Work Text:
[ abstract with a human heart ]
There was a saying, out in the desert, that the longer you ran the sooner you were caught - like the ghosts would rise up from the sands and give you the demons you’ve been avoiding, and if you asked Poison, that was exactly what it felt like to be in love.
It was to face every dark part of yourself and say that you still deserved love, that you still deserved to love. To face the parts of you covered in blood and let someone clean it off with a rag and a promise on the tip of their tongue.
It was to let someone be the oxygen that you breathed and then, when they were gone, trust that they would come back. Sometimes it left wounds so bad they’d never heal, gashes across the heart like a birdcage carved into a bleeding heart.
Kobra wasn’t ready for that.
He wasn’t ready to look in the mirror, let alone to let someone burn away the harsh set to his eyes he’d put there to make sure that no one tried to look past what he showed them. He was the Kobra Kid, and he’d kill for his crew, but there was nothing to it beyond that.
He didn’t fall in love.
He didn’t know how Poison did it, fell in love with his heart on his cheek like it was something that could be replaced whenever he needed it to be. The way Poison fell into it like it was natural like it wasn’t anything more than a pretty smile and… and he didn’t get that. Kobra didn’t get that.
Pony had explained what they were, once, to Kobra; aromantic and asexual, doll, don’t wanna sleep with no one and don’t feel the need to be in a relationship. Don’t mean I can’t love, though, and you don’t forget it.
Kobra hadn’t. It wasn’t what… he was, though, and he knew that. He didn’t love romantically, sure, but… But there was always a part of him that wanted what Poison had.
And, well, Hyper Thrust knew him well enough that he certainly wasn’t asexual - ace, he thought Pony shortened it to sometimes - or anything like that.
Destroya be damned, it wasn’t something he particularly felt like thinking about.
“Kobes? You good?” Ghoul asked, loud and high-pitched from somewhere in the grimy old industrial kitchen - probably in the dishwasher, from the way his raspy voice echoed through the room, down to Kobra’s make-shift bedroom.
Kobra groaned, rolling off the old, uncomfortable twin mattress in the corner of his room - an emptied out, defunct restaurant freezer, with a heavy door and dented silver walls - onto the floor, tile covered in blankets and newspaper. “The fuck do you want?”
“Fine, I’ll eat your Power Pup!”
“That shouldn’t sound like as much of an innuendo as it does!” That was Poison, snickering, probably by the non-working stove, though Kobra’s forehead had just waged a losing battle with a bottle that had, apparently, been left on the floor.
Kobra hissed, gritting his teeth and refusing to acknowledge his plight further than flipping the bottle off once he’d gotten his bearings well enough to stand up, his leather jacket too tight around his shoulders and stupid blond hair blocking his vision.
Where the fuck were his sunglasses?
When the fuck had he zoned out? Destroya, he hated when he zoned out like that. Always lost track of time and ended up hitting his head on something. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’, just stop yelling.”
“What, you hungover?”
Kobra didn’t have the energy to do more than flip Poison off, too, spotting his sunglasses on the corner of the counter - above the dishwasher -, hidden next to a few dirty pans with something smelly rotting on them. “Unless I can get hungover from listening to you sweet-talk everything with opposable thumbs, then no. Just fuckin’ bright out here. What happened to the curtains?”
“We opened them.” Just like Kobra had expected, Ghoul was crammed into the dishwasher, his torso, legs, and arms all scrunched up into the small space while his head peaked out, messy black hair touching the disgusting tile floor while he stared up at the condiment stains on the ceiling. “Because it’s starting to cool down and most of us needed a wake-up call.”
“You and Jet needed a wake-up call,” Poison corrected.
Kobra rolled his eyes. “Jet won’t wake up. But thanks for the rude awakening, I was thinkin’. What’s on the menu, slop or more slop?”
Poison smiled brightly, in the mocking way only they could, and handed him a can of the dog food, hell on a plate with the texture of slime. Disgusting. “Slop. Kept it cold so you didn’t vomit it up again.”
“That was one time.”
“That was one time too many.”
“Shut the fuck up, Ghoul,” Kobra said easily, without sparing a glance at the mischievous killjoy, who seemed to bear no ill-will as he stuck his tongue out at Kobra.
Kobra took the can, and took the spoon Poison held out with that same goddamn grin, and ambled away to find one of the Diner’s more put-together booths; usually, he’d sit on the counter or keep Poison company or something, but seeing him and Ghoul being all mushy and domestic and them made Kobra’s stomach turn.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Ghoul. Or that he was against Poison finding love or anything, because Kobra didn’t even want to process how many layers of fucked-up that would be, there was just… something about it he didn’t understand.
Poison loved freely.
Poison’s love burned the same color as the sunlight trickling into the diner booths, low and orange and pink, heart eyes and a horizon to die for, a constant every day after a burning that would leave you less than a skeleton if you weren’t careful with it.
Ghoul, on the other hand, was more like when you met a feral cat in the middle of Route Guano, broken and starved and matted with blood but still trusting when he didn’t try to run away from you, who wouldn’t accept your help but would let you brush out his hair when he couldn’t do it himself. He’d give up everything just to make you smile but he wouldn’t let you do a damn thing for him.
Poison loved like a bomb; Ghoul loved like a martyr. And Kobra worried about how it would end, how it would blow up - whether Poison would detonate, and whether Ghoul would be the source of that detonation or not.
Love was a waste of time. It was as confusing and bland and dangerous as the fucking sludge he was eating as he thought about it, tucked away in the corner of a faded blue booth with tally marks etched into the fading, polished wood table.
_
“Kobra Kid, Kobra Kid, I’ve heard of you.”
Kobra didn’t know why he let Ghoul talk him into this in the first place.
Ghoul had wanted to go down to Bayside Runners to pick up some bomb stuff, supplies he said he needed for his next order - considering that usually got them a hell of a lot of carbons, Kobra agreed to go along.
He forgot that Bayside Runners was one of the creepiest fucking places in the Zones… and that a lot of the more goth-chasing members of the desert fucking loved the place.
He didn’t attempt to smile, hoping the stranger got the hint, even if they couldn’t see his eyes beyond his Ray-Bans. “Hope you have.”
He didn’t say more than that.
The stranger pressed on, dark, curly hair and warm brown skin, and strangely visible canines. They seemed to have an affinity for the aforementioned goth look, but the hints of gold and red to his jacket and boots gave him away as more of a racer than a Revenge Widow. “You’re the star of the Crash Track. Funny to find you here, isn’t it?”
“Mind me if I don’t find the humor.” Destroya, Kobra didn’t want to keep talking.
Light had long-since faded from the horizon, painting a million stars across the cloudless sky, and none of that helped calm Kobra’s nerves - he could hear the old wooden supports of Bayside Runners wanting to give away, collapse under the weight.
