good role model for a kid, Aura aside.
“Welcome to the team,” he says, even though he’s in no position to promise that, and Otabek looks up and quietly beams in return. Yuuri starts to rummage through his head for proper adult advice he can give, but then Lynx calls his friend from across the room and, with a nod to Yuuri, Otabek jogs off to continue campaigning for votes.
Yuuri is watching them attempt to work the room, drink rested on his knee, when something warm and wet slides across the back of his hand. He jumps out of his chair, sending it screeching across the wood floor as he clutches his hand to his chest. He half expects to find Chris or JJ pulling some weird trick on him, but the offender turns out to be a fluffy brown dog, still sniffing around the base of his chair. “Hello there,” he says, moving his drink to the table and then extending his hand again for the puppy to smell properly. “You scared me a little there. How’d you get in here?”
“So, the mysterious Night Owl is vulnerable to angry kittens and cute puppies? Those are dangerous weaknesses for a superhero.” Yuuri freezes. He doesn’t need to turn around to know who just said that. He knows the voice instantly from a thousand video interviews. His heart is suddenly racing as his mind scrambles to decode what’s being said and that it’s being addressed to him. While he’s distracted, Aura steps around to stand directly in front of him. “You not only came to my party, but you’re staying for the vote? Is this a new, improved Night Owl?”
Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. He takes a big sip of his drink, then remembers when the taste hits his tongue that it’s still the foul thing he confiscated from Lynx. He has to bite his lip to make himself swallow the pure alcohol without coughing in front of his hero, and his eyes water at the corners, vision blurring. He gets the last of the liquid down without choking, burning through his system and warming his blood. He can feel his cheeks starting to flush already. “Yeah,” he says dumbly. “Well, Lynx made a very passionate argument.”
Aura laughs and holds his hand out. Yuuri stares at the outstretched hand, uncomprehending. Slowly, he presses his drink into Aura’s palm, but the other man just laughs again and pulls away. “No, no, keep that,” he says. “I’m trying to formally introduce myself. I don’t think we’ve really gotten to talk. I’m Victor.”
Given that Yuuri just tried to hand the man his drink, he expects the next words out of his own his own treacherous mouth will be something like ‘I know that’ or ‘of course’ or, worst possibility of all ‘Victor Mikhail Nikiforov’. To his relief, he winds up on the much less embarrassing. “Ah, yes, that is, well-”
Then the most powerful superhero in the world suddenly kneels at Yuuri’s feet. He’s not sure if it’s the image making his head spin or the alcohol, but he grabs the edge of the table just in case. Victor just starts petting the dog, which Yuuri had completely forgotten was even there. “And this is Makkachin! She’s the best girl ever, except when she’s naughty and breaks out of her den to visit, like right now.” He hugs the dog around the neck, and that’s some image in itself. Yuuri has seen Aura pick up full-sized cars and snap guns in half with his hands, and here he is on the floor, gently holding a big fluffy dog while she slobbers on his perfectly symmetrical face.
He stands up and smiles at Yuuri, tilting his head like a puppy himself, but Yuuri can’t imagine what he’s waiting for. “Oh,” Victor exclaims suddenly, putting his hand up to his mouth. “I’m sorry, of course you have a secret identity. Don’t feel pressured to tell me your real name.” Ah, that’s what he wanted from Yuuri, of course, and he’s just standing here like a dork.
“Night Owl is just fine,” Victor says, his tone subdued, as if they’re sharing a secret. “Personally, I don’t blame you for wanting privacy.”
It clicks together with Yuuri’s train of thought from earlier in the night, and he hears himself saying in return, “I think it’s so sad, how you never got to make that choice.”
His own voice is muffled, and the whole moment feels like he’s watching from the other end of a long hallway. Victor’s expression freezes, then goes totally cold, the light in his eyes shuttered away. Yuuri stutters to try and correct himself, or to apologize, but before he can say anything coherent Victor’s face just drops. “You’re right,” he says, stroking the dog’s head. “It is sad. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get Makkachin back to her room. It was nice meeting you.”
Then, Yuuri’s childhood hero turns and walks away, holding his dog by the collar. Yuuri grabs a straw he discarded on the table earlier, sticks it into his glass, and tries to drink quickly enough that he won’t taste the liquid inside.
The rest of the evening is a blur. Yuuri remembers music, and laughter, and talking with a few new people, although not what they were talking about. In a moment of some clarity, he stands up to go find the bathroom, only to feel the alcohol rush to his head and realize he’s not so steady on his feet. He stumbles, but manages to find his way back to the front entryway while only bumping a few people. One of those is Twister, who seizes him by the waist with a laugh and begins to spin them. That does nothing for Yuuri’s balance, and he feels himself slipping out of his grasp.