He was standing on the opposite side of some broken-in glass, that was supposed to separate the old, emptied out pool from the changing rooms or lobby or something like that, while Ghoul scrounged around the various explosive materials and parts for whatever he needed.
Look, bombs weren’t his thing; he couldn’t explain a bomb as well as he could explain the acceleration of a motorbike when the wind speed picked up and the sand had shifted onto the track.
The stranger pressed on. Fuck. “I get that. You’re one of the Fabulous Killjoys, right? Everyone in the Zones talks about you. I don’t think you’ve done anything worth the attention.”
“We haven’t. The Zones clings onto whoever it can when there’s no one else starting the riots and making color another rebellion. We started doing that, they got attached.”
“Optimistic, I see. My name is Mr. Sandman. He/him.”
Great, Kobra thought, filing that information away for never. “Cool. Part of your gang here?”
Regardless of how little Kobra felt like conversing, it was always a good idea to get a gauge of what you were dealing with - it helped him out mostly when he got himself backed into a corner with Dracs or whether he was deciding to start a bar fight or not.
Sandman gave a shrug, looking over at Ghoul. Probably thinking the same thing. Dammit. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m a Suiteheart, s’name of our gang. Some of us were creative.”
“We didn’t name ourselves.” Though Kobra did have to admit, The Fabulous Killjoys spoke more to their ego than anything - but it wasn’t like they named themselves that, it just caught on, and eventually they couldn’t change it. “I think I’ve heard of you. Doctor a little off his rocker? Racer that doesn’t know what he’s doing? The two shadows in the background?”
Well, when you were like the Kobra Kid, you made it your business to know about everyone - if not by face, then by reputation. Because not everyone idolized them, and it took one particularly bad night of firefights for Poison to realize that his reputation wasn’t the best among certain types.
Ergo, Kobra kept track of big names and opinions.
If Sandman seemed startled, he didn’t show it, though his mouth tilted to the side in what could be a range of many different emotions. Kobra wasn’t very good at analyzing expressions, so he chose to leave it that way. “Yeah, that’s us. Benzedrine is the doctor, he’s here with me. I think he has history with Ghoul over there.”
That wasn’t right. Something about it wasn’t right, but Kobra didn’t ask, instead giving a non-committal nod and glancing back at the Killjoy himself, still scrounging around the bottom of the pool.
Hey, at least Sandman was pretty.
Kobra wasn’t one to pay attention to looks unless he’d been drinking a little too much, but he could recognize when someone was attractive - the goth racer look worked for Sandman, messy hair and dark eyes and probably a big smile, from the worn little smile lines around his mouth.
Before Kobra could think about that all too much, Ghoul was shouting, but hadn’t looked up from the pool. “Stop chatting and help me out, would you? I didn’t bring you along for conversation, dude!”
“Not like you were making any, anyway,” Kobra huffed, though not in annoyance. Ghoul could be frustrating, but once you lived with him for five years, then you got used to it- the only part of Ghoul that miffed Kobra, at this point, was still the dating Poison part.
Destroya, it was just weird to think about.
Groaning internally, Kobra gave Sandman a half-nod as a dismissal and turned to help Ghoul grab whatever the hell he needed.
Ghoul dating Poison. It was certainly new, though it wasn’t… unexpected. Jet and Kobra had been making bets for years once they saw how goddamn in love Poison and Ghoul were, but they’d only recently confessed to each other - and while star-gazing on the roof, no less- but it was odd, the way they talked to each other now.
They weren’t dancing around each other, with close-calls and late nights wondering what they could inevitably say, there were no more puppy dog eyes when the other wasn’t looking - it wasn’t blind adoration, it was open-eyed devotion.
Devotion wasn’t something you messed with. The most devotion Kobra had given to anything other than the rebellion and his crew was probably all lost in harsh kisses in backrooms at Hyper Thrust, so he didn’t quite know what the fuck Ghoul and Poison had.
Well, it was love, but as Kobra said, he didn’t fall in love. He didn’t get it.
As he started getting various metal items piled into his arms, by a rather over-eager Ghoul, he completely forgot about meeting Sandman, and his bad mood faded away. It was a quieter mood, now, his thoughts still stuck on the concept of love and all that.
He didn’t understand it, romantically at the least. He did, but he didn’t.
He didn’t want to show his darkest parts to anyone. He hadn’t done that with Poison, and they’d grown up together - Poison had seen him on his worst nights, back when he wasn’t much more than another uniform given a gun, but they’d never brought it up. A thing of the past was a thing of the past.
Love didn’t stay in the past, though, it seemed, or else Ghoul and Poison respectively would’ve given up on their strange crushes that turned from infatuation to, again, devotion. To love.
Destroya, it was strange.
Ghoul and Poison were fucking opposites in everything and they were so in love and gushy and they weren’t cold with each other like Kobra had been to Sandman, or pretty much anyone he’d talked to that was outside of his usual circle - they were gushy and melty and all of that dramatic, dangerous stuff, even though they knew it might get them killed if they worried too much.
How the fuck did they manage it without wanting to, like, suddenly fight? To break everything off? They’d certainly had their fair share of fights over the years, but Kobra supposed neither Ghoul nor Poison had the same type of anger coursing through their veins as he did.
Something to think about. But Kobra, Kobra himself? Maybe that was what it was. Maybe his anger stopped him from falling in love.
He was cold to those he met and it wasn’t like he ever tried to give romance a chance.
Kobra Kid didn’t fall in love.
_
The next time Kobra ran into Sandman, they were in the nightclub Kobra fancied, and he was more startled than he was surprised.
Hyper Thrust, like he’d mentioned before, was somewhat of his get-away - it was run by a friend (Ghoul’s older sister, actually, a woman with narrowed eyes and strangely large platform boots - NewsAGoGo) and she liked to say he was half the reason the damn business was still running, so unless he planned on getting shitfaced, admittance and drinks were free.
Luckily, he didn’t plan on drinking any, actually, content to sit on the sidelines and watch the various Killjoys dance - tight dresses and dramatic make-up and sweat clinging to skin, bedroom eyes, and licked lips. Stuff like that.
The lights flashed over the dance floor, a melodic blue purple purple red pink, pastel instead of the usual neon, and he didn’t even know why he was there.
He didn’t want to dance. He didn’t want to forget his problems in a kiss, didn’t feel like drinking so much he woke up in a wheelbarrow without a shirt on.
He was angry.
And, usually, when Kobra was angry, he would go out to the Diner’s garage and hit the punching bag until his knuckles were bleeding and his feet were so red that they might as well be, but Ghoul was working on the ‘Am, so that wasn’t an option.
So, Kobra went to Hyper Thrust.
It wasn’t helping his mood. He had his usual adornments on, a shirt low enough to show the snaking serpent over his collarbones, to his shoulders, eyeliner ringing around his sun-burned eyes (there wasn’t much to show off, but he liked the way it looked. More mysterious, colder. ), but the taste of regret and bitterness was new on his tongue.
Poison didn’t understand. He never did. He never wanted to!
It was all about - it was all about rebellion, to him, all bright colors and firefights and he didn’t stop to think about the people he left in his wake and soon enough, Kobra would be one of them, and he was sick of it. He didn’t want to be another ghost of the past.
And whenever he thought about that, he yelled. Loud, booming, shrill - whatever you wanted to describe his voice as, he still yelled, because it was what he knew and it was the only thing that would ever truly get Poison’s attention.
It always worked, and Poison always yelled right back, until it was the two of them in each other’s faces, about ready to save the formalities and just swing for it, brought up to their limits in ways only a brother could do.
So, yeah, Kobra was angry, and he’d stormed out because he didn’t want to be the one left behind - so he was the one that left.
He’d be back by morning, or maybe next week, he didn’t know and he didn’t care. Hyper Thrust usually provided solace where the Crash Track couldn’t - it was closed this time of night, three in the morning with the stars painting a mural across the sky -, but not this time.
It was just his luck that someone approached him, someone familiar, though this time Sandman had more eyeliner smeared across his face than even Kobra did.
(It worked for him, Kobra had to admit - just as much as the goth racer thing did.)
“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” Sandman said, reminiscent of their first meeting, mumbling despite the steady beat of music throughout the club, keeping it alive whether its patrons were moody Killjoys with a bad bleach job.
Kobra shrugged, his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, and he thought that much was obvious. And he clearly didn’t want to dance, if that was what Sandman was going to ask.
Sandman didn’t pry. Kobra appreciated that. (He also appreciated the silver glitter coating Sandman’s bare shoulders, lips, and nose. It was almost endearing.) “Y’know, this place gets a hell of a lot more interesting when you aren’t standing against the wall pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You’re on the side of the wall in a nightclub, wearing sunglasses, with your arms crossed. You’re either pouting or trying far too hard to be sexy-brooding, which you don’t fit at all.”
If Kobra frowned, he wouldn’t admit it, finally turning to fully face Sandman. “I’d like to think that someone finds me sexy.”
“They probably do. But, like, you ain’t no Batman, so stop standing there acting like Catwoman’s gonna jump in for a dance.”
Kobra blinked.
Sandman sighed like they were old friends catching up and he’d brought up an embarrassing memory. “I’m sure you have no idea who they are. I’ll show you, sometime. If you stop pouting.”
Unsurprisingly considering his current mood, Kobra blurted, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you keep talking to me? I’ve been nothing but a dick to you, and for good reason. So why do you talk as though we’ll be chatting again?”
“Because I have no doubt in my mind, Kobra Kid, that we will talk again.” Well, that wasn’t cryptic at all. And a little creepy, now that he thought about it, though Sandman quickly continued with a wince. “I mean, well, I see you around a lot, I just don’t talk to you. You seem quiet, but not that much of a dick. Dry wit, maybe.”
“And you aren’t discouraged at all about this?”
“Should I be?”
Now that Sandman said it… Kobra didn’t mind talking to him all too much, actually, even back at Bayside. He hadn’t been in the mood for conversation, sure, but Sandman hadn’t grated on his nerves as some people could.
And, you know, maybe he did need someone babbling in his ear. That way he didn’t get lost in his thoughts again, didn’t end up thinking about how angry he was, and how easy it would be to run away and never look back.
He wasn’t seventeen anymore. He didn’t get the luxury of looking at life through the lens of a shitty teen movie - he didn’t get to run away whenever he wanted to escape his problems, not anymore, and maybe he never had, but it was nice to think about.
So, he nodded, unfocused eyes behind his sunglasses. And then he shook his head, brought back to the sidelines of the dancefloor. “Er, I guess not. You’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself, you know.”
“I do know,” Sandman smiled, not quite genuine but not quite fake, either. “Say, it’s a little loud out here, you wanna get to know each other? Talk?”
“If that’s your version of a pick-up line, you should try again because I reject.”
“Trying again implies I still have a chance! But no, I’m not trying to pick you up, and that wasn’t a pick-up line. You seem like you have a whole world going on behind those sunglasses. You should let me get a glimpse of it.”
Despite Sandman’s statements about his pick-up lines, Kobra still muttered, “your flirting skills need work,” though he was already bee-lining for the exit, Sandman in tow.
And maybe he was smiling, a little, too. It wasn’t often anyone asked just to talk to him, and for it to have happened at Hyper Thrust? Unheard of.
Unheard of, and appreciated.
Maybe Kobra should try to get to know him, too. Not many people were willing to give up their night of partying and clubbing to talk to him.
The night air bit into his skin, despite the jacket covering his shoulders, so Kobra could only imagine how cold Sandman was, lacking a shirt and all that. (Kobra noted, dully, that he was pretty toned, but Sandman still had a bit of a tummy, and it was fucking amazing.)
“So,” Sandman started, leaning against one of the nightclub’s neon-painted concrete walls. had to fashion things out of concrete and cement to get them to last through the weather, nowadays. “What’s up with you, Batman? Lost your Robin?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” For some reason, Kobra smiled. Ugh. “But it’s nothin’ much. I have a reputation to keep up, you know, I can’t be talking to strangers about random issues.”
“You’ve met me before, I can’t believe you’d ever think of us as strangers!” Sandman clutched at his heart like Kobra had committed a mortal sin in front of him and was going to be dragged down to hell at any moment. “Seriously, though. Maybe a stranger is better to talk to. It’s not like I’m in your daily life enough to make it an issue for you.”
Kobra strugged, holding his jacket closer to himself - damn, usually he adjusted to the temperature by now -, staring up at the galaxy clusters of stars dotting the sky. “Maybe. Or maybe not, I dunno. It all seems trivial in retrospect.”
“This isn’t retrospect, Kobra Kid, so what’s bothering you? No one comes to Hyper Thrust without the intention of a good time.”
“You certainly didn’t come with the intent of talking to me.”
“I didn’t. I’m the designated driver for my friend, Rising Phoenix. I believe you called him one of two shadows last time we talked. Xe doesn’t like the spotlight very much, or clubs, but break-ups will do that to you, I suppose. Know what I mean?”
No, Kobra didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t understand love and he didn’t understand break-ups and he didn’t understand how Sandman was so randomly sharing so much information without a care in the world, secure in the fact that it wouldn’t come back and bite him in the ass.
Or he was just incredibly stupid.
But looking at him, making vague hand gestures at the sky and the club, he wasn’t stupid - Kobra could see the intelligence glimmering behind his eyes as easily as he could see the charcoal lining said eyes.
It was trust, Kobra realized with a start. A hesitant, for-the-night kind of trust, a one-night deal freely given, no strings attached.