Before he can hit the floor, someone catches him under his arms and hauls him back to his feet. “Are you okay?” He finds himself up close and personal with the familiar blue eyes and shining silver locks of his idol and sighs happily.
“Hey!” Another voice, angry, from a much smaller person. “You’re not leaving before we vote, are you? You promised! I traded you my drink!”
“Your drink? Yuri, what the hell did you give him? He’s a mess!”
There’s a mumbled response that Yuuri can’t quite parse, maybe in another language. He slings his arm around Victor’s waist to hold himself up, and rests his head on the taller man’s shoulder. He closes his eyes for just a moment, and then someone is shaking him. It’s Victor still. Yuuri smiles. “Victor! You’re comfortable.”
“Thank you,” the other man says solemnly. “Night Owl- damn, I wish I knew your name right now. I need to know how long it normally takes you to metabolize alcohol.”
Yuuri shakes his head and nearly loses his balance again, but Victor is still holding him, which is great. He’s so strong. “Regular time, I guess,” Yuuri says helpfully.
Victor is frowning now, and that’s not good. Yuuri extends one finger, and places it directly in the center of the frown line on Victor’s forehead. “You don’t have an advanced metabolism?”
Ah, of course. Most of the people at the party have super speed or super healing or something else super duper. They all process things like calories and alcohol faster than normal humans. Yuuri doesn’t have any of that, so he says, “Nope!” Then he loses track of the conversation again.
At some point, Yuuri must have given Victor his phone, or else Victor dug it out of his back pocket, because Victor calls Phichit. He puts Yuuri on the phone, but Yuuri mostly says things like, “Phichit! Phichit I’m at the party with Victor!” He says this more than once, apparently, because Phichit keeps telling him to stop. Finally, Victor takes the phone back. There’s a lot of talking he can’t hear because he’s only here with Victor and Phichit isn’t here, but in the end Victor hangs up the phone, puts it back into his pocket, and starts to lead him out of the room.
“You touched my butt,” he tells Victor. Then, “where are we going?” He cranes his head back over his shoulder at the party. People are definitely looking at him, possibly everyone, and something unpleasant starts to creep up his spine. Then he remembers that he’s with Victor, so they’re probably staring at Victor, and the bad feeling melts away.
“I’m taking you home,” Victor says, pulling Yuuri toward the front door by his waist. Something bothers him about that, but he can’t remember what it is, especially not once Victor suddenly bends and picks him up, cradling him against his chest like a bride. “Don’t throw up on me,” he says, and before Yuuri can ask why he’d do that he realizes they’re stepping outside, and then they’re in the air.
As soon as Yuuri looks down, he feels nauseous. He quickly closes his eyes, which makes it worse, because he can feel the movement of the air around him, but can’t see anything. “I feel sick,” he admits.
“Just look at me instead of the ground.”
Since he’s been given permission, Yuuri stares up at Victor’s face. His silvery hair reflects the starlight, haloed by the deep blue of the night sky as the cold air whips around them. “So beautiful,” he whispers. He could be talking about the stars. He wraps his arms tightly around Victor’s neck.
Too quickly, the start to descend. Yuuri looks down to find them hovering over the squat brown brick building he knows all too well. He can see the dead community garden on the roof, and the bright ember of Takeshi’s secret cigarette outside the Nishigoris’ window. “Which balcony is yours?” Yuuri points to his usual fire escape entry window, and Victor guides them down to it, depositing Yuuri on the rusty metal platform, which groans slightly under their combined weight.
“Thank you,” he tells Victor, who is busy looking around at the outside of the building and down into the alley below. He starts to pull at the window, but can’t quite get it to come up. It tends to stick. “For the ride, I guess. I’ve got it from here.”
“Let me help,” Victor interjects. He pulls at the window with one hand, and it pops right open. Something audibly snaps. The joys of super strength. Then Yuuri realizes that Victor is now peering inside his apartment and he almost stumbles off the fire escape in his rush to block the view. Instead, Victor catches him by the shoulders again, and Yuuri finds himself staring directly into his idol’s concerned eyes. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? I could stay.”
“Yes,” Yuuri swats at his hands lightly, a fly pushing on a lion. “I’m fine, mother.” Victor just huffs a laugh and, to Yuuri’s shock, plants a kiss on the top of his head. He looks up to find the other man looking flushed, but it could just be the wind bringing color to his cheeks. “Good night,” Yuuri says quietly.
“Good night,” Victor repeats, and then he takes to the air again, leaving nothing but an imprint on Yuuri’s eyelids and a quickly vanishing streak among the other stars.
Yuuri crawls in through the window, pulls off his boots and jacket, and drops on the bed with his mask still on.