It would sound a hell of a lot like a one-night stand if they weren’t standing outside, and -
And Kobra quirked a brow, seeing how Sandman was shaking, goosebumps all up his skin. And with that hesitant, one-night trust, Kobra swallowed and slid his jacket off his shoulders, handing it over without a word, daring Sandman to say anything about it.
Sandman made eye contact with him, though didn’t say a word as he put the jacket on, sleeves far too long on him when he crossed them, for warmth most likely.
After a long moment, Kobra spoke. “I think I might be a ghost in the making. That sounds stupid, really, because we all are, but... But when you live with a guy like Party Poison, it’s all up in your face all the time. One day you’re going to be left alone. Another ghost. And I hate that, so I fight it. I scream and I yell and I raise my voice and so does he and all it ever does is start a fistfight.”
“Can’t say I know many siblings who actually get into fistfights,” Sandman mumbled, sensing that maybe Kobra didn’t actually want to talk about the problem. Maybe he wanted to get lost in the stars, or maybe he wanted to speak it to life so the weight wouldn’t rest on his chest anymore.
The stars were good, if not better, listeners. They watched him with a curious glance and the glitter on Sandman’s shoulders - hidden now, by Kobra’s jacket - shined the same way, curious and daunting and with the same neon that made him love the desert.
Even if the desert did, occasionally, try to kill him. (More than occasionally).
Kobra shrugged, shifting toward Sandman to accommodate his own sudden lack of heat - he was lucky he’d decided to wear an actual shirt, though Jet made fun of him to no avail for his red flannels. They came in handy tonight. Take that, Jet! “We’re special like that. I didn’t actually get into a fistfight with him tonight. Just… yelling. Everyone hates the yelling. I don’t know why I do it.”
“Because it’s the only thing that’ll get everyone to pay attention to you,” Sandman said easily, glancing at Kobra rather than the stars, like he was someone special, something to look at. Something more interesting than the stars. “And, hey, maybe sometime you’ll figure out a way to get them to listen without yelling.”
“You say it like it’s easy.”
Sandman snorted, leaning his head back against the neon wall and snapping his fingers. Well, he would be snapping his fingers, but Kobra’s jacket sleeves engulfed him. “I say it like it’s possible. And it is, you just haven’t cracked the code yet. Standing around a nightclub isn’t gonna help your attitude or your life issues, dude.”
“You’re not supposed to tell me the truth.”
“Wouldn’t be right if I was telling you anything else. You should go back home. Tell them the truth. Family’s something you gotta keep for when the nights get cold.”
“Like this?”
“Like this. That’s why I’m here when I wanted to stay at home knitting - shut up, I like knitting -, because Phoenix needed a driver and I want him to figure out whatever’s going to make him feel better. But if you’re always arguing because of some future that might never come to pass, then you’re just burning your bridges.”
Kobra sighed, shaking his head, though he knew Sandman was right. He didn’t like it when other people were right and it always seemed to make embarrassment burn in his veins, heating his face; he’d chalk it up to the cold making his face rosy, but he’d still know the truth. “I suppose you’re right. Whoever said you got to be, like, the gospel of a nightclub, huh?”
And, because Kobra didn’t like it when conversations centered on him too much, he nodded toward Sandman’s gloves, leather biker gloves with traces of gold around the hemlines. “What are those about? From the lack of a shirt, I figured you wouldn’t mind showing skin.”
“I don’t,” Sandman hummed, reaching up to tap Kobra in the nose. He succeeded in tapping Kobra’s own sleeve to his nose, and he pulled his arm back, seemingly satisfied with that. “But it’s just… I dunno, feels right. Plus it became a habit after a few odd dreams I have, so now I just wear them.”
“Doesn’t it ever get stiflingly hot?”
“It does. But hey, I’ll never burn my hands again!” Sandman waved them around, jazz hands Jet would call them, and Kobra couldn’t suppress his smile if he tried.
“Dork.”
“Dumbass.”
Maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad, Kobra thought, slipping back into easy conversation.
There was glitter stuck on the inside of his jacket when he got it back. He pretended he didn’t smile.
_
If Kobra hadn’t mentioned it before, he loathed waking up - probably more than he loathed surprise patrols, when he thought about it. His limbs never felt the right weight and his eyes stuck closed and he usually hit his head on something, trying too hard to look awake.
And, if you asked him, you never had to wake up if you never went to sleep.
That was why he took the morning watch when everyone else was sleeping the morning sun away; and he was on top of the Diner’s roof, swinging his legs over the edge and looking out at the expanse of dirt and gulches that made the desert what it was.
He could see Route Guano, covered in sand, and worn away by the sunlight when he squinted.
Normally, the sun would be too hot for anyone to bear at this time, and it was quickly becoming that way - but Kobra was in a tank top and cargo shorts rather than his usual skinny jeans and jacket, so it was easier for him than anyone else.
Plus, if you sat still enough, you’d die from the heat but a little slower. (Not like swinging his legs was considered sitting still.)
He’d have to go sit in the Diner, soon, rather than on the roof, but he appreciated the time regardless.
It was… quiet.
When you lived with the Fabulous Killjoys, quiet was never a good thing. Ghoul was always working on the ‘Am, or helping Poison paint, and Poison was always painting, or attempting to dance, and Jet was always trying to help Poison’s appalling dancing skills, (they made a great ballet dancer, Kobra had seen it first hand) or trying to find a decent way to cook Power Pup, and almost all of those activities caused racket.
So, morning time was always the most confusing. So quiet. Let him get lost in his thoughts, but not too far, because the quiet put him on edge whether he wanted it to or not.
Kobra sighed, shaking his head and letting his dirty, dirty blond hair fall into his eyes. Destroya, he needed to bleach it again sometime.
Regardless, he picked up the radio sitting next to him, changing the frequency to the same number that had been haphazardly written across his arm in blood-red ink a week or so ago.
While he wasn’t one to get attached and Kobra certainly wasn’t known for how well he made friends, it was so easy to slip into conversation with Sandman.
“You up?” Kobra asked into the radio, not quite sure whether he would be more or less confused if someone actually answered.
Most ‘joys slept through the hottest parts of the day, to keep from getting sunburns so bad they blistered, so the only ones that were ever up were ‘joys on lookout for gangs too paranoid to let their guards down, for even a second.
Kobra happened to be of that variety - Poison and Ghoul liked sleeping next to each other, so they were always opposed to the rotating watch schedule, but Jet knew what it was really for.
Kobra’s Crow days hadn’t left him long enough for his paranoia to ebb away, and Jet had lost enough people that it was a habit the two of them were never going to break.
Fuck, he wasn’t paying attention; Kobra tensed, the wind picking up and whistling past his ear enough to bring him back to reality.
Wasn’t it ironic to zone out during watch while thinking about the importance of it?
Regardless, he turned his attention back to the horizon, startling himself when crackling came out of the radio.
Fuck. Someone did answer.
“Uh, hey. Who is this?” Sandman. He had one of those voices that never really sounded bad, even when it was heavy with sleep and cracking just as much.
If Kobra’s smile quirked up, he wouldn’t admit to it; besides, he woke Sandman up. “Uh… Kobra. Sorry. It’s just quiet out here.”
“Need someone to talk to again, blondie?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll call you what I want, considering you woke me up at fuck-knows-when,” Sandman snorted, though his voice sounded warm rather than frustrated, and Kobra let himself kick his guilt to the back of his mind. “So, what’s up?”
“‘M sitting on the roof of the Diner keeping watch. Everyone’s asleep so it’s - well, way too quiet like I said.”
“Aw, you choose me as your conversation partner? How nice!”
Kobra would’ve said something like well, you were the first frequency I thought of, but that wasn’t true and he chalked up the sudden flare of heat to his face as the sun burning down on him. “You’re good at talking. It’s a little scratchy through the radio, though.”
“That’s because we don’t have face-time anymore, dude.”
“What’s face-time?”
“It’s a pre-Analog Wars thing,” Sandman sighed, and Kobra could hear the eye roll through the radio. “You want company on your watch? I think Detonator’s on look-out for us right now, but he’s probably napping, honestly.”
“Security at your base sounds tight,” said Kobra, about as dry as the surroundings in his vision.
Sandman tsked. “Well, it’s a little difficult to find in the first place, so I can’t say we’re too worried about a break-in. Seriously, though, you want company? Radios aren’t the same as in person. And I suppose I like seeing your face sometimes.”
“Careful, someone might call you attached.” But Kobra was smiling, and his face was red, and it was a new feeling and he didn’t like it.
Maybe he needed to go sit inside the Diner after all. The sun was getting to him, clearly.
“Yeah, yeah. Two conversations with a guy and he calls you attached. Schoolboy stuff, frat boy. I’ll be over soon - the Diner on the border of 3 and 4, right?”
“Yeah. How did you - and what’s a frat boy?”
“You told me the other night. And it’s another thing I’ll explain later.”
Kobra was pretty damn sure he didn’t tell Sandman about the Diner. But it wasn’t like he minded not having to give directions - it wasn’t like the Diner was a secret or anything, and perhaps his fame was useful every once in a while.
So, he smiled, letting the sunlight bask over him for moments before climbing down from the roof - jumping the last part and getting a stark reminder about how he broke his ankle a year or so ago.
Yeah, don’t do that. Still, his nerves were practically alight when he made his way into the diner, sitting on the back of one of the torn-up blue booths, and he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he was going to talk to someone other than his crew for once in his life, or maybe it was because it was weird to actually have a friend, he didn’t know.
And he didn’t care, really, because nerves were weird like that and he wasn’t going to ask about it.
It took about a half-hour of Kobra playing cards with himself in the Diner, messing around with the cards and occasionally throwing his least favorite numbers at the windows - as to still keep an eye out for trouble - for him to notice a trail of dust picking up, no doubt from a motorbike; the sound of an engine followed soon enough, practically fucking purring.
Destroya, Kobra loved motorbikes.
He wasn’t disappointed by the person on the bike, either - Sandman, though this time he was back in the pseudo-goth-racer jacket and jeans, and there wasn’t any glitter to be found - any visible glitter, at least. (Kobra thought he liked it when Sandman was shirtless, too. As a treat.)
Sandman must’ve been confident in his driving skills, considering he gave Kobra an open-mouthed grin (helmets were for suckers, Kobra agreed) and a thumbs up right before he swerved, kicking up sand with the quick press to the breaks.
Dramatic little shit. It was almost… endearing, really. And dangerous. But sweet dangerous, at the least.
Turning his attention to the cards he’d been throwing, Kobra pretended that he wasn’t all that interested, but when Sandman came in - the old bells above the door ringing at the entrance -, he immediately ruffled Kobra’s hair. “So, it’s hot as fuck out there. I really shouldn’t have worn my jacket.”
“You and temperature don’t get along well, do they?”
“Well, this might as well be the dead of night, so I wasn’t expecting to be anywhere near extreme temperatures. You’re the one who wanted me here.”
“You asked whether you should come over or not,” Kobra hummed, with a quirked brow.
Sandman was staring at his hand, the one he’d ruffled Kobra’s hair with, in confusion and a little concern, if the furrow to his brows was anything to go by. “Whatever. Dude, when was the last time you cleaned your hair?”
“Uh….” Yeah, it probably wasn’t a good thing if he had to rack his brain to figure out the last time he’d had actually clean hair. Now that he thought about it, it must be pretty disgusting, having been tucked into his helmet so many times, and the number of times he became one with the ground. “A while ago. S’not like we have too much soap.”
“At this point,” Sandman hummed, tapping Kobra’s scalp dramatically like it was radioactive or something. “You won’t be able to bleach it unless you clean it. You look like you’re in need of a touch-up and a good shower.”
“We don’t have showers,” Kobra pointed out, feigning annoyance, though he couldn’t say that he was truly too irritated. That much was correct, at least - he’d thought about it earlier, needing to bleach it again. And it was pretty dirty.
Sandman shook his head like this was absolutely unacceptable on at least fourteen levels. “Do you have any clean water? Anything to clean your hair up?”
“Why do you wanna know?” asked Kobra, though he had a feeling he knew where this was going and he didn’t know if he was okay with it or not.
Washing someone’s hair was… Like, it felt weird to him. Intimate, almost. Like dyeing someone’s hair! It was, like, a ritual or something, and it’d always felt out of place to him. He’d always bleached his own hair, cleaned his own hair. All that.
Then again, he did always feel alone.
But not with Sandman.
Sandman tapped his scalp again. “Because this needs to be cleaned. I, uh, I don’t think you can do it yourself. It’s a little caked in there, dude. It’ll be opaque when it’s cleaned - the water, that is.”
And despite everything in his head that this was way too personal way too quickly, Kobra sighed, scrubbing at his nose and shoving all that common sense to the back of his head. “Yeah, the sink still works, for some reason. Never could figure out why. If you, uh, if you clean it, you mind helping me bleach it?”
Sandman didn’t bat an eye, and for that, Kobra was grateful. He liked the beaming, real smile that was plastered onto his face, too. “Yeah, ‘course I will. What about watch, though? You said that’s why you were still up.”
For a second, all Kobra did was blink. Right. Watch. He was supposed to make sure that no one, liked, killed them in their sleep.
No one was ever out on this stretch of Route Guano, though. At least, they hadn’t the many, many times Kobra had been on lookout. And Destroya only knew that he wouldn’t get any peace if Ghoul and Poison and Jet were all awake. And Jet needed sleep, so…
Kobra grit his teeth, suddenly far more tense than he was willing to admit, and waved it all away. “S’not like I’m taking a nap. It’s fine. Um, we don’t have a lot of soap, though…”
“Soap isn’t used for hair, silly. Shampoo is. You have any of that?”
“What the fuck is shampoo?”
Another sigh, though it sounded more humorous than anything. “You live a sad, sad little life. You’ve got a sunflower on your head with all this greasy blond and dirt and you don’t even know what shampoo is.”
“Is it like soap? Like, hair soap?”
Sandman tugged on Kobra’s jacket collar, and Kobra got the hint to stand up, gesturing down the line of booths to the faded sign that said restrooms; Sandman’s grin lit up the room far more than the sunlight did. “Yeah, let’s go with hair soap. Where’s the bleach?”
“We keep all the dye in the bathrooms, easier that way,” Kobra hummed, not quite sure why he was, again, giving away so much information freely.
Considering Sandman was about to wash his hair for him, did it really matter? Sandman clearly knew him well enough by now.
So, he didn’t protest when Sandman’s hand was on the small of his back, leading him toward the bathroom, though Kobra was more than sure that he knew where was going (considering he lived here and all).
Sandman still had his gloves on, and while Kobra thought that was a little odd, it wasn’t like Kobra was going to question it.
Everyone had their dues and everyone had the things that made them feel better - other people didn’t have things that were as, you know, embarrassing as Kobra’s teddy bear.
When they got to the bathrooms - one with actual bathroom stalls -, Kobra yanked a container from underneath the only non-leaky sink (the one with all the bleaching stuff, sitting neatly next to dye of almost every color), wishing that he had his jacket right around now, because there was nothing like standing in an exposing tank top in a bathroom with someone to make you feel vulnerable.
Not that he thought Sandman was going to do anything, but… It was weird. Intimate, he would say, though he thought he’d gotten past that when he’d decided to let Sandman wash his hair.
“You gonna… Hand me the stuff or whatever?” Sandman laughed, somewhat awkward as well - like that practiced charm was falling away, and he felt just as vulnerable as Kobra, boxed in by the old, tiled walls of the bathroom.
Kobra blinked, before he slowly nodded and handed over the plastic container, filled to the brim, then pointed toward the small thing of soap they kept on one of the other sink counters. Not like there was much counter, but some things didn’t belong on the ground.
And while Sandman grabbed that, his footsteps echoing softly off the tile, Kobra struggled to figure out the best way to get his, you know, hair under the sink.
Considering his legs were long and lanky, it wasn’t like he was going to be able to stand up, so he ended up falling to his knees, hissing at the cold of the tile as he dropped - damn shorts - but still, it got his mess of a scalp under the faucet.
“Uh… This water is clean, right?” Sandman said, still hesitant, still worried like he was doing something he didn’t have the authority for.
Like he thought it was intimate, too.
Kobra hummed, feeling the vibrations of his voice from where his neck and chin were touching the weathered sink’s porcelain. “That it is. I think that’s a little helpful when it comes to cleaning, isn’t it?”
“WIth your hair? I dunno, I don’t think even the best magic in the world could get this all cleaned off,” Sandman snorted, and Kobra could hear him diligently setting the container of bleach stuff onto the ground, seeming to realize that it would be a little difficult to carry that while cleaning Kobra’s hair.
And, okay, his hair really was a mess. The more he was reminded of it, the worse it felt on his scalp, all grimy and matted and too heavy and dense.
So, when Sandman started the faucet, the handle creaking as he did so, he was expecting to feel the water drip down onto his head, and couldn’t say he was all too surprised when he couldn’t feel it at all.
He forgot he had thick fucking hair. Dirty thick hair, that hated him from the constant neglect and the constant bleaching, and fuck.
Sandman spoke his thoughts, tangling his fingers in the top layer of hair. “This might take a while. It really does look like a sunflower from your dirty ass roots if I squint! Hey, does that mean I get to call you Sunflower?”
“Weird place to get that nickname from.”
“Yeah, but only you and I have to know where I got it from. Soap isn’t the best for your hair, you know, you guys should really look into getting some shampoo and conditioner.”
“I think Jet has some.” Kobra hated the cold porcelain on his jaw. He wasn’t going to complain about it, though, because Sandman was working on his hair, and the more he did so the more Kobra could feel the soap being worked through the strands, the warm water going over his scalp.
It was… weirdly soothing.
Sandman tsked. “Then get yourself some more, because shampoo is basically soap that is good for your hair, and conditioner basically makes it all soft and stuff. Sounds like something you need if you’re bleaching it more often than washing it.”
“I don’t, uh, I don’t know the first thing about hair. If you can’t tell already.”
“Oh, Sunflower, I can tell. I’m surprised it hasn’t all fallen out by now given that. You’re not supposed to really wash your hair before bleaching, but you’re supposed to wash it. I used to dye my hair a lot, but eventually, I just let it grow out. Stopped treating it like a kid’s toy, y’know?”
“Uh… no.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense. Did you know I used to have pink hair?”
Kobra couldn’t imagine Sandman with pink hair - it didn’t seem to suit him; he had a mop of dark, messy curls, neatly trimmed to whatever size (and probably a mini-mullet, now that Kobra thought about it). Pink hair did not go with that.
And when he laughed, it mostly came out as bundles of noise against the porcelain, vibrations from his throat, and if Sandman noticed it, he didn’t say anything. “Yeah, it was a weird year. I used to have purple, too, but I didn’t like the whole Cheshire cat thing and purple is Benze’s thing, anyway. I think you would look good with, like, a streak of a different color in the front.”
“Isn’t that usually reserved for couples? You dye a lock of your hair the same color as your other half?” Kobra asked, though he felt stupid doing so. He didn’t talk about love - he’d said it before and he’d say it again, he didn’t fall in love.
Poison had a streak of black in front of his signature blood red, (he’d put it in after he realized how much the whole color streak thing meant to Ghoul. Originally, he’d wanted his blood-red to stay the same, an icon among the desert’s yellows), and Ghoul had a streak of red breaking through the black dye he was known for.
Sandman tensed; his hands stopped whatever they were doing in Kobra’s hair, and his voice was a little… rocky when he spoke. Did he still have his gloves on? Kobra couldn’t tell. “Uh, yeah. Usually.”
“I’ll tell you if I ever fall in love, then.” He already knew he wouldn’t.
Right?
And with Sandman’s fingers massaging through his hair, trying to get the tangles out with the soap and the faucet water, Kobra could lose himself in the lull, in the occasional tug on his scalp; could focus on that and only that.
Kobra Kid didn’t fall in love. But this, this he was okay with. Sandman wasn’t too bad, really.
_
If Kobra was happy not to explain the appearance of another person in the Diner, he wouldn’t admit it, but there was this sort of weight off his chest by the time Sandman left, bidding him good-bye with a grin (and Kobra might’ve indulged his softer side and bowed him good-bye because it felt silly and right and made his heart flutter a little).
The others weren’t up by the time Sandman left, and Kobra kept touching his re-done roots with this awed look on his face like there was something wondrous about the fact that someone had washed and bleached his hair for him, that it was Sandman who did that, even though he was pretty damn sure he fell asleep when his hair was being scrubbed with the limited amount of soap they had.
And that was the end of that, he thought.
The Kobra Kid was cold and he didn’t get starry-eyed thinking about someone, certainly did not, and three fucking months went by, and not any of his and Sandman’s conversations had stopped giving him a stupid fucking smile that wouldn’t leave his face for an hour.
And, ironically, his roots hadn’t faded as much as he thought they’d have, in those three months; if Ghoul had known about them all, he would have joked and said that his roots hadn’t faded because his infatuation hadn’t.
Kobra was known for getting obsessed with things for a good half a year or so before he let them fade into the background - hacking, mechanics, and for a good dark year there, bar fighting.
Ghoul would say Sandman was his new obsession.
And since Kobra’s making this theory up in his head, he’s not sure whether he would agree or disagree with Ghoul in that scenario, especially as he slides his GOOD LUCK helmet over his head, letting the action make all of his thoughts fade to the background as the sound of the engine took over.
He’d probably wake somebody up, starting up his motorbike at this time of night, when it was too cold to be awake (but not yet noon, which was also when they slept. It was a very effective system.), but he didn’t particularly care.
He was tired, he couldn’t sleep, and his teddy bear was tucked into his zipped-up jacket.
Because he wasn’t as dumb as he’d lead you to believe, Kobra had left a note on the Diner’s counter, saying something about running an errand (though he hadn’t said anything about it prior), and he’d tucked his radio away in his pocket.
It was fine. He was fine. It was just a nightmare.
A nightmare that woke him up, that got him thinking about the future and about what it would feel like when he was all alone again, alone in a big scary world because he was a ghost in the making and he didn’t have someone by his side.
He wasn’t Poison. He didn’t get Ghoul by his side - which he didn’t want, in the first place, but it was the concept that he was pining for.
He wasn’t Jet. He didn’t get to stay up until ungodly hours talking on the radio with Gear while she was at her latest concert, didn’t get anyone by his side.
His crew would always be there for them, he knew that, but he wasn’t their priority. He knew, he knew romance wasn’t the most important type of relationship, knew that his crew having found the people that made them happy didn’t mean he meant anything less to them, but…
But his night terrors didn’t care about what was fact and he wasn’t going to bother any of them with the insecurities they had caused.
And so, that’s why Route Guano burned underneath the tires of his bike, loud and fast and he almost wished he didn’t have his helmet on, wished he could feel the night air biting against his skin until he got frostbite just to wake him up, but he didn’t have as much of a deathwish as he used to.
Besides, if he was going to die in a motorbike accident, then his teddy bear - Runway - didn’t get subject to the same fate. He was too good for that.
Sandman’s. He was going over to Sandman’s. Right.
Everything about riding had always been grounding for Kobra. Switch the gear, slam break, press clutch. Drift to the side - not enough that you ruin another good pair of jeans. Zone out until it’s only you and your destination and everyone else is nothing more than a figment of your imagination and you’re the only one who can make your own damn destiny.
He wasn’t shaking, anymore, when he swerved the bike to the side and barely remembered to throw the kickstand down, to take the keys out of the ignition before he was knocking frantically on the door of a surprisingly domestic-looking house.
It wasn’t, really. The house itself was only so well maintained because of the metal lining the inside of the walls - it was some rich dude’s personal apocalypse bunker, and Kobra had been in the underground maze of a basement so many times in the last three months that he could map it out with his eyes closed.
The door opened, though it wasn’t who Kobra wanted to see.
Dr. Benzedrine squinted through a heavy tangle of blond-and-purple hair, his lab coat hanging limply around his shoulders like it was just as pissed off to be woken up as the doctor himself was. Eventually, all he did was sigh, shuffling to the side to give Kobra enough room to walk into the hallway. “Sandy’s in the basement. Think he’s up drawin’ somethin’ or somethin’.”
And Benzedrine was gone in a flash; for a guy with as loud of an outfit as he wore, he always knew how to disappear when he wanted to.
That, or Kobra was so stuck on what was plaguing him that he didn’t care where Benzedrine went, his eyes already tracking the path to the basement, to Sandman, the one that would make the nightmare stop playing behind his eyelids now that his helmet was gone and his bike was parked and all he had when the teddy bear pressed to his chest like a lifeline.
The Suitehearts’ base was easy to navigate, especially when all you had to do was take a left turn into the kitchen, and walk right past where the last few kitchen cabinets were supposed to be - to the pressure-sensitive plate sitting on the floor where the other same-colored tile was supposed to be, that lowered far too slowly into what used to be a sleek, stainless steel base.
Nowadays, it looked more like a teenage boy’s bedroom, with decorative (and real) weapons lining the walls, along with posters, a couch, and shelves upon shelves of reserve food and all that.
The Suitehearts never had to eat Power Pup, and Kobra had to say he was jealous.
Regardless, Kobra walked past all of that, more than used to it now, into the first door by the second shelf, opened up to a room lit with only a single lamplight, and a man scribbling frantically at a sketchbook like he’d die in moments and he was writing out his will.
For a minute, Sandman didn’t even look up at Kobra, though his ears perked up subconsciously - he’d noticed Kobra enter.
Kobra didn’t push, didn’t say hi. He knew that the haunted look in his eyes would say it all, as well as the plush bear ears sticking out of Kobra’s jacket.
When Sandman did look up, though, he had more infatuation in his eyes than a ghost, and he looked Kobra up and down like a fucking masterpiece, like he was more than a ghost and more than his head wanted him to be.
Kobra’s voice didn’t come easy. He didn’t expect it too - but the cracks weren’t a touch he appreciated. “I, uh, I couldn’t sleep.”
He didn’t elaborate. Sandman didn’t ask.
Instead, he closed his sketchbook and tossed it onto a pile of laundry with care, opening up his arms, and Kobra would be lying to himself (again) if he said he didn’t melt into Sandman’s embrace the moment it was offered, weak and wanting and tired and haunted and another ghost in the making.
But he was allowed to be weak.
He was allowed to be weak as Sandman pet his hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, knowing that they helped, even if they were complete lies, even as Sandman pulled away with a sympathetic look in his eyes, coaxing Kobra out of his uncomfortable leather jacket, holding up a sweater that would certainly be two sizes too large for everyone other than maybe one of those strangely buff superheroes in the comics Sandman read.
He was allowed to be weak as he struggled to figure out how to put the sweater on, his brain working too quickly, trying to remind himself that he was allowed to be weak and he was allowed to take comfort in someone else and he was allowed to hate himself and all of that, and what was he thinking?
Wait, where was Runway?
Kobra gave up on the task halfway through, instead pawing around for his bear, the one, one thing that would never leave him, no matter how he fucked up or what he did or what his head told him to do or showed him when he was trying to sleep and then he was holding Runway so close to his heart that his knuckles ached and one arm was cold because he hadn’t gotten to putting it through his sleeve.
Sandman was sitting on the floor, on his knees, his elbows on Kobra’s lap and looking at him with so much fucking adoration that Kobra wanted to cry even more than he already was (when the fuck did he start that up again?), whispering. “Hey, hey, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. Look at me, Sunflower, look at me. I’m right here. Runway is right there, you’re holding him. You’re in my room. You’re not anywhere else. Your jacket is sitting in the basket in the corner, and you’re looking down at me, okay?”
Kobra nodded, shaky, trying to take deep breaths that Jet always told him would help, even if he thought they wouldn’t, trying to look over to each object Sandman pointed out, here, here, in Sandman’s room, holding Runway, looking at his eyes.
He was here. He wasn’t home, but home was so unbearably lonely on his own that - that it was better here and he was with Sandman and his eyes were so heavy, from the drive, from the night terror, from the fact that this wasn’t the first time this had happened this week and he just wanted to fall asleep.
Maybe sometime, he would learn that his night terrors wouldn’t go away when he was on his own. Maybe he would learn that he should just stay here with Sandman from the start because he never had nightmares when he was sleeping next to someone else.
And it was awkward when he had a night terror and he wanted to snuggle with Poison, but Ghoul was there with that stupid pitying look and he couldn’t do that anymore, he needed to tell Poison he couldn’t do that anymore.
“Do you wanna see what I was drawin’?” Sandman asked, still well-aware of the fact that Kobra wasn’t quite thinking straight, that he was still trying to find an escapist fantasy to leave the shitty life he led when he was bound to die before twenty-five.
Kobra nodded, shaking, the act making him dizzy but making him more real all the same, and he intently tracked all of Sandman’s movements as he grabbed his sketchbook from where he tossed it, softly turning some pages - like he was afraid to ruin them - and quickly flipping past others - like he was embarrassed to look at them -, before he got to the one that he’d, supposedly, been drawing on, a soft smile painting his face before he turned the sketchbook to Kobra.
Him.
Well, it wasn’t quite him, not right now, but him from a week or two ago, sitting criss-cross on his bike with this look of triumph, because fuck yeah, who else can sit on a bike criss-cross apple sauce?
He remembered saying it, remembered how stupid it sounded and the dumb, gleeful smile that Sandman had sent him, the way that everything in that moment had felt stupid and sweet and domestic like he didn’t want to be anywhere else in any world, in every time.
“Do you like it?” Sandman asked, sitting down on the bed next to him, his free palm resting softly on Kobra’s lap, the anchor that Kobra didn’t know he needed until he had it.
Kobra nodded, slow and sure, and making sure that he didn’t manage to fuck it up. His voice was still as weak as fucking ever, like he was still a seventeen-year-old with shoes to fill and a whole desert that hated even the idea of him. “Y- yeah. I like it. I like my bike.”
“She is pretty. I tried to do her justice, but I dunno, I think she seems better in person. Much like you.”
“‘Fraid I don’t look like much right now.” And Kobra was whispering, maybe because he didn’t want to say it out loud or because he knew it was true - tear tracks running down his face while he clutched at a fucking teddy bear, having just driven a half-hour in a blind panic because he couldn’t fucking sleep.
It was pathetic.
It’s okay to be weak.
Maybe right now, it is. With Sandman. It was okay to be weak with Sandman. Sandman wouldn’t judge him.
Without shifting where either of them was sitting, Sandman took the sketchbook and set it on the floor again, using that same palm to rest on Kobra’s cheek, red with his embarrassment, his tears. “I think you look like everything I’d ever want to see, Sunflower. Everything. Even right now. You wanna get some sleep, now? You’ve had a long night.”
Kobra hummed, refusing to open his mouth or nod, in fear of making Sandman move his warm hand away from Kobra’s face - he was chronically cold, it was an issue, but Sandman was a human furnace on the best of days.
Sandman smiled, a real, full smile, not one of those sympathetic ones that Poison would send him at times like this, pulling his hands away and gently coaxing Kobra to stand up, so that he could pull the blankets back, even for the both of them to tuck into the twin-sized mattress.
It was a little small for two fully-grown adults, but Kobra liked being pressed against Sandman. It reminded him that he wasn’t small, he wasn’t alone anymore, he wasn’t going to be another ghost, even if everything, every one told him that he was destined to be another martyr with their name written along an obituary no one wrote anymore.
Runway was still pressed close to him, though he gently set the bear in Sandman’s lap, so he could lay down and pull the blankets over him, patting the spot on the mattress where Sandman belonged. “Thank you. I - I just - I don’t…”
“Yeah, I know.” And Sandman hands Runway back to him, no trace of regret or sympathy or anger in his tone, in his face, laying down under the blankets himself and not saying a word as he threw his arm around Kobra’s waist, pressed his chest against Kobra’s back.
They don’t say good night. They don’t say anything else, and Kobra’s drifting off before he can even regret anything, which is a rare thing for him on the best of nights.
He didn’t know what he was doing here, he would tell himself. Didn’t know why he would drive the half-hour to Sandman’s, even though Poison was right down the hall. He’d say it was something about Ghoul and feeling awkward.
But that wasn’t true.
That wasn’t true, because Poison wasn’t the same as Sandman, didn’t make him talk about anything, didn’t make him feel like he was still a living shadow that would never come back from what he’d been made into.
Sandman looked him in the eyes when he was feeling his worst and told him it was okay. It was okay to feel horrible. To be guilty and self-centered and cry. To believe, sometimes, that he wasn’t good enough, but only if he told himself how he would be better than what he believed.
He let Sandman look into the darkest parts of his being, let him push them all into the dark with a witty joke on the tip of his tongue.
Kobra used to think he’d never fall in love.
But curled up in a bed too small for the two of them, with Runway close to his heart and Sandman’s arm slung over his waist, the former humming a lullaby under his breath, something that Kobra recognized from the last few nights in this very same position…
Maybe that was true.
Maybe he did fall in love. Just… with one particular person, one who’d washed his hair for him and listened to him ramble and drew amazing portraits, who read comics until he could list at least forty-seven facts about the lore, who…
He didn’t need to go on. (His own yawn told him that.)
I’m in love, Kobra decided, letting go of his death grip on Runway. I’m in love